Tag Archives: Writing

A Generation Thing

15 Sunday Aug 2010

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The oldest of the clan was recounting some tale of how her husband  once caught an octopus while fishing off the Pacific coast.  She was absorbed in her tale —  using arms to animate the action of eight legs fighting as her husband released it.

She’d hoped to entertain the young boy sitting across from her.  Before she’d launched into her tale, he had been wiggling about like an octopus on a pole, which was probably what triggered the story.  But the tale she told was too old for the five-year old — it flew over his head and across the restaurant dining room to me.

The child said nothing in response.  Perhaps the boy didn’t know what to make of the old story or the old woman telling it.  There was a formality between them that stamped her as ‘just visiting.’  In between the man and the storyteller sat a woman who bridged two generations — daughter to one and mother to the other.  She too, didn’t say a word.

The picture perfect family, four generations strong, was going through the ritual of keeping family.  Yet the three adults at the table were occupied by their salad greens,  leaving family stories to die untended on the old woman’s lips.  It was ten seconds before the man broke silence between bites of his salad.  “Is that right, Grandma.”

The lone response was too late to be anything more than polite.  It left me sad, as these days, I find myself adopting all sorts of scraps from my parent’s lives to help keep family stories alive.  Yesterday, I brought home four ice tea spoons.  I’ve no need for these early sixties relics.  I have sixteen already in the drawer.   And I don’t even sweeten my iced tea.  But I had to have them anyway.  Now they are odd men out, taking up space, keeping company with others that don’t resemble their pattern.

Handing stories on to the next generation can make one feel like odd man out.  The practice of storytelling requires thick skin; stories often go begging for a listening ear —  even when heard, children won’t always get the storyteller or their stories.

This need to preserve  stories is a generation thing.  Like that great-grandmother sitting across from me the other night; with seventy or eighty years of living bottled up inside, can you imagine how hard it was to keep stories from spilling over her lips.  Maybe she should consider spoon-feeding.

An Unvarnished Good

13 Friday Aug 2010

Posted by in Good Reads, Life at Home, Soul Care, Writing

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Everyday life is good.  Though using the word “good” to describe aspects of my charmed existence often feels inadequate.

But as I think back on the week and today in particular, I’d like to add at least  a “very” or a “really” to give my “good” a little extra ‘umph.’   But I won’t; if the word “good” was good enough for God in Genesis, then I’ll keep my good just as it is, unvarnished by fillers and exclamation points.  I think God only allow Himself one ‘very,’ and that was when he was describing how very good we, his people, were.

Sometimes I wonder about that ‘very.’  If I’m so ‘very’ good, why did it take me three months to make good on my final project for my spiritual direction coursework?    For now, I’m just relieved and happy that my obligation is fulfilled.  No longer must I avoid it, as I did last week.  It’s done and I feel good about what I wrote.

As I attached the file to the email this afternoon, I wrote a cover page thanking my instructors for the grace period they gave me after Daddy’s death.  Then I gave them permission not to read it.  I felt it more important for me to write than for them to read.  “Why drudge through reading this,” I wrote, “when there are far better works to read?”

It’s what I plan to do more myself — read for the pure pleasure of keeping company with the well written word — with no deadlines, no analysis and no expectation.

It won’t be too much longer before Sis’s farmhouse is finished too.  Then I’ll be reclaiming two more days to read.  And maybe if I play my cards well, as the days grow cooler, Sis will let me read on her front porch swing.  With a symphony of crickets to keep me company, this pleasure might rise to a very good.

The Kindergarten Groove

10 Tuesday Aug 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Writing

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Every year, for the last five, I’ve driven the short distance to the elementary school where Kara teaches kindergarten.  She likes me to come help prepare for the new year and I’m honored she asks.

I have a very important job.  I erase the names from last year’s students and write a new crop of names in their place, using my “best kindergarten” print.  I always have to relearn kindergarten print, because my own writing is a custom mix of cursive and print.  It helps that Kara has cheat sheets tacked on the wall.

Over and over and over I write, until I find my kindergarten groove, until my too small and illegible letters transform into nice tall letters that fit snug in solid and dashed lines.  By the time I’ve finished writing the list of names five or six times, I begin to wonder what the student’s faces look like, what kind of students they will be, whether they will have first day jitters or whether Kara will (from their being in her class.)

Today being my fifth take and all, I’d graduated to being left on my own, while Kara attended a teacher’s meeting.  I had planned to arrive by 8:20 but of course I was late.  I called — told her it would be more like 9:00  — but after stopping at Sonic for the required Vanilla Coke, I was running 15 minutes late on late.

It’s my fault I arrived to a dark silent room.  Tuning on the lights, I spotted the list on the table, right next to the teachers U-shaped desk.  Item one:  “Erase old names.  Write new names.” I looked around, saw the new class roster and the pile of names to shuffle.  Item Two:  “Add new names to Leader Caboose.” My eyes dart around looking for a train.  What’s a leader caboose?  Have I ever seen this?

It’s funny how the combination of not knowing the “right” answer and being in Kara’s classroom sent me back to my own first grade jitters of trying to guess what the teacher wanted.  I never ever knew.  First grade was an absolute Mystery.  The only thing I knew for sure was Mrs. Randall did not like me.

I picked up my journal to capture my experience.  As I write, in walks Kara.  “Hey, Mom.  I came in earlier but you weren’t here.  Thanks for coming.”

“Hey, what’s a leader caboose?” Kara points to the wall by the door.  There’s no train.  Just two vertical columns of nameless cards.  The cards keep track of turns for girl and boy leaders for each week’s kindergarten caboose — I’m guessng the student caboose travels between various school destinations — bathrooms —  music lessons —  recess — lunch.

With one mystery solved, I point to the other wall and ask Kara about her “Monster Of The Week” spot, recalling again my own first grade teacher’s dislike of me .  “Honey, I’m not sure whether your students will want to win this award.  Who wants to be the class monster?”

Kara laughed.  “Oh, it has nothing to do with the students being monsters.”

But back at home and way out of the kindergarten groove, I still haven’t a clue what monster-of-the-week is all about.  And now I’m beginning to wonder whether Mrs. Randall liked me after all.