Flat Kira-Day 2: middle school immersion . . .

Dear Kira,

     You forgot to mention that your grandmommy would make me go to school during my stay at her house!  Not even elementary school, like good old McKee (miss you guys already!). Middle school!

     Her students are BIG . . . and a little crazy too this week before Christmas break.  A couple of them are hoping I'll be able to help them take her language arts exam tomorrow . . . as if I understand all that stuff about "extended metaphors" and "annotated bibliographies", whatever they are!

     It was pretty fun getting to explore her classroom though.  As you can see, I found



another tree to climb

 


and many, many more books (not many with pictures) to read.

 

    I spent most of my day safely perched beside this bird (she said it was an origami crane and to ask your mom why I make so many of these) on top of her SMARTboard.  Not so sure about SMART.  That board didn't have a thing to say to me all day, and your grandmommy and her students spent most of the day answering all its questions . . .

     She FORGOT to take me to lunch with her!  I understand I missed some awesome meatballs in the teacher's lounge, but the chocolate chip cookies she brought back were pretty good (and you know how I love chocolate chip cookies). 



      After school she did take me to a meeting where I got to sit with a couple of her friends.  They had never heard of Flat Stanley and his travels until I filled them in on his story and why I was in town for a couple of weeks.

     Hope you guys aren't having too much fun without me!

                                                           

                                                            Love you bunches,

                                                            Flat Kira

P. S. Please send me some warmer clothes.  It's brrr cold here!

The Age of Innocence

I'm wondering why I listed this under favorite books in my profile when it must have been the movie I remembered . . .

I have a copy of the book, somewhere, and have just ordered the movie DVD--but, without my Kindle and the scattered free hours of this last week, I doubt I would have (re)read this American classic beginning to end.

All I had remembered was the end--his walking away from her--not the why. How could he walk away from what might yet be, choosing instead a solitary retreat to his imagined world of what might have been?

I have lived on the fringes of that age of innocence, imagined worlds, known people who don't want to know, and more.

Too much the risk-taker to live comfortably in the age of innocence, I suppose . . .

Footnote: The movie was no more comfortable than the book. I have removed both from my list of favorites . . .

old enough for "big school"

how book addicts are created . . .

You may have wondered how Kimberly came to be such a voracious consumer of good books . . . Here's the scoop: books were a breakfast menu staple in the old days when she was young! They still are . . . and she still is :-)

. . . got the T-shirt to prove it!

I'm certifiably insane by my own standards. If you'd have told me I'd gladly pass up sleeeping in on the Saturday morning of my first no-obligations weekend in a while, I'd have raised my eyebrows. If you told me that, instead of sleeping in, I'd be voluntarily traipsing up and down city hills in sub-freezing temperatures, I'd have been thinking about having you committed.

But I guess I'll do almost anything, within reason, to have the t-shirt--a size small--and to be able to fit into that t-shirt.

There weren't a lot of us hardy souls this morning running or walking in the first-ever Run/Walk for Books. But I was there--lived to tell/write about it (walked 4K in 40 minutes 14 seconds)--and brought home the proof!



Let's see if I can say the same after April's longer, higher, tougher Cooper River Bridge Run/Walk . . . I would have gladly rested on my Grace Memorial (1994) and Silas Pearman (1995) laurels/t-shirts, but there's this new bridge . . .

3-28-09 FOOTNOTE (from Wikipedia, b/c I couldn't find the 1995 t-shirt ["get over it," right???]): With entrants exceeding 8,500 and a new 7,000 meter walk added, totaling over 10,000 participants, and tighter restrictions on weight on the Grace Bridge, in 1995 officials returned the Bridge Run to the Pearman bridge, with all three lanes being used, as traffic to Charleston could now be diverted to the Don N. Holt Bridge near Daniel Island on Interstate 526, which had opened in 1992.

the faces of me . . .

or what family and colleagues saw in me this Christmas . . .

created in Wordle, btw . . .

I have seen . . .

the littlest angel!

[insert picture here]

When I was four, a little angel--four hours old--presented himself to the venerable Gatekeeper and waited for admittance to the glorious kingdom of God. While "Little Angel" was not to mark his earthly resting place until our Daddy joined him in eternity, James Michael left his mark among us. I named my son James Michael--and Jamie named his son Michael.

When I think of Jamie and Christmas stories and childhood, I think of Charles Tazewell's The Littlest Angel. It was their story, a connection of sorts between the brother I was never to know and my son, his precious namesake.

I laughed through the tears last night as Michael, just a month younger than that four-year-old Littlest Angel . . .who presented himself to the venerable Gatekeeper and waited for admittance to the glorious kingdom of God, tumbled into my mind's image of that story.

From the story [and last night's children's Christmas pageant]:
His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot, little, chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running [into the communion rail (OUCH!!!) because all he could see was his proud family in the audience]. Furthermore, even when he stood very still, [when he was singing?] it never behaved like a halo should. it was always slipping down over his right eye . . . [uh-huh!!!]
Or over his left eye . . . [Amen!]
Or else, just for pure meanness, slipping off the back of his head [yes, it did!] and rolling away down some golden street just so he'd have to chase after it [according to Michael, who's heard The Littlest Angel at least twenty times!," his halo never slipped lower than just below his chin :-)] !

Head over halo. I have seen that and more!

I've never once read the story--this morning is no exception--without tears spilling over the beautiful ending . . . There it shone on that night of miracles, and its light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet, earthly eyes, blinded, too, by its splendor, could never know that the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel [a box which held his earthly simple pleasures] was what men would call forever,

"the shining Star of Bethlehem"

To my three generations of littlest angels . . .

thank you!

more to be happy about . . .

51. coming out on the right half of a 50:50 chance
52. having your adult daughters, in the same week, call you their . . . buddy :-)
53. laughing at what makes you afraid
54. laughing at yourself
55. crying over a good book
56. staying up late and sleeping in later
57. making the most of Daylight Savings Time
58. noticing contrail-crossed autumn-afternoon skies


59. remembering what was once good about October . . .
60. resurrecting the mending pile

listen!

more quirks ;-)

43. cherishing crystal clear credit in chaotic times
44. owning too many books but ordering even more
45. taking summer clothes to the cleaners before the first leaf falls
46. investing in Ace braces and reaping wellness dividends
47. rediscovering apple butter
48. fueling imaginations with a forest face and a tree door
49. not having to do everything today
50. holding fast to someday . . .

Galveston . . .

A couple of years ago, maybe three (was Katrina the catalyst?), I began collecting everything I could find about the 1900 hurricane. There's no family tie other than my genealogist daughter's laments about immigration records lost . . . But it's amazing how a well-crafted piece of nonfiction can tie us to those who lived long before we drew breath. Isaac's Storm and The Sisters of Charity Orphanage story on the Galveston News website did just that for me . . .

As I watched the waves crash over the Galveston seawall this afternoon, courtesy of 21st century streaming video, the Cline families and the Sisters protecting their parentless charges lived once more in my mind's eye . . .

I so wanted to give the young man who was out to see the waves this afternoon, staying because Ike, after all, is only cat two, a copy of Erik Larson's book . . .

108 years, almost to the day . . . Time is indeed a circle . . .

August . . .

A third gone already and I haven't posted . . .

OK, maybe life isn't all a case of simple pleasures.

But, under all the stuff of getting through the days, there are a few . . .

If I weren't on a baby food diet at the moment (long story, hopefully with a not too distant happy ending), I would never, ever, in a million years made myself the best-ever eggsaladwithrealmayonnaise and ateitall! today. I didn't even know I liked egg salad!

If I weren't temporarily sidelined with an overstressed knee, I would never, ever, in a million years have given myself permission to read all the books I've read so far this month alone! I would never have ordered the serious walking shoes to go with my serious mp3 player and my serious conviction that yesIdoneedtoputmyselffirst . . . at least sometimes.

Bet there's more simple pleasures under the stuff of getting through the days of August . . . I'll keep digging :-) And maybe even posting . . .

full circle

I've come full circle, in the last few weeks--immersing myself once again in my post-graduate quest for understanding all things technology (technology and literacy, that is) and in my undergraduate thirst for knowing all there was to know about the story of our world (and, more specifically, about the European history that is my heritage).

The technology stories I'll tell, all this next year, on (one of) my other blogs, thevirtualsandbox. But the world history stories will make their home here, I think.

I spent much of last weekend reading the first half of Volume 3 of Susan Wise Bauer's The Story of the World--fodder for fashioning texts sets to support the humanities curriculum writing going on at my school. It was fascinating reading--stories new and stories I'd once known, but long ago forgotten.

Coming full circle . . .

One story I did not know. All my life I've heard the phrase "Black Hole of Calcutta." I had no idea what it meant, or even that it meant anything worth knowing. A seed of a story in Bauer's book led me to an out-of-print reprint--Noel Barber's The Black Hole of Calcutta: A Reconstruction--a book newly published at about the time I should have read it first, but am sure I didn't. I made the time for that reading this weekend . . . oddly enough on the anniversary dates of that world-changing event, June 20-21, 1756.

I've gleaned two important truths from the story of the Black Hole of Calcutta. I now understand how and why the British came to rule India. Retribution. The second truth validates my valuing of life's simple pleasures. The author concludes his account with this observation: nature has a habit of outlasting history.

Coming full circle . . .

reflection: The Last Lecture

I read it cover to cover between dinner and bedtime, alternating tears and laughter, laughter and tears.

So many connections--and not just the pancreatic cancer diagnosis at 46 (the author's, Daddy's):

• Places: Kimberly's Carnegie Mellon and Jamie's UVA (they were there at the same time . . . did their paths ever cross?) and even eastern Virginia and Chapel Hill


• Ideas: artificial intelligence and rocket science


• Obsessions: Star Trek (my brother's collector passion) and Disney (my office mate's collector passion)


• Bringing three beautiful children into this world of ours


• Winning the parent lottery: a WWII military father we love to quote and a mother who unerringly keeps our cockiness in check--parents who paired frugality in possessions with riches in learning.


• Being "a doctor but not the kind who helps people"
  

The chapter that opens with the dreams of an 8-year-old that summer man first walked on the moon is bittersweet. My first child, Daddy's wanting to live through that same summer (he did), a husband shipped off to war, moving home, growing up overnight, locking away childhood dreams. . .

But parallel dedications (his book, my dissertation) acknowledge our belief in the value of dreams. His childhood dreams and those he hopes his children will create. My father nurtured my dreams; my mother molded in me the courage to live them. And we have come to understand, this author and I, that the greatest good we can do in our limited time here is to enable the dreams of others . . .

I could have used his wikipedia story on Monday when introducing a group of colleagues to wikis. I'll give them his book instead.

And make time to dust off my locked-away childhood dreams, the few that haven't worked their way back to consciousness, to realization.

Thank you, Randy!

. . . to be happy about

Lake Erie at Presque Isle: March 29, 2008


Somewhere I have a book with 14,000 reasons. Here are a few (mine and others') from the first ten days of spring
. . .

1. seeing a Great Lake for the very first time
2. finding roses on the doorstep
3. being thrilled to come in ninth
4. negotiating snowdrifts in spring
5. sharing first-week-of-spring birthdays
6. blowing out trick birthday candles
7. circling lighthouses for the best camera angle
8. enjoying rocking chair layovers
9. looking down at cotton candy clouds
10. reading books recommended by grandbabies
11. not being vaporized
12. qualifying for level 10 and regionals
13. surviving hard sudoku challenges
14. earning Webkin points
15. giving and receiving reasons to smile
16. keeping the spirit of break in Spring Break
17. owning a bicycle . . . again
18. planting roses
19. sleeping in late
20. coming home

More to come . . .

this should be on my other blog. . .

. . . where I have nothing posted! I did have a letter there--draft mode only. A response to a long-ago episode (being rejected for a freshman creative writing class with a famous author) that deflated my aspirations of becoming a famous author in my own right. . . I did share that experience with colleagues, and the author, last fall.

Enough said on that account!

Writing that letter last June was catharsis. I understand now that the decision not to write was and is mine. Which may be why, the last morning of this week's state conference, I sat among writers and wanna-be-writers to soak in the wisdom and experiences and advice of yet another published author, author of adult novels such as those I aspired so long ago to write.

It's no longer so much about being a published writer as it is about understanding how one gets there--the process. And about figuring out where, at seventeen, I went wrong.

This is some of what I learned.

• Don't base a novel on personal experiences. Who would care except me, anyway? And the danger is that, like in most of my writing, I'd be writing just for that audience of one: me. That's OK in a blog or writer's notebook but would be a profound waste of time over 10 drafts of a 300-page novel, don't you think? I do. . .
• Capitalize on my strengths as a researcher: that was sooooooooooooo validated yesterday :-)
• Make the audience (and, first of all, myself) really care about my characters. That matters more than anything.
• Let the setting lead (a place to use some of that research) and the characters react to it.
• Keep chapters short, even in a long book, and avoid long stretches of description or dialogue.
• Use simile to show the native intelligence and wit of characters whose spoken language is not SAE. Use dialect sparingly, if at all.
• When you don't know what to write next, write about the weather. . .
• When you don't know what to write next, read.
• READ NOVELS WRITTEN FOR ADULTS BY AUTHORS WHOSE CRAFT IS WORTH STUDYING (which means varying my too-longstanding diet of YA novels and professional texts).
• Read a lot of poetry.

I'm sure there's more in my notes, but this is what I still remember, one day and one cover-to-cover professional book later.

Will I ever publish that best-selling adult novel?

Probably not. . .

Do I feel more validated, more empowered, understanding what the process of getting there would (or would have) required?

Yes!

New Year's Eve, part 3

September and Parseltongue. . .

Yeah, it's September. . . and a 3-day weekend! I've already turned the calendars--porches and Liberty Enlightening the World--to new leaves.

Yes, the last three Harry Potter books were awesome--infinitely better than the first three (still have to read the 4th, the character development/coming of age one, or so I'm told). I'm still grieving for my lost hero (end of book 6) and, this misty September morning, wishing I knew how to speak in parseltongue.

I met a snake--the third of the summer. The first surprised me. Not much bigger than an earthworm. I watched it wriggle away. The second had an attitude. Tiny too, but it had to go. Snakes don't die easily. . .

This morning's was over a foot in length--big enough to command some respect, if not fear. I have mixed emotions about snakes. I remember the winter-sleeping copperhead that cost my brother half a wedding-ring finger (luckily not his arm or his six-years-young life!).. I remember the baby copperhead that fell out of the fish net (hung to dry in a tree) and onto my mother's head. I remember my own encounters with others of their species--BACK UP SLOWLY. DON'T ACT SCARED. WHEN YOU'RE FAR ENOUGH AWAY, RUN LIKE CRAZY. I'm still here, so apparently that worked.

But then there was Blackie, who wrapped himself around the vacuum cleaner in the dining room/hallway of our rustic mountain home when Jamie was a baby. Blackie, who kept the mice away. Blackie, whose silver shed skin came with us as a dual memo/trophy when we moved to South Carolina. We said he was a black snake. Apparently, or so I learned this year, thanks to Michael, he was a black RAT snake.

I really wanted that snake not to be there this morning, just inches from the yellow jacket nest that appears to have been abandoned without my intervention (or are there larva down there just waiting for the spring?). I wanted to eradicate the baby trees and vines that had sprouted there while I kept my distance (I decided maybe it was wise to respect a horde of yellow jackets) some of July and all of August. I asked this snake, very nicely, to move. He flicked his tongue but I haven't a clue what he said to me. . . He stayed. His turf.

So I looked him up, to give him a name. I think it's Thamnophis sirtalis, a mouthful for sure. Or should we call him garter snake? If he eats bugs I don't like, I might be thankful I spared him. If he eats earthworms--my woods are a fisherman's dream--I might think differently. . .

September, if not parseltongue. . . Glad it's here!

little girls . . .

Cassandra Eve, loved books before she walked. . .




How soon they grow up. . . Kira Rose, a kindergartener at last :)





Can you believe Kelsey's in high school???