all dogs go to heaven

My neighbors lost their puppy this weekend—he swallowed something that lodged itself firmly in his intestines and a trip to the vet for emergency surgery was unsuccessful in saving him. That afternoon the 2 girls—3 and 7—had come to the market with me while Six [named for the six-shaped spot around his eye] was at the vet. Two events in particular made me realize how much they were grieving. First, a visit to the balloon man led to a prompt request for a puppy from the 7-year-old. When he asked what color she wanted, the myriad of choices displayed were not even glanced at; she knew it had to be white. And of course, white was the color of the puppy. Shortly thereafter, the younger of the two had abandoned her one-eyed frog [he did begin his life with 2 eyes but had sadly already popped one of them]. She then had persistently pleaded until sister agreed to loan out the puppy. She promptly resumed the same game that had led to the casualty of froggy’s eye—tossing the balloon into the air and letting it fall onto the concrete floor. Predictably, the balloon lost its life soon thereafter. What surprised me at this point was that, rather than an angry reaction from big sister, there was first a violent bursting-into-tears by the younger. I cannot help but assume that somewhere in her 3-year-old heart, a sensitivity to the whole family’s concern over their puppy caused her to react as if that popping of the puppy balloon was a bit too close to possible reality at the time.
And then, unfortunately, that “possible” became reality . . .
This evening I got a phone call from their mother thanking me for the card I had made for the girls. She said I should go into the Pet-Sympathies card business, as the poem I wrote about Six made the older of the 2 girls cry. Not sure if I should take this as a compliment or not, she then assured me that they were good tears, and that she had loved the poem. I can’t remember exactly what it was that I wrote now, but I am glad it was appreciated, as I did actually agonize over it a fair bit, in an effort to speak on an understandable level for the girls without talking down at all, or making the grieving process worse. It is a greater honor to speak to the heart of this little one than it would have been to move a room-full of grown-ups to tears . . .

to run the race

To those of you DBCS Cross-Country Fan Club members . . . if you will permit me a few moments of bragging, I must say that this was a huge victory for us, especially for the women's team. This time all my girls finished the race. Which may not seem like such a huge deal but for us, it was. You see, my asthma-plagued runner has not yet completed a course--she has difficulty running on her own and so, once her asthma gets to her, she gives up if I am not there to coax her along. So before this race I gave pep talks over and over . . . and over again, that they all could finish--they just had to remind themselves that they could. If they had to take walking breaks, so be it--but just keep going again. Walk, then run again. Just don't give up altogether--keep trying!
Well by God's mercy, they did . . .at the very end the other coaches were beginning to take down the finish line and gather the time sheets when I ran to stop them: "Wait! I still have a runner out there!" Then I turned back around towards the course and threw my arms up at the sight of my beautiful runner, solitary but steady, persistently nearing the finish . . . "KAT!!!" I beamed at her and shouted a few hoarse cheers as she finished. As she finished. Yes, it was a victorious evening, and the ride back that night was a happy one--a tired, sweaty, somewhat smelly, and contented homecoming :-)

i spy

I saw them with my own two 20/10-vision eyes today . . . I saw the goats. A patch of black amidst the green caught my eye as I passed and, looking twice, I laughed heartily at my own luck. There they were, those famed goats, contentedly munching away and surrounded by tellingly sparse patches on the kudzu-covered ridge. One black, one white, several multi-colored . . . sure enough, the slow goats were indeed at work.

small tokens

It seems one of my runners has a propensity for sports bra stories . . . Updating me on her weekend run today, she told me her discovery. It was actually a timely revelation, as our conversation was centering at the time around the, um, convenience [?] of the bra as an in-a-pinch sort of impromptu storage facility. At any rate, she was on her run in the ritzy “Legends” neighborhood when she spied a shiny coin on the road. When she saw that it was a quarter, she was so excited that she exclaimed something to the effect of, “Oh wow—it’s a Legends quarter!!” And she just had to have that "Legends quarter" . . . So she quickly snatched it up and popped it, without a second thought, into her sports bra—as we all know, bras being the perfect makeshift pocket. She promptly gasped and stifled a cry upon the rudely shocking discovery that this lovely little legends token was also quite sun-soaked and, consequently, painfully hot to the touch. And now we know: what glitters may be gold but its acquisition may not always be pleasant--or painless :-)

goats at work

My morning run the other day brought me to an unfamiliar sight on a familiar road. Newly adorning the neighborhood street were 2 large back to back signs declaring SLOW GOATS WORKING. What kind of a joke is that? I wondered, laughing as I passed. And how did someone ever come up with such an idea—and get away with it??
By the end of the day, however, I had forgotten all about it . . . until yesterday.
After school yesterday, we caravanned both the women’s and men’s teams to my neighborhood. Our plan was to hold practice there, for a change of scenery [running routes around the school leave much to be desired]. It was also a practicality, as after practice we had a beginning of the season ice cream party with the parents, there at my house.
The girls are understandably self-conscious about running near the guys, so I took them in a markedly different direction. Returning, in the loudly sweaty fashion high school runners are inclined towards, the guys were talking about “the goats.”
“Goats?,” I asked—“you mean the signs?”
“No—the real ones. And the news cameras filming them. Up there,” he said, gesturing up the hill.
Turns out there really are goats “at work” in my neighborhood.
Today’s paper included an article about the pioneer project beginning this year—starting this year and continuing for 2 more, goats have been commissioned to tackle the kudzu overgrowth. A local goat farmer’s team of 30 goats are now employees of the city, eating away the kudzu. Theoretically, after 3 years of clear-cutting-by-goat, the kudzu will be permanently damaged and unable to grow back the next year.
Who would have thought? . . never underestimate the power of a goat and its appetite!

just a dream

It was only a dream. Only . . . except that it was heartbreakingly real. Except that I awoke with an exquisite ache lingering throughout my too-tangible being. I was left only with snippets of dream-moments . . . and a painful longing to return to the dream. There is no whole to it, as far as memories go, just bits and pieces. But what I do remember is a soaringly beautiful saga-like story. And so, upon remembering the dream since and being unable to grasp ahold of it once again, I cry with the ache of it. I even put a notebook beside my bed the next night and concentrated on the remaining memories of it right before falling asleep, in hopes that I could re-dream it somehow and be ready to write it down before rising in the morning.
I wonder what made this one so striking. In the past I used to dream often, and with great detail and depth. I would write them down and spend countless hours analyzing them, wondering about them. But I do not dream any more. Or at least I do not remember the dreams. Perhaps this is what touched me so--the loss of past dreamlives. Something in the recent several years of working, stressing, and generally attempting to live a responsible "adult" life has also stealthily stolen my ability to dream.
But maybe I have taken ahold of dreams again, in some subconscious awakening. Although I have not been successful in re-dreaming that one, so lovely dream, I have been dreaming since, for several nights in a row now. There is hope, I suppose, for even the most dream-deprived among us.

quote of the day

Mmmm . . . I love the smell of rich neighborhoods
--from one of my runners shortly after we started out this afternoon, on our first run in a nearby gated community of depressingly [to me, at least] cookie-cutter homes.
Initially, I just laughed at the amusing absurdity of the statement. Since then, however, I've been pondering it and wondering if there may be some disturbing deeper significance behind the words . . . then again, perhaps it's just par for the course when it comes to random comments from prep school teenage girls??

hell hath no fury . . .

We have taken to telling stories as we run. At first it was an unconscious action on my part, as I used our run to relay tales of the day that for whatever reason had come to my mind at the time. When I realized it was becoming a habit, however, I became intentional about it, as it seemed to be an appropriate way to both bond as a team and to engage them in a way that distracts from the physical woes of exhaustion, heat, aches, and pains. So now I hint about the stories of the day before we begin and then tell full, drawn-out tales as we run—I also invite each girl to tell her own that may come to mind.
Yesterday one of my runners admitted that she had a story to tell. Rethinking by the time we started practice, she said that no, actually she was too embarrassed to tell everyone. Further into the run her asthma forced her to take a walking break, at which point I stopped to check on and then walk with her. Curious, I mentioned her story again and she said that she just didn’t want her peers to know—yet. She suspected that it would get around soon enough . . .
Turns out she had lost her patience with one of her peers that day in gym class. They were playing ball and she had grown uncharacteristically impatient in the heat of the competitive moment. After a series of affronts, he got on her last nerve and she [having never before done such a thing], without thinking, just reached over and relieved him of his shorts. It shocked her, I think, more than anyone else, at the time. A moment of confusion passed before he shouted a threat of telling the headmaster.
So here she was, at the end of the day, fearing the moment in which she would be summoned to the principal’s office. Clearly shocked at herself, she assured me that she didn’t mean to do it, and that she had never been disobedient. And now she worried that her “spotless” high school record would be ruined forever . . .I laughed, and assured her that I did not think she had anything to worry about. In fact, I suspected that the headmaster would also be a bit amused by it. There may need to be some sort of disciplinary action taken, for appearances sake, but I really did not think she had to worry about her future. What I did not tell her is that I am secretly rather proud of my girl’s gutsy spontaneity :-)

the best of intentions

I have now officially entered into the adventure of coaching a start-up Cross Country team and, one week into it, I am already growing proud of, and attached to, my girls. It would be wise, however, to let go of any aspirations I may have had towards championship trophies [ok, so maybe I never have actually had any of those :-)]. The following tale ought to demonstrate this necessity pretty effectively . . .
On our first practice together this week, I began our run together asking if they had done their “homework,” as I had called each of them a week earlier and asked them to begin easing into running before we met together. One of the girls promptly responded that she had “almost” done it.
“Almost? What does that mean?,” I queried.
“Well I got ready to go out, and put on the running shoes I had just got since you said to get some. Then I was trying to decide what else to wear and I looked in the mirror. And I noticed that I looked pretty good in my sports bra. So I walked around in my sports bra for a while, feeling proud of myself for heading out to run. Then I realized I was hungry so I ate some potato chips instead . . . I really did mean to run,” she repeated.
And you know, I believe she did intend to. My private amusement did not stop me from sternly pushing them in practice that day though, like I imagine a good winning coach should :-)

survey says [take 2]

The end of Session #2 [all boys] of Creative Pages led me to, once again, request anonymous feedback from my students. And, once again, the results provided some happy amusement . . . :

1. What did you like best about “Creative Pages.”
2. What did you like least, or what would you change about it?

1. The story.
2. Having it outside. [sure enough, soaring heat indexes had already forced us indoors halfway through the session]

1. Painting the book. 2. Nothing.

1. The different art forms we got to try out.
2. Nothing. Nothing at all. [In my head I imagine this response in a proper young British accent :-)]

story telling--the first time for my first children's story :-)

pink and green plaid

So here’s the story behind the boots . . .
Yesterday UPS arrived on my porch with a large box. I was confused, not expecting anything, and even more intrigued when I saw that it had come from Northern California, from the mother of the bride from my “Just another wedding day” blog entry [January]. Inside I was delighted to discover the now famous boots I wore to trudge through the mud on our rain-soaked wedding promenade. In a sweet letter she explained to me that my story had made them famous amongst her friends, and that she had meant for some time now to send them to “their rightful owner.” Also included in the package were photos of Batman, Kiwi, and Mahina—the newest additions to the family. Any guesses as to the nature of these children, befitting the blog story? They are, according to Sarah’s descriptions in the letter, befittingly mischievous goat-kin :-)

calling any faithful blog readers . . .

If someone can tell me to which blog entry the photo visual aid below rightfully belongs, I'll tell you the story behind the picture :-)

what came in the mail today

with a cherry on top

My boss is awfully persuasive it seems [is that an oxymoron? ;-) ] . . .
After initially turning down his request back in the Spring, today I re-thought and gave him a final, reconsidered "yes." Granted, I suppose it could have been the student's request I was agreeing to more so than his. What it was that I agreed to was starting up, and coaching, a girl's Cross Country team. There is a small Cross Country team at the moment--has been for 2 years now--but it is only for boys as there has been no female coach.
My reasoning in not doing it was that I felt unqualified, having no coaching experience beyond my experience running on the team myself and running on my own ever since. Besides, the prospect of starting the team from scratch just seemed terribly daunting.
But this morning one of the high schoolers came to my desk in the library [after the headmaster had just asked me to think about it again], and she asked if it was true that I was going to start a team up this fall. I told her that it was true that I was thinking about it, but that I wasn't sure if I was up to it and explained why. Looking at me with a convincingly pleading expression, she assured me that there were only a few girls, that they would be "easy" to coach, and that she really wanted the chance to run . . .
And how could I possibly turn her down at that point?
Hearing me laugh as he walked by the library, the headmaster poked his head in and innocently asked what she had come to see me about, what she had said?
Laughing again, I replied that she had said "Please" :-)

lifestyles of the rich and . . . artistic?

An evening spent experimenting with oil paintings has just convinced me that I am not a true artist [visual, at least]. I think that a real painter would have been satisfied with the process as an accomplishment in itself. I, however, was not able to create the image I had in my head and consequently ended up feeling as if I had wasted my time. Hopefully more experimentation would lead to greater success in the medium, but my conclusion [about my artistic inclinations] remains the same. And unfortunately I doubt I will have many other chances to experiment like I have at the moment--this is simply due to a house-sitting stint in a lovely home that is equipped with an art studio. Like I said, not many occasions like this in my daily life :-) I'm afraid my own young art students do not have a teacher well-funded enough to provide them with such materials . . . so far they seem to be content with their watercolors, acrylics, charcoal, and ink, thankfully!

special specters

I was given an unusual gift this week. While I was on my way home in the afternoon my neighbor called to warn me about a possibly easy-to-miss item in my mailbox. She explained that her 3-year-old had been hard at work on a project that she absolutely forbid her mother to see. All her mother was allowed to know was that it was for me. She then carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and delivered it to my mailbox--insisting on riding her bike for the great 20 yard trek between their house and mine. During the phone conversation, my neighbor explained that she was a bit concerned that the package may have been carried off by the postman, as it probably would have had to be closely looked for in the mail box. I echoed her concern, intrigued by the prospect of such a surprise and hoping to actually get it. Thankfully the package survived the mail delivery that day. Its packaging did not, I'm afraid--I assumed the torn bits of kleenex to be the "tissue" wrapping of the original gift.
So what was the present? Why, a list of spelling words of course--need you ask?! It was a small piece of notebook paper with lists of repeated words: "mother," "sister," "friend," and "love," among others. After a moment it occurred to me that my little neighbor would not actually have been the original scribe of the words--I have worked with her on writing projects enough to be pretty certain of that. A moment later, however, I happily discovered her personal contribution: the result of her reported laboring efforts--on the back of the paper was a small drawing that I instantly recognized as her artwork. Every time she is offered some sort of writing utensil and something to write on, the result is a figure that distinctly resembles a ghost. The dimensions may vary slightly, but the effect is always the same. It does make me curious to see what her artistic inclinations develop into as the years pass.
For now, though, I am quite content to prominently display my new ghost on the fridge :-)

my happy librarian-heart

The sight of my workplace this morning made me cry. Not in the way one might expect, mind you: these were tears of relief, and tears of joy. See, my school was vandalized in the early morning hours. I found out about it via an early morning phone call from my grandparents who had seen it on the news. They called in a panic, on my behalf, telling me that the school had been ransacked and fire extinguishers sprayed throughout.

What you should know at this point is that such action has the very likely potential to completely destroy a library—to completely destroy the work of this past year, in my case. I have spent a year designing and buying furniture, installing technology, buying new books, sorting through donated ones, cataloging, shelving, organizing, re-organizing . . . basically anything I could think of that was needed to turn a room and a library grant into a functioning school library.

What you should also know is that I am prone towards perfectionism at times. As a result, one of my work stresses is that it is difficult for me to find the time to keep it clean. Libraries are surprisingly difficult to keep clean, with the tendency for dust to settle in nooks and crannies, for old books to harbor mites, and for little hands to leave gifts of candy wrappers, pencil marks, and the like. So I notice accumulated dirt and worry about it.
Well this morning’s discovery was two-fold:

1. The library was wonderfully unappealing to would-be vandals. They walking in, picked up a few magazines, threw them on the floor, and left. The priceless collection of knowledge was left untouched.
2. Thanks to the school-wide mess, a cleaning service was hired [not the usual for our small, do-it-yourself school. They cleaned the library. They not only cleaned it—they treated it as carefully as if it were some proud librarian’s child :-) They dusted every nook and cranny, even lifting up magazines and books to dust underneath. I have never seen it sparkle so, or smell to fresh.

So I stared, gasped, touched surfaces . . . and smiled through my teary eyes. Blessings come from the strangest sources. And this morning the message to me was to let go, to not try to do it all, and to sometimes, every once in a while, be ok with just being.

it's all in the kisape

This morning a ransom inspiration proved to be oddly fitting, in a symbolically ironic sort of way. It all began when I started making deliveries to my students, taking the newly-bound version of their completed books to them. Two had just finished their stories, artwork, and cover designs, and so I had planned to use this morning to present them with their fine works of craftsmanship.
Both lived within easy walking distance, so the first delivery was made on foot. By the time I was to make the 2nd, however, I was running low on leisure time and decided to bike rather than walk. Normally when I bike I simply carry whatever I need with me in my purse, as it is [intentionally, for this very purpose] a small backpack-style bag. This book, however, in the bag I had packaged it in, was definitely too large to fit in my backpack.
Brainstorming for a quick way to make the trip, I had an “Aha!” moment and thought “My kisape!”
Here I should probably stop to explain, as only a handful of my readers will be with me still . . . A “kisape” is the all-purpose cloth used by Zambian women [or at least that was the term in the area where we lived: it is called by many different names]. This one is the one we brought back to the U.S. with us, and it is what Mom used to cart the 4 of us around while she worked. It is simply a large rectangle of cotton, normally brightly colored in one of infinitely many beautiful prints. The Zambian women also use their kisapes for head cushions [under a load of firewood, for instance], wrapped clothing, and all manner of other practical uses.
This morning, however, I used it draped over the book, under one arm and over the other, the way Zambian children are carried. So, in essence, I thought as I biked, I am carting this book as if it were a child. And then I realized that my student should certainly be informed of the same, so she would know [as if she did not already] the great value of her creation . . . At least that’s what I reported when I arrived and undid my small bundle in order to make the presentation :-)

survey says

As I have definitely decided to hold Session #2 of “Creative Pages” Camp, I asked my Session #1 students to provide a bit of anonymous feedback as to:
1. What should be changed about Creative Pages for next time?
2. What did you like the best about Creative Pages?

Listed below are some of the responses my students offered me. As you will see, a few did little more productive than merely providing a bit of an ego boost :-). All the same, mind you, all gave me seriously helpful/useful things to think about. And we must not neglect the ever-helpful pleasure of a few good laughs. . .

-best. books
-change nothing
-ritinge in ore book [translation “writing in our book.” This was in fact from the disliked part of the survey]
-I think we should do more canvas paintings.
-pating leaves [translation “painting leaves”—a watercolor & leaf project we did one day]
-I did not really care for the homework.
-learn more writing skills