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The Robin

Published on April 23, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Is there any special meaning when a robin crosses your path? They are, to my eye, the very harbinger of spring. Some say they offer good luck, positivity, and joy. Others say a robin suggests growth, renewal, change.

It’s one thing to see them bob-bob-bobbin’ along across the lawn, perhaps pulling a worm from the ground. It’s another thing entirely, in my opinion, what’s been going on at my house recently. Early one morning a couple weeks ago, a robin tapped at our bedroom window, not once, not twice, but over and over. The same robin returned the next day. And many days thereafter. Here, our granddaughter (amusingly, nicknamed “Bird”) discovers him, tapping hello –

Scientists posit that this behavior means that they are being territorial, that they can see their reflection and are ‘fighting off’ another bird:

If a robin has chosen your yard and location as a good site (yeah for you as they are very cool birds), then both parents will defend that area throughout the nesting period. That means that ‘other’ robin in the window is a real threat to them. The more energy and time they take to fight that guy, the less they spend with their babies or eggs or feeding. So, it is helpful for the bird for you to intervene and convince them that the bird they are seeing is gone.
Native Bird Care (Oregon)

We’ve lived in this house more than thirty years; I’ve never seen such bird behavior before. What has changed? We are quite certain our visitor is one robin and not a variety of robins; we have been studying their feathers and shape. Thinking that the nearby shrubs might be harboring a bird’s nest, I went out and checked out the landscaping in the vicinity of our bedroom window. There was no sign of a bird’s nest. The robin must be feeling territorial for some other reason than protecting a nest. Perhaps they have discovered some yummy nearby ‘fast food’ berries or worms, and are trying to protect their stash from other robins?

Just today, I added this crocheted shawl to the window in order to change the light and glare, to reduce the possibility of the robin seeing their reflection:

This is not the look I was going for in my bedroom, but I’m beginning to feel responsible and worried about that robin. They’ve left dozens of scratch marks on my window glass; their beak must be getting quite sore.

One day in, the stats are great: no robin visited the window today. Let me close with a simple revision of Rock-In Robin:

He rocks at our window all day long
Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singing his song
All the lil’ people that live at this house
Are trying to figure this out, out, out

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Musing

Published on April 16, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Someone is singing an opera in my backyard as I write; they’ve been at it all morning. My Merlin app tells me they are a Northern Flicker, a visually beautiful dear soul with dotted plumage, yet I cannot catch even one tiny glance. They prefer to sing from deep within the leafing branches of the maple tree, and perhaps their song is one of lament because I am not able to see them. Yes, I put myself at the center of their song.

I don’t know what to tell you.

Hmm.

Does anyone else have trouble starting a ‘Slice of Life,’ now that the March challenge is over and the writing is not daily?

Which personal thread to grab onto and run-write with it?

I simply don’t know.

I could tell you about my relaxing weekend in the woods, on retreat with my book group. I could write about our conversation about Ann Patchett’s Tom Lake. Oh, and how a few of us watched the 1940 film classic of Our Town, as a little ‘background’ for the book.

(Should I tell you how surprising it was that this movie deigned to create a new ‘happy’ ending for Thornton Wilder’s play?)

I could focus on just one hike, share with you the sweet spring growth I observed. Here are a couple photos of this emergence:

Oh, but I’ve shared about countless hikes in this space.

How about I tell you about the book I’m reading – Terrance Hayes’ Watch Your Language? I am absolutely awed by his witty and playful writing, how he draws clever doodles throughout the book, and simultaneously offers so much scholarly wisdom on Black poets and the history of modern poetry in general. He is piercing many myths I have swallowed whole. With every page, my understanding and curiosity about poetry expands.

I don’t know where to begin.

Consider this excerpt about Gwendolyn Brooks, as he considers the historical timeline of ‘modern great poets’ –

Brooks makes any conversation about American poetry of the last half century more interesting. Brooks was born in 1917, the same year as Robert Lowell, who won the Pulitzer in 1947, three years before Brooks. When he passed in 1977 Lowell was considered one of the chief poets of the twentieth century. He taught both Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. His family history could be traced back to the Mayflower.

As Robert Lowell is to Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, Brooks is to several generations of poets. Brooks met with James Baldwin and many Black poets of the era in her living room. I wish there was a better record of her relationship with Sonia Sanchez, their chats about motherhood, poetry, Blackness, community. Sonia Sanchez published her debut, Homecoming, in 1969, the same year Lucille Clifton published her debut, Good Times. Audre Lorde published The First Cities, her debut, in 1968. Brooks was a central figure in the work of all three poets.
Terrance Hayes, Watch Your Language, pp 24-25

He notes, 
“She often goes unacknowledged the way caretakers and angels go unacknowledged.” 

Terrance Hayes’ writing sends me tumbling, makes me pause, reflect, and re-read. He makes me wonder about all the details that were left out of my schooling. I chase down my Gwendolyn Brooks poetry book and lose myself within. 

There is so much I was never taught. 
There is so much that was so dull about the way I was taught. 
There is so much more to learn. 

Why was I never challenged to question? 

I don’t know what to tell you.

Let me close with a poem I wrote yesterday for Ethical ELA, where Angie Braaten prompted us to write an elegy, with inspiration from Clint Smith's poem “Playground Elegy.” Honestly, I think all of my above rambles fed into this poem:

Textbook Elegy

The first time       I penned                  my name and date
in that       rectangle stamp       of the history textbook 
reading the     names of students     from years before 
I turned   quickly   to      chapter one,              devouring. 
Each   line      of text     so pure and real and insightful.
I studied every page and absorbed  great knowledge.
I looked forward      to the next year’s               textbook
revealing    so much                 more                 of the world.
It would be  years   before I noticed its     white space. 
I knew sanitized only from the bathroom.          I knew
sifted from cakes,                      left out from friendships,
omitted from   don’t say that      around mom and dad. 
I didn’t know                 what                              I didn’t know. 
I read with joy,                     absorbing believing trusting.
Now I wonder who   powers  every single line of text
and do students wonder about this and does anyone
know         what is not written.

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#SOL24-22 Blooms

Published on March 22, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

“Many eyes go through the meadow but few see the flowers within it.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

When I returned from my walk, I decided to take a slow wander through my yard and photograph all the pretty blooms of spring that are popping up. Most days, I come and go without stopping, and this is true of flowers, too. Let me stop and savor them for a moment – and share them with you.

My yard is bursting with lenten roses (hellebore), I love these so much. I’ve written about these before, how they are one of the earliest blossoms, often beginning in late January. Here, at the start of spring, they are full and luscious, standing tall, as if waving hello, welcoming all the other spring blossoms.

“Where flowers bloom, so does hope.”
Lady Bird Johnson

We’ve sprinkled the yard with daffodils, “a variety of varieties,” and often slip more into the ground each fall, in random locations, just because we can. They make the world merry, yes?

“If we could see the miracle of a single flower, clearly our whole life would change.”
Buddha

It is a bit early still for tulips, one small delicate yellow tulip has decided to defy that timeline. What a joy to find this little friend! This one is soaking in bright sun, and warmed up before all the others, I suppose.

We have planted pink and white hyacinths in a reckless “I have no idea where to plant these!” manner. They are hiding in corners, under shrubs, and, today, are winking a cheery spring hello. These are always a bit earlier than their cousins, the deep blue wood hyacinths, which are sending up buds and are probably a week or two away from full bloom.

The forsythia bushes are in their full glory today. I am so glad I stopped to witness these.

“If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett

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#SOL24-18 Alligator

Published on March 18, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

I use my arms as a long set of alligator teeth as Bird sails down the slide, and I pretend to bite her, singing

Alligator, Alligator
I want to be your friend
I want to be your friend
I want to be your friend, too
[one final chomp, with bravado]

This child’s jingle always leads to laughter, as they evade my chomping. I am not sure which early childhood “mentor” teacher (is such silliness “mentoring”?) offered this earworm to me.

I have long wondered why one would be friends with an alligator.

What a scandalous idea to teach children, right?

Wanting to show my granddaughters a photo of a real alligator, I searched for “alligator” in my vacation photos. Google only recognized a sculpture of an alligator from someone’s backyard, taken more than a year ago.

Yet, I had taken several photos of alligators on our trip this past week to the Lowcountry, South Carolina. Where did these photos go?

We came across several alligators. Bounteous alligators. Seriously, at least two dozen alligators, lazing about, as we meandered the island over the course of our week-long vacation. They are everywhere, these dark green mysterious dangerous beings. Everywhere you go, there are also warning signs, big bold letters about ALLIGATORS LIVE HERE and USE CAUTION. Here are the warnings:

- Assume every body of water contains an alligator
- Stay at least 60 feet (4 car lengths) away from alligators.
- Alligators are ambush predators and can move faster than you or your pets.
- Keep yourself, pets and children away from water’s edge.
- Swimming or wading is prohibited in Sea Pines’ waterways.
- Feeding or harassing alligators is dangerous and illegal.
- When fishing or crabbing do not throw used bait or fish parts into the water

I am a cautious person. I am often an obedient rule-follower. I am also curious, especially about nature. I do love to take photos when I am out and about. So I snuck a few photos, when we happened upon alligators. Obviously, very bad images from a scaredy-cat photographer, because Google didn’t even discern them as existing. Let me share them with you.

Here’s an alligator on our side of the bike path, as we turned the curve on our bikes:

Here, we saw several alligators lazing on the opposite side of a lagoon:

Here’s an alligator in the forest preserve (you can spot the warning sign, on the left):

My less-than-vivid photos show you that I was hasty, hesitant, and not hovering over alligators. The only way one can begin to discern an image is through editing the photo and zooming in. I think I will share the image of the alligator sculpture with my granddaughters, so that they might actually ‘see’ one.

Yes, I was unnerved by these sightings. One hears and reads horrid stories about alligators attacking people. Terrifying!

“They” say that alligators will eat anything. When their stomachs are cut open, after they die, there is evidence of trash and leaves and metal and bones and more.

Once, we heard a really loud splash as we studied a turtle at the forest preserve, and immediately wondered – wait, is there an alligator nearby? We hopped right back on our bikes, and bantered as we pedaled quickly away –

I heard their eyesight is limited.

I heard you can’t tell if they are asleep or looking right at you.

I heard they only run straight, so you should run or pedal away in a zigzag.

I heard you should simply run faster than the people you are with.

(This last advice from my witty brother.)

_______

Let me close with an alligator poem, my attempt at a playful Double Dactyl, inspired by Wendy Everard, in today’s Ethical ELA Open Write.

Alligate-Alliwait 
Missus McGoo on bike
Slowing down taking pic
While full of fright

Step too close, pause too long
Irrecoverably
Alligate for the win 
Not pretty sight

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#SOL24-16 Sunrise

Published on March 16, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

We spoke not a word as we fumbled in the dark, searching for our sweatshirts and our shoes, and trying our best not to disturb their sleeping. The door creaked when we opened it, and we slipped out and closed the door behind us as quietly as possible. We walked down the unlit stairs, making our way in the grey, to the winding path. Trees loomed like benevolent spirits with their loose-fitting Spanish moss dancing in the early morning breeze. Carolina Wren and Carolina Chickadee provided the soundtrack to our spontaneous pursuit of watching the sunrise on the beach.

The young girl’s reed hut stood strong in the dark of dawn. She had spent the whole afternoon working on this, patiently searching for reeds in the sand, separating the lengthy and straight ones, adding these one by one to create her tiny home. I had thought the tides would sweep this away, yet here it is, greeting us on the beach.

there’s a straw hut shadowed in the forefront

I saw immediately that we were not alone in the quiet, and I admit to feeling a bit of frustration. Who were all these folks, walking and waiting, just like us, along the beach? They walked in singles and pairs, perhaps two dozen folks in all. Their dogs raced with joy across the sand. There was a threesome of young athletes, performing jumping jacks, high knees, twists, skipping, and waving their arms high.

I wanted these strangers to leave
to leave the sunrise for me 
yet why do I presume to be
overseer 
of the sunrise?

Is it somehow more mine simply because it is my first time all week getting out of bed early enough to witness it? There is more than enough for all of us. There is so much joy in the viewing.

In a touch of irony, one dog walker calls out to me – “I took a lovely photo of you two in the early morning light, would you like it?”

Her photo was a gift, and a gentle reminder to be kind.

The stranger gave us this photo, showing the two of us together at sunrise.

We continued our walking, towards the sunrise, slowly, slowly, slowly.

It was magnificent.

I suppose if one watched the sunrise each and every morning, they might say this one was average. An overcast start to the day obscured the sun, and it was a full half hour after the forecasted sunrise time before the clouds released the sun to us. However, as our only sunrise of the week (thank you, last weekend’s time change), it was absolutely glorious to us.

Here is a close up of that young girl’s straw hut, in better light:

rippling 

light isn’t always boisterous
bright front and center
sometimes it is a quiet offering
wavering shyly along the margins
slow to comprehend
look to the edges for light
gift a stranger a sliver

one last glimpse of sunrise, as we return home

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#SOL24-14 Wonder

Published on March 14, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

If you and I were home, sipping tea, talking about favorite places to be, I’d assure you I love the mountains. I’d say, put me in the woods, let me hike and climb. The mountains are filled with such beauty and wonder. Yes, mountains are my most favorite place.

But, hey, how can I deny the sea? I may not be a sunbather, but there really is no such thing as a bad day at the beach. It is glorious to walk alongside, and to be amazed.

This old photo shows I have always loved being at the ocean, too.

I’ve been writing a poem a day in 2024, and vacation doesn’t give me a pass. Today’s poem celebrates the wondrous sights of our beach vacation.

Hilton Head Island 

Low Tide mingles with New Moon 
Rippling waves begin to dance
Alligators sun at the lagoon
Osprey hides on a branch

Slender Fish jumps high with glee
Driftwood floats slowly along
Great Heron glides just beneath
Yellow Warbler creates a song

Shorebirds gather on found wood
Dolphins play hide and seek 
How still Snowy Egret stood
As we laze upon the beach

#SOL24-13 Strands

Published on March 13, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

When my granddaughters play with Mardi Gras beads, the necklaces invariably get all tangled up together, into one big mash up of colorful plastic, where it is nearly impossible to find a beginning string or a way to separate them. The girls always bring the mess to me and sit right at my elbow as I struggle. There is no right way to approach the glob; any strand can be pulled out, in any order. When order is resumed, it is often mere minutes before the girls have tangled them up again. I’ve wondered if maybe this is the point of the girls’ play, to purposefully tie these chains up into each other, just to watch me fuss, taking them apart.

Yes, I hid the necklaces in a cabinet after one long morning of this “fun” recently.

Where to begin a short introductory story on Hilton Head Island and me? My many memories and reflections are similar to that knot of beads. I’m here and I’m lost in thought, trying to tease things apart.

Should I tell you how I first visited here when I was in grad school at the University of South Carolina, how my grandmother’s cousin had bought a home here on the ‘old, established’ part of the island, and she welcomed me for a weekend? I remember feeling so out of place, in this quiet, secluded, beautiful beach location. It felt far too fancy for me.

Is there a necklace strand for before the island’s development? What is the history of this place? Who were the indigenous peoples? Who were the Black slaves who worked the plantations?

There’s now a strand for the Gullah people, buried in the cemetery we happened upon, that I wrote about yesterday.

There’s another strand of necklace, with my parents retiring here, buying that cousin’s home, when she and her husband needed to move into assisted-living in their frail, elderly years. My parents had many happy years here, far from all five of their children/families, enjoying their independence and the beauty of this island.

Tony and I did make many happy spring break trips here with the boys, over the years.

Notice the strand, always present, of how uncomfortable I was that the community was “gated,” only for owners and their guests, and almost everyone was white.

There’s a strand where my parents encounter their own health crises, how Mom aged into dementia and Dad into Parkinson’s, a ten year period where we ‘kids’ made countless depressing trips to offer additional care. I lived closest to them, some ten hours north. Finally, my parents moved into assisted-living near my brother, in Maine. Oh, and then we had the ugly task of clearing out their home here and putting it up for sale, leaving us all a good bit soured on ‘life on the island.’

This week’s vacation features a strand where we pedaled by my parents’ old home and it’s been completely transformed and is now a rental property that we cannot afford to lease. All the beautiful landscaping that my father tended daily – well, that has been eliminated and replaced by a pool.

When our vacation week ends, I wonder if all these melancholy musings will be back up on a shelf, like those Mardi Gras necklaces.

starfish stranded
weeping for its ocean home
died alone
while all the tourists oohed and aahed
at their find

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#SOL24-11 Beach

Published on March 11, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

We are on vacation at the beach in South Carolina and it is absolutely beautiful here. I offer you a taste of this magical setting through photos and haiku (writing format inspiration from Barb Edler’s post yesterday – thank you, Barb!).

gift of this day
waking to wisps of seagrass
sheltering our earth

dear sweet gull soaring 
along the lapping ocean
under striated sky

spring glides on a bike 
with a wild giddy whoosh 
across shifting sands

pelicans in flight
holding the ocean
together

water draws the sun 
into its bounteous arms
kissing the day farewell

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#SOL24-6 Misty

Published on March 6, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Our morning playground routine was booted out by rain. This was a steady, welcoming, “let’s sit down and write” kind of rain, if it were any other day of the week. However, a babysitting day means we have to get our bodies moving.

I connected my phone to the wireless speaker and played Laurie Berkner’s “Moon Moon Moon.” I think Laurie Berkner’s singing voice may be my favorite for children’s songs, and this one song is my all-time favorite of hers. This ode moves from gentle lullaby into a jazzy dance refrain.

Just like that, Poppa, Nana, and Bird had an impromptu dance party.

After Laurie Berkner sang, we asked Bird what she’d like to hear, letting her be the DJ for the dancing. She loved this! With an older sister, I suspect she isn’t often making all the decisions. Her playlist was an unexpected (and uneven) melange of Disney princess with rock and roll, moving us in very silly ways. For example,

Disney’s “Let it Go” (floating around, with wide theatrical emotional princess arms)
Proclaimers’ “I Will Walk 500 Miles” (high knees, exaggerated steps)
Disney’s “Theme from Little Mermaid” (fish face required)
The Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian” (stiff arm sideways walking)
The Go-Go’s “My Lips are Sealed” (rock dancing, throw in some squats)

Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” (twirling slowly, theatrical arms) made my eyes mist, unexpectedly tapping into the memory of my son being captivated by this movie soundtrack; how I loved hearing him sing along. My goodness, time goes by much too quickly. Tale as old as time.

Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly
Just a little change
Small to say the least
         - "Beauty and the Beast," song written by Celine Dion and Peobo Bryson

Later, the downpour stopped and we went walking in a misty rain.I was mesmerized by the emerging growth all around.

There is tiny flowering on trees, perennials sticking their heads up out of the ground, and bulbs popping up everywhere. Joanne Toft’s slice from yesterday touched on this same joy, noting the spring splendor of tiny Winter Aconite emerging from the ground. She added excitedly “I have been wanting to draw and paint these little guys,” to which I totally relate. There I am with my camera, trying to capture the right angle and lighting, hoping to get a good image of these first baby changes.

Nature shifts in subtle yet breathtaking ways this time of year. This is how transformation begins.

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#SOL24-5 Crows

Published on March 5, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Bird and I were savoring the warmth of this spring day from the sandbox. Her shoes and socks were strewn on the ground to the side. The sand was clammy and cold, and the three-year-old was fervently working on filling containers and then flipping the molds out. A variety of bugs had taken up residence in the sandbox, during the many months we had left it closed up. I used a play shovel to remove them gently, one by one, at her insistence. The gentle part was my requirement, and I tarried a moment with each shovelful so that she might see these small beings up close in a benign way. They mean her no harm, I repeated, they are just living their lives. Lucky them, finding our sandbox as a nice home away from the winter cold.

All of a sudden, we were greeted by loud and resounding bird chatter, with the most discernible voices being piercing caws from humble crows. Looking up, I witnessed swarms of crows – a murder, as it were – in the air above, wildly circling one another and the winter trees. My glance shifted high into the treetops, madly searching for the focus or goal of all this ruckus, and I saw the branches bustling and swaying, quite literally in motion. It was a scene from a Hitchcock movie, and I stood there transfixed. What in the world?

Here is one snapshot of the crows in the tree

Quick – Merlin app to the rescue, what am I hearing?

Rapid fire pulsating response from the wizard in fifteen brief seconds, highlighting over and over: Fish Crow and American Crow, with Tufted Titmouse, Song Sparrow, and American Robin sprinkled in, once or twice.

What is the difference between a Fish Crow and an American Crow? I need to read up on this; all the crows look very much the same, from this distance. It seemed to me that one large tree held about a dozen wiggling, busy crows, and a neighboring tree held another dozen or so, with other crows flying about, darting between the two trees. All the birds were calling out harshly, creating a huge commotion.

Were the American Crows in one tree and the Fish Crows in the other? Or were they all mixed up together? How do I tell them apart? Was this some sort of argument? Who offended whom? Or were they worried on behalf of someone else? Was someone’s nest being harmed and they were all there to support the injured party? Or ward off the interloper?

We went back to our sandbox play, not knowing any answers. Then, perhaps ten minutes later, all the crowing stopped. It was peaceful again. The trees were emptied now. Where did the crows go? How did I miss their departure?

Think of that adage – “nothing to crow about,” as in, being less than worthwhile. Hmm. I think this is rather condescending to crows. Today’s tumult was very unusual. I have no doubt that there was a real reason for their uproar. They were obviously seeking to be heard and understood, in fact, they were demanding to be.

Clearly, there WAS something to crow about. I just didn’t know what. How do I know it’s not meaningful?

crow full

fish crow 
American crow 
fuss crow 
fume crow
this way 
that way 
a real crow’s nest
crow over 
crow about
swoop crow
loud crow
this is the way
crow flies
definitely something 

though I know 
not what

A little chalk art found in my neighborhood park.

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