An open letter to my GPS:

Dear Tom Tom,

We had such a lovely drive to West Hartford today. You took us straight to our destination. We traded the clarinet for the trumpet and signed up for lessons. Because every new trumpet player needs lessons. More on this at a later date. When my ears have recovered.


I was so happy with your performance, your lead, your lovely way off the beaten path. My favorite part of you is the screen that says "avoid freeways". I no like freeways.









Your path through Bloomfield to the urban center of West Hartford was pristine, sweet, life in the country. Well, I didn't quite see this, but the houses we did see once sat on this land. Of that I am sure.

And then we arrived.

West Hartford is to me what New York City is to urbanites. It's a mecca of shops, restaurants, on-street parking, and fancy crosswalk signals with sound effects.

I was in a panic. Where do I park? What if I hit someone? Where are the house numbers on these dingdang stores? Oh, please don't let our destination be on the wrong side of the road.

Our destination was on the wrong side of the road. Nonetheless, Tom Tom, it's not your fault.



I was feeling absolutely giddy with our journey across the road and back. I even arrived at the parking meter within SECONDS of the expiration tag popping up. Talk about karma. The boys and I buckled in and set you for the drive back home.

"Avoid freeways."
(which loosely translates "avoid humanity")

Your Aussie self chirped to turn left, then turn right, then bear this way and then that. Go 200 yards, because we aren't willing to go metric till the rest of the country goes first.







I grew a little curious when you didn't turn me around, have me backtrack my path, turn toward the country.





I was perplexed when I saw this. And not a drop from the sky.






And passed these people crossing the street. How do they do that? Cross in broad daylight in their yoga pants?




I grew concerned when I passed this. I don't recall this in Bloomfield.
I know this to be the Hartford capital. This is most def not in Bloomfield.








And while you could have taken me by this lovely vista, you didn't.
Instead, you chose the path with the most bars on the windows, the most pedestrians walking in the MIDDLE OF THE DOGGONE ROAD, the most construction delays EVER.

I think I waved at 13 policemen on a single drive. They all waved back. Poor men. I guess very few drivers give them the time of day. It was 3:40. And 3:50. And 4:00. And 4:10. And 4:20.


There was only one thing left to do when we finally arrived at home.










While you didn't know the way to the other side of the galaxy, I certainly did.



So that's where I went. Sans you.

Summer is here! I'm sleeping till 9:00 - waking well into the morning with the sunlight streaming in through the windows. (I've gotta get those room darkening shades.) I wash my hair and get dressed at the time when my class is finishing lunch and getting ready to settle in for our chapter book read aloud. The kids and I are faced with the difficult choice of going to the park to catch frogs or swimming in our back yard redneck pool. Life is beyond good.

And yet I can't quit thinking about school. I surf the teacher boards and yahoo groups. I read the education blogs. I have stacks of dogeared books by the bed and the couch. In short, I'm a teacher without a class.

Here's what I'm pondering for my group of 2nd graders next year:

~ To theme or not to theme
~ If I go with a theme, will it be camping? beach? frogs? dogs? mystery? Can I even keep up with the madness once I start it?
~ Revamp reading workshop units after finishing Catching Readers Before They Fall.
~ Revamp writing workshop units after finishing Pyrotechnics on the Page.
~ Don't forget the online book study for Pyrotechnics, too.
~ Meet with the curriculum lady at school about setting up the word study program and training teachers on it.
~ Plan room arrangement and math/reading bulletin boards for next year.
~ Sort and level the newer books for the classroom library. Slap labels on them. Pick up some new $1.00 tubs at Dollar Tree for them.
~ Hunt for bean bag chairs at yard sales and thrift stores.
~ Pray for a document camera, computer projector of my very own, a new computer with a giant monitor, and/or a Smartboard.
~ Print and assemble beginning of the year calendar folders, offices, welcome letters, newsletter template, birthday badges, desk toppers, etc. (Etc. covers everything I think of between now and Aug. 24.)
~ Hit Staples Teacher Appreciation Days and shop Target's Back to School sales. Can't have too much paper, too many pencils, enough markers and glue and staples.
~ View Responsive Classroom videos.
~ Catch up on wrestling moves.

I know there's more. I just know it. And I'll probably think of it around 3:11 a.m. and get up to write it down. I sure hope not.

Sunday Haiku

I spent the morning reading over my old blog posts from waaaaaay back when Benjy was virtually speechless and Camden was a wee lad. I had forgotten about my habit of posting a Sunday haiku. So, without further ado, here's my reinstatement of the poetry form for today.

Painting is the best
Way to update your home's look,
But it hurts your neck.

That is all. Ta ta for now.

So this is our beach.
If we drove an hour south.

This is Benjy chasing a wave.

This is Camden getting warm.

This is what grabbed my attention.
What in the world does that say about me? :) :) :)

The glorious thing about living in a new house is the surprise of springtime. I ventured out back today to check out the growth I spied from the kitchen window. I never knew such secrets were hiding in my own backyard. This flowering bushy thing was hiding under a tree right outside my dining room window.


Well, I knew the boys were digging a pond in the backyard, which is made easy peasy by the sandy soil. I threatened to take pictures of their butts, but Camden figured me out and ruined that with his adorable profile.


Check out this beauty. It's a bleeding heart.

I taught Rachel a couple of years ago in first grade. She gave me hope that raising a girl couldn't be all that bad after all. She was that beautiful. I remember at the end of the school year her mom showed up with a bag that had a bush peeking out of it. It was a bleeding heart bush divided from her very own plant from her very own yard. Her mom had divided this flowering bush from every house she'd lived in and it had taken off at their latest home. And now she was sharing a piece of this very special plant with me. I took it home, planted it off the back porch (which was my favorite part of the entire house), and it GREW. Imagine my dismay that it actually worked!


This is what it gave me every spring and summer. Blossoms of bleeding hearts. So when we moved I was sad to leave this; but in November, I didn't dare dig it up. I didn't have that much faith in my gardening disabilities.

What a surprise to find one in my new backyard today! It was growing all by itself in the waaaaaaay back part of the yard. The part where we blew the leaves last fall. The part where the junk trees grow and the weeds are allowed to thrive. That's where this beauty lives. Curt saw it first and pointed me to it. As soon as I saw these blossoms, I thought of Rachel. Sweet Rachel. And her thoughtful mom who is a much better gardener than me.

From the bleeding hearts, this is my backyard.

See that perfect baseball diamond? I don't.
What I see is the inground that used to be there.

And then was filled in before we bought this house.
This house that does not have a pool.
Not that I'm bitter.

Don't you love the three trees here? It's like I was thinking, "Hey, I should totally take a picture of these three trees that I never noticed before!" These Three Trees. Don't you love the sound of that?



In other news, I couldn't resist this poster from etsy.com. I had to have it for our new condo, um... camper.

And now, for the cleverest thing I've E.V.E.R. done - I made this ottoman on my very own. It's a Cooler Cozey. Yes it is, girlfriend. It is a footstool by night...



A cooler by day. Yes. It. Is.

I have this recurring dream from back in my Roanoke Times days. I used to work in the Features department, putting together the Friday calendar of events for the Extra section. I felt proud of my job, back in the day. Thrilled to play a part of the weekend planning of my fellow Roanoke-ians. Truth be told, I liked to think I was higher than my "editorial assistant" title. I was high on the hog of pride, back then. I was on top of the world when I saw my byline. It didn't matter if it was in the NewsFun section, the Neighbors section, or the coveted Extra section. Heck, I'd have been over-the-moon to have appeared in the classifieds.

To this day, however, I have this dream that I am late for work at the Times, or that I do not show up at all. In my dream I know that I did the calendar, but then I just got bored. I quit doing it. And I didn't bother to show up after I did it. Which means that at least one Friday calendar wasn't done. At least one Roanoke Times & World-News Extra section wasn't complete. And I left it to my co-workers to figure out because, apparently, I didn't bother to report to work that week. In my dream, I am thinking that I have DONE everything, but I still have all these hours to fill up. How will I ever pass the time when the calendar is already DONE??? Whatever is left to DO?

Oh, this is a horrible nightmare for me. It's a lot like the dream I have when I'm late for a final exam and I get there only to realize that I showed up for only the first class. How in the world will I ever pass this exam?! The professor always looks at me and says, "How could you have let this happen, Wendi? We expected so much more of you." And I always feel that horrible bomb-in-your-gut feeling. "I don't know! I just showed up this very minute!"

When I finally wake from the Roanoke Times dream, the first person I think of is Beth Macy. She was my idol. Oh, how I wanted to be like Beth Macy. I wanted to name my first born Macy, but, alas, he was a boy. And I couldn't do that to him. So I called him Camden. But Beth Macy was my Mentor Of All Mentors. She was an actual REPORTER for the Roanoke Times. And she was good. G.O.O.D. I read every single thing she wrote. Even when Ed Shamy had a sure-fire headliner, I read Beth Macy before Ed Shamy. Shamy had nothin' on Macy. Shamy, quite frankly, scared the daylights out of me.

But Macy was my friend. She called me Cal-Gal and made me feel like I was a part of her reporterly world. Macy taught me how to make a brisket. She loaned me her wedding dress. She made me feel like I belonged in the Features Department and that I could do a tad bit more than answer the phone. At the time, she lived in Salem. I will never forget passing Butt Hollow Road on the way to her house, thinking that only Beth Macy could pull that off. Yeah, she was that cool.

As I type this little blog of mine, I am perusing Macy's own blog (which I just discovered via the Roanoke Times) and I just read the line where she remembers her own plot of land on Texas Hollow Road. Holy crow, but I just was thinking of Texas Hollow Road and her rented ranch house that stretched across FOREVER and the divided Pepsi~Cola crate I purchased at her yard sale!!!

OK, so, yeah.

As I was saying. I have this recurring nightmare. And in it, I'm late. Very late. I am always a mess when I awake from this dream. But I'm always relieved when I realize that it's not real. I'm only dreaming. The calendar is fine in the hands of somebody else.

And I always pause to thank Beth Macy for being my mentor and my friend back when I didn't even have a clue who I was. Thank you, Beth Macy. I miss you.

I learned a new lesson today. No matter how bad you think you have it when you shop in Wal-Mart, it is most definitely worse when you decide to shop in Wal-Mart in Connecticut. I have no idea how it feels when you visit Wal-Mart in China, so I won't address that issue in this particular blog post.

We took a chance on Wally World in Manchester today, figuring that the cool red enamel-ware dishes for camping were a great deal. And we also figured we'd pick up some meds for Camden who is coughing in the Eagle Scout fashion. And plus also too we wanted to price Mr. Coffee makers. Just because. So we ventured down the road to Wal-Mart.


I did not see this person one single time in my visit to Wal-Mart today. In fact, everyone I did see did most certainly NOT have this face.


Long story short: WalMart up here in the Yankee lands makes me madder than the ones I've frequented in the south. What's missing? Good southernly charm, manners, smiley-faced people, and Southern Living at the check-out counter. (I'm not addressing aisle width, cleanliness, or restroom facilities in this post.)

If you are a primary teacher of reading, you probably know this book. It was the first one I read that triggered that longed-for ah-ha moment: So that's how you teach kids to read!

I first heard of Kathy Collins through proteacher, a message board for, you guessed it, teachers. I have not one, but two copies of this book. Long story short, I left my first one in Pennsylvania, not knowing when I would teach again. Then, when I got this gig teaching 2nd grade, I bought myself another because I can't teach without it, I tell you. On account of it's like the bible of how young children learn to read.


This is Kathy herself. She's the author of this amazing book that reads like you're hanging out in the classroom of your favorite teacher listening to her talk about what she did on that day with her kids. I love teachers like that. And plus also, she lives in New Hampshire. That's close to me, you know. So, I go to West Hartford yesterday to see her speak and she did not disappoint. I was inspired. I giggled.

I love that she liked books I like. (Ever read Duck Rabbit?)

She LIKES it, just like ME!)

And she is a humongous fan of David Sedaris. Well, I, too, like David Sedaris. He's a stitch, I tell you.

She had me hanging on the edge of my seat till my butt couldn't sit any longer. Then I was hanging by the balls of my feet as I stood in the back with Francie listening to who I want to be when I grow up. (Well, a little bit Kathy, a little bit Debbie Miller.)



So, she finishes her spiel, and it's time to leave. I stalk her, as fast as I can, to ask her to autograph my books. I'm cool. I'm confident. I'm every bit the subdued second grade teacher I think I am.

HI!
IJUSTLOVEYOU.
WOULDYOUPLEASESIGNMYBOOKS?
IJUSTLOVEYOU!!!!
IHAVETOTELLYOUTHAT.
I'MNOTWEIRD.

And, guess what, she signed them! In spite of myself!

Dear Michelle,

You are missed.
More than you will ever know.

Love you,
Sissy

PS. I forgive you for always being cute. For always knowing what to say to people to make them feel happy. For being a force of joy. I forgive you for making me pick my nose in this picture.

Draped across the rocker in my bedroom is a prayer shawl that gives me comfort and peace whenever I curl up inside its weave. It's the color of the sky on a perfectly clear summer day. It's soft and comfortable like a loved quilt, hand-knitted, prayed over, and blessed to be a blessing to me.

The story of how it came to be mine is an example of how God uses us to bless each other.

Back in December when Grandmomma passed away, we asked our neighbors, Mike and Pam, if they'd keep an eye on the mail while we were in Norton for the funeral. Curt mentioned to them that we'd been to our share of funerals in my hometown lately; my father had died on October 4, and then sweet Michelle had passed back in April 2008. That's a lot of grief in a short time, though I don't begin to think I corner the market on life and loss.

And so Pam shared this bereavement story with her prayer group at her Windsor church. The ladies in her knitting ministry commissioned this beautiful shawl, passed it around the group, prayed over it, and boxed it up for me. Me.

I remember unfolding this shawl as I removed it from the box, and I was moved to tears. How can people I don't even know in a town I'd just moved into care so much? And more significant than that - how does God want me to be a blessing to others near me?

God used this group of women to give me peace, comfort, and grace. He used them to bless me in a time of suffering, to lift me beyond grief to a higher calling. He is so amazing. A week later, I got a call from the boys' school about an application to substitute teach. Within the span of a week, I was a full-time teacher again, in the same building with my own boys, blessed to call a class of eleven other children my own till June. Blessed to be a blessing to children. Thank you, Lord. Your plans are mighty, mysterious, and always just right.

I'm sure you all know my amazing talents. I can trill my Rs. I can find teacher stuff on the internet. I can grow cilantro, chop it up, and add it to Newman's Own salsa to make it taste almost homemade. But I bet you're not aware of my Non Gifting. I am not an athlete. I know, that's shocking news.

God had plans for me. Yes, big plans. But they did not involve anything that uses a ball or keeps score or involves catching anything with your hands. I learned this early on in Coach Mainous' and Mrs. Riggs' gym class. As soon as team captains were chosen - and, ahem, was I ever a team captain???? Um, no. -- I endured the loneliest moments of my life on the bleachers waiting to be called. To be a member of a team. I'd wait. And wait. And wait. Even the kids who were clearly worse athletes than I were picked. And I waited still. And I was finally chosen. Dead. Last. That was me. "Oh man, do we have to have Weeeendiiiiiiiiiiiiii?" they'd whine.


For the record, their dismay at having me on their team was warranted. Volleyball was my worst sport. I would do anything, ANYTHING, to keep from serving that ball. I'd even endure the mandatory shower in the locker room 423 times a day to avoid this unbearable torment. Volleying the ball back and forth was bad enough. I was horrible at that. But serving it, well, that was a punishment, a torture. All eyes would be on me. All that dread, all that hopelessness, rested on me. They knew I'd send the ball flying cock-eyed backwards. Or leave it untouched even after taking my swing. Yes, they knew. I sucked. And I knew it, too. I lived for the day when gym wasn't a required credit.

Joining the band, on the other hand, was natural. Like waking up in the morning or watching the weather before you get dressed. I started playing the clarinet in 4th grade for a Mr. Anderson who had fuzzy hair. That's really all I remember about him. Then Mr. Tipton came. Mr. Tipton had even been my mom's band director at Pennington Gap when she was in high school. Boy, did I feel the connection. Mr. Tipton could make a room full of the worst players sound like musicians. He inspired me to grow, to play. He gave me a home on the football field at half-time. That's the closest I ever got to a sports arena.

Once I got to 8th grade, which was in high school for me in my tiny town of Norton, I tried out for the flag corps and made it. I spent the rest of my football seasons twirling that flag. I went to football games for the glory of the halftime show. I wasn't kidding myself. I knew that only the band geeks and their families showed up for halftime. But that was MY time. My time to sparkle and shine and razzle dazzle. I don't think I was a show-off, but I was serious about my work. Sometimes too serious, I suspect. But I loved it and never doubted that God put me on earth to twirl that flag to the tunes of Rocky Top and El Nimo, and El Cumbenchero and Sing, Sing, Sing. I can still twirl in my sleep. I grew up happy, innocent, and regimented by the season of the band.

Spring found me sitting on the stage for concert band playing the alto clarinet because I was better on that than the regular clarinet. It was nice, making music. But there were no football lights, no smells of hotdogs and popcorn, sticky Coke-covered bleachers, no promises to meet up at Pizza Hut after the game.

Football season was my season. I didn't have to hurl a football or catch it or make a touchdown or two-point conversion pass (thanks, Dad, for teaching me that one) to love it. I just had to show up in my freshly pressed uniform and do my work. I lived for those fall days.

I really do miss writing when I take these blog hiatuses. Is that a word? Seems like "hiati" would be a better plural, but they don't ask me these things. Anywho, writing is in my blood, thanks to my dad. It's in my veins, all mixed in with some coal dust and kudzu and a smattering of baton twirling stardust that Mom passed down. It's important to know your heritage, I always say.

Let's see if we can catch up. I've been teaching 2nd grade at the boys' school, Trinity Christian. I now eat, breathe, and pray Teacher Stuff. I've fallen off the wagon and started spending money on books I already own. Sad, isn't it? But I left my books and all my teacherly belongings in my old school for the class I used to call mine to finish out the year. And let's just face it, there are some books a teacher should never be without. Well, there are many, many books. And now I own two of a slew of them. I'm trying to get myself under control. I'll be glad when my Pennsylvania books and I reunite this summer. I will touch my books, smell them, and read them and weep happy tears of profound joy. Then I will make my family sit down and listen to me read every single one of them aloud from sun-up to sun-down.


Not that you can tell from this picture, but our 10-year-old boy is a happy child. His latest fascination is all things Wimpy Kid. I saw the movie with him and was surprised by how funny it was. I guess it's because I have a wimpy kid myself. Even the booger on the letter passed under the bathroom door cracked me up. Perhaps I should put one in Camden's lunch box this week.


Of course I have the obligatory picture of Benjy marrying Emma. He marries her every day. Since he saw Camden's teacher get married last summer, he thinks the big kiss is a sign of marriage. He even wants to marry me. I asked him what Daddy'd do and Benjy said, "He can just get a new girlfriend." Hmmmm. Camden announced that he was never getting married. "I'm staying single forever," he exclaimed. Benjy was stunned: "You will never get married? You're going to stay a boy forever???"

I think he knows he's cute.


Meet Viv! She's our new old camper. She's a travel trailer from the era of the late-90s. She came really cheap, but she's in awesome condition. See those curtains? Those aren't original to the camper. I jimmyrigged those from a hodgepodge of fabric I had around. I absolutely HAD to use the pointy fabric which had been in the kitchen of our home we bought last fall. It wasn't quite wide enough for the space that separates the living room from the pop-out bed "room". But they're my curtains and I don't mind. I also made the slipcovers for all the cushions, then got started on throw pillows. Because. And I could. not. stop.

See, this camper came with an "interior decor palette" in frightening shades of blues and mauves. You remember all the early losers on HGTV's Design Star? They go to work for camper manufacturers dreaming up these designs. And they are ding dang proud of them, people! See that panel of hideous fabric below the slip-covered cushion? That's what every single cushion looked like. Big. Bold. Butt Ugly. Viv just couldn't abide by that. "I shall make you lovely, my dear," I told her.


OK, so I can handle the blue panels, just rip those off and staple-gun my green quilted fabric to it, than somehow reattach them. But the blue countertops and table, I don't know. In my wildest dreams, I'd love to put a vintage enamel topped table in the dinette. One like we used to have in the '90s back when we were poor as church mice and happy to go out shopping after midnight at the 24-hour Wal-Mart. And I'd love to see some butcher block for the kitchen counter, small as it is. Also on the notepad - paint the walls a warm honey yellow. We'll have to figure out how to prime these vinyl-clad pressed board walls. Oh well, there's time for that. Viv's far more patient than I am.

Check out the water closet. That's really important at 3 a.m. Really. Important.

Here's a shot from where the boys' bed is. It's also a pop-out. Note the distance from one end to the other. Let's pray for sunshine when we inaugurate Viv.


Yes. I staged this. But I really did read every page of that Southern Living. I'm a misplaced Southerner, y'all know that.

It almost looks like home. And for the time that it's parked in my driveway, it's the perfect spot for a little time out. For me.