Dear Diary

One of the first things anyone tells you about writing is that you have to do it regularly. Whether you are inspired or not, whether you feel like a million bucks or like something scraped off the bottom of your shoe, whether you are excited or depressed, happy or sad, pressed for time or lolling about eating bonbons--you've got to write. Often. Preferably every day.

And so...the diary. I've got to tell you that I love paper. I love notebooks. I love pens. I love my ancient Royal typewriter. And I love my laptop and iPad and iPhone. More than Imelda Marcos loved shoes; more than Scrooge McDuck loves money. But for all the soft leather notebooks and all the beautiful pens and all the lovely efficient machines, I cannot seem to muster up the discipline to write every day.  It's just not in me.

But the world has come to rescue me in the form of the social media. I (essentially) now keep a diary. It's called "Facebook". Every day (almost), I find something to say, or some tidbit of information comes my way that I find interesting enough to remark upon. Even if all I do is post a sarcastic remark, or a comment on my surroundings, or the tenor of my day...it is writing.  If I am blocked, I can distract myself with (God forgive me) Solitaire, or an email message. But more often than not, whatever I write in those status updates leads the way into something else, with any luck, of greater import.

I am one who saves everything--every scrap of writing, every inkling of an idea, every likable phrase that passes through my Swiss-cheese memory. I write them all down, usually as part of a post. Going back and reading what I've written gets me going again. Sometimes I cringe at what I've put out there. Sometimes I smile. And sometimes (don't tell anyone) I quietly delete posts in the hope that no one actually read them.

So say what you will about Facebook. It's a time-eating, narcissistic, pointless activity. Yup. For some. But for me, it's a writing tool. It's inspiration. It's my diary.

The Tortoise and the Hare

I took a calligraphy workshop yesterday, and I learned a little more than I bargained for. I thought it would be a good skill to have--I have pretty good handwriting to start with, but I thought this might be useful if I wanted to make a 'nice copy' of one of my poems for a birthday card or whatever. I have always loved the look of elegant writing. I have always loved pen and ink and paper--as the contents of my supply closet will attest. So I signed up for a three hour introduction to pointed-pen calligraphy.

I am NOT going to go into the mechanics or a list of materials or try to explain what we learned...sorry, you'll just have to pony up for the class, or come visit me for a 'show and tell'. Let me just say, though, that I was not as apt a pupil as I expected to be. And the reason was that I tried to do it too quickly. The beautiful alternation of thick and thin lines, the smooth flow of letters and words, the elaborate capital letters and uniform lower-case...are not to be attained without deliberation and practice. I am not the deliberate sort. And I'm pretty impatient as well.

I therefore found myself vainly trying to slow down and pay attention, to focus on what I was doing, to think and plan ahead for the strokes my pen would make. (Is this sounding familiar?) This is the advice I am constantly giving  myself (and anyone else who might listen) about writing. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pay attention. Think. Observe. Think some more. There will not be a 'gem every time' (Boris and Natasha, from Rocky and Bullwinkle-- a favorite quote: "What you expect? Gem every time?") Nothing of value is achieved without sustained effort and practice, practice, practice.

And so, what I learned from my class is this: what I need to learn before I can produce that wonderful script is what I have needed to learn--not just intellectually, but in actuality--all along: to stop and pay attention, to clear away the distractions and focus on what I'm trying to accomplish, to attain a less frenzied pace that allows for observation and thought and the careful formation of lines and connections and boundaries. And beauty. Always beauty.

One of those days

Some days, I wonder whether I'd have been better off just pulling the covers over my head, shooting the cat, and refusing to greet the day. I've had a few of them this week.

• Jake has inexplicably decided that the new 'rise and shine' time for his humans is somewhere around 5:45 am. Needless to say, we did not reach this decision by consensus. 
• Furthermore, someone has maliciously posted my cell phone and home phone numbers on the bulletin boards of all call centers: political, credit card, general survey, and even CVS Pharmacy. Why the world has suddenly decided that my opinion counts, I do not know.
• My brain and my hands have spontaneously decided to disconnect, wreaking havoc on any small task I decide to undertake. I'm dropping, spilling, breaking and misplacing things in record numbers.
• I used to be able to cook. Somehow this week, pie crusts are turning out tough and uncuttable and the fillings aren't gelling. The cake I made today whispered (as I put it in the oven) that I'd neglected to add the second installment of sugar that was supposed to combine with the egg whites. (Let's see: that was 9 eggs that were sacrificed unnecessarily, not to mention the cake flour and whole milk that I had to buy because I generally operate with all-purpose and reduced fat varieties. Not to mention the fact that I had used so many bowls and cups and spoons that I had to run the dishwasher.) I guess it's a good thing JC was traveling this week. Otherwise, he'd have been totally disabused of his enthusiasm for my meals. Did I mention that this morning's bacon was the consistency of my shoe?
• And workmen. Ah, workmen. Our AC was due for its annual checkup on Thursday, and the technician called me at 9 AM, well within the 8AM-12 noon window they demanded. He was here, he told me, but couldn't find my house. Was it the 'orange' one on the corner? (There is no orange house on my block.) He could not see any number. As I walked outside to look for his truck, I saw the problem. His truck was sitting in the middle of the street, in front of my house, his gaze riveted on the pink house across from mine. His head was turned to the right, which explained why he could not see the black, eminently readable numbers proclaiming "500" directly above my door. I asked him to turn his head to the left and he would see the house, the numbers--and me,  gesticulating wildly to attract his attention.
• Eric (for that was his name) did his inspection and proceeded to catalogue his recommendations. I thanked him and told him that, as he was talking in the neighborhood of thousands of dollars, and since we'd observed no problems with the unit, I would get a second opinion before deciding whether or not to proceed. Signed the paper saying I'd heard him out, and ushered him to the door.
• Several minutes after he left, the phone rang. It was his company, wanting to schedule someone to evaluate my AC system. Uh, didn't we just do that? No, ma'am. That was the MAINTENANCE inspection. This would be a supervisor to EVALUATE the system, and was this afternoon all right? In total bewilderment, I said no. That I had better things to do than wait out their 4-hour window twice in one day. I politely said that if they HAD to come evaluate, they could give me a hard-and-fast appointment or they could wave goodbye to this particular customer of some thirty-five years. We decided on 8 AM Friday.
• To my relief, the technician who appeared Friday was a familiar face--James. As baffled as I, he said they had told him to come out to check Eric's assessment of the system. All of a sudden, it became clear that Eric had interpreted my intention to get a second opinion as requesting a second opinion from another technician in his company. Oh. Obviously, second opinions are acquired differently in whatever Latin American nation Eric had worked in before.
• James spoke English. James answered the questions Eric had not been able to. And basically, our AC system gets put back in its place on our priority list.
• Then...my sister called to warn me that mom wasn't feeling well and might possibly require a trip to Baltimore on our part before the weekend was up. Maybe. Just another thing to look forward to.

So. Still needing a dessert for tomorrow's dinner-with-friends, I have to decide whether to attempt the sugar-deficient cake a second time, or move on to something else entirely-- or maybe just throttle the cat and go back to bed. It's sounding better all the time.

Teacher Appreciation...

It takes a lot to make me cry. My students did it last night. You have to realize that I haven't taught since the '97-'98 school year. In June of '98. I put down my chalk--though at the time, I figured I'd come back after a year of R&R. I didn't. Instead, I took some network engineering classes, got a couple certifications, and ran my resume through a few job fairs. It got picked up, and I never looked back, except for remembering some of the wonderful people: teachers and students, and even some parents and administrators. And of course, the stories--funny, sad, or just memorable--that only teachers can tell. Put two teachers of any stripe in a room, and I guarantee you'll hear a few.

But, about last night.

I'm on Facebook, and I've accumulated a variety of friends there. Some former students have found me through my own posts, or through my daughters' pages, and I enjoy seeing what they are doing, seeing them with children of their own, jobs of their own, and reading about what they are thinking now that they are 'all grown up.' One of the things I missed when I left teaching was that ability to eavesdrop on the younger generation. Maybe that's why I am so taken with Facebook and its ability to keep me in touch, now.

Anyway, last night, I logged on and found that I'd been tagged in a former student's post. Turns out, this week is Teacher Appreciation Week, and my student/friend (who is now a teacher) took the time to write and post on my wall a lovely 'thank-you'. That alone was a gift beyond measure. But then, another long-ago student posted a comment. And another name--almost forgotten--appeared with a story. And another. And the amazing thing about this was that they were telling about little things that they remembered, and that I had forgotten. A comment here or there. A quick note on a paper. Stuff that I know I did, but never considered to have any impact. Yet, they remembered.

I guess that's the problem with teaching: you get up every morning and you muscle your way through the day's classes and you come home and grade papers and prepare lessons and agonize over all the ones who just don't get it (and who you think might never do so) and you wonder what else you can do, and whether you're just not good enough, or smart enough, or patient enough, or persistent enough. And you are tired. And your family needs you, too--to be all the things to them that you are to other people's children every day, all day: attentive, concerned,  involved, motivating, nagging, praising, encouraging, and all those million and one other things that are so important to raising children and young people to be the best they can be. I often told my husband that I wasn't much of a teacher, that my biggest asset was that I liked the kids that came through my door, and that that covered a multitude of my teacher-ly sins. I never really thought of myself as making much of a difference. He always pooh-poohed those statements, but I never listened. He wasn't there in the classroom to see.

So, last night, I was sitting at my laptop on the verge of tears, learning a lesson of my own from my students.

The most important things teachers convey to their students may not come out of their textbooks, or their handouts, or from that chalkboard or whiteboard or overhead, or even out of their mouths. Maybe it's more about listening, about caring, about really seeing the faces in front of you, and trying to help them along the way. It's being a surrogate mom or dad to kids who might not have one; it's being a drill sergeant, a priest, a psychologist, a doctor, a counselor, a social worker and whatever else the day calls for. I remember playing all those roles at one time or another--and never thinking it was anything special until last night.

For that I owe all my students a debt of gratitude--and my husband the opportunity to say, "I told you so."

So, to all you teachers who might read this, keep going! You are among the blessed people who build for the ages. Like the cathedral-builders of medieval times, you may not see what you have created. You might see only the endless day-to-day labor and the roughest of images before you, but you are creating wonderful edifices and your names will be carved eternally in their foundation.

Progress...

Another April is drawing to a close, and another Poetry Month is waning. It's hard to believe that five years ago, I neither knew nor cared about Poetry Month....but then came the poet laureate years. As of 2007, it was my job to care, and to be the cheerleader for every poetry event in the area, as well as initiate a few things on my own. I did my best, but I fear that I fell far short of my own expectations. There was too much to do, and I knew so little.

This year, it is someone else's problem (thank you, Amy Young) and when I spoke to her this week, she was busily explaining why she hadn't done more. And, with the wisdom bestowed upon me by not being in charge, I was able to look at Poetry Month with a bit more perspective.

Instead of looking at what we haven't done (during my tenure and Amy's) maybe we should be looking at what we HAVE accomplished. Five years ago, nobody celebrated Poetry Month outside a classroom. This year, there were poetry readings, posts on Facebook, events advertised in the newspapers. Freed of my obligations, I (with the help of other enthusiasts) initiated a reading of the works of Alexandria's first poet laureate, Jean Elliot, at the Old Presbyterian Meeting House--and we pulled in a reasonable audience for not only her, but for Amy, me, and three other area poets. The Athenaeum played host last night to a poetry gathering that concluded Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day, and people actually showed up with poems in their pockets. There is at least a semi-regular poetry slam event in town at the Lyceum, and that is in itself quite an accomplishment. There is a three-year-old Poetry Expo at Mt. Vernon High School--largely due to the efforts of a magnificent English teacher there--and I've had the privilege of participating in it. There is a well-known 'poetry fence' in Del Ray, and this year, I copied that idea and I hung a 'poetry line' on a bench outside my garden wall, and provided cards and pencils and clothespins for people to post favorite poems. And they did! In the works, according to Amy, are plans to produce an interactive map of the city, with poems about streets and locations. And a repeat of Dog Days of August--with poems (and pictures) honoring the dogs of Alexandria. With postings at dog parks. Not too shabby for a city that had no official poetry presence not so long ago.

While (with some exceptions) these events are not directly attributable to poet laureate efforts, it is safe to say that most weren't around before those efforts began. What I think we've done as a city--and as poet laureates--is create an atmosphere of acceptance of poetry, a place where it can grow and not be subject to ridicule or mockery. While we are not a great poetry mecca, we have made it clear that Alexandria respects the literary arts, and that poetry is, indeed, spoken here. We owe a debt of gratitude to the City Council--and especially to retired councilman, Ludwig Gaines--for that.

And while we're talking about expectations--and living up to them--and since it is still poetry month... a little poem on the subject:

Piecrust
Round I go,
pinching carefully at the piecrust edge, 
attempting my mother's facile fluting.
It's not the same.
The dough crumbles under my inexpert fingers. 
I patch with scraps, but
cannot hide the seams.
It will taste fine,
but I stubbornly see the flaws.


It's been a long time since I measured myself 
against my mother's yardstick,
but there are other standards to fall short of, 
and it's taken more than sixty years
to know, to really know,
that my piecrust life,
patched and seamed and poorly fluted, 
cobbled together and imperfect,
is worthy of its filling
and is, in fact, 
absolutely fine. 

When I'm 64....

Well, I'm not 64 quite yet, but there aren't any appropriate songs that address my state right now--unless you paraphrase..."Achy Breaky Heart (knees, hips, etc.)" for one example...In any case, I'm not getting any younger, stronger, more flexible, athletic, or any of those other good things. BUT..I must say, I am getting better in some ways. I don't worry so much anymore.

Last weekend, JC (suffering soul that he is) and I attended a CYO reunion in Baltimore. (Those non-Catholics among you, simply insert "high school church youth group" instead of "CYO") The Catholic Youth Organization was a parish-wide organization for teenagers, that linked to an archdiocesan organization, that was, in turn, part of a national CYO. For all, I know, it may have extended internationally, but who cares? Anyway, some of our old group decided that it might be fun to track down the old crowd (i.e. those members from the 1962-1966 timeframe) and catch up. With the advent of email and Facebook, the task even looked manageable. After all, high school and college reunions happen. People keep in touch with people, and if you could start a chain of people looking for former friends and classmates, finding our old social group might be possible. Anyway, that was the beginning, and we were lucky enough to have some dogged members who were willing to call and email and do all the hard work of finding people. Not everyone, but a fairly representative group.

Saturday night, we all got together for drinks and dinner and dancing to the music of our youth. Some people might obsess about seeing people last encountered 45 years ago, about how they've changed, about how they look, about not having anything in common except 4 years worth of high school dances in the church hall (because that's pretty much what we did.)  I wasn't worried about any of that, because, if the truth were told, I'm much happier than I was back then. After 45 years, I'm not pretty. Or thin as I was. I still have two left feet. I still can't throw or catch a softball. Or ride a bike or roller-skate. I never mastered the art of flirting, but I AM happy with my life, largely thanks to a husband who supports me in so many ways--even to attending a gathering where he knows virtually no one.

After 45 years, I also know what's important and what's not. I can talk to anyone about anything. (Some people might say I can talk to a post--not true.) I'm a pretty good cook. I know a lot about getting along with people, and I'm not afraid to speak up or step up when something needs to be done. I can follow, but I can also lead when I have to. People who were there that night have talents too--perhaps ones that the rest of the world doesn't see at first glance, but they are there.

I don't judge as much as I used to. The more you live, the more you realize that people don't have as much control of their choices as we all wish we did. Sometimes, things just happen and you play with the cards you're dealt. Looking around that room Saturday night, I have no doubt that there were people who have experienced almost every sort of joy or tragedy. We've had children and lost them, coped with fractious teenagers and aging parents, dealt with jobs (or the loss thereof) that were more (or less) than we thought we could handle. We've bought houses and cars; we've traveled and stayed at home. We've moved away, and sometimes, come back to the same places. We've made new friends, but kept the old as well.

Reunions bring out a strange phenomenon, I've found. No matter what or who you were years ago, at a reunion, the old class structure slips away. You might have been part of the popular crowd, or you might have been a hopeless nerd, or a clueless jock. You might have been part of the fad and fashion scene, or been on top of the top 40. But somehow, when you get together, you're back on a level playing field. People who wouldn't have given you a glance-- much less a kind word--back then, seek you out and ask about what you're doing, and it is amazing how much they remember about you. It's a revelation to find that you weren't as invisible as you felt then. And even more importantly, nobody cares about the old pecking order, perhaps because it was so artificial to begin with.

We have all learned through the years that the things that count are not all those externals, but the stuff inside: the shared values, the shared experiences, the bedrock of who we were all those years ago. Reunions help us reclaim the ground that we thought was lost when we left that particular arena of our lives.

It's still there, along with the people we can again call friends.

Rubber Bands on the Doorknob, and All That..

The omnipresent and little-heeded "they" advocate a place for everything and everything in its place. They have obviously never visited my house. In my world there is an infinite variety of things and an infinite assortment of places where they might be. All of which makes growing older less pleasant, as my once-infallible instant recall has become not only much slower, but also far more fallible. When someone (who shall remain nameless) used to complain that we were out of pickle relish, I could snap out "Top shelf, far right, on the turntable next to the sour cream" with barely a moment to think. Now the response is, "Oh." And the next time I'm at the store and remember the conversation, I pick up a jar--which joins the one in the refrigerator that was there all along--and the two in the pantry that I forgot I'd purchased.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I've been giving the problem some serious thought…and have been making some observations. I find that I seldom put anything away directly. A jacket will spend a day on the back of a chair before progressing to the tree in the dining room, where it will stay until a critical mass of coats forces removal to a closet upstairs. Magazines and mail percolate on the kitchen counter until someone pays the bills, reads the article they were saving the magazine for, or decides unilaterally to throw the stack away. Even dishes from the dishwasher find temporary homes on counter or table or shelf. No wonder I can no longer find anything. Everything is en route.

It isn't as if it requires a lot of effort to put things immediately in their proper places. I've just lost that habit. It's easier to stack newspapers on a chair than to walk them out to the recycling bin. It's easier to put dirty dishtowels at the foot of the stairs, rather than walk them up to the laundry basket on the second floor. It is easier to leave something where I have been using it than to make the effort to put it away when I'm done. I am, in a word, lazy. This way lies the sad spectacles that we see in "Hoarders"…

So, starting today, I am picking up that rubber band on the kitchen floor, and, instead of tossing it on the counter, am putting it on the doorknob where I keep stray rubber bands. I am kicking the Kik-Step into the kitchen and putting away the plastic containers on that shelf that I can't quite reach. I am organizing my spice cabinet so I no longer have to remove everything to find the cinnamon. I am taking all the coats upstairs and hanging them in their proper closets. The chargers for the phone and the iPad and the camera are all again confined to their box o'electronics. The silver that I used for brunch two weeks ago, that I washed and dried and put on the sideboard in the dining room is being restored to the silver chest--and the china I used with it has been returned to its cabinet after enjoying two weeks of fresh air, stacked on the buffet. Things are migrating slowly back to where they belong, and I am firmly resolved to put things back, all the way back, where they belong, instead of leaving them in interim locations.  By reducing the number of possible places of residence, I hope I will be able to have room in my aging brain for a discrete number of hiding places to search when something goes missing. So…Cell phone! Glasses! Purse! Pen! Checkbook! Address book! Keys! You are officially on notice. The days of hide-and-go-seek are numbered. 

Olly, olly, oxen free.