Princess Thoughts

My first Prince was really a King. I was six years old, a first grader. Small town Ohio loves its football, so Homecoming was a major celebration. In the usual way of things, there was a Homecoming Queen and King, both seniors, with attendants from all the other high school classes. And then there was me, in full fancy dress—with a green shiny pillow to match my long green shiny dress—and I got to carry the Queen’s crown.

I was probably cute enough, but I’m sure I was chosen because my father was something of a town celebrity—the young, fun pastor who had a good rapport with the kids. He and my mother would be chaperones for the Senior Trip later that year—so they were surely better known than I was. But for me, this was a major Princess event. Long dress, a parade. And of course I was completely in love with the King. In my little girl mind, he was my King. I wasn’t simply the crown bearer, but the Queen herself. Royalty. Ruler of the Known Universe. I somehow simply erased the real Queen from my mind.

All of this comes to mind as we watch and enjoy the spectacle of a royal wedding. A real Prince and a real Princess—with plenty of smiles and it seems, a sense of humor. In this country, we’ve mostly left royalty behind, unless you count rock stars and sports heroes. But we do enjoy that Prince and Princess moment. Long dresses. Crowns. Fancy coaches. And a moment to dream, imagine, remember, the royal moments of our own.

DECEMBRRRRR

Three days in, and December has tromped on the last of my flowers and spread its chill everywhere, including a thin crust of snow that crunches underfoot. It reminds me of two old nursery rhymes I rediscovered in a museum in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island this summer, in a display of weather-related collages. Both rhymes are English and quite old.

The first, is usually titled either The North Wind Doth Blow or The Robin:

The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

Whether the Weather is more of a tongue-twister but also fun:

Whether the weather be fine,
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold,
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not!

School Shoes

I’ve been neglecting the blog for a couple of months, so am trying to make up for it. Please pretend this is being entered in September. If it helps with the pretending, you might like to know I was thinking and talking about this idea in September. Just didn’t get to write it down. A recently graduated student commented on how odd it seemed not to be starting school in September—for the first time since early childhood. I could connect with that sensation. For a few Septembers, due to family events or job changes I too hadn’t started school and as a result felt myself adrift. No new outfits, no new school shoes. It felt way too weird, so I decided to go ahead and get the new school shoes anyway. I’d wear them out with friends or to a restaurant or a concert. So while classes didn’t always start, I was prepared, refreshed and ready for whatever might come my way when the (school) year got off to its official start. I finally did have lunch with two of these recent graduates. We all wore fun shoes or boots…so the fall is officially a success.

Ruby Slippers

A week in Kansas and no ruby slippers—no tornados either, so I guess I didn’t need the slippers. The trip was intense—fifteen events with children and the state is large. Many miles between locations. My assignment on this trip was to promote early literacy through the Kansas Reads to Preschoolers program. I was fortunate to have UP DOWN & AROUND chosen as the 2010 book and during the week I was there they hoped to share the story with more than 100,000 children across the state. I probably read (and sang) with about 1000 little ones. Kansas has been kind to me and my writing since the very start. My first book, Family Tree, was nominated for a William Allen White readers’ choice award when it first came out. Highlights of this trip? Staying at the Boot Hill B & B in the Annie Oakley suite. (When I was small I wanted to be Annie Oakley.) And staying in a B & B constructed from an 1800s barn. I particularly enjoyed the little girl who, when I talked about good eating and growing big, said, “I’m not big, I’m widdew.” Or the boy who saw the book cover and kept saying, “That’s a punkin patch. That’s a punkin patch.” Or especially my visit with two former students, now married, and meeting the first Chatham MFA baby, little Liam. A lovely, huggable, lapful. A great trip all around, Toto.

A Whale of a Trip

One of the absolute joys of the teaching life is having the opportunity to learn and grow along with one's students. Sometimes it is a small moment — a new book discovered or a new way of seeing an old favorite. Traveling through Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island with a group of graduate students is no small moment — it is an explosion of sensation as rich and nurturing as the krill that flourish in these marshes and estuaries. We sing everywhere — in the van, on boats, as we walk the beach or city sidewalks. Our laughing muscles hurt and yet the writing that is shared is thoughtful, profound, moving.

Which is the best moment? Seeing the glacier-scored rocks at Peggy’s cove, or hearing the story of Peggy—a child pulled from the wreckage of a downed schooner? Or seeing the graves of Titanic victims—some unnamed—who were not rescued in time?

I feel dwarfed by the work of Alexander Graham Bell—and then awed by the bald eagle, Alex, who circles our boat near this wise man’s Cape Breton home. To say nothing of seeing (in just two days) two moose and more whales than I can count.

The sea is all around us here—it salts my skin, sings me to sleep at night, carries me back in time to my childhood on the beach. So is this the best? High on the list, a moonlight paddle across a glassy lake then spending the night in a tipi on the shore.

And through it all—day by day—watching these lovely people stretch, grow, explore, take risks. There is no one best moment, for there are so many brilliant ones. Instead, for me, the mix of writing and teaching is simply the best life.

Here is a poem I wrote while on the trip —

yellow

yellow bathtub in peaty brown water

currents, wind whip up

waves smack the boat bottom

a drumbeat tattoo

in my ears I am an ocean-going tug —

a pilot boat

a zodiac bounding from froth to froth

in truth I am a small woman

on a small plastic boat

upon a small placid lake

but the moment is infinite

Dog Dog Teeth

I’ve been spending several weeks in the country, digging in the garden and reading fun books. A lot of the time, I’m by myself, talking back to the birds who chirp down or grumbling at the bunnies who love to eat my Echinacea plants. Then people arrive on the scene, often in goodly numbers and it’s party time.

My most recent party time included a week-long visit with my daughter and her 21-month-old daughter, pictured above painting au natural. Little E is bursting into speech, abbreviating the language into bits and nibbles that convey her meanings with both joy and humor. And while she chats all the time, she mostly uses one or two word phrases—not yet full sentences. When she latches on to a new word, it becomes the word of the day and gets endless repeats. One day the word was Ma-Ma, her word for me. I slurped up all those lovely syllables and rewarded her with hugs and snuggles. Another day the word was fluffy, for she woke with wild hair, curling every which way and I said she was fluffy. So that day everything became fluffy.

My favorite of her expressions however takes a little explaining. Her mother has a delightful sense of humor and whimsy. The little one is in love with dogs, and so as her canine teeth are about to erupt from her gums, Mom explains that those are her dog teeth. My daughter is sure the baby will enjoy those teeth in particular because it will connect somehow with her doggy friends. Little E makes the phrase unique, for they are not canines, nor dog teeth, but dog-dog teeth. A three word phrase that always comes with a smile.

I drove them home and returned yesterday, again solitary, talking to the birds and bunnies. I spent the first half day feeling lonely and pathetic so I wallowed in it and did chores and put away bunches of toys. But this morning dawned crisp, cool and sunny and the garden beckoned. As I dug and transplanted and pruned, I kept seeing her covered in paint and hearing that chirpy little-girl voice in my ear, giggling Ma-Ma, fluffy and dog-dog teeth. I’m not sure if or when my grown-up vocabulary will return…

Birthdays and Baby Feet

Last weekend I participated in a birthday celebration--the Pennsylvania One Book (Every Young Child) was celebrating its fifth birthday, with a gathering of the authors or illustrators of all five books. What a delight! I've often felt that I live a privileged life--the people I get to hang out with much of the time are readers and writers, librarians and teachers, children, and gardeners.

The One Book creators were no exception. Folks who grow, nurture and support--whether children or plants--are generally kind, helpful, cheery, easy to be with. This crew included a number of illustrators and it was much fun to hear about their work and process, which is different in many ways from mine. I play with words; they play with images. I listen for the ways the sounds fit together; they explore color and line and shape. Together, although from our separate desks most often, we work to create a seamless and beautiful story. Cooperation at a distance.

I also met a fledgling writer last week. While visiting a school and presenting an assembly, I modeled some activities around using the five senses, then invited the children to explore their shirts with just their fingertips. I heard comments such as soft, very soft, a little scratchy. Then from the first grade rows, a little boy said, in a clear, loud voice: "my shirt is soft as baby feet." This boy is already a wordsmith--he makes images that sing. And he's only six or seven. It makes me wonder what tales he'll be spinning when he gets bigger...