Slice of Life: Remind me to get some gas...

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Six of us piled into the dinghy. After a day on the large boat we'd rented for the week, we were anchored and ready to head into shore. Every year we can, our family does a boating adventure with other families and cousins. It's a lot to manage, and it's a lot to finance, but the family time and the memories are worth it. Our four daughters have gotten older and live in various cities; time with them is scarcer and precious. 

 Julia and I debated swimming for the dock, but we'd done a lot of swimming over the course of the day. My shoulders were ready for a break, and the dock was a long way away. I wish I could tell you the length because it matters as to what happened next. Suffice it to say a solidly 20-minute swim.  

Clare stood on the larger boat and contemplated getting on with us. 

"There's not room," she said. 

"Of course there's room," we said. 

She decided to wait for the next trip in, a choice she'd regret.  

My husband, Garth, had not been on dinghy duty thus far, and he was happy to be at the till. At least for half of the way there. At least until the engine stopped. 

The five of us on the dinghy looked at him, ready to blame him for faulty captaining. 

"We're out of gas," he said. 

"You're joking," Julia said. 

"Paul told me to remind him we needed gas," he said. "I guess we waited a little too long."

Our choices felt a little like one of those if...then puzzles or brainteasers as we bantered around our options. The boat and the dock were about the same distance from our gasless dinghy. If we tugged the dinghy to the boat, it would still be out of gas, and twelve of us would be stuck on the boat, as opposed to the six that were there now. 

Larkin and Julia jumped in and started towing the dinghy, while Garth and I jumped off and pushed. We waved to some anchored boaters who were watching us. 

"We're your entertainment for the night," we said.

"We're out of gas," Garth said. 

Concerned for our safety, they offered to help. We weren't far from the dock when they pulled up alongside of us, threw out a rope, and tugged in almost to the dock. Boaters are like that. They look out for other people on the water. 

We thanked them, tied the dinghy, and unhooked the empty gas tank. No one on the boat answered their phones, so they'd have to figure out why their ride wasn't heading back their way. When they finally did check their texts, they all had to swim the full distance from the boat, Clare in a t-shirt since she'd sent her bathing suit with her backpack on the first dinghy ride. 

As we walked up the hill toward the house we'd rented, Julia and Larkin couldn't stop laughing. 

"This could be the best story we've ever had," Julia said. "A core memory." 

Isn't that what it's all about, anyway?

Slice of Life: An Interaction in an Office and a Reminder to Self

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"You should see a screen to initialize," said the woman behind the plexiglass. "Just scroll down. The pen is on the right."

Ever since my year of living with(out) the word just, I've been hyper-aware of its use. This explanation about scrolling was not going to make sense to the man standing at the window, and somehow, the use of 'just' exacerbated his struggle. 

"I don't see it," he said. 

As she walked him through the steps that had been easy for me, I learned about his age (78), his changes in physicians (they'd retired), his living situation (recently in a new apartment that his children who lived several hours away insisted on)... I could also tell you his go-to curse and his feelings about new medical office technology and plexiglass windows. 

As I sat in the waiting room both trying and pretending to focus on my Words with Friends and not the interactions in front of me, I thought about my grandmother's refrain; "It's not my world," she used to say. My mother says it now, or something along those lines. 

What won't be my world in another 25 years? How can I make sure it is? More and more, these sorts of questions swirl, reminding me to try new things and learn new systems, even when they're confusing and don't seem worth it. Maybe I'll try a new iPad app today since the only thing I've done so far on it is watch a show and read books. 

Slice of Life: A Late Summer Swim

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I didn't get to the beach until late in the afternoon, but Sarah was still there, reading the water-warped copy of Daisy Jones and the Six, furrows of sand between her feet. She abandoned the book when I sat down, and the two of us talked and watched the clouds drift in front of and away from the sun. Block Island hung on our horizon, deceiving in its late summer closeness. 

My plan had been to take a quick swim, but instead, I spread my towel and enjoyed the luxury of conversation without a wonder about time or lists or the next thing to do. In the cool breeze, I wondered out loud if I'd even go in. Sarah was far from encouraging. "Too chilly for me," she said. 

I waited until the sun re-emerged from clouds. "I don't have many days left of riding to the beach and swimming in the ocean," I said, getting up from the towel and heading toward the waves. 

Given the chilliness of the air, I expected the water to feel warmer. And, as much as I appreciated the gentle waves, the bigger ones force a quick entry. Maybe my slow entry made that water seem extra cold. Even so, I spent my usual minutes on my back watching my toes surface and savoring a late-summer swim. 

Slice of Life: An Orange Swirl Cone with a Candle

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Sunday night was a grand finale for many of the family members. We have an existence that I will never, ever take for granted because my husband's parents left a house to us and his brother's family that is on the Rhode Island coast. It's a magical place, a place of memories, of joy, of togetherness. 

Since three of our four daughters were leaving on Monday, we all went for ice cream on Sunday night. All twelve of us. My nephews, my four daughters, the two friends who were visiting, my brother and sister-in-law, my husband. We stood in line, and we debated our cones of choice. Not surprisingly, everyone except Larkin's boyfriend opted for the orange and vanilla swirl. If you're ever in Watch Hill at the St Clare Annex, you should try it.     

The line grew behind us as the ice cream barista doled out cone after cone. The line grew even longer when the machine sputtered and had to be refilled. As I watched all of my family members receive their cone, I grew a little cross. Why weren't any of the kids or guests passing a cone my way before they dug in? How dare my husband lick away at his cone without chivalrously passing one to me first? And how could the final cone be taking so long? At least we'd timed our arrival ahead of the VERY long line that had now formed. 

"This is testing my patience," I said to Larkin. 

I failed to notice her giggle. I failed to notice her elbow her sister. I failed to notice more giggles. And I failed to think about the fact that the day before had been my birthday and because of another slice-worthy situation, I hadn't gotten any candles to blow out. 

All of a sudden an overfilled cone came my way with a candle. Did I mention I was there with the ENTIRE family? They all began singing, and guess what? So did that entire line! Somehow, they all even knew my name. I am NOT one to enjoy this sort of spotlight, but there was nothing to do except go along with it. I did. I smiled, and I basked in the joy of my family, an August birthday, and an orange swirl cone with a candle on it. 

Slice of Life: Abs on a Monday

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I waited until the last possible minute to announce I'd go with Larkin and Julia to yoga. I'd worked out a lot over the weekend, I had plenty of work to catch up on, and I was looking at a full afternoon of tutoring. But it's rare that Larkin and Julia are both home, so yes, I hauled on the yoga pants. 

The studio lobby was busy with people signing in, and Lisa, the check-in guru, was training a new person. My situation created a learning experience since I was running late and my pre-purchased pack of ten was showing none left, and I was pretty sure there was one remaining. At least the girls took my mat to set up my space-- the one by the window and against the front wall for when I lose my balance. 

"I'll figure it out when you're in class," Lisa said. 

I walked into class, and my mat was in the back row, far from the window and with access only to the back wall. 

"Your spot was taken," Julia said. "I figured you'd want the wall, so I put you there."

I'd deal. Yogis should go with the flow. 

"Is this 60 minutes or 75 minutes?" I asked, hoping it would be shorter because long classes start with abs and short classes just get right into flow. My abs were sore, and I concentrated on Julia saying sixty. She did. But... 

"Today doesn't feel like a Monday," Michelle, the instructor said as she opened the class. "Let's start on our backs with abs."

As I write about this on Tuesday morning, I can guarantee you that there are NO ABS in my next 24 hours. 

Slice of Life: A Quick Jump in the Ocean

 

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"Anyone want to ride a bike and take a quick swim with me?" I ask. 

It's the last day of July, the day when summer is beyond its midway point, and thoughts of the school year creep into my daily routines. 

I have no takers. Larkin is getting ready for an on-line meeting, Amy and Julia are heading for a workout, and Jack has a list of chores. 

I shrug and head for the beach alone. It's a little over a mile, and I pass a few dogwalkers, gardeners, and joggers. We all say hello. It's that sort of a morning. 

I park the bike, the only one, and I imagine its surprise at its lack of company. Usually, it's hard to find a place for a bike along the wall, and sometimes I lean the rusty frame against the cluster of beach roses. 

The waves have a rhythm this morning, a welcome change from the churning surf that chiseled out parts of the beach over the weekend. The red seaweed, another unwelcome weekend guest, has also moved along. Clear water, so clear I can see my feet on the sand grains, welcomes me, and its temperature is about the same as the air. It's easy to talk myself into the ocean this morning. A wave breaks at my waist, one I consider diving through, but its break is gentle, barely offering a ride to shore. I walk a little further, then dolphin-dive. I float on my back, watching the distant walkers along the beach. 

Back on my bike, riding home, I'm ready to tackle my work tasks of the day. 

Slice of Life: A well-timed email from a student

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Last weekend, I gave a talk about the power of teaching. Leading up to that talk, I thought a lot about it, even interviewing a past student, and I've continued thinking about the potential lasting impact of interactions I may have with students. 

Then, this morning I woke up to an email from S. She is a senior in high school, and I mentored her writing spirit for many years. Up until the pandemic, she was part of a group I met with monthly, supporting them as creative writers outside of school. By eighth grade, S. had self-published five (yes, five) novels through Amazon. Here's part of what she wrote:

I'm really grateful I got to be a part of such a fun and creative group and I'll never forget it! It's helped my writing but it's also helped me to grow as a person and is part of the reason why I'm now majoring in creative writing and wanting to go further with it. 

Could we organize a reunion of our writing group, she wanted to know. I've already responded that yes, of course we can find a time for the group to meet again and share plans.

It is starting to feel repetitive and cliché to write that teaching seems hard these days. Sitting in a coffee shop in a quiet peaceful beach town during my spring break, it seems a little easier. I have the space and time to reflect, to plan, to reset, and to organize thoughts and priorities for the final weeks of the school year. And now I have the reminder from a student that sometimes my work makes a difference and inspires writers. I'll let her know how much that means. 

All good things,

Slice of Life- It's a long way from Rodeo Drive!

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I walked into the post office with my four boxes ready to send. I usually don't encounter a line, but I guess it was a popular time for buying stamps and sending packages. When I got to the window, I went through the routine:

Nope, no perishables. 

No aerosols, sprays, or flammables.

Yes, that shipping method is fine. 

"You didn't put a zip code on this one," the man said from behind the counter. 

I pulled up Julia's text. She had sent me her address last night so I could address her package. 

"90210," I read, saying it out loud. Wait, that was a familiar zip code. "That was a TV show," I said. 

Someone laughed from a place in the line behind me. 

"That's the zip code," I said, understanding the laugh and catching on to the joke that was sort of on me. "But this package is headed for Pennsylvania. Not Beverly Hills."

Turns out the zip code for Bryn Mawr is 19010. Julia's numbers were close, but her apartment is still a long way from Rodeo Drive. 

All good things,

Slice of Life 2023: 31 of 31- The future of writing?

   It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

Last night I played around with Chat GPT. 

Write an adapted Cinderella story at a grade 3 level where Cinderella decides she doesn't like the prince and like the drummer better, I wrote, skeptical of what the result would be. 

In seconds, here's what I was reading. (You're welcome to skim or skip the story if you're not curious about the story. Take my word for it-- the story was more than decent.)

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cinderella who lived with her mean stepmother and stepsisters. Cinderella had to do all the chores around the house and never got to have any fun.

One day, the king announced a big ball where all the girls in the kingdom could go and dance with the prince. Cinderella's stepmother made her a fancy dress, and her stepsisters teased her about going to the ball.

At the ball, Cinderella met the prince and they danced together. But while they were dancing, Cinderella saw a drummer playing in the corner of the room. She loved music and was curious about the drummer.

Cinderella left the prince and went to talk to the drummer. They played music together and had so much fun. Cinderella liked the drummer much more than the prince. They danced and played music all night long.

The prince was sad that Cinderella didn't want to dance with him anymore, but he saw how happy she was with the drummer. In the end, Cinderella decided she wanted to be with the drummer instead of the prince.

From that day on, Cinderella played music with the drummer and they had lots of fun together. She didn't need a prince to be happy.

I played around with other prompts as well. Throughout the school day, I had some moments to share some of the compositions with other teachers. One teacher who had not heard of ChatGPT yet was pretty jaw-dropped. 

"How is it doing that?" she kept asking. 

I worked with a student who has been learning English. Write a story at a third-grade level about a boy named A. who learns to shoot a free throw in Ukrainian.  His jaw didn't drop when the program whipped off a story in Ukrainian. On the contrary, his whole face lit up. Text that he could read was appearing in front of him in the form of a story with his name as the main character who was doing something he loved at a level he could read. Talk about responsiveness! 

It seems appropriate to write about ChatGPT for my final slice of March 2023. Something big is happening in the world of writing that will probably have greater impact than any other technological advance in my lifetime. Maybe next year, I'll tell my computer what to write and it will whip it off for me each day of March 2024. No, I won't do that. But, I do wonder how my instruction will look different and how I'll be talking about and sharing the developing tools and programs that change how people communicate. I'm programming a reminder to myself to read this post on March 1, 2024. This post will serve as my own personal time capsule.

And with that, March 2023 SOLSC is a wrap. I've especially loved this month since two of my daughters joined in, and reading about Larkin's and Clare's lives has brought me incredible joy. As has been the case every year, I've reconnected with people and I've also loved paying attention to moments and interactions with greater intention and reflection. 

I'll see you on Tuesdays,

Slice of Life 2023: 30 of 31- A time for precision!

  It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

I was about to start a ride when Julia's text came through. 

While I love that my daughters ask for recipes and have good memories and associations with meals I've made them, Julia and I are very different cooks. She's a scientist. She likes measurements. Like my friend Jen who is a doctor, Julia who is headed for medical school doesn't want to hear "add some". The both want to hear 1.75 teaspoons or 2 1/4 cups or 341.78 grams. If I provided measurements like those, they'd be in chef heaven. (These sorts of measurements are impossibilities for me!)

Knowing Julia's tendency toward precision, I googled a recipe for Penne Buttero. If I didn't know the exact ratios of sausage to crushed tomatoes, someone on the internet must be able to provide it. Even if it's not with the exact ingredients I use. Maybe Julia and I could come to a stylistic compromise. 

I imagined her questioning the rigatoni since I use penne, but it was worth a try. She was more concerned with how many it would feed, and I wasn't sure since I managed to find the one recipe on the internet that gave no indication for how many it serves. Looking at the recipe, I could give a decent estimate of about 4 people, but that always depends on who you're serving. 

Julia's next response was not what I was expecting! 

What? As post-graduate students taking all their pre-med courses at once and studying for the MCATS, those two girls' biggest breaks from studying involve workouts and an occasional game night. They're going to host a dinner party?!?! How great is that?!?!?

I made sure Julia wasn't standing in a Philadelphia grocery store aisle, and then assured her I'd write out the recipe when I got off the bike. I gave her precise measurements and directions-- she doesn't need to know they're my best estimates, although she probably does. 

Precisely, Julia! And once I hear how it comes out, maybe I'll share the recipe far and wide! 

All good things-- especially your doubled recipes! 

Slice of Life 2023: 29 of 31- Yes, I worry, too.

   It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

As I parked by the back entrance to the technology center, I wondered if there would be anyone who would come and let me in. There have been times when I've arrived at this office for a meeting, and I've stood outside the door texting the various people I knew who had offices in this part of the high school building. In the past, I've waited a while. Today, I wondered if I should cut my losses and walk around the building toward the front office. They'd let me in. I like walking. After school, I'd choose to walk a lot further than the front entrance of the school. 

But a new thought crossed my mind. One I didn't like, but I couldn't ignore. 

I don't want to be in the front office of schools. 

Instead of walking to the front entrance, I rang the bell of the technology office, texted the two people I thought might check their phones and come let me in, and waited at the less traveled side entrance of the high school. I found myself wondering how many other educators were thinking about the spaces and the places they prefer to avoid and what they would do, where they would go if anything happened. 

On the way to school, I talked to my mother. "I worry about you in schools," she said. I didn't really acknowledge the statement because I don't want to be the cause of the worry. But I guess the truth is: I worry, too. 

All good-- and safe-- things,

Slice of Life 2023: 28 of 31- A hairy shower

  It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

Black labs are the best. Okie is gentle, enthusiastic, and affectionate. But, he is one heck of a shedder. I find dog hair in the pantry. In the refrigerator. On the windowsills. The vacuum? Full of black hair. The dryer vent? Full. Of black hair. 

Recently, we brought Okie to the local pet store where he was treated to an anti-shedding bath for a whopping $78. Tonight when I came home, I concocted a plan to create a DIY treatment for my boy Okie. The two of us headed to my shower, the bottle of shampoo in hand. 

Okie wasn't so sure about coming into the shower with me, but with the help of his collar and leash, he complied. (He really didn't have a lot of choice in the matter.) I gathered up the old towels, stripped the two of us down, and turned on the hand-held shower attachment. For the next twenty minutes I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, watching the pile of black hair grow in the shower drain. 

If Okie minded, he didn't let on. He stood while I scrubbed at his backside-- a place where the hair seems to be particularly prone to coming out all over the house. He sat while I worked on his neck and chest, and he refrained from shaking when I placed a towel over him and rubbed him down. 

"You really are a good dog," I said many more times than once. 

Once I finished, I opened the shower door and let him out of the bathroom. He ran downstairs and I listened to my husband laugh at him as he ran around the house like a puppy. My work was far from done though. It might have taken me just as long to clean and de-hair the shower as it did to bathe and de-shed the dog. 

All good things,

Slice of Life 2023: 27 of 31- Extra grateful for food, warmth, and company

  It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

Clare, Larkin, and I are all slicing this month. In the past, Larkin and I have had a few giggles when we both write about the same event but with our own interpretations of it. Somehow, this month has almost slipped by without any of the dual perspectives posts. 

Despite the long walk, the threat of rain, and the chill in our bones, the three of us had some good laughs as we headed toward the parking garage. My fingers wrapped around the parking ticket every so often, making sure it was still there in my pocket, available to remind us of the address (which we were likely to need in this unfamiliar city on this dark night in streets that seemed far too full of parking garages) and also to get put into the machines we'd checked out earlier in the night and pay too much money for a few hours of parking. 

"To be honest," Clare said, "I'm still super hungry." Dinner had been tapas a couple of hours ago. "Those plates didn't get down to my end of the table."

We stopped and placed probably the final order of the night at a Chipotle placed conveniently on our walking route. If the server could have moved more slowly to get Clare her rice bowl, I'm not sure how. Julia and I seized the opportunity to watch the UConn men's team widen their lead on the way to the Final Four. At least they were having a great night. 

Chipotle goods in hand, we continued to the garage, only to find that we were three of MANY who were also on their way to the same garage, forming a winding line that we couldn't find the end of in order to use the automated machines and pay for their parking. 

"I can't feel my legs," Julia said. She was wearing jeans with large holes, and we'd been outside for a while. The walking tour we'd been on (an R-rated historical tour of Philadelphia) had involved WAY more standing around than walking, and, even though we'd cut our losses and ducked out early, we'd had plenty of time to get cold. 

We made the seemingly wise decision to forego the line for a while and find a bar to watch the rest of at least the first half. Isn't is amazing how bars are EVERYWHERE until you're looking for one? The only one we found was loud and crowded. We could watch the game (not listen to it) from a dance floor that wasn't yet dancing. There were not tables or seats. Clare's Chipotle bag was even more tempting than it had been as we were walking in the streets, but we were pretty sure the bouncers and security people would be right over to confiscate any chips that might appear. 

Finally, we agreed enough time had passed to revisit the paying machines. Perhaps more seasoned garage parkers would have known that even though the lines at the machines were gone, there was still a lengthy wait to get out of that garage. At least the Chipotle goods were available and accessible!

The girls were pretty sure I should go right when we were almost out. Until the car in front of us went right, faced a blaring horn, and backed up almost into us since it was a one-way street. I was too stunned to even beep as I backed up in order to preserve my bumper. The person I slipped in front of to get out (okay, maybe even cut off a little) did not have the same horn avoidance, and he continued to blaringly let us know how perturbed he was that I was in front of him as we headed out of the city via crowded one-way streets as quickly as possible. 

We were happy to get back to the hotel for the second very successful half of basketball on a television with volume in beds with warm covers--- and in a room full of great company! 

You can read Clare's rendition of the night here! 

All good things,

Slice of Life 2023: 26 of 31- Looking forward to a meet-up and some dirt bombs

 It's March, and March is for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

ATTENTION VISITORS: 

If you leave a comment, please include your name in it! So often all I see is "anonymous", and I REALLY want to know who is commenting! Thank you!

I can't believe the conference is canceled, the text popped through my phone as I contemplated how hard to push on the upcoming Peloton hill. 

Truthfully, my legs were sore from a too-hard ride the day before, so I reached for my phone and responded, ignoring the instructor's instruction to turn up the resistance. 

The wonder as to why not putting it on a Friday was a good one, and I didn't disagree with the idea. However, as I pointed out, I was not in charge of the event; I was only involved with the event. There's a difference. 

I turned up the resistance and tried to multi-task more effectively, but I appreciated the final text. 

At the end of the ride, I thought about how we didn't need a conference to get together, but life got in the way, and I forgot to respond. Then, as I relived and wrote about the moment, I texted him again.  

We'll get a date on the calendar, and it'll be on our terms, on a day that works for us. I can share my ideas about sentence construction if he's interested, we'll catch up on life and kids, and I'll probably get some great new ideas from him that I wouldn't have gotten if we were only seeing each other at the conference. 

And the extra great thing? I'll get some of those delicious dirt bombs. (Thank goodness for the Peloton!)

* Thanks to Dawn Sherriff for the idea of weaving in text messages into a post. 

All good things,