SoL: First Day of School

Part of Slice of Life, hosted by Two Writing Teachers

I start school tomorrow and I’m not ready.

That’s not hyperbole. I am not ready. I have three classes scheduled, and I am, in fact, ready for two of them – two sections of College Writing I. There are gaps in the schedule on my syllabus, but I have the big picture, and all the necessary information, due dates for the major projects, and a solid plan for my first several weeks.

That third class, the ESL writing preparation class, is not so well organized. This is the first time I am teaching this course and I was really excited to get it. I started planning back in June.  Then life hit, and I worked on all my classes only sporadically.

I pulled it together and got the writing classes worked out. That was a bit easier, since I had past semesters to work from. I keep notes as each semester goes along about what worked, what ideas I might want to try, what projects proved most difficult and might need more or different scaffolding. So, I had a good starting point.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m ready for the first day of class. I’m ready for the first few weeks of class. I just don’t have the same solid big picture for this course. My syllabus doesn’t yet have all the required language (and so, clearly, it’s not yet printed).

My distracted summer has made my fist day jitters worse. But I still have that same feeling of excitement; ready to meet a new group of students, looking forward to this year’s film and lecture series on campus, anxious to see how some new ideas will work out. 

And, I’m really looking forward to getting back into a regular routine. I’m really looking forward to being too busy to be sad.

And for my last day of summer vacation, with my daughters already off to school and my husband out the door early, I’m waiting on some friends to go walking with me, then to chat over coffee before I delve into my final day of preparation. With that sort of beginning, I know I’ll be ready in the morning.

Spiritual Atheism – lost comfort

I went to church on Sunday with my family. It was the two-year anniversary of my father’s death and the mass was being offered in his memory. During the intentions, they listed those who had been buried from the church in the past month, including my mother. I went to mass in part out of familial obligation; but also, since my mother’s funeral, I have been thinking about how comforting the mass was. I knew all the songs, I was familiar with the readings, I prayed and knew all the words.

So, it really was with high expectations of finding that same sort of comfort that I went to mass this week. It had been a tough weekend, missing both of my parents, and I needed some tradition to hold onto.

I didn’t get it.

The church I grew up in was closed by the archdiocese several years ago. The congregation joined with a smaller church that was actually closer to my parents’ house. This new church is completely different from the great, cathedral-like structure I was used to. The new church is 1970s architecture; a church in the round. And, the traditions are different: they hold hands during the “Our Father,” the choir is on the alter rather than in a loft at the back (the ceilings are not high enough for a choir loft), they keep their hymnals on a table by the door rather than in the pews, so I didn’t get one.

All of these cosmetic differences remind me that this is not the congregation of my youth, but still, they are surface differences that I could cope with.

What took my sense of comfort away were the changes in the mass itself. Words have changed; the places where you sit and kneel and stand have changed.  The part that most upset me was, preparing for the Eucharist, when the priest used to say:

Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.

But now, instead of saying “for you and for all” he said, “for you and for many”.

Oh my, not all? This felt so limiting, so exclusionary.

Now granted, I was (and am) an emotional mess. Still, I went to church for comfort and left feeling unwanted. You can say I’m over-reacting; I say I am simply reacting. This was my reaction.

My sister, who does attend church regularly (or at least did when my father was alive), has been complaining about the changes in the mass for a long time. My father complained before that. I listened, but their complaints meant little to me at the time. I have been to mass a few times since the changes took place, but they didn’t truly register; I wasn’t fully invested in the mass the way I was this weekend. Now I understand why they were so upset.

I won’t claim that the Church made a mistake with these changes. I have to assume that they had their reasons, and their intentions were good. I won’t presume to suggest I know better than they what is good for the church. Certainly, I do not. But, I will say that these changes were bad for me. They took away the comfort I was seeking. And now, I am a bit lost.

Writing Out Loud (Fiction Friday, sort of)

My daughters like to listen to books on CD when they are crafting. The Chronicles of Narnia (C.S. Lewis) and the Redwall series  (Brian Jacques) recordings are their favorites since they are full productions, with actors for each roll. Redwall is delightfully narrated in thick Scottish brogue and includes all the songs, which the girls used to sing constantly (though now they sing pop songs, sigh).

            Today, walking through the cellar to put in a load of laundry, past their sketching and painting, I was struck by the rhythm of the story on the CD player; as if it were written to be heard, rather than read. I thought, yeah, I want to write like that.

            Our stories began as vocal art, told at fairs and festivals, retold year after year. Each new storyteller added her own excitement by introducing some magic or elaborating on the description of the castle or killing off a lesser character in a dramatic fashion. The story changed; sometimes they were forgotten and later revived; often just forgotten though replaced by new stories.

            Whether changed or repeated verbatim, the voice was an important part of the art. Years ago, when I ran a program at the museum for preschoolers, storytelling was a big part of it; it was my favorite part. When I taught elementary school, I read out loud every day. But, these past few years, as I have started playing with writing, when I began the journey to become a writer, I forgot all about that voice.

            On my writing “to do” list this month is to read my work out loud and pay attention to that rhythm. Fortunately, I have two days a week when the kids go to school and the husband goes to work and the only one who will be around to hear me is the dog. I love to tell others’ stories to a crowd, but I’m not ready to perform my own work. I will be, though. I don’t have bawdy ballads like Brian Jaques, nor an instantly poetic sounding brogue, but, still, I can make all of my words sing.  

Boy Friends

Yesterday was the last day of summer vacation at our house. My youngest started her first year at the middle school this morning; her sister joins her there as an 8^th grader tomorrow.

To celebrate the last day, we planned to spend time with a group of friends we’ve known since my oldest was 2 years old. One family has two boys, the other has a boy and a girl, so with my two girls, we are evenly divided along gender lines. Each family has an 8^th grader, each family has a 6^th grader; evenly divided along age lines as well. Depending on the day, or the activity, they often divide themselves by either those gender or age groups. Usually, everybody is happy.

But yesterday, there was a glitch. The one girl from outside our family had other plans and was absent from the park and picnic date. I had a small moment of dread thinking my girls would want to bail and I wouldn’t get to talk with the other Moms. (It’s a play date for me, too, when we all get together.)

No fear. They had a blast. Sometimes, they divided by age, with my oldest talking about 8^th grade things with her friend, but some new groups formed, too. Mostly, they stayed in a big bunch, adding in some random kids who happened to be at the part that day. Every time I located them out in the park, my girls were with a different group. It was fun to watch.

On the drive home, Thea, my oldest, admitted that she doesn’t have a lot of friends who are boys, but today reminded her that she might want to change that. She had a great time, even without her best-friend–since-we-were-two.

Most of my close friends are female (although my husband is my best friend, truly). I’m a little inspired by Thea’s revelation to look into why that is. Mostly, I’m inspired to enjoy whoever I’m spending time with.

 http://twowritingteachers.wordpress.com/2012/08/28/the-weekly-solsc/

Fiction Friday - characters

Just playing around with developing a character. This may, or may not, become a story.

Drinks with Darin

“The chimney needs repointing.” She said it as if it were obvious to everyone. He looked up at the chimney, hoping something there would explain the term. 

“Um, you think?”

She let out a laugh; really, an exhale of breathe with meaning, the translation of which was still unclear.  His smile seemed the best response. He actually liked how ignorant this woman made him feel. She made him notice things, made him look and see and think about the things in front of him. Had he even truly known there was a chimney on the house? Maybe, as some architectural detail, like molding around the front door, but that it would ever need attention from him hadn’t occurred to him. He looked up at the chimney again. There were some gaps between the bricks where the cement had fallen away; that must be it. Repointing. He was going to save that word, use it when he called . . . who does one call for repointing a chimney?

“I can do that for you next week. I have some time.”

She loved the way he raised his eyebrows instinctively when she said these things. It was his “tell” that proved he had no idea what she was talking about.

“No, you’re right, you’d better call a mason. I know a guy who does good work cheap. I’ll call him and see if he’s clean this month.”

“Clean?”

“Yeah, he’s an addict. You know construction workers. But he’s a good guy, solid work. “

No, he didn’t know construction workers. But she did and he found himself remarkably unconcerned that she was going to call this drug addict friend of hers to work on his house. Erin looked over at him and he just smiled and shrugged. That had become his signature move since meeting Jamie, a smile and a shrug. But Erin couldn’t leave it there. Drink just in front of her lips, she had to ask.

“So, Jamie, should we add masonry to your list of talents.”

“Oh, no. I can do basic work in a pinch, but if you can get a guy who knows his shit, then get him. Bob knows what he’s doing; comes from a whole family of bricklayers.”

“And how did you and Bob meet?” Damn Erin, this was not her small talk tone. Would Jamie notice?

“You meet guys on the job. Bob’s one of those guys who works when you need him. You can count on him.”

“You can count on an addict?”

“Well, I wouldn’t trust him with my stash, if that’s what you’re after, but he’ll do good work.” Her smile did nothing to help clarify if she was joking about the stash or not. Darin didn’t care; he loved the way she delivered this line as casually as Erin held her drink. She could hold her own, this one.  “Who needs a drink?”

Slice of Life - My mother and Aunt Nora

One of my earliest memories is of sitting on the overstuffed chair by the picture window, watching my parents and my Nana walk out to the car and wanting to go with them. They were going to my Great-Aunt Nora’s funeral, but I think I only knew they were going to see Aunt Nora and I wanted to go too. I told my sister about this memory once and she said she couldn’t even remember Aunt Nora.

My mother told me, years later when I was asking about that memory, that she used to bring me along on visits to her mother’s sister. We’d go over and pick up Nana, then go to Nora’s where the grown-ups would have tea at the kitchen table. I don’t know what I did. Mom said she didn’t remember what I did either, so I must have been good.

I got to go on this adventure because, as the youngest in the family, I was the last to start school. So, my siblings would all troop off in the morning and for the only time in my life, I had my mother all to myself.

A few weeks ago, I took my mother to the doctor’s visit that would start her last days. Her kidneys were not working at all; she needed dialysis. I left her at the hospital on a Sunday night, expecting to see her ready for dialysis prep in the morning but when I got there I found out she had refused the procedure and asked to go home. We knew, without the procedure, she would die. She knew too. We took her home.

            My sisters and I stayed with Mom that week. We all found places around the house to sleep; someone was always with her, watching her favorite Westerns. Within 12 hours she was unresponsive. On Thursday afternoon, she died.

            I was sitting on the loveseat by the picture window, waiting for the funeral director to arrive when I thought of that morning wanting to go see Aunt Nora. We lose so many people from our lives. I thought about those trips my mother said we took to her house. Mom and Nana were making the time to spend with someone important who they knew would not be with them much longer. They made sure she knew they loved her by brewing tea and talking. At the same time, they filled their own hearts with her love, strengthening them for the time she would no longer be there.

            I’ve known all year that each holiday could be our last with Mom. My children are old enough to remember the visits every Sunday morning, and for that, I’m grateful. Those memories are strength. My mother knew we loved her because we brewed tea and talked; but we knew love just through her presence.

            I miss my mother terribly. I feel like that little girl, looking out the picture window, crying as her mother goes without her.

            My brothers and sisters have all said she is up in Heaven now with our Dad, holding hands again. I hope she can also pop in on Aunt Nora for a cup of tea. Nana will be there, too. And, in my heart, I am there with them.