A teenage girl looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes reflecting horror and hope
Nazi troops in the village
American troops on the way
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And walks to the window, waiting
A young woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes twinkling with promise and excitement
A tall, dashing Merchant Marine
A first date to the circus
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And whispers to her sisters with anticipation
A bride-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes meet her mother’s, an identical pair
Antique ivory lace dress
Vows on the tip of her tongue
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And prepares to walk down the aisle
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes moist with tears, patting her belly
Kicks and flutters from her unborn son
Saying “hello” from within
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And returns the greeting to her firstborn
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes calm with experience
The seventh of her brood
Reveling in the blessings of her family
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And smiles at her six little ones
An aging woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes acknowledging that life is full of surprises
Her oldest daughter
Becoming a young mother
She runs the pewter brush through her graying hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And approaches her daughter with an embrace
A new grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes glistening with pride and affection
Her first grandchild
A delicate red-haired girl
She runs the pewter brush through her gray hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And offers a silent prayer to the future
A grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes aglow with wit and humor
Over eighty summers and eighty winters
Surrounded with the legacy of a loving family
She runs the pewter brush through her silver hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And gathers the three pieces for her great-granddaughter
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Johnny White's
"Open" blinked the green neon sign, barely visible through the hellacious rain. Everything was a haze as we stumbled across the cobbled street to Johnny White's. Just as we crossed the threshold into the dingy bar, a crack of lightning split the sky along with a symphony of bone-jarring thunder. The blinking neon sign flickered out, along with the rest of the streetlamps along the sidewalk and the dim bulbs in the barroom. Although it was crowded, wall-to-wall with people seeking shelter, there was a moment of almost religious silence while we absorbed the viciousness of Mother Nature's attack.
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
Monday, September 28, 2009
Title Still Unknown...
Sitting on the bank of the Mississippi River, I gaze around and soak up the view. Over my left shoulder is the river itself. Over my right is the Jackson Brewery. These neighbors couldn’t be more different from one another.
The river drifts, slowly, calmly, sure of herself and her direction. Barges and paddle wheelers caress her curves, making their way to their destinations on “Southern Delta Time.” The riverbank is dotted with people. Tourists and locals mingle in the sultry evening air, watching the sun turn gold on the water. I close my eyes and travel back over a decade, and I see myself at seventeen, sitting on a bench and listening to a saxophone solo drifting on the wind. Coming back to the present, I am thrilled to see that musicians are still entertaining the crowd. The water lapping at the rocks has traveled 2,300 miles to where I sit. It continues on its way, embracing the Crescent City and curving its way down to the delta.
The brewery bustles with activity. Once upon a time, it was the birthplace of Jax Beer, surviving prohibition as a place only could in New Orleans. Now, there is the dismal reality of its transformation into a tourist-trap shopping center. The “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” Museum has replaced my beloved Fudge Factory, a required stop on all elementary school field trips. Now, only the echoing tune of “Eat on Fudge” survives in my memory. The activity is unbroken. Camera-laden visitors weave through shop owners to get a shot of a mime on the sidewalk taking his break and eating a Lucky Dog from the corner vendor while delivery trucks threaten to flatten them all. The building’s exterior mimics its internal frenzy, looking a lot like a random assemblage of forgotten toy blocks.
The juxtaposition of calm and chaos is the heart of New Orleans, giving the city her rhythm and charm.
The river drifts, slowly, calmly, sure of herself and her direction. Barges and paddle wheelers caress her curves, making their way to their destinations on “Southern Delta Time.” The riverbank is dotted with people. Tourists and locals mingle in the sultry evening air, watching the sun turn gold on the water. I close my eyes and travel back over a decade, and I see myself at seventeen, sitting on a bench and listening to a saxophone solo drifting on the wind. Coming back to the present, I am thrilled to see that musicians are still entertaining the crowd. The water lapping at the rocks has traveled 2,300 miles to where I sit. It continues on its way, embracing the Crescent City and curving its way down to the delta.
The brewery bustles with activity. Once upon a time, it was the birthplace of Jax Beer, surviving prohibition as a place only could in New Orleans. Now, there is the dismal reality of its transformation into a tourist-trap shopping center. The “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” Museum has replaced my beloved Fudge Factory, a required stop on all elementary school field trips. Now, only the echoing tune of “Eat on Fudge” survives in my memory. The activity is unbroken. Camera-laden visitors weave through shop owners to get a shot of a mime on the sidewalk taking his break and eating a Lucky Dog from the corner vendor while delivery trucks threaten to flatten them all. The building’s exterior mimics its internal frenzy, looking a lot like a random assemblage of forgotten toy blocks.
The juxtaposition of calm and chaos is the heart of New Orleans, giving the city her rhythm and charm.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Inspiration, Devastation
The bar quieted the moment the group of writers left. The bartender breathed a sigh of relief. He really wasn’t in the mood to pour yet another black and tan for the group. His relief was bittersweet, though. The writers’ presence, while a slight intrusion from his chats with the regulars, was intriguing to him. “Why here?” he thought with exasperation as they clambered into his pub. During their visit and throughout his eavesdropping, however, he thought again… “Why here?” with less criticism and more curiosity.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
A Day in D.C.
A group of us took a photo trip to Washington D.C. on Monday. Melissa, her sister Torie, Miles, Sammie, and me. After a grueling lunch at the pub in Denton (which is usually great, but our waiter was having a WAY off day) we made the trek to the Metro station. Our goals for the day were simple: take some good pictures, visit the Lincoln Memorial, and walk off our burgers.
Our first stop off the Metro was the Air and Space Museum. We really only went in to use the facilities, but the siren call of NASA ice cream and WWII relics kept us wandering for a while. We meandered our way through that museum and on to the Native American Museum, which we only got to see a smidge of since they were closing.
After another ice cream break, we split up for a while. Miles went to the National Museum, while the girls went to the botanical gardens and the capitol building. For future reference, the capitol is phenomenal for two things...great pictures of architecture and prize-winning people-watching. Once we'd exhausted the photographic possibilities of the fountain (much discussion of f-stops and shutter speeds...geekiness at its finest), we meandered our way towards the Natural History Museum with another stop at a big outdoor fountain/hangout place tucked into the sculpture garden.
A quick walk through Natural History. Hope Diamond, soil samples from all 50 states (Louisiana had a worm!), petrified coelocanths, and the elephant in the lobby. Sammie and I caught up with Melissa and Torie, who had gone bug-hunting in the insect zoo. Met up with Miles outside and began the trek to the Washington Monument, Reflecting Pool, and Lincoln Monument.
Pictures of these three monuments, no matter how well-composed, beautifully lit, or perfectly exposed, do no justice to them. The sheer mass of the structures is overwhelming. People were scattered everywhere for the half-mile stretch, playing frisbee and kickball, reading, walking their dogs, taking all the standard tourist snapshots, and feeding the incredibly tame squirrels. Lincoln himself is breathtaking. I can't fathom the work that went into its creation and maintenance since then. The detail of the statue and the walls around him are as sharp as I imagine they were on the day they were carved. Miles and I watched the sun set over DC from the back of the monument where a few others discovered the gorgeous view and lack of crowds.
Finally, we all decided that the photographic festivities were at an end. We were starving. Dinner in Chinatown was calling. Many, many blocks later, we stumbled down into a Metro station and found our way to food. Sadly, Fudruckers won. I would have preferred some hole-in-the-wall nook owned by a tiny Chinese grandma, but no such luck. It was pretty late. Hunger satiated, back to the Metro and then home.
Next time...Coney Island!
Friday, May 22, 2009
Frickin' Freaks
Frickin' bench full of frickin' freaks. Why can't the bus just get here when the schedule says it will. Now I have to sit on this bench, the only normal one around, with these two nutjobs in their jeans and t-shirts. What the hell. Why can't they just blend in? Noooooooo, though...some people just have to stick out and be all "Hey! Look at me! Look how different and original I am!" They need to be locked in a cage at the zoo marked "DO NOT FEED and definitely DO NOT MATE." Seriously.
Why? I'll bet they have hippie-freak names, too. Like Andy. Or Bob. I'm sure they came from those dysfunctional homes, too, where everyone ate dinner together and they had a family room with a frickin' sofa and TV. Damn freaks. Freaks and their Golden Retrievers and peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off and family vacations to Disney, all posed with that Mickey Mouse asshole.
Frickin' freaks in their frickin' jeans. Where'd you buy those, freak? The freaky mall? Did you eat PIZZA in the FOOD COURT? Did you get a COOKIE?
I hate you both. You two are exactly what's wrong with society. I oughta jab this cigarette in your eyeballs.
Point, Revisited
My daughter has begun to point. She's 11 months old, and she points at all sorts of things and says, "Dah!" I'm assuming that what she's actually saying is, "Mom, can you please tell me what that may be?" I then proceed to tell her all about it, whether it's a banana or a mirror or a pile of dirty laundry. Sometimes she does this from far away, so I have to guess at what she's finding so interesting, and I think I may have inadvertently misidentified things once or twice. I guess I'll know when she comes home from preschool upset with me after finding out that a turtle and a lamp are not one and the same.
It's kind of fun, though, when I see that little finger start to extend and I have a moment to see what's interesting in a child's eyes. She's definitely found some favorite things. She points at mirrors and animals and photos of people more than anything. We spent half an hour pointing at the family portraits at my grandmother's house, talking about everyone as she would point.
I wish all communication could be so simple. I guess that's where the phrases "What's the point?" and "Get to the point!" come in. With kids, it's pretty straightforward. Question + answer = conversation. No talking in circles or unspoken insinuations like when talking among adults. They don't overanalyze your tone or wonder about hidden meanings. I thing "grown-ups" have a lot to learn from kids.
It's kind of fun, though, when I see that little finger start to extend and I have a moment to see what's interesting in a child's eyes. She's definitely found some favorite things. She points at mirrors and animals and photos of people more than anything. We spent half an hour pointing at the family portraits at my grandmother's house, talking about everyone as she would point.
I wish all communication could be so simple. I guess that's where the phrases "What's the point?" and "Get to the point!" come in. With kids, it's pretty straightforward. Question + answer = conversation. No talking in circles or unspoken insinuations like when talking among adults. They don't overanalyze your tone or wonder about hidden meanings. I thing "grown-ups" have a lot to learn from kids.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Point
"What's the point?!?!" I hear. Every semester, without fail, a voice pipes up from the back of the room, usually accompanies by a snicker. Sometimes punctuated with "This is stupid."
Not many words bring me pain the way these do. I am not an English teacher because I got good grades in English when I was in school. I am not an English teacher because I love grading essays and assignments. I am not an English teacher because I wanted summers off (that's a myth, actually). I am an English teacher because I love language. I love to read, I love to write, I love discovery through the written word. I love the fact that, throughout history, writers have put quill to parchment and pen to paper and created enduring works that speak a language larger than themselves.
To the question "Why we gotta read this?" (which is painful in its own way) I respond "Because you will be a better person for doing it." Human nature knows no century, no social class, no genre. Regardless of place or time, characters live on in volumes of greed, desire, madness, loss, love, and hope. There is an inherent immortality in writing that is the reason we peruse the stories of Beowulf and Hamlet.
Words = knowledge = power. People don't hesitate to feed their cars, their egos, and their wallets. Why on earth would someone choose not to feed their heart, mind, and soul?
Not many words bring me pain the way these do. I am not an English teacher because I got good grades in English when I was in school. I am not an English teacher because I love grading essays and assignments. I am not an English teacher because I wanted summers off (that's a myth, actually). I am an English teacher because I love language. I love to read, I love to write, I love discovery through the written word. I love the fact that, throughout history, writers have put quill to parchment and pen to paper and created enduring works that speak a language larger than themselves.
To the question "Why we gotta read this?" (which is painful in its own way) I respond "Because you will be a better person for doing it." Human nature knows no century, no social class, no genre. Regardless of place or time, characters live on in volumes of greed, desire, madness, loss, love, and hope. There is an inherent immortality in writing that is the reason we peruse the stories of Beowulf and Hamlet.
Words = knowledge = power. People don't hesitate to feed their cars, their egos, and their wallets. Why on earth would someone choose not to feed their heart, mind, and soul?
Boxes (an expansion)
Four giggling girls,
Three decks of cards,
Two watermelons,
One refrigerator box.
All day we played in that old raggedy box, smothering in the southern August humidity. We laughed the day away, sweat-frizzled and grubby-footed from multiple trips through the yard to fetch popsicles and corn dogs.
Is there a greater gift to a child than a big, empty box? My daughter just had her first birthday and she has already experienced the joys of boxes. Beaten like drums, turned sideways as caves, scooted like sleds, and propped open like traps, her boxes were the highlights of her first Christmas.
Her talking puppy, constantly bleating "Hug me!" and "You're wonderful!" was a wonderful and amusing toy. Her new blue stuffed elephant was a cozy pal for cuddling. The dancing chicken doing the chicken dance was a fabulous distraction. The boxes, though, were magnetic, enchanting her fledgling imagination and drawing her into their infinite possibilities.
Boxes are the healthiest toys. They promote physical activity and stir the sense of wonder we all have within ourselves, whether we're infant children or adult children. They transport us to other worlds in an instant. What else on the shelves of Toys 'R' Us can accomplish that?
Three decks of cards,
Two watermelons,
One refrigerator box.
All day we played in that old raggedy box, smothering in the southern August humidity. We laughed the day away, sweat-frizzled and grubby-footed from multiple trips through the yard to fetch popsicles and corn dogs.
Is there a greater gift to a child than a big, empty box? My daughter just had her first birthday and she has already experienced the joys of boxes. Beaten like drums, turned sideways as caves, scooted like sleds, and propped open like traps, her boxes were the highlights of her first Christmas.
Her talking puppy, constantly bleating "Hug me!" and "You're wonderful!" was a wonderful and amusing toy. Her new blue stuffed elephant was a cozy pal for cuddling. The dancing chicken doing the chicken dance was a fabulous distraction. The boxes, though, were magnetic, enchanting her fledgling imagination and drawing her into their infinite possibilities.
Boxes are the healthiest toys. They promote physical activity and stir the sense of wonder we all have within ourselves, whether we're infant children or adult children. They transport us to other worlds in an instant. What else on the shelves of Toys 'R' Us can accomplish that?
Bad
Bad girl.
Bad dog.
Big Bad Leroy Brown.
Bad News Bears.
Michael Jackson was Bad.
Bad writing.
There we go...
Bad writing. OK, kids. Here we go. As a teacher of Creative Writing, it is excruciatingly difficult for me to "grade" work. It's entirely too easy for someone to say "What's with this grade? It's CREATIVE!! How can it be wrong?!?!" Good question.
In art, there are techniques to learn and if those techniques are not executed appropriately, the final product is genuinely wrong. Same for music. There are chords that work and chords that don't and if they don't, the final product is, again, genuinely wrong. While there are techniques for writing, some of the "rules" are so ambiguous it's hard to draw the line between right and wrong. I can say that I've read some writing that was so horrendous, I felt like I lost IQ points after reading it.
How is a reader to know, though? Where is the line that divides the brilliant from the beastly? The genius from the gibberish? Consider if you will the uniquely burdensome position in which I am placed every time I have to grade a piece of writing. In my opinions and on my shoulders rest the grades of my students. I'd like to think I'm a good judge. It's rare that I toot my own trumpet - usually I'm my own worst enemy - but I am confident about my writing resume' and my ability to sift through the debris and find the nuggets worth keeping.
Writing with no coherence between characters, plot, and setting = BAD.
Writing made up of a string of disconnected sentences = BAD.
Writing dialogue that sounds less natural than daytime soaps = BAD.
Writing a lot of words that essentially say nothing = BAD.
Writing that contains foul language just to try to get away with it = BAD.
When I am grading student work, I ask myself these questions continuously. It's rare that I will place something in the truly BAD category, but if I do, it is not done lightly.
Bad dog.
Big Bad Leroy Brown.
Bad News Bears.
Michael Jackson was Bad.
Bad writing.
There we go...
Bad writing. OK, kids. Here we go. As a teacher of Creative Writing, it is excruciatingly difficult for me to "grade" work. It's entirely too easy for someone to say "What's with this grade? It's CREATIVE!! How can it be wrong?!?!" Good question.
In art, there are techniques to learn and if those techniques are not executed appropriately, the final product is genuinely wrong. Same for music. There are chords that work and chords that don't and if they don't, the final product is, again, genuinely wrong. While there are techniques for writing, some of the "rules" are so ambiguous it's hard to draw the line between right and wrong. I can say that I've read some writing that was so horrendous, I felt like I lost IQ points after reading it.
How is a reader to know, though? Where is the line that divides the brilliant from the beastly? The genius from the gibberish? Consider if you will the uniquely burdensome position in which I am placed every time I have to grade a piece of writing. In my opinions and on my shoulders rest the grades of my students. I'd like to think I'm a good judge. It's rare that I toot my own trumpet - usually I'm my own worst enemy - but I am confident about my writing resume' and my ability to sift through the debris and find the nuggets worth keeping.
Writing with no coherence between characters, plot, and setting = BAD.
Writing made up of a string of disconnected sentences = BAD.
Writing dialogue that sounds less natural than daytime soaps = BAD.
Writing a lot of words that essentially say nothing = BAD.
Writing that contains foul language just to try to get away with it = BAD.
When I am grading student work, I ask myself these questions continuously. It's rare that I will place something in the truly BAD category, but if I do, it is not done lightly.
Repeat
I admit it. When I was in high school, I had to repeat two classes due to no one's fault but my own, seriously cutting into my fun time. Thankfully, I ended up loving those two classes but it still would have been nice to have gotten them right the first time.
In my sophomore year, I failed Algebra II Honors. Miserably. There were no overly indulgent counselors at my school, so I was pretty much stuck with my choice. I guess I was in honors because all of my other classes were in honors, but I am far from an honors math student. Mrs. Carter taught it like it was a college class. Lightning speed, and if there were any questions, the answer was the same. "That's just the way you do it." No pause for explanation whatsoever. Needless to say, my one and only "C" in that course was the bright spot in a sea of "F"'s. I had to retake the class and I waited until my senior year to do it. (To my credit, I waited so I wouldn't have Algebra and Chemistry at the same time. That would have been a sequel of disaster.)
Senior year with Mr. Roca was such a polar opposite, it's still amazing to me. Not only did I pass with straight A's, I actually helped some people pass. The slower pace combined with a relaxed teacher (sometimes too relaxed) who actually answered my questions made a universe of difference. I can still hear his echo... "Come on gang. Are y'all cheating? Don't cheat." I think about the way he helped me frequently now that I'm a teacher.
Junior year marked another moment of shame in my academic history. I failed Mr. Paine's American History class, also miserably. It wasn't the same as math, because my ability wasn't up to par. I simply couldn't stand the man. He droned on and on for 55 minutes a day, and I spent those 55 minutes doodling on my desk. "Angie loves Todd." "Angie loves Juan." "Angie loves Jeff." (Isn't teenage love grand?)
Another senior year slot was then taken by a second attempt at American History, this time with Mrs. LeBlanc. She was one of those teachers that's been teaching the class for so long she just goes on autopilot and doesn't really notice what's going on in the room. That was fine, because it gave me, Carlos, Scarlett, and Nick lots of time to visit and plan our weekends. We all aced the class anyway.
I suppose somewhere I eventually learned a lesson. When I saw myself slacking off in college, I recognized it in time to take a break and go back when I was truly ready. I can't say with 100% conviction that retaking the classes was a mistake because they were so much fun, but I did learn to take my education more seriously.
In my sophomore year, I failed Algebra II Honors. Miserably. There were no overly indulgent counselors at my school, so I was pretty much stuck with my choice. I guess I was in honors because all of my other classes were in honors, but I am far from an honors math student. Mrs. Carter taught it like it was a college class. Lightning speed, and if there were any questions, the answer was the same. "That's just the way you do it." No pause for explanation whatsoever. Needless to say, my one and only "C" in that course was the bright spot in a sea of "F"'s. I had to retake the class and I waited until my senior year to do it. (To my credit, I waited so I wouldn't have Algebra and Chemistry at the same time. That would have been a sequel of disaster.)
Senior year with Mr. Roca was such a polar opposite, it's still amazing to me. Not only did I pass with straight A's, I actually helped some people pass. The slower pace combined with a relaxed teacher (sometimes too relaxed) who actually answered my questions made a universe of difference. I can still hear his echo... "Come on gang. Are y'all cheating? Don't cheat." I think about the way he helped me frequently now that I'm a teacher.
Junior year marked another moment of shame in my academic history. I failed Mr. Paine's American History class, also miserably. It wasn't the same as math, because my ability wasn't up to par. I simply couldn't stand the man. He droned on and on for 55 minutes a day, and I spent those 55 minutes doodling on my desk. "Angie loves Todd." "Angie loves Juan." "Angie loves Jeff." (Isn't teenage love grand?)
Another senior year slot was then taken by a second attempt at American History, this time with Mrs. LeBlanc. She was one of those teachers that's been teaching the class for so long she just goes on autopilot and doesn't really notice what's going on in the room. That was fine, because it gave me, Carlos, Scarlett, and Nick lots of time to visit and plan our weekends. We all aced the class anyway.
I suppose somewhere I eventually learned a lesson. When I saw myself slacking off in college, I recognized it in time to take a break and go back when I was truly ready. I can't say with 100% conviction that retaking the classes was a mistake because they were so much fun, but I did learn to take my education more seriously.
Friday, February 6, 2009
No / Know
I am a reformed know-it-all. I'll admit it. Once upon a time, when I was a wee slip of a girl, I was a shameless know-it-all. One of those intolerable little snots that you just want to pinch real hard. You know who I mean. I wasn't aware of this personality malfunction until 8th grade, when I ran into someone from elementary school.
Irwin was in class with me at St. Anthony's Catholic School from kindergarten to second grade. He saw me in our eighth-grade French class and said "I remember you. I don't like you." Wow. Naturally, I wanted to know why, and he told me a story of how I unwittingly scarred him and made myself look completely obnoxious at the tender age of 7.
"We were in Mrs. Slack's class and we were in a circle on the floor doing spelling words. She was asking us how to spell 'Easter' and I spelled it exactly right and she said I was wrong. Then you raised your hand and said 'It's CAPITAL E-a-s-t-e-r. Up till then, I kind of liked you, but you were a mean little know-it-all." Wow, again. Talk about an eye-opener. It made me flash back to other times I was an irritating little butthead. (I wish I could think of a better word, but butthead is, unfortunately, accurate.) I'd done it to teachers, to friends, to my mom, but never realized how unappealing I was making myself.
Since then, I've tempered that temptation a lot. I've been heartily thumped on the nose for my own mistakes, and have become more sensitive in the process. An oversized ego is a good thing to lose.
Irwin was in class with me at St. Anthony's Catholic School from kindergarten to second grade. He saw me in our eighth-grade French class and said "I remember you. I don't like you." Wow. Naturally, I wanted to know why, and he told me a story of how I unwittingly scarred him and made myself look completely obnoxious at the tender age of 7.
"We were in Mrs. Slack's class and we were in a circle on the floor doing spelling words. She was asking us how to spell 'Easter' and I spelled it exactly right and she said I was wrong. Then you raised your hand and said 'It's CAPITAL E-a-s-t-e-r. Up till then, I kind of liked you, but you were a mean little know-it-all." Wow, again. Talk about an eye-opener. It made me flash back to other times I was an irritating little butthead. (I wish I could think of a better word, but butthead is, unfortunately, accurate.) I'd done it to teachers, to friends, to my mom, but never realized how unappealing I was making myself.
Since then, I've tempered that temptation a lot. I've been heartily thumped on the nose for my own mistakes, and have become more sensitive in the process. An oversized ego is a good thing to lose.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Walker Percy's Bayou
I sit on the bank of hallowed ground,
Absorbing the tranquility with Walker and my fellow writers.
Who else sat here
on this bend of the bayou?
I watch for a current, wait for a breeze
A fish surprises me with a leap and a splash
dancing to the buzzing, chirping choir -
soul-stirring music for this Southern girl
Louisiana sun makes my skin tingle
while the vibes
from Walker and my friends
stir my heart
and my pen
Absorbing the tranquility with Walker and my fellow writers.
Who else sat here
on this bend of the bayou?
I watch for a current, wait for a breeze
A fish surprises me with a leap and a splash
dancing to the buzzing, chirping choir -
soul-stirring music for this Southern girl
Louisiana sun makes my skin tingle
while the vibes
from Walker and my friends
stir my heart
and my pen
Class of '94
A lock of hair, a lunchbox lid -
A ticket stub, a homecoming bid -
A speeding ticket, a Converse tag -
peeking out from a plastic bag.
Prom pictures and news clippings
fading with time -
Jumbled together,
no rhythm or rhyme.
Flannel shirts and Kurt Cobain,
and pictures of girls dancing in the rain...
A ticket stub, a homecoming bid -
A speeding ticket, a Converse tag -
peeking out from a plastic bag.
Prom pictures and news clippings
fading with time -
Jumbled together,
no rhythm or rhyme.
Flannel shirts and Kurt Cobain,
and pictures of girls dancing in the rain...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Provocative
pro-voke (verb) 1. to arouse a feeling or action 2. to call forth
I was once asked to choose a word from a list that describes writers; my eye immediately fell on "provocative." Regardless of time or genre, every writer has the ability to nudge their readers' thoughts into his or her desired direction. I find the entire idea provocative.
The power wielded by a writer is immeasurable. The potential is limitless. Writers have been provoking their readers for millennia. Socrates was such a potent writer and speaker, he was sentenced to death for corrupting the young. The Harry Potter series is frequently accused of bringing young readers to a "dark side." Twain's classic novel Huckleberry Finn is often criticized for its portrayal of racism, even though it accurately reflects the time and setting. Writers have the ability to arouse the entire range of emotions that make up the human experience: laughter, sorrow, joy, anger, empathy, regret, bitterness, hilarity, fear, wonder, confusion...we can do it all with our words.
The first time I officially thought of myself as a "writer" was during a workshop in which I read an original piece of my fiction. It was just a short story, one that I had written in an afternoon, but I liked it enough to share with my group. When I finished reading it, I saw something unexpected in my audience. They were angry! "You need to change that ending!" I heard. "That's terrible!" I heard. I was thrilled! I knew I didn't write a happy ending and that some people may not like it, but they were actually mad at me! Now that's power, I thought.
All creative endeavors of any genuine quality will grasp people in a visceral way. Beethoven once discussed the power of music with a student of his. The student claimed that the power of music is that it "stirs the soul." Beethoven called him an ass. He said that the power of music comes from the composer's ability to make their listener waltz, march, sleep...whatever he chooses...depending on the type of music he writes.
As writers, we possess and should embrace that same influence. Creating real emotions that grab our readers in a genuine way is nothing to take lightly. Writers influence people in countless ways, obvious and sometimes subtle. Novelists, advertisers, journalists, speechwriters, editors, songwriters, screenwriters...even if a person isn't a self-proclaimed "reader," he or she is still provoked by writers.
I was once asked to choose a word from a list that describes writers; my eye immediately fell on "provocative." Regardless of time or genre, every writer has the ability to nudge their readers' thoughts into his or her desired direction. I find the entire idea provocative.
The power wielded by a writer is immeasurable. The potential is limitless. Writers have been provoking their readers for millennia. Socrates was such a potent writer and speaker, he was sentenced to death for corrupting the young. The Harry Potter series is frequently accused of bringing young readers to a "dark side." Twain's classic novel Huckleberry Finn is often criticized for its portrayal of racism, even though it accurately reflects the time and setting. Writers have the ability to arouse the entire range of emotions that make up the human experience: laughter, sorrow, joy, anger, empathy, regret, bitterness, hilarity, fear, wonder, confusion...we can do it all with our words.
The first time I officially thought of myself as a "writer" was during a workshop in which I read an original piece of my fiction. It was just a short story, one that I had written in an afternoon, but I liked it enough to share with my group. When I finished reading it, I saw something unexpected in my audience. They were angry! "You need to change that ending!" I heard. "That's terrible!" I heard. I was thrilled! I knew I didn't write a happy ending and that some people may not like it, but they were actually mad at me! Now that's power, I thought.
All creative endeavors of any genuine quality will grasp people in a visceral way. Beethoven once discussed the power of music with a student of his. The student claimed that the power of music is that it "stirs the soul." Beethoven called him an ass. He said that the power of music comes from the composer's ability to make their listener waltz, march, sleep...whatever he chooses...depending on the type of music he writes.
As writers, we possess and should embrace that same influence. Creating real emotions that grab our readers in a genuine way is nothing to take lightly. Writers influence people in countless ways, obvious and sometimes subtle. Novelists, advertisers, journalists, speechwriters, editors, songwriters, screenwriters...even if a person isn't a self-proclaimed "reader," he or she is still provoked by writers.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Move
I want to move home...I want to move home...I want to move home...as long as...
I can bring my students, I can carry my coworkers, I can pack up my new friends, the coffee shop, and General Tanuki's kobe burgers.
From the minute I stepped into the 26-foot long, banana-hued Penske truck, I've wanted to pull a fast u-ey and head for the elegantly crumbling decay of New Orleans. It's so hard to be over a thousand miles removed from a place that's home to me in both the literal sense and the spiritual. It's not that I dislike "here." I'm irrevocably connected to "there."
The day we move back will be a bittersweet one, whenever that may be. It will be a rough goodbye, and I'm not looking forward to it. I'm glad we moved here, if for nothing else but the realization that home is home, and this is nice, but it's not my "forever" place. I think everyone should go through that experience. If you've spent your whole existence in one community, one culture, one lifestyle, how can you truly know it's the right place for you until you live life in a different place for a while. Vacations don't count.
We considered moving to Savannah, Houston, Memphis, and a dozen places in between, but in truth, my compass will always point to the Deep South. I was born literally 20 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, in a hospital next to a bayou teeming with alligators and nutria. It's the kind of place that seeps into your soul and doesn't let up.
While both Maryland and Louisiana have their perks and have their flaws, only one will ever be my home. Cajun Country. The Crescent City. The Big Easy. La Nouvelle Orleans.
I can bring my students, I can carry my coworkers, I can pack up my new friends, the coffee shop, and General Tanuki's kobe burgers.
From the minute I stepped into the 26-foot long, banana-hued Penske truck, I've wanted to pull a fast u-ey and head for the elegantly crumbling decay of New Orleans. It's so hard to be over a thousand miles removed from a place that's home to me in both the literal sense and the spiritual. It's not that I dislike "here." I'm irrevocably connected to "there."
The day we move back will be a bittersweet one, whenever that may be. It will be a rough goodbye, and I'm not looking forward to it. I'm glad we moved here, if for nothing else but the realization that home is home, and this is nice, but it's not my "forever" place. I think everyone should go through that experience. If you've spent your whole existence in one community, one culture, one lifestyle, how can you truly know it's the right place for you until you live life in a different place for a while. Vacations don't count.
We considered moving to Savannah, Houston, Memphis, and a dozen places in between, but in truth, my compass will always point to the Deep South. I was born literally 20 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, in a hospital next to a bayou teeming with alligators and nutria. It's the kind of place that seeps into your soul and doesn't let up.
While both Maryland and Louisiana have their perks and have their flaws, only one will ever be my home. Cajun Country. The Crescent City. The Big Easy. La Nouvelle Orleans.
Who am I?
I am a feathered boa, floating on a humid breeze.
I am flaky turkey pastries served by the light of a Christmas tree.
I am a Delta accent that gets more pronounced when I get mad.
I am a horse and buggy, toting friends and sharing stories.
I am cypress knees, stubborn as mules, supporting my limbs through the toughest erosion.
I am a Second Line, dancing through loss to celebrate new beginnings.
I am crawfish, tender and firm, savory and spicy, and at my best when in hot water.
I am Mardi Gras, a celebration of joyous proportions, a gathering of friends, a reason to dance in the street.
I am a child born of jazz, blues, big front porches and bigger family gatherings.
I am the bayou, the French Quarter, and the ancient swampland in between.
I am flaky turkey pastries served by the light of a Christmas tree.
I am a Delta accent that gets more pronounced when I get mad.
I am a horse and buggy, toting friends and sharing stories.
I am cypress knees, stubborn as mules, supporting my limbs through the toughest erosion.
I am a Second Line, dancing through loss to celebrate new beginnings.
I am crawfish, tender and firm, savory and spicy, and at my best when in hot water.
I am Mardi Gras, a celebration of joyous proportions, a gathering of friends, a reason to dance in the street.
I am a child born of jazz, blues, big front porches and bigger family gatherings.
I am the bayou, the French Quarter, and the ancient swampland in between.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
