It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
It’s not easy to move in December.
I suppose
the month
doesn’t matter so much.
It’s just not easy to move.
It is not easy to move
from your home of 30-plus years
where you raised your kids
acquired, stored, and forgot about
infinite treasures
filling every inch of space.
No, this kind of move is not easy.
It’s not easy to move
to a new home
several states away
planning
what you want to put on a truck
what you’ll need in the days (weeks?)
in-between
being in one place and next
waiting for your stuff to arrive.
No, it’s not easy.
It is not easy to do this
alone
all by yourself.
Which is why
I went to help.
I just returned
from a very hard and successful week
at my college bestie’s
‘old house’
where we worked non-stop
sorting packing wrapping boxing
taping lifting loading re-doing
squishing counting rushing
tossing donating keeping
In a few more days
she will have a new home
here in Maryland
she will live
not only
closer to me
but to
her daughter
her sister and
other family.
It is a wonderful move -
and not easy!
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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 slipped into bed unusually early – around 9pm, leaving him alone in front of the television, unwinding from the day. I was so exhausted, all I wanted was sleep. I didn’t have the mental capacity to watch anything. Bone weary. Beyond fatigued. Done.
I slipped under the sheets, settled my body, and counted the hours of sleep that awaited me: 9 to midnight – that’s 3, plus 6 more…nine hours of sleep! This was going to be glorious.
Only my body settled. My mind began to skip, run, race about, a bit pinball-like:
tomorrow's to do's
today's horrible headlines
addiction runs in our family
oh my, so much pain in the world
unending war
I started a meditative body scan, sending soft, calming breath into my toes, and working my way up…the base of my foot…the ankle…my failsafe technique for calming down…breathing in fully, exhaling softly. Before I had made my way to my knees, I was riddled with questions, mulling over moments from the busy weekend…
was that a rude tone, or am I just imagining it?
I should have insisted
wait, am I hungry?
how serious is their relationship?
should I get out of bed and write that down before I forget?
Time to try the body scan again.
And, fail.
I. Was. Alert.
My body wanted to be in this warm, cozy bed but my brain did not.
Back and forth, I went …and then I saw that it was now 10:30pm, and I groaned: This is ridiculous!
A groan heard by hubby.
Hon, you still awake? I’m going to turn the light on to find my chapstick.
The light blasts on immediately and I race to cover my eyes with my pillow, groaning – What?! I’m trying to sleep!
But, you aren’t asleep, so the light doesn’t matter.
BUT!! What was your strategy for finding the chapstick if I WAS asleep?
My strategy for finding my chapstick? You are a teacher! Ha!, he chuckles and turns off the light, giving me a gentle kiss.
G’night, hon.
G’night.
Within seconds, I hear his breathing transition into the deep, luxurious exchanges of him sleeping…
Oh, this was not fair.
I concentrated on his breath and tried to breathe along with him, freeing my mind of all other nonsense, just breathing… in, in…out, out, out…in, in ….
And then it was morning.
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
The biggest, grandest, happiest hug.
I was smiling ear to ear with anticipation when I heard her knock at the door, and then we just locked in and held one another.
It had been so long since we’d seen one another, much too long.
When I texted her Happy Birthday this year, I offered a few dates as well – please, please, please, let’s get together! How about you and your husband come to dinner at our house?
How to explain how year after year can go by without seeing a dear soul who lives less than 20 miles away? The Christmas cards, the phone calls, the texts simply weren’t cutting it for me anymore; time feels more and more precious.
As the chili stewed on the stove, I did a quick look through my photo boxes to see if I had any pictures of our time together. She squealed with delight at these treasures on the coffee table, and we started talking and sharing – laughing, crying, holding. Remembering.
She’s my ‘little sister.’
When I was 26 years old, I volunteered with a Washington, D.C. nonprofit, to befriend and mentor two little girls – let’s call them Audrey and Theta. When we first met, Audrey was nine years old and her younger sister Theta was seven years old. Their mother was a single parent, unemployed, and suffering from alcohol addiction; she was dearly loved by her eight children. An older brother (a Marine) put the family in touch with the nonprofit, seeking more stability and support for his siblings and Mom.
(I have not used real names, to protect their privacy and for ease in storytelling. Audrey means noble and strong, which seems so apropos. Theta is the Greek name for eight – and being the eighth child in her family, this name fits nicely, in my opinion.)
Picnic near the Jefferson Memorial, circa 1987
We would meet up on Tuesday afternoons and do all sorts of fun things: go for walks, visit museums, get ice cream, have a picnic, play board games, go to the zoo…countless small, sweet get-togethers. One really fun memory was when my roommate and I threw Audrey a birthday party – her first ever – when she turned 10. We had balloons, cake, and party games. Audrey invited four friends, and I got permission from their families for these youngsters to spend time at my apartment. We had such a great time!
The neighborhood where Audrey and Theta lived was really rough. I remember vividly how, the first couple of times I pulled up outside their apartment building, a couple guys rushed my car and offered to sell me drugs. I remember feeling a little scared and out of place. The third time and ever after, when I visited the neighborhood to pick up the girls for our special time together, these same two saw my car and bellowed from the street towards the apartments – “Audrey! Theta! Your friend is here to get you! Come down!!” I was recognized and trusted.
Our deep, regular connection lasted about two years. I got married and both girls came to my wedding. We continued to see each other frequently, though it was no longer weekly. One very special outing was when Tony and I took them to the Shenandoah mountains for a hiking adventure. By the time my third child was born and the girls were high school grads, we kept in touch but our visits with each other were much more rare.
Theta got involved in drugs as a teenager, and life spiraled in an ugly direction…and she died in her mid 20’s. It was a tragedy, truly devastating, to lose this precious person so young.
Audrey is doing so great. It was wonderful to be in her company this week, to hear about her full life. She and her husband are in their mid-40s now, married for twenty years, with two young adult children of their own. They have a storybook romance – meeting one another in middle school, becoming the best of friends, and they have been together ever since.
When I think about the poverty and addictions that surrounded her in childhood, her life today feels remarkable. She simply put one foot in front of the other, despite all. Her mother and five siblings have died, and Audrey is the matriarch of her family now, caring for and cherishing niblings and cousins.
At dinner, Audrey asked me,
How did you decide to do this volunteer work, way back then?
I’ve been puzzling on this question all week. I simply cannot remember what bit of magic led to this adventure. How did I hear about the nonprofit? Where did I get the idea? What I know for sure: I had a dry, dull job at a consulting firm where I trained Federal employees on how to use custom software – and I simply wanted more in my life. I had this gnawing desire for children – and no obvious path forward. I didn’t have a boyfriend or a special someone.
Yes, I decided to become a big sister, in order to have children in my life. One of the best decisions I have ever made!
Our dinner together was so awesome. We made plans to have dinner again early in the new year, this time with all our children, too. We are not going to let so much time pass again without seeing one another.
Until then, I will keep replaying our hug.
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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 have a joke for you, she said.
What do you call a pigeon with a cuckoo clock?
That’s it. Yep, that’s the entirety of three year old Bird’s joke.
She asked me with these big eyes and followed this question with a happy laugh. I looked back with brief puzzled silence, and then I could not stop laughing, it was just so precious and funny. May she never stop telling this joke!
A good reminder – one doesn’t always have to ‘get things right’ to be well-received.
It’s been a week of extremes. This sweet grandchild ended up in the emergency room with a virus that led to difficulty breathing, one of those 4 a.m. horrors that seem a rite of passage for parents. Her dad had asthma when he was young, and sure enough, this was the doctor’s diagnosis. Thankfully, she has responded quite well to the meds, and she is back home, recovering.
Though, I should add – she is not at all inclined to TAKE those meds. We are babysitting her today, and it is quite the nightmare, getting foul-tasting meds into her little mouth…I am not at all convinced any has been swallowed. Trying new and mysterious things is not everyone’s cup of tea!
My college bestie is in town, from Connecticut. C is single and retired, with a daughter who lives here in the D.C. area and who is expecting a baby (a grandchild for C!) this spring. It makes so much wonderful sense for C to move here – nearer to family and friends. C and I have been house-hunting for two weeks, seeing one place after another. Finding a new home (with a limited budget) is overwhelming and exhausting and a wee bit scary, too. Change is hard!
It’s good to keep a sense of humor throughout.
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
This is the way I always heard it.
Preacher Jim shared the word of the Lord with all who would listen, and never could make enough money for his family through his sermonizing alone. He’d preach here or there in small country churches throughout Georgia and he had a brief tenure as church pastor in a couple small churches, but each of these had only a very few (and poor) congregants and the donations were scarce. Preacher Jim’s dear family was a large one, with thirteen children born over the course of twenty-five years – many mouths to feed, many bodies to dress, and a house to take care of and keep warm in the wintertime. So Preacher Jim took on any additional good job that he could find. He was a hard worker and skilled, a ‘jack of all trades.’ He worked as a tenant farmer for several years, in a couple different locations, growing and harvesting corn and cotton. He worked for a time in a mill. He was a pretty good carpenter and worked at a cabinet shop, and for a short (and non-lucrative) while, he had his own cabinet shop. Throughout all these gigs, his main work was preaching, with a multitude of Wednesday evening services and long Sundays in the pulpit.
One of the very best jobs he worked was at a local construction site. Preacher Jim was responsible for creating concrete forms – pouring the concrete, letting the concrete set, removing the form, and moving the finished piece across the yard onto railway cars or trucks. The work was grueling but it paid well, and it was good for the family to have dependable money.
Preacher Jim was able to get one of his sons (Keith) a summer job there at the construction yard. Newly graduated from high school, turning 18 that fall, Keith was so excited to have this work. He was living the dream: a girlfriend, a car, and a little money in his pocket. Life was good.
That day in August, one of the concrete forms was being moved across the yard, tied up with cable, and attached to a small lift or crane of some sort, when all of sudden, the cable snapped.
The concrete form hit the high school grad in the back of the head.
His dear father, Preacher Jim, was right there as it happened. How to describe witnessing such a horrendous scene, to see his own son killed in this freak accident?
The family. Oh, how they mourned.
The owners of the construction company sent a huge wreath to the funeral. They made a personal visit to the family, too, promising to keep Preacher Jim on as an employee and asking him not to pursue a lawsuit. In all probability, OSHA safety regulations were broken at the yard that day, for such an accident to occur. A lawyer or two came by the house, with the promise of big money if Preacher Jim would simply agree to hire them, to have them file a lawsuit in pursuit of money for his son, killed in the prime of his life.
Preacher Jim responded,
“No. No amount of money will ever bring our boy back.”
This is the way I always heard it.
I only know my brother-in-law Keith through these stories,
through his siblings sharing aloud about that tragic day.
I’ve watched the way this pain lingers in my husband Tony and his siblings.
The family has grieved deeply over this one unexpected and tragic loss,
the grief is always.
Tony was two years younger than Keith; they were the best of friends. Marrying into the family so many years after Keith was killed, never having met him and only knowing ‘of’ him, I see clearly how lives – so many lives – were affected by the trauma of his one life lost too young. Even now, so many years later, there is a soft sadness every autumn, at the time of Keith’s birthday; he would be 73 years old.
An ache that never completely goes away.
I’m humbled by Preacher Jim’s commitment to life – his desire to not seek payback, to say, instead, enough is enough.
Will we ever get to a place where we say, as a society, enough is enough? Might we seek something other than retribution? What would happen if we leaned into the messy mix of love and grief and somehow created a way forward with one another?
Must hurt people hurt people?
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
To celebrate my oldest son’s birthday, we had a family getaway to New River Gorge National Park – a weekend of hiking and autumn leaf viewing. This West Virginia park is only about a five hour drive from our home in Maryland, and made for a wonderful location for a few fun days.
Our Friday was misty and chilly, yet quite beautiful for hiking. Let me share just a few of photos –
Much to our surprise – and good fortune – we had an even more special Saturday. We had no idea when we booked our travels that October 21st was the annual Bridge Day. The New River Gorge Bridge in Fayetteville, West Virginia is the longest single-span arch bridge in the western hemisphere, measuring some 3030 feet with the arch alone measuring 1700 feet. The bridge was completed in 1977; since 1980, there has been an annual festival in its honor.
On this single day, the bridge is closed to vehicular traffic. There is an enormous festival on the bridge, with vendors hawking food and crafts up and down the entire expanse. In the middle of the bridge, gutsy folks base jump off the bridge – which, seriously, has to be one of the most terrifying sports I have ever witnessed. It was wild to watch. Can you find the base jumper /parachute in the photo below? Who would dare to jump from such a height?
We spent a beautiful fall morning walking the bridge and enjoying the sights. Plus, of course, eating – yummy funnel cakes, barbecue, cotton candy, and pizza. Festivals demand that one partake, yes?
Later in the afternoon, we hiked Long Point trail, which allowed us to have a breathtaking view of the bridge from the side. We also enjoyed the surrounding fall foliage and we watched more of the daring base jumpers perform, from a much farther distance.
This is my oldest son (the birthday boy) and his daughter/my granddaughter, watching the base jumpers.
It was a fabulous weekend!
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
Gardening. This time of year, it can be soft and gentle, with such tasks as the dainty trimming of spent blossoms or a little light weeding between plants. I love to rake leaves into the gardening beds, to decompose over the winter. There’s joy, too, in digging an easy hole for a new plant; fall is a great time to introduce a new perennial.
This is what I was imagining when Tony suggested we head to our son’s for the day, to see his new front steps and to plant a few perennials from our yard into the adjacent garden bed. Sure! Let’s go plant these and then go for a walk down to that small lake near his house…that’ll be fun!
Not to be.
Yesterday, we were in the full muck of it, trying to dig up the wily roots and underground stump of a wisteria. Wisteria is an invasive plant here in the MidAtlantic, known for scaling tall trees and smothering them in gorgeous purple blossoms, basically strangling them to death. They also do great damage to walls and pathways located nearby, with their deep and widespread root system. This wisteria is a big reason why the stairs needed to be redone in the first place.
A ‘new’ shoot of wisteria caught my eye as soon as I stepped out of the car, growing up through the soil, so innocent and sweet – right alongside the new steps. Supposedly, the contractors “removed the wisteria” – but I had a feeling that ‘removed’ meant simply chopping down, not the necessary ‘digging up and out.’
There we were, the three of us, working for nearly four hours – digging, slogging, beating, shattering, lifting, cutting, sweating out this invasive. At least we had good weather! And, good company – it was fun to work together, however unexpectedly.
Funny, the main roots look so innocent, once they are out of the ground!
So much for popping in a few plants. Maybe we’ll go for a walk next time.
I’ll close with a little poetry fun –
feeling stumped
dirt mud slivers fly
shatter split erupt
what a beast this is!
right here right here see
saw cut ax
dig
deeper
can we lift it?
break it off?
where does this lead to?
what if we dance, pogo style
jump up and down
oh no there’s another shoot
way over here
get!
out!
of!
here!
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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 went to bed a little after 10 p.m. and slept deeply for ten straight hours, only to wake up feeling oh so crummy. I wanted to snuggle deeper under the covers, and linger in bed, in the quiet, all alone.
I can be a very talkative, ‘engaging’ person with others. I enjoy meeting people and hearing their stories. But, wow, sometimes it hits me full throttle:
I am an introvert
and
I
must
find
a
cave
and
get
away
from
all
humans.
Yesterday was one of those days. I had a full and marvelous weekend in the company of 20 women on a church retreat, in rural West Virginia.
The main house of the retreat center (a side view).
The surrounding nature was absolutely lovely – I always feel uplifted when I spend time in this gorgeous environment. The area is very remote with no wifi – which is nourishing, I think. I slept (poorly) in a bunkhouse with six others. I traveled to and from the retreat with two women. Conversations were rich and thought-provoking; it is one of my favorite experiences, to be on retreat.
However, I didn’t get a moment to myself.
When I got home, I was just in time for a (planned) visit from a very dear childhood friend, who was passing through the D.C. area and able to visit for the afternoon and evening. There I was listening to more amazing stories – and finding myself
on empty.
Words and images were sputtering spitting spinning around in my head by the time I went to sleep – and, oh my, how to describe the bliss of laying down in my own cozy bed?
It feels terribly wrong to feel so exhausted from so much goodness.
What a gift it was, to wake up to a quiet Monday with no responsibilities or expectations. Write. Walk. Nap. Be quiet. Sip tea.
A day of renewal.
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
Years back, when I was part of a ‘new minister search committee’ for my church, someone opined –
“All ministers have basically five great sermons -
everything they preach falls into those five themes.”
This thinking stuck with me, leaving me wondering – is that true for my writing, as well? Do I just go round and round, talking over and over about the same thing?
I have enjoyed Two Writing Teachers’ Slice of Life for many years, where I hone in on some experience from the previous week. As an early childhood teacher, there have been many slices about young children, and now that I am retired, my focus is often my grandchildren. I frequently write about my family, especially time spent with my husband and our travels. I enjoy writing about nature.
I strive to write about something unexpected that has happened, perhaps something as simple as an interaction with a stranger. Overall, I think these personal narratives do fall into five basic themes –
capturing a moment in the present
how things change over time
looking at things from a different perspective
how to be in community with others
how grief works
and I suppose there is sometimes a 6th, which is a big messy conglomeration of all of the above.
What is the catalyst for this rumination of mine?
My oldest grandchild is turning 5 this month.
How in the world have five years gone by?
Now, I am looking through the past five years of my writing and trying to create a memory book – the poems and essays that I have written about this dear child. I’m not sure if this memory book is for her or me, lol.
I am just amazed at the passage of time.
What are your top five topics or themes of writing?
I’ll close with a short poem of this week’s surprise – an unexpected day with our soon-to-be- five-year-old granddaughter, because she was sick.
unwell
tiny feet are wedged against my hip
pinning me to this corner of the couch
she sleeps in a folded z
holding my hand tightly
the inconsistent rap of her breath
an intermittent low moan
dark shadowed eyes and sweaty locks of hair
poor sweet miserable one
how many hours of my life have been
intertwined with a sick child
watching the chest move up down
wondering if their symptoms are
worsening
time
stands
absolutely
s t i l l
until they are up and running again
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It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." Thank you Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community of teacher-writers!
Expect the Unexpected
My friend shared how
a week after her parent’s burial
they left the door unlocked and
this stranger
walked into their home
without knocking
an elderly woman
dressed in fleece despite the heat advisory
she walked in circles in their living room
passionately sharing a rambling story
a best friend
a locked car
a game of hide and seek
My friend recognized her
as a neighbor from several blocks away
and they walked the confused soul
back to her own home
I thought to myself - of course this happened,
of course, of course, of course
It is the first days
surrounding the death of a loved one
‘the season’
When my own father died
three years ago
I experienced a heightened awareness of life
noticing a preponderance of
unexpected sights and situations
The world opened in new ways
everything askew
fractures, all around
mystery, awe, surprise, confusion, wonder
It’s as if you are living within
wild, unsettled lyrics of a Bob Dylan song
replete with unforeseen doorways,
mirrors, silver canes, false eyelashes
you’re starin’ at butterflies
(the italicized are fragments of
Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts)
these are first days of a ‘newdeath’
a transcendent time
a way of being, much like first days of a ‘newborn’
this tender while
when the world becomes very different
the thin veil of curtain
of the great unknown
is pulled aside
yes, you feel
beginning with
the hush when you enter the home
the whispered voices and loving caresses
dear ones gathering
bringing food and flowers
moving softly, with great care
tears flow as you live
this raw edgy beauty
witnessing great loss
you pause and sob at wet mangled treasures from a stray cat
a death shrine amongst the flowers
and then again
at a young child’s scraped knee
needing
to wipe away pain
you see the hummingbird float across the yard
sense its sweet tremor
you feel familiar foreboding
throughout your body
when a friend tells how her loved one
broken and disoriented by dementia
undressed in front of a grandchild
you urgently call for help
when you turn the corner downtown
and find the stranger
slumped over
passed out
knowing
we are all connected
you follow the wisps of clouds across the blue moon
believing in more
you lay in bed and hear again
each stroke of the fumbling shovel
knowing love pours from dirt not held
and when you sit alone
you cradle a cup of hot tea
and listen
how soft the ordinary
how all is fragile
how every moment in time
tingles
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