The Fruits of Our Labors

Back in October and November, the service club and Cedar High, of which I am advisor, embarked on a big project. There is a courtyard in the middle of the school, but in the six years since I have been teaching, it has been used usually once by the faculty in the spring when we have an end-of-the-year cookout and potluck lunch. It's been this great space but completely under-utilized and, frankly, really sad looking. So I had the idea for the Athena club to spruce it up a bit.

About five years ago (so people say), one of the clubs planted tulip bulbs out there. I would guess that it was much longer than that because only a few tulips would come up haphazardly around the courtyard, filled in by a lot of weeds and grass. One of the problems for any planting projects is that there is no direct water source; all water needs to come from within the building and can be rather messy. Anything that is planted has a tendency to get cooked by the hot sun, so having a lot of summer flowers isn't practical, hence the spring bulbs. Another issue is the soil quality. There is none. The dirt is hard as rock out there, and after digging around, there are all sorts of 'treasures' such as broken brick, ceramic, bolts... A third problem I encountered when I let the teachers know of the project (in part to beg for funds and help from other clubs) was with the reception I got from a few others at the school. Those who had planted the previous batch of bulbs out there were a little...defensive? Telling me it would be a shame to destroy the ones out there; there were about 500 bulbs currently; that I needed to dig everything up so as not to waste what others had done. I was kind of frustrated. How was I going to dig all of them up when I didn't even know where they were? How was I going to dig at all since the ground was so hard? And with all of the weeds, who was going to tell me what was a real plant and what was garbage? And did these people not remember how few flowers were coming up each spring? Most of what was out there was probably baked dead anyway, not to mention that, according to my sources from various Google searches, bulbs have about a 5 year life before needed to be refreshed. Needless to say, I had absolutely no gardening experience, had bitten off a lot more than I knew I could swallow, and was easily being discouraged by the less-than-helpful comments of some of my coworkers.

But begin we did. We started with a drenching of the dirt and weeding what we could - there was one humongous thistle that gave us a run for our money!! About 15 girls showed up for this. After that we tilled - Ok, I did. In flip flops. Dumb move, but now I know for any future tilling projects what the appropriate footwear is. We were out there for a while, but it helped me assess how much more work we had to do and that topsoil was needed.

A few weeks later came the bulb planting. I wanted the "Secret Garden," so I purchases about 700 daffodils, crocuses, and tulips. But 700 did not seem like nearly enough once we started setting them out. And I didn't buy nearly enough topsoil to feel good about it. And only 7 girls showed up. Seven! Out of three clubs that were invited, including National Honor Society (only 1 showed up from that). And then half of them had to leave early for other things. Two other teachers and I stayed until about 6:30 one night after school finishing up. I was even more disheartened.

And then came the waiting. And hoping. And more waiting. Winter. Thaw. More winter and thaw. And then...

Spring!




Teachers and office staff are emailing me and stopping me in the halls to say thanks. They are eating lunch out there. Another teacher contributed lawn furniture, a bird bath, iron decorations, and bird feeders. It's not the secret garden. There are packed areas and really sparse ones. But it is ours. Success sure is        
                                          sweet smelling!

Never's

Never before had I noticed how tall he was,
standing next to my brother
at the deli counter
as he ordered his coffee
and my roast beef on white - hold the mustard.

In the profile of his jaw
was a cool confidence I never knew
he had
because I hadn't ever looked.

But as he slid the money across the counter
and I ate the first meal
he ever bought for me,
I savored my time
with this man I was just now discovering,
deciding then that a roast beef sandwich
had never before tasted
so good.

Little Fish

Steven had beautiful eyes.
Big black ones with long dark lashes
that matched the thick wisps on his head.
A perpetual river from his nose led to a mouth
full of shy grin.
The victim of teasing about
everything and nothing.

The four of us,
little girls on a big block,
spent hours on the swing set beneath
the branches of the chestnut tree
that shed its nuts with spiked husks,
and I only remember him
once or twice in all of those young summers,
standing along the dividing fence,
the rhubarb growing up and out of the garden
by his feet - was the radio's tune what lured him
out to us? sharks teasing him about
everything and nothing
because everyone did.

But I still remember those
beautiful eyes and that shy grin
and how awful I felt
but didn't know how to say sorry,
hoping he didn't believe me
whatever it was I said.

Champion

The ice hung in daggers

from the eave of the garage,

creating a gauntlet to those who walked below,

and despite reason

I inched treacherously close,

mesmerized by its sheen like clean glass

And finding one fallen, hidden in the bed of snow,

I brandished it like a crystal sword

as I controlled nature

until it escaped between my fingers,

soaking my gloves.

The Work of Women

I never liked cooking until I made my first soup.
This work of women to feed hungry mouths
was no desire of mine to claim,
but I resigned myself
with the leftovers of a celebration
not to be wasted.

Not until the onions stained my fingers with
pungence and the amber stock
became a means of sustenance to satisfy life
did I feel the power that this
potion of nutriment could have
in turning me into a woman.

The Painter's Audience

Mr. Ott down the street
painted statues in his garage.
Religious ones.
Gave face-lifts to faded colors.
And the Virgin shined mournfully beautiful,
her red lips haunting,
while beside her on both sides
was her son,
His arms frozen,
outstretched with pierced palms out.
Two effigies - of both the suffering and the salvation

Through the fumes of acrylic spray
I felt reverence,
close to the sacred somehow
in that paint splattered
garage down the alley
where the shirtless smoking man worked,
and I stood in awe at Their feet,
waiting, half hoping
They would speak to me.
But scared that they would,
I pedaled away
pondering what it meant
to truly believe.

Pockets Full

I collect stones.
Mostly flat and smoothed
on the beaches where they've
been tumbled from
who knows where.

I like to imagine them
drifting from a distant shore
where someone else
stood in a salty breeze
with a pocketful like me,
compelled to pick them up
to study the messages of
time and long-suffering
they carry

and that only we who reach for them
can read.

April is National Poetry Month

About a year ago, I eagerly anticipated hearing back if I won anything from the poetry contest I entered -I was really just hoping to make the top 50 and have the chance to be published.  I entered three poems and then waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Nothing happened.  I couldn't post what I had entered because the contest rules prohibit previously posted work, including what has been shown on a blog.  Alas, I did not stun the judges with my mad writing skills.  But I am grateful to my friend Tasha who pushed me to enter to begin with and then for reminding me through her blog that it is NPM.  I have started teaching my poetry unit to my 9th graders, and am looking around for some inspiration to start writing myself again.  Between Tasha adding poems and commentary to her blog every other day and the endearing - if not sometimes grumblingly labored - writing of my students, I am hopping that I can add to my own arsenal of poetic musings.  While I may not be up to par to be published in Writers Digest magazine, I started writing before I knew about them and I hope I will always take the risk of trying and failing at things I truly love to do.  Here is one of the poems that I submitted.

"Birth"

The nest clung to a rotting board
in a dark corner of the garage
among rusty tools and buckets and drop cloths.

It stuck there like a pimple on the wood,
an intricate orb.
Its density was breached by a tiny hole
out of which hundreds of spiderlings flowed,
like water from a burst dam, that began as a
trickle until the wall of darkness
could contain them no more and out they erupted
into the light -

diminutive in their size, frightening in their numbers
had I not seen them for those few moments
as infants
in the first breaths of life.

Adventures of an Aunt - Claire Edition

Claire came to visit, and I couldn't have been more delighted with the time I spent with her. She is at that fun age where she is learning new words, how to talk, and loves cuddling up with a good book and a person to read it with her! While her mom and dad were away, I got some quality alone time with Claire, and we played and giggled our way to a friendship. She is just so darn cute!!!

Unbeknown to me, this is the first time Claire said either of these words (if I recall correctly). So have I been admitted into the circle of trust? Uh, yes. Yes I have. Will subsequent photo's take me off of that list? Quite possibly yes.

There is always a pose or facial expression that a beloved baby spontaneously picks up, but it is so hard to capture in a photo. Or it finally is captured - after many attempts - and it is blurry. This was one of those. Sigh. But Claire's new way of sitting is too precious to forget!
Name two things that are disgusting on adults but adorable on a baby...
Name one thing that not cute on an adult OR on a baby...

I love you Claire! Thanks for playing!