Not the End

This last day of March was only a little like the first. On that no-fi run, I flew over forests and danced on the clouds. Untethered by rules, my feet took me to imaginary lands at a pace only my heart would remember. That day, the sense of mystery was glorious.

Today, I have been plugged in from morning 'til night. For every question I pondered, I asked a search engine. I spoke on the phone, ran a video class, tuned into Facetime, and my fingers tapped and tapped, mapping out a course for the weeks ahead. Yet the mystery is as strong as ever--not glorious--but a mystery just the same.

Turning the page on this month's writing challenge, I wonder about tomorrow, next week, and next year. I have no expectations of rubble-free roads and I am bearing down just in case. But if I lose my map along the way, I'll try looking for a bubbling stream that will lead me home.

Give Me a Ring

A daily phone call, an occasional Facetime--either way, I'm lucky my sister is on the other end. She's a whippersnapper of a girl, I tell you, and for six long years, she lived far away. As far south as Miami, Florida and as far east as Stuttgart, Germany. It was tremendous suffering to endure the distance, made especially torturous by the time zone, but we still talked. In fact, we talked despite her reluctance to fix her microphone, resulting in conversations that only occurred in her minivan whether or not she was going anywhere.

These days, our phones reliably ring after one of us sends a text: "I have a new conspiracy theory."

Our contact begins with a golden nugget of substance--something we read or a realization we made--but it progresses into a dizzy trip down a lazy river and she's usually the one spinning the tube. We pause to have conversations with in-person humans in the room and return with a "go on" and around the bend we float. 

Google maps tells me we're only 9 miles apart, but since Covid-19 closed down the region, we've been confined to calls only. Walking by a playground today, I realized the last time I was there, we were together. We rode the giant-donut-spinner-thing with our kids, surfing circular waves round and round. 

I miss playing in person. Yet under the circumstances and the separation we've endured before, the phone will do just fine.

Start the Clock

I've been challenged to a plank contest by my Dad--athletic coach extraordinaire. A few days ahead of me, he set his personal goal at 10 minutes and promises victory if I can hold the pose for eight. 

"Start at two," he suggested on the phone. "Increase by one for the next two days and repeat."

This is not the first time he has taken on the role of a personal trainer. Although not every attempt succeeded, his intentions were always good. He was my elementary school basketball coach and dubbed me "Power Forward" even if that couldn't have been further from the truth. He signed us up for a family tennis camp, and memories of my lessons still make me shudder. 

Yet from the wheel of his motorboat, he succeeded in pulling countless summertime skiers, including me. For thirty-seven years and counting, I've yelled, "Hit it!" and my Dad has given me a ticket to fly over glassy tree-lined coves again and again. Then there was the time during my eighth-grade year, I was wiping out at school. He started to take me running. Early mornings, we'd take the neighborhood loop side-by-side. My confidence was so low that my feet shuffled alongside his, but the lesson stuck: Running is still my stress-relief of choice. 

At seventy-three, my Dad is a yogi and a 5K medalist, a ready tennis partner and a competitive golfer. When the country closes for a pandemic, he follows the rules but he doesn't sit still. From the peace of his home, he has challenged me to a plank contest, so of course, I said yes.

Raise a Glass

A toast to the chef, the gardener, and the vacuum cleaner repairman. My partner for life and I divide duties, but this post is not about my share. It is because of him that our refrigerator is stocked and dinner menu varied. He turns the stereo on and meal prep is a live concert where the crowd goes wild. The garden boasts of the compost he feeds through the winter and neat rows of seedlings are marked by clamshells, artifacts of our youthful island days. He labels by hand--Thai basil, scallions, and thyme--each letter taking me to first dates and mixed tapes on which he wrote every song on the setlist. My patience runs short with the vacuum when it chokes on a furball and comes to a hissing halt. His quick assessment results in a mail-ordered belt and a garage shop repair for a total of $1.99. He knows that Ritter Sport is my favorite and that I like grocery store flowers in a shallow vase. Cheers to the one who makes overcast days like this one bright.

Perspective

February 12, 1944

The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there's a magnificent breeze, and I'm longing--really longing --for everything: conversation, freedom, friends, being alone...I'm restless. I walk from one room to another, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beating as if to say, "Fulfill my longing at last. . ."

Anne Frank and seven others lived in the Secret Annex for two years. I've read her words aloud to my students for several years, and I spent a good portion of the morning rereading some entries. There's so much about her day-to-day that rings true now--the worries, boredom, quarrels, and repair. Sounds of someone sneezing or the creaking of a door handle are amplified in close quarters. She is anchored by her writing, dreams for her future and consoled by a bowl of blackberries and her love for Peter. I'm anchored by writing and video chats and consoled by chocolate chip cookies and my love for those sitting around our dinner table every evening.

And thankfully, there's so much of her story that is a world away from our reality. Like Anne, I'm grateful to glimpse my favorite tree outside my window, but I may also walk outside to wrap my arms around its silvery bark. My fears and worries are not exacerbated by hate and persecution, human suffering caused by an unfathomable evil. I can call loved ones on the phone and talk with my neighbors, albeit 6 feet apart. I can laugh out loud, sing, or scream. I can lace up my running shoes and run away for a while. 

The air is warm today as it blows my back door open wide.

Dream Diary

It all started at a slumber party. I was being bullied during dessert, but I would not be a victim. Scooping ice cream into bowls, I raised my voice with authority and decided to leave. I gathered four half-gallon cartons in my arms, dripping with melted cream, and headed to the bus stop.

The bus hadn't yet arrived when I encountered an old friend. It was Mrs. St. Pierre, so I asked after her son, a longtime classmate of my oldest. Suddenly, she was called away--she left the iron on, I think--but to my delight, Gwyneth Paltrow took her place. Surely, she would want to know the plight of the sleepover meanies, and indeed, she was impressed by my tale and recommended a good museum found on the southernmost tip of Los Angeles. 

"And here's the bus to take us there," she said. Food's not allowed on board, I figured, so I set it all down on the curb. I'd hoped that Mrs. St. Pierre might find it and bring it home to her family. If only I could text her--it was too bumpy a ride.

I had only been to Los Angeles once, so I was engrossed by the view. The architecture was familiar, but its structures were built with monochromatic Legos in shades of terracotta and seemed to inhale and exhale. In and out. 

"I thought it was San Francisco that had all the hills," I wondered aloud as we journeyed up and down. Gwyneth pointed to the buildings up ahead, and I realized the bus had no roof. The California sky opened up above us in cloudless wonder. 

The museum was a series of crystal pillars, one that hung a curtain made of sparkling, silver strands that waved in the wind. "That's the piece I read about," I exclaimed, and in place of my new friend sat my mother, equally awed by the view. The bus curved 'round a corner away from the complex of structures that now had the texture of silly putty and the colors of crayons. Their sharp edges, only moments before, were drooping, forming the same shape as their surface. Melting like ice cream.

Gifts of Time

The phone rang and there was a knock on the door, but before I had a chance to answer either, she was gone in a flash. Although I lost the opportunity to see my Mom through the glass, a package lay on my front steps. The paper bag, drooped and soggy from the rain, was a treasure of books and knick-knacks dug up from her wandering through the nooks and crannies of her garage.

With spare time that she hasn't had in years, she's fixing up a studio space. I can picture her in action, maybe with a paintbrush and an easel, maybe a loom. She labeled me an artist years ago, but she's the one honing her craft. Cups of colored pencils still decorate her home and the lines of her homemade cards have grown evermore steady and sure. For the last few years, she has filled a wooden cigar box with paper mandalas illustrated with a different image each day, reflections of her evolving thoughts and skills.

Growing up with my mother, I explored the number of junk drawers she fostered. In moments of boredom, I'd open squeaky cabinets to sort through ribbon clippings and broken crayons, textured paper, stamp pads, and jars full of buttons. I loved and feared the eaves of the garage attic, cavernous spaces that held boxes of records and a barrel of collectible beer cans she retrieved from the final moments of a yard sale. It's where I also found the sewing box of a tangled thread and plastic bobbins and a basket of yarn stabbed at all angles by knitting needles. There were reeds, some of which she gathered on her walks, such as the bittersweet branches that shed golden seedpods off red fruit, that she would weave into baskets flowing with knotted tendrils.

I haven't been bored yet this week. In fact, teaching plus homeschooling plus parenting all in one space remind me of the twisted thread of long ago. But as weeks and months lay unscheduled hours on my doorstep, I will try to find the art in my closets instead of just clutter.

A Word to the Wise

When my middle was little, he wasn't sure about school. The first days of Kindergarten were quickly approaching, and his nerves were beginning to crackle. Born cynical, some claim, he looked at me with his big, green eyes and said, "School. It's just a place where they tell you what to do." As his mother and a teacher who happened to love school, I was concerned. I held my breath his entire first day until I met him outside at dismissal. He was practically laughing with relief when he reported the details. He liked it. It wasn't just a place where they tell you what to do, he realized.

Years later, he won the lottery to attend a school whose motto is Verbum Sap Sat, meaning a word to the wise is sufficient. The school was founded on the belief that "when left with responsibilities, students will learn and get work done." There, the students don't even need to be told what to do. Enter a global pandemic to test the theory.

Now I'm thinking of my students, connected only by invisible threads weaving through the airwaves. I can tell them what to do, but they can also log out whenever they please. The whole process takes some faith. Just in case they're not listening, I rented an airplane to write letters in the sky.

"Verbum sap sat: Do your homework," I will advise with as many curly-cues and loop-de-loops as I can manage from the cockpit. I hope they do what I say.

Breaking News

Just like that, Governor Northam called school off for the rest of the school year. I've been reviewing my students' reading reflections all day, but my heart is dizzy from spinning. It's hard to fathom that I won't greet this year's students again in room 224. I want that moment at the start of a class, before their attention has worn away, when they turn to look at me for some directions:

• Anybody reading anything great? 
• On a scale of 1-10, how stressed are you about the geo test?
• Let's clear off desks except for-
• Will and Bill, not a good time to wrestle.
• Here's what we're going to do today...

Their faces are still fresh, crystal-clear in my mind. We were in the groove, making progress, we had already gotten to know each other, and we knew where we were going. I wrote them notes about their reading today. I'll write more notes tomorrow. There's plenty to do on the online agenda, more than enough to fill the time. But as the weeks and months go by, it's their faces I want to remember. 

Yes, Isaac

Newton’s first law states that an object that is at rest tends to stay at rest, while an object that is in motion tends to stay in motion, with the same speed and direction.

Teachers, we're not used to sitting still. It's Sunday night, and I spent the weekend trying to shake some sense into my addled muscles. After wondering why on Earth I was so tired (again, the Googling) I decided I wasn't sick, but desperate for exercise instead. We took the dog out to the field for a game of fetch and she ran with wild abandon, her tag and tongue wagging in the wind. "I want to feel like that," I said and returned home for my sneakers. Then I ran, no tail to wag, but strangers surely wondered why I was smiling at them. I greeted the rest of the day with such pep that my step needed a refresher course.

We're all about to start another week of remote work. Our brains will be hipping and hopping up and down the halls of cyber school, but good teaching rarely happens from a chair. I'm working on a plan for motion in order to stay in motion. Who isn't craving some speed and direction?

Fuel-Efficient

When it comes to family time, I'm a fan of road trips. Busy lives have us zipping in different directions most days of the year, so it's a comfort to pack into one car for a stretch of hours or even days. The car is stuffed with bags, bedding, and sandwich fixings. With the stereo playing, we say good-bye to home and drive far away--west to Boulder, south to Miami, and north to Massachusetts. The best part--for us parents at least--is that we're all in one spot. Outside our windows, the world is in motion, but inside, we look to the backseat to find our boys snoozing peacefully.

There are no road trips in our near future, but we're hunkering down for the long road ahead. The beds are made, the pantry is stocked, and the stereo is turned up in the kitchen. And I'm counting my blessings because we're in this together.

Blown Away

No adjusting of the volume could quiet the news of Covid-19 this week. Scrolling through the feed, each report blared louder than the last. Berated by facts, I cowered from impending doom. I put my phone down to give my brain a break and felt light-headed from it all. Googled, "Is nausea a symptom of coronavirus?" and confirmed I am likely more psycho than somatic.

Projections suggest this is only the beginning, and the decibel level will not quiet for a while. Yet throughout the day, the wind blew through town. From morning 'til dusk, it came in a constant series of billowing waves. The wind shushed a troubled world. It is March's way to blow our lids off, but today was more zephyr than typhoon. For a time, I forgot the grinding engines and screeching brakes. I listened to the comforting whisper, a solicitous hush, and made a wish.

Fountain Pens of Youth

As the lit mag sponsor of my school, I sensed my committee of writers was itching for an opportunity to connect. I sent out a Google Classroom message: "Are you out there? What are you doing to stay inspired?" To which I received prompt replies.

• I'm reading like crazy. 
• Listening to music. It's my happy, inspiration place.
• I'm writing the second draft of my NaNoWriMo!
• Just Dance and yoga!
• I'm trying to teach my sister to knit...when she's not driving me crazy.
• I signed up for a free Harvard online writing course.
• I get to spend a lot of time outdoors.

To bring us together, I posted a couple of writing activities over the last two days in the form of shared Google docs, and it was this view that inspired me. 

In popped the profile pics of a few wordsmiths and they wrote in delightful synchronicity. My fellow writing club friends--grownups--and I have marveled over the creative freedom and fearlessness we observe in young writers. This morning, I enjoyed watching it in real time. 

Words flowed like water, line upon line, metaphor dropped upon similes like a spring shower, and realism danced gracefully with fantasy. And when the last word was typed, not a second passed before the cursor hovered over a word up here, a letter over there. As if fairy dust were sprinkled over text, lovely writing was transformed into something even lovelier. The writing process revealed itself in only a few minutes just because I was lucky enough to log in. 

I thought of stark blank screens that have frightened ideas right out of my head in the past. Not today, mind you. Thanks, kiddos.

A Birthday Tradition

My memory is fuzzy, but I think the first time I poured pancake batter onto a hot griddle in the shape of my firstborn's age, it was a number one or a number two. It was a simple way to begin a happy birthday with sweet returns. Children love pancakes. And I grew to appreciate a tradition that didn't send me to the store in a panic for expensive ingredients. Milk, eggs, flour, and butter. Very doable, every time.

Now I have three sons, and I haven't skipped a birthday yet. I like to think of each one of their this-is-my-day smiles before they gobbled numbers along with a buttery stack. Considering they're twenty-two, eighteen, and nine--throw in a couple decades of flapjacks for their dad--and I've become a real pro. 

Today is my birthday, but I did not stand at the stove. First thing, my youngest took the lead with a spatula in hand. He measured, mixed, and painted the pan with a lovely four and a six. Golden brown and delicious. It was a perfect start to the day.

Model Student

My nine-year-old is at it again. Not only is the garden fully tilled thanks to his sharp-toothed shovel, but there is also a ditch at the center that he has made steadily deeper. The kid clearly loves a project.

From his menu board of fourth-grade activities, he plucked several tasks with surprising enthusiasm. I created a class of one on No Red Ink (middle school teacher perks) and started him off on nouns--the silly sentences had him cracking up that he even took screenshots of a few. "I don't know, maybe I can make something out of them later," he explained. When he caught sight of his sketch pad that his art teacher sent home, he borrowed my Sharpies to design some pretty intense robots.

He heard from his older brothers--a meme on Twitter, I think--that Sir Isaac Newton produced his best work while on quarantine. "I think I might, too," he said hopefully.

When evening hit, I peeked out the door, expecting to see him digging away. Instead, he was seated in a lawn chair with a book. The sun had started to go down, but he read as long as there was light in the sky. That's the spirit.

Problems and Solutions

Problem: One car sits in the parking lot of a Key Biscayne condo building instead of its own driveway over 1,000 miles away. Its owners, my parents, left their vehicle behind for what they thought would be a one-week trip. Before their return flight to one more sunny stretch, news of Covid-19 took hold, and they decided it was safer to stay home. They're a hearty pair in good health, but these days, we can't mess with the data. We wrestled with the dilemma. There was no way we could let my 73-year-old father get on a plane to retrieve their car and belongings before driving 16 hours alone.

Solution: One 22-year-old makes his homecoming, forced into online coursework to finish his final semester before graduating. He's an easygoing guy, my firstborn, and he's close to his grandparents. Two or three texts later, he logged into United.com to buy a one-way ticket. He boarded the plane with a carry-on bag, a pack of disinfectant wipes, and a set of keys. Soon enough, he'll be sleeping to the sound of the ocean waves before hitting the road for one long solo road trip. While this plan seems like a logical solution to the problem, we wrestle with the dilemma. There are at least 36-hours before we will get him back safe and sound.

Problem: One family waits and worries.

Solution: Hope and pray.

Keep in Touch

Day 2 of social distancing and I've decided this is my second and final slice that will begin this way. Long days stretch out ahead and the pace is slow; I will be craving originality shortly.

My fingers tapped on the keyboard all morning as I set out initial plans for my students. "Are you out there?" I wanted to ask. But I decided it was too soon to pop my virtual teacher voice into their homes unless they went looking. Families all around are still adjusting to the definition of Covid-19 closing. Learning, listening, wondering, and of course, disinfecting. I posted my plan and closed my laptop.

Ping! An email came in from a student who'd been out sick before the closing (not to worry, he's well now.) He was ready to catch up, for today was Day 5 in his tiny section of the world. We exchanged a couple of messages, and he was on his way, zipping through a couple of tasks so fast, I had to admire his spirit.

And if I'm craving originality today, I can guess a lot of students are too. Whatever I post next, I aim to keep it fresh.

Saturday Chores

Day 1 of social distancing and my youngest has been digging holes in the yard. Lucky for him, the soil is springtime-ready and lucky for his dad, the garden needs a turning. He's proud--as he should be--as he pierces the ground with his shovel. Rich, brown earth smiles in contrast alongside the curved edge of a green lawn. He stops to wipe fresh dirt on his jeans.

Inside, I've been tackling a different task. Armed with a spray bottle and paper towels, I've wiped almost every surface, each swipe to create more distance between yesterday and today. Listening to Podcasts as if they're religion, experts advise wiping doorknobs and electronic devices until my phone battery runs low. Whatever I'm battling is either invisible or nonexistent, so I feel a sense of futility. 

"Come out and see this!" my son calls. "Three people have asked me if I'm digging to the other side of the world. By the way, that's impossible," he adds.

I set the disinfectant aside to admire his handiwork. "This is awesome," I exclaim, "We really needed this done." 

I'm telling the truth. And just in case, I go in to finish my chores, too.

Tuning Down

I can hear a basketball bouncing on the street from my back porch. Bounce, bounce, swish...or maybe a miss. The air is a soft shade of spring mellow. Birds chirp and squirrels chatter. A plane flies overhead. My dog naps by the screen where a light breeze feathers her fur. I'm just now noticing the first green leaves that have sprouted.

This morning was wound in barbed wire. If I tried to reach over the fence, I worried I'd get caught. Colleagues speed-walked their way through planning periods with tensions and questions. My students and I looked at a calendar with dates set for the rest of the month, but it was filled with broken promises. The announcement of closure until April 14 left us saying, "Now we know."

I was in touch with a childhood friend from Florence today. She reported the eeriness of the shutdown, closed museums, universities, and shops. She complained of long lines at the grocery stores and worries about the economy, but because she and her family are well, she's taking long walks. She's enjoying the spring. She wrote, "In the bad of it all it is a chance to tune down, enjoy a nice book, the company of close ones and contemplate days lived in simplicity. Those should be nice lessons for us all."

Waiting.

These days, our phones announce the arrival of information with a "Ping!" whether or not we obsessively refresh our screen. News is happening out there, there is no doubt. Numbers climb and leaders convene. For hours in a row, my phone buzzed with notifications from universities, stadiums, amusement parks, and camps. Any news from school? Not much.

Yet a Virginia state of emergency plus a warning that "This situation is changing by the minute..." leaves one wondering what's happening out of earshot when hours have passed since an update. And in those hours, I do "normal." I enter grades, walk the dog, take my youngest to Taekwondo, and empty the dishwasher. But the lines are growing longer at the grocery store and the anti-bacterial wipes are still out of stock. I resist the temptation to check my phone. 

How can I help you?

Chatting with a friend's daughter tonight, we realized we share a connection. She's been volunteering at the same hospital I did in high school, and our chatter sent me spinning back to a time I hadn't thought of in a long time.

I was a Candy Striper. It wasn't enough that I pulled on a plaid, pleated skirt every morning. On Saturday mornings, I sported a red and white striped pinafore--as awkward as it sounds--plus a blouse with a mickey mouse collar and tube socks. I was by no means a confident teen, but I answered calls to the volunteer office and marched my uniformed self up and down the halls with great contentment.  

I've visited hospitals since then, but those were journeys through thick fog, and I remember less of the scenery. Tonight, I recalled strolling through halls with the book cart. Lego deliveries to the children's wing. I knew the main routes and short cuts. The nursing stations, where people lingered and fingers tapped keyboards. There were waiting rooms with people passing time, where the TV was too low to hear and too high to ignore. I feel sorry, now, as I realize how much pain I walked briskly by. I didn't know how long they'd already waited or what questions swirled round in their heads. I was too busy feeling self-assured as a member of a special club.

On the bright side, I'll always remember the calls from the maternity wing: requests for discharge. It was joyous indeed to navigate a wheelchair for mothers and their newborns. I took care not to catch them in the elevator door, to provide a smooth ride, as if that was their greatest worry. "Good-bye and good luck," I might have said as they drove away. Then I'd head back to the office and wait for the phone to ring again.

Name That Tune

"What song is this?" asked my son from the backseat of the car. We were on our way home from Taekwondo.

He wasn't singing, mind you. He was snapping his tongue on the roof of his mouth, 100% percussion and 0% melody. I listened closely to the beat so that I could make my best guess. 

"I can tell it's a song I know, but I'm not sure...What do you call that sound you're making?" 

"It's sort of a click. Or a cluck," he said and started up again and I joined in for a few bars of his syncopated rhythm.

Cluck, cluck, Cluck, cluck...cluck, cluck, cluck. 

Cluck, cluck, cluck. 

Cluck, cluck, cluck. 

Cluck, cluck, Cluck, cluck...cluck, cluck, cluck. 

Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.

"Well, do you know it?"

I clucked a line back to him, thinking that might help. Not Jingle Bells. Not Hot Cross Buns. No luck. At a red light, I turned to see his face, midsong in the glow of the early evening, an unconventional serenade that allowed time to stand still just for the moment. 

The song, of course, was "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Crystal Clear

My world has been blurry around the edges. Blue skies on early spring days haven't made a difference. Until recently, I haven't minded much. Each day painted with watercolors rather than acrylics, more impressionism than realism. But I've come to crave clarity.

I've tired of walking up close to see the sharp lines. I'd rather not strain to see fresh blades of grass that line the road. Although I can see the signs, I'd be better off if I could discern their directions.

This afternoon, I renewed my eyeglass prescription. The doctor flipped lenses this way and that until each letter came into view. Bs no longer looked like Es and I identified the C that once looked like an O.

In two weeks, I'll put new glasses on. Here's hoping things come into focus. 

Rule #1

I am a big hand washer. Not so much that I risk scrubbing my hands raw, but I do practice the standard soap-up quite willingly at the traditional times. A trip to the restroom, of course. Before preparing and/or eating a meal, yep. After reaching into the desks between classes to scoop out papers and the occasional god-knows-what, absolutely and doubly good, thank you.

We're all teachers. Best practices, am I right?

As news of the Covid-19 outbreak dominates the airwaves, the value of this good habit has spiked while the stock market has plunged. Like many people, I didn't let the coronavirus interfere with my trip about Teacher Town this weekend, but it did follow me around. I opened doors with my bare hands, and then took receipts, handled produce, shook some hands, hugged family and friends. Before and after, I washed my hands. A lot. 

God help me when it comes to touching my face.

What's the time?

With one less hour to work with this weekend, I might just get ahead of it for once. My sleepy Saturday morning was typical in that I read a couple of chapters before making my coffee. I took my time getting ready for the gym before fitting in a pre-errand workout. I'm writing my slice of the day before heading to my son's Taekwondo lesson. All of the above, an hour earlier.

Is this what maturity looks like? Because I can remember some years--springing forward dropped me dazed and befuddled on a Sunday, cruelly cheated by the shorter weekend. This year, our daylight savings dinner guests are my sister and young nieces, who happen to have an early bedtime. This year, I will close up today with a bowl of ice cream, two more chapters, and lights out. One hour earlier. 

Here's hoping it helps. 

Dock Dreams

There is a dock I know where the sun shines strongest at noon. Where I can lay my towel over a folding chair and read with nothing but the dragonflies to distract me. Where the rest of the family later congregates for long conversations about plans and politics, stories and songs. Cousins swim until their lips turn blue. Parents soak in the summer heat and join them. Reluctant to leave the spot, volunteers bring plates of grilled cheese, slices of watermelon, and seltzer. We move in a smooth cycle from the dock to the boat, from the board to the water, and round again. Every minute that passes is a mile further from the workday rush that we've all left behind until the distance is so great that we can finally fathom the return.

Good Night

"I'm afraid of the dark." Or that's what I've been telling myself for so many years. I'll blame it on the night I was taking out the trash. Must have been a cloudy because not even the stars lit my way down the driveway. All was well, though, until I heard a rustle. Just a crinkle of leaves. A mysterious sound from behind the tree. Then out pounced...no one. But my fear was pure electricity--a bolt of lightning--that sent sparks flying for hours up and down my spine. 

I left work tonight after dark. They're calling for rain tomorrow, so the inky sky offered no reprieve as I headed across the field toward home. Other nights, I've found myself reaching for my phone. Turn on the flashlight. Call a loved one. But not tonight, I decided, and told myself I'd be fine. One step at at time, until I saw the warm glow from my back porch just through the trees. I was confident that if the leaves crinkled, it was a rabbit burrowing in for a rest. Just as I trusted I would, when I made it safely home. 

Afternoon Coven

On my walk home from school, I encountered three young girls kneeling on the dirt path, huddled in a circle. In the shade of the overgrown scrub trees, their heads were down and faces hidden. While their bodies blocked whatever decay lay in the center, there was little doubt of their social deviance.

Oh my, I thought of this cultish ritual. So sad that children have turned to the macabre. I blame the internet. Whatever it is they are doing out of earshot of their parents, they learned it on Youtube. 

Feeling sure they wouldn't want to be caught in this dark act, I played it cool: "Hi, ladies." Yet they were unfazed by my presence. 

Their smiles widened as they announced proudly, "We're burying the remains of our snow man!" One went on to explain the discovery of his sad little frayed hat and ragged scarf beneath the pine needles that fell this season. Instead of snow flakes. "Poor thing. He didn't have one chance."

So no, they weren't torturing fire ants. Nor were they coaxing evil spirits from a half dead toad. Instead, they were mourning the absence of this year's winter, paying their respects with a gravestone and newly bloomed magnolia blossoms. I wasn't that far off--they were playing with something dead after all--but Google doesn't brew that kind of magic. 

Maybe our neighborhood Wiccans can conjure winter's resurrection. If so, they'll have one more follower. 

But ladies, please, not until next year.

Unexpected Turnout

I heeded an emailed warning about today's professional development.

"Consider carpooling," they recommended based on the massive number of participants they expected. Plus, there was sure to be some bonkers Super Tuesday traffic, this being the reason behind the last-minute cancellation of school.  

I hitched a ride from my husband, and while I enjoyed a rare morning chat on this weekday commute, the vacancies in the parking lot suggested attendance was light. Walking into the auditorium, I was struck by the thin crowd, especially in the front rows. In fact, the nearest exit seemed to have a magnetic pull based on how many chose to sit in the back. Maybe they all had the primary on their minds.

Later, I walked over to my polling place. Despite my concerns of a line in the late afternoon, the gym was nearly empty. Without a voter in front or behind, I could have set up a campfire and roasted a few marshmallows before feeding my ballot into the machine.

Where were the droves that required training? What about the urgency of this election? Fill those parking lots, people. It's time to line up. And good news: the PD sessions are over, but the polls don't close until 7 o'clock. Anyone need a ride?

Do you smell what I smell?

The wind is picking up speed and the sky warns of rain that is surely on the way. I rush my dog, Allie, out the door for a quick walk, but her nose suggests an alternative agenda. With even the slightest dampness in the air, she is transported to a state of euphoria. She pauses to inhale life's sweetness in the crevices in the stone wall. The crease between the lawn and the concrete. A napkin by the gutter. A plod of grass in the road. 

As we start and stop, start and stop, the distance she creates is like that of a mother and her teenage daughter: “Don’t even try to read my mind.” Or in this case, “Just let me smell my own life!” I can only follow protectively and wonder, Whatever happened to my little girl? 

A gust nearly blows my jacket off and down comes a spray of raindrops at last. I breathe in scents of earthy grass, blooming crocuses, and buds on the trees. A trash can on the curb. Chinese takeout on the next block. 

Exhilarated, we break into a jog. Together again.

If a Tree Falls in a Forest

One mile into my run today, my phone battery died. MapMyRun was no longer tracking my every step.

Going solo, earbuds tucked into my shirt, I was alone with my thoughts. I stuck to the trail, but my mind meandered through the woods on either side. My imagination scampered with the deer hiding behind trees. It zip-lined the electrical wires and grabbed a handful of the cottony clouds. It hopped over the stream and skipped over mossy rocks. 

In my final mile, I came back to earth. I collected all the words for my first slice of March 2020. No record of my precise distance and split pace, I rest assured. It was a good run.