Letters Falling

Who needs words when you have pictures like these?

2011-04-27T21:15:00.004-06:00

Miss Jane!

2011-03-29T12:07:00.006-06:00

Last week Jane asked me if there was a song that reminded me of her whenever I hear it. Immediately I was transported back to a moment almost eleven years ago. It was in the car an the way home from the hospital where Jane was born. I was feeling particularly weepy that day because we had decided that Jane would be our last child, and I was struggling with coming to terms with never being pregnant again, never going through the birthing process, never having that monumental first night alone with a brand new baby at my breast. The finality of it all weighed heavy on my fragile emotions of the moment, and I began to cry. And then a song came on the radio. Something about the music soothed me immediately (the words don't really mean much, so I won't include them here). I knew in that moment that this song would always remind me of Jane. I was filled with extreme gratitude for my precious little gift who slept in her infant seat behind me. Ever since Jane was very small, she's been a child who cares deeply for others. She is a natural nurturer--whenever anyone is sad or lonely, she is the first to comfort and care. She loves to touch and make connections with everyone in the family. She hugs and kisses and loves. Ever since that day in the car on the way home from the hospital, Jane has brought a soothing influence to my life. Jane turns 11 tomorrow. We're having a Spa Party with her friends for her birthday. It will be filled with soothing, comforting activities like facial masks, foot baths and massages. What a fitting way for my sweet Jane to celebrate her 11th birthday. I love you, Jane!

Emma through the glass

2011-03-19T16:44:00.003-06:00

Time sure has a way of passing us by, doesn't it? For example, when Emma was baptized on her 8th birthday, her Uncle Greg said to me, "Just think, only eight more years until she's driving and dating!" Of course he was giving me a hard time, and I immediately told him to shut the heck up. How could it be possible that my little angel of an Emma Lu could ever grow up enough to drive a car. Or worse--to date a boy!

But guess what? It's happened. Emma turned 16 last month, and she got her driver's license and had her first date. How did this happen?

Here's the poem I wrote for Emma's birthday:

Its neck,
long and slender as her own,
knows the soft white fingers of her hand.
The body's curves
between shoulders and
rounded bottom
mirror the beginnings of
her own blossoming form.
Each coaxes music
from the other.

She draws her bow across strings
of time, each note perfectly attached to the next.
Whole notes first, wobbling and unsure
until they divide--
quarters, marching forward
lagging faintly behind the
tick, tick, tick
of the metronome.
Elbow, wrist, fingers dance slowly
as they learn where to fall,
where to hold.

Steady quarters give birth to eighths, then sixteenths.
Fingers dance--lithe and rigid--
up and down strings
four to a tick,
her stretched fingers bent
on conquering the moment
before it is lost.
They skip in a blur
so much so that none can say where
the previous has come from,
nor where the future will go.

Sixteen years slip from
her bow
and resonate throughout
the curves of bodies.

Until they divide again.

Today Emma is attending an orientation meeting for her new job. She'll be working at Lagoon this summer. A real job for a real 16 year old.

Where did the time go? It's just like "Julie Through the Glass." (Go 4:36 into the video below, and be sure to have a tissue handy!)

Thirdly, this is the story, and I'm writing it.

2010-11-11T07:33:00.005-07:00

Last night I had the fabulous experience of listening to Daniel Handler, who is more commonly known as Lemony Snicket. I'm please to say he was easily the best author speaker I've heard. I'm not please to say, however, that I discovered I am older than him by a few months. Him and his 60 million books . . . but I digress.

The event was a fundraiser sponsored by Ogden School District. Every year they host a dinner with an author as the speaker. Most people have to pay big bucks to get a seat, but I just had to know someone whose mother was on the board of the sponsoring foundation.

The dinner was unfortunate. I mean, it was a themed dinner based on the unfortunate events. It was quite delicious. Cucumber soup, roast pork, cornmeal raisin stuffing, veggies, lemony cake, mmmm mmmmm.

Daniel Handler spoke for over an hour, then took questions for 20 minutes. Then he sign books for what I'm assuming was a least a couple hours afterward. We made it close to the front of the line. He spoke individually to each person in line, calling us by name, making jokes, and being charming in the oddest ways possible.

My favorite Daniel Handler moments/ideas:

His first book (not from the Series) was rejected 37 times. Thirty-seven. Wow. I know this is not unusual--that many authors keep trying rejection after rejection. But a number like 37 is unfathomable to me.
While he was waiting to find a publisher, an editor suggested he write children's fiction. He scoffed at the idea, because his first book was about a teenage girl who killed her boyfriend--not exactly suitable for young minds. And so he spewed forth an off-the-wall idea about three newly orphaned children and all the horrible things that happen to them. It was, of course, all in jest. The next day the editor called to ask him to write it.
His favorite fan letter came from a girl who told him, "I get curious when things happen." He does too, so he always makes sure things happen in his books.
Somebody left a cell phone on the podium where he was speaking. It rang during his speech. "This isn't part of the show," he said. And then he answered it. Unfortunately, the caller did not speak to him. So he looked at the phone and said, "How charming, it has a 'dismiss' button." He pressed it and said, "I fully expect that tomorrow this person's boss will knock on his office door and say, 'I'm sorry to inform you Mr. Handler has dismissed you.'" Oh, so funny.
One of Mr. Handler's favorite phrases he read in a book when he was a child was something like, "Thirdly, this is the story, and I'm writing it." Of course it was preceded by a first and second point, but young Daniel used to quote it frequently on its own. If he had an argument with his parents, he would use this quote to stop the argument and get his way. Of course it never worked.
During Q & A time, the fortunate children of rich parents who are yet living lined up to ask Mr. Handler questions. He clearly warned them that they would be disappointed with his answers. Despite the constant laughter of the audience, he didn't even crack a smile. The kids LOVED this. (My kids didn't get to go because they are neither fortunate nor are they children of rich parents.) Some of my favorites:
Q: Who is Beatrice? A: The person who all the books are dedicated to. *blank, silent stare down between questioner and Mr. Handler* Dismissed.
Q: Which character in the series is most like you? A: *after a moment of chin rubbing* Lemony Snicket.
Q: Where did you get VFD? A: Wow, you credit me with a lot, don't you? It's like before I wrote the series, there were only 23 letters, but then I came up with three more. I'm a genius!
Q: Who is your favorite character in the series? A: *after a moment of chin rubbing* Lemony Snicket.
Q: *new speaker, her first question* Thirdly, are they going to make a second movie of the series? *after the laughter died down* A: They tell me yes, but I don't believe them.
During the book signing part, Mr. Handler spoke to everyone individually. When it was my turn, I wanted him to sign the book to Emma, Kate and Jane. "And this is . . . you?" he asked. I told him they're my daughters. "I'm sensing an Austen theme here," he said. I told him that no, there was not an intentional theme in choosing the names of my daughters. "So they weren't all born in Austin, Texas?"

As a hopefully some-day-in-the-future author, I was inspired by Daniel Handler. His wit was quick, sharp and entertaining, but the thing that stood out to me most was that he is, without fail, true to the stories he wants to tell. He writes the stories he wants to write, and if people want to read them, that's great. If they don't, he'll still write. Today I'm taking a moment to consider my personal integrity to the stories I write.

And I'm still laughing.

Dismissed.

Guess who I get to meet?

2010-11-08T09:05:00.001-07:00

Daniel Handler, a.k.a. Lemony Snicket! I'm so excited!!!

Halloween 2010

2010-10-31T09:35:00.007-06:00

The three Youngers before we went trick or treating. We grew all out pumpkins in our garden this year.

Jane, Maryanne and Rachel

Rachel is the Queen of Hearts. She giggled every time she said, "Off with your head!"

Maryanne is Aurora, a life-long dream of hers.

Jane is a gangstah.

The three Olders before they went to their various parties.

Kate and Sarah went trick or treating with friends in Mantua, and you would not believe their haul! Cans of soda, full sized candy bars, money, homemade treats, and even carrots. Sign me up for Mantua next year!

Sarah is Maleficent. "Touch it! Touch it I say!!"

Kate is Michelangelo, of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fame.

Em is Quin from Glee after she gets kicked off the Cheerios but before she starts showing. Not sure how I feel about that . . . :)

Happy Halloween!

2010-10-26T11:25:00.003-06:00

Frost salted the orange and yellow leaves still clinging to the boney limbs of the front yard trees. A layer of newly fallen leaves blanket the yellowing grass. Inside, the weak exhalations of luke-warm air from our dilapidated heater took off a minimal edge of the cold we were accosted with unexpectedly.

“What happened to our Indian Summer?” I asked Brock when we sat down for breakfast. I blew on my hands, rubbing them together to warm them.

“Looks like winter’s coming early. We really need a new heater.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen any time soon. Can we build a fire?”

“Let me make sure the chimney’s clean first. Tonight for sure.” Brock promised.

The primary source of heat, at one time, was a coal-fired boiler which warmed radiators standing guard in various rooms of the house. The previous owners, who had lived here for decades, converted the heating system to a more modern forced-air heater, but they didn’t install an adequate number of vents to warm the entire house. They also didn’t bother to empty the coal room. It is still, to this day, filled with tons of coal.

Later that evening, with the kids tucked in their beds, Brock gathered split wood, kindling and matches and built a cozy, romantic fire for a cold, drafty evening.

“Should we throw on a shovel-full of coal to kick up the warmth just a notch?” Brock asked.

“Does it still work?” I asked, clueless as to the shelf-life of such an antiquated fuel.

Brock smiled, “Coal doesn’t expire. It will make the fire nice and toasty. I’ll be right back” He took a bucket downstairs to the coal room in the far back corner of the basement.

I was bundled up in a blanket close to the fireplace when he returned. He tossed a shovel-full of the black chunks of fuel onto the fire. At first it died down a bit, but soon it was blazed brighter and hotter than any fire I’d ever seen.

“You’ve made it angry,” I teased as I backed away from the intense heat the flaming coals produced. Even with the added distance, I was hot from the fire’s fierce glow. We both gazed into the flames, as people are generally drawn to do. As we stared, the fire began dance and swirl upon the glowing coals.

“Did you see that?” Brock whispered.

Our eyes stayed focused on the hearth, hypnotized by its intensity.

“It’s standing up!” I whispered back, horrified. The fire rose until it was a figure standing above a skirt swirling in a white-hot mound, arms flicking out of a torso of yellows and reds, a head rising as a flame atop a candle, but with a face. With eyes.

“Pss, ftt, spz,” a woman’s voice sputtered. “Pss . . . where issss my . . . baaay . . . bee . . .?”

“Did you hear that?” I whispered, eyes still trained on the fire, unable to look away.

Brock stood and took the fire poker in his hand. “What do you want?” he boldly asked the glowing form swaying side to side, dancing in the recesses of our hearth.

“I sssssaid . . . where issss . . . my . . . baaay . . . bee?” Her voice was filled with sparks and sizzles and wind. She raised her arms above her flickering head and crossed her hands in front of her face just as Brock thrust the poker into the coals. Her body exploded with the disruption, and soon the flames shrank back to contain themselves to the wood and coals distributed across the floor of the fireplace.

“Oh my gosh! We have a ghost!” I finally managed to say. “Did you know about her?”

“No,” Brock answered. “This is the first time I’ve used this fire place.”

“Well, that was exciting! Who do you think she is? And what’s the deal with her baby?”

“I have no idea.”

* * *
The next morning, we wondered if maybe we were a little too caught up in the excitement of the size of the fire. Maybe our imaginations were too lively. Maybe we didn’t really see a woman in our fireplace. We decided we would build another fire that very evening to prove to ourselves there was no ghost.

After the kids were tucked in their beds, Brock once again gathered the wood and matches for a fire. In a few minutes we had a roaring inferno burning in our fireplace. But it stayed in the shape of a fire. No woman.

“Nothing,” Brock said, and he sounded disappointed.

“Maybe you have to put coal on it,” I suggested.

Brock took up the shovel, but it hit the bottom of the bucket with a metallic clang. “It’s empty,” he said. What happened to all the coal that was here last night?”

“Maybe you used it all on the fire,” I said.

“No, I only used a couple of shovels full,” he paused and looked around the room. “I’ll just go down and get some more. It’s not like we’re going to run out any time soon.”

I nervously waited for my husband to get the coal and come back to the living room, the entire time worrying that the woman would return to the fire before he did.

Soon enough, he was back with the bucket. He shoveled coal onto the fire, and within a few minutes, the flames grew arms, a torso, and a head out of the skirted mound below.

“Pssst . . . where issss . . . my . . . baaay . . . beee . . . ?” the fire figure asked in a windy whisper.
Brock was ready with the poker, but I held up my hand and motioned for him to put it down. I wanted to know more.

“Tell us about your baby. Maybe we can help you.” I said.

“Help meeee . . . find . . . psssst . . . my baaay . . . beeee!”

“How?” Brock asked.

“Build a . . . ftttz . . . fiiire . . . every . . . niiight!” She folded her arms across her chest and sank back into the flames.

“How can we help her find her baby by building a fire?” I asked, mystified.

* * *

The next few nights were much the same. We tucked the kids into bed, and then went to work building a fire. Each night the bucket of coal was mysteriously empty. Each night Brock went down to the coal room for a refill. Once the fire was going hot and strong, the fiery figure appeared.

“Where’s . . . sptz . . . my baaay . . . beee?” she moaned each night.

“Build a . . . ftttz . . . fiiire . . . every . . . niiight,” she instructed before she settled back into her bed of coals.

On the fourth night as she began to dissipate, I called to her, “Wait!”

She looked at me curiously, her head tilted to one side as if she was waiting for me to ask my question.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mary,” she whispered.

“And your baby? What’s his name?”

“He wasssss . . . taken . . . before . . . ftttz . . . I . . . naaaamed him.” She bowed her head and her shoulders shook. Smoke rose from her face, but I wondered if it was really steam from her sorrow’s tears.

I began to look for Mary’s baby in every closet, every corner, every nook of our home. I knocked on the walls listening for places that didn’t sound hollow, I looked in the heater vents, I looked behind the radiators and under beds.

Once I found a small pile of bones with a tiny skull in a heating vent, but it was just the remains of a wayward mouse, not a baby.

* * *

On the seventh night, Brock wanted to give up.

“No,” I insisted. “We have to help Mary find her baby.”

“Have you considered that maybe Mary died a crazy old woman? Maybe there is no baby. She doesn’t even know his name. Maybe she’s just trying to get us to bring her to life every night with the fire because she’s lonely. Maybe she’s just using us.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But maybe not. Maybe she can’t rest until she finds her baby. Maybe we can help her to finally let go of this world and go on to a better one. Let’s just try one more night.”

“Okay, but this time you’re getting the coal.” Brock knelt down near the fireplace to start the fire.

“Fine,” I said. I grabbed the pail and shovel and turned to leave. The floorboards creaked as I crossed through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen. I told myself it was just because the house was so old. The floorboards always creaked, during daylight hours too. I was just noticing it because it was night time. But I couldn’t but help but feel a foreboding I’d never before experienced as I descended the stairs into the basement.

I felt my way toward the hanging bulb in the middle of the open room at the bottom of the stairs. It was so dark I couldn’t see the pull string for the light, so I stuck my free hand out in front of me, swinging it around in the area I believed I would find it. After a few wild jerks of my arm, I felt the string make contact with my hand. I clutched it and yanked down.

The light clicked on, and I immediately looked all around, making sure I was alone in the basement.

Sheesh, you’re paranoid, I chided myself. But knowing I was being ridiculous didn’t help to calm me down. I still had one more light to find in the pitch-black coal room before I could fill my bucket and go back upstairs.

The gloom increased with each step I took toward the coal room. I opened the door with a long, loud creak. I glanced over my shoulder again, making sure I wasn’t being watched or followed or attacked. There was nobody there, of course, so I continued forward, free arm reaching out for the string just as it had in the previous room.

This time the string made almost immediate contact with my hand, as if it was searching for me instead of me searching for it. I pulled and the blackened room gave way to a slight glow. The low wattage of the hanging bulb emitted just enough light for me to see the immense pile of coal before me.

I set the bucket down on a relatively flat place in the corner, and then took the shovel in both hands and thrust it into the pile of black chunks. I dumped one shovel full into the bucket, then a second, then a third. The bucket was nearly full. One more, I decided. I heaved the shovel blade into the shadowy heap, but my shovel stopped dead as soon as it broke into the pile. I tried to force it further into the loose coals, but there was an obstacle preventing movement.

An ominous void filled my chest, and I knew I had happened on something sinister.

“Brock!” I screamed. “Brock! Come down here!”

I heard the floorboard creak above my head, and within moments he was by my side. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I could hear the panic in his voice.

“There’s something here,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear.

We both knew, of course. We both understood what it was we had found, even before we extricated it from its black and shadowy tomb. But we had to finish the job. Mary was waiting.

Brock took the shovel from my hand and scraped the chunks and dust away from a tiny box. A shoe box, decades old. It was tied shut with some twine which disintegrated as soon as he tried to unknot it. Brock put his hand on the lid, but I stopped him before he opened it.

“No,” I said. “Don’t look. Let’s show Mary first. And then we should bury him.”

Brock nodded. As we made our way back up the stairs, he said, “I’d always wondered why the previous owners didn’t empty the coal room when they quit using it.”

The fire was burning nicely in the fireplace when we came back with the box and the bucket of coal. I tossed a couple of shovels full onto the fire. While we waited for the fire to gain momentum, we knelt before it, the box on the floor between us and the flames.

“It’s the coal,” I said. “The coal is keeping her alive.”

The coal that buried her dead baby.

The fire spit and crackled, and Mary rose from the flames. “Where . . . is my . . . baaaay . . . beeee?” Mary wailed.

Together, we picked up the box, turned it toward the flames, and removed the lid.

The fire burned brighter, and Mary’s head swelled with flames. She swayed in the fireplace, her arms licking out toward the box. “My . . . baaaay . . . beee!” Her head tilted forward, and her height shrank down, as if she was falling to her knees.

“We can bury him the back yard for you,” I offered. “Then you can rest. We found your baby.”

“No,” Mary whispered. “No . . . pleasssse . . . give . . . him . . . to meeee.” Her arms reach out. They touched the box. Within seconds the coal dust on the dry, brittle cardboard ignited. We had no choice. We quickly placed the burning box on the grate in the fireplace. Mary’s body engulfed the cardboard coffin, burning it away until the small bones were exposed. They too—dry, brittle, partially decomposed—lit easily, and soon they burned to dust.

We watched for nearly an hour as the fire burned itself out. At last the final flames flickered in a pile of ash.

“Look,” I whispered.

In the remaining wisp of smoke, a single figure, a mother holding her newborn child, wafted up from the bed of spent coals. Serenity filled the room as together they drifted up through the chimney to be released into the brisk autumn air.

How'd she know that?

2010-10-20T17:39:00.004-06:00

Kate, my middle child, is in my one and only 8th grade language arts class this year. She'll have me again next year as a 9th grader, lucky child! :) Right now we're doing literature circles in class. The class is split into seven groups of five students. Each group reads a different novel. They meet regularly to discuss the novel with each other. It's kind of a like a book club, but with written assignments and teaching responsibilities for each meeting.

Kate's group in reading the novel Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech. I recently discovered this book, and it is one of my favorites. The thing I especially appreciate about this novel is that the foreshadowing is subtle enough that the ending comes as a surprise. This doesn't typically happen for me. I consider myself skilled at deciphering foreshadowing, so I generally know well in advance what will happen at the end of the book or movie. I've even written about my skill here on my blog.

So when Kate guessed the ending after reading a mere 20 pages, I was floored.

***WARNING***
If you are interested in reading Walk Two Moons, you should stop reading this entry immediately. I am about to give away an important piece of information that could ruin the ending of the book for you.

The main character of the novel is named Sal. Sal and her dad have moved to a different city because Sal's mother has left them. The novel follows Sal through her healing process as she deals with the absence of her mom and all that it means to her.

Sal's paternal grandparents decide to take Sal to the small town in Idaho where her mother went so they can visit her. Sal has a secret hope that she can bring her mother back home. The book goes back and forth between the road trip to Idaho and Sal's experiences making friends in the new town.

In the end, we find out Sal's mother had died in a bus accident before she even made it to the small Idaho town to visit her cousin. Because Sal doesn't accept the fact that her mother has died until she sees the evidence of the mangled bus at the bottom of a ravine, and because it is written from her perspective, the first moment Sal realizes her mother has died is the first moment the reader understands what has happened.

Unless the reader is Kate.

After she read the first twenty pages, she said to me, "So . . . Sal's mom is dead, right?"

Wow! How did she know that when I didn't even get it? I asked her.

"Well, Sal's dad isn't mad at her mom. And her grandparents aren't mad at her. So she has to be dead, right?"

Wow. That never even occurred to me. So why was it the obvious conclusion for Kate? Not only the obvious conclusion--it was her only conclusion.

She can't imagine a scenario wherein a mom could leave and the dad and his parents wouldn't be mad at her.

I don't regret my own choices. I believe I did the right thing when I decided to end my previous marriage. I've done my best to avoid burdening my children with details of why or what happened or whose fault it was. I don't say bad things or act mad about the devastation the bad marriage had in my own life. But no matter how hard I've tried to keep things positive on my end of the stick, the other end is obviously smoldering with anger and hatred--at least from my children's point of view.

It makes me so sad for them.

Mrs. Cheney has a nightmare

2010-10-18T21:07:00.002-06:00

I dreamed last night that Kate was running for office. I believe she was vying for the position of U.S. Senator for the good old state of Utah. I was quite proud of her in my dream. In fact, I took her to a print shop to get a banner to attach to the side of our truck so we could campaign for her every time we took a ride into town. We don't really own a truck, but neither is Kate even half the age required for one to become a U.S. Senator, so let's just agree to temporarily suspend our disbelief.

So, back to the print shop. When we went to pick up the banner, I was horrified to discover they had printed "Kate: A politician for are generation!"

NOOOOOOOO!!! How could anyone make such a mistake?? "Our" and "are" are not even homophones!

I was dismayed, to say the least. Then I looked about the shop and noticed other signs and banners. In my dream I was horrified by them all, but the one I still remembered after I woke was, "Flip Flops: it's what we where."

So disturbing . . .

Mrs. Cheney's students say . . .

2010-10-01T15:01:00.002-06:00

***WARNING--MAY CONTAIN 9TH GRADE HUMOR***

Friday is quiz day in Mrs. Cheney's language arts classes. My 9th graders are learning Greek and Latin word cells. The weekly quiz includes an oral portion in which Mrs. Cheney reads the list and students write each cell and its meaning. Today's list included the word cell "dic" which means "speak". I've been doing this for a couple of years, and I've yet to encounter the class that doesn't giggle when they hear Mrs. Cheney say "dic". Which means "speak".

Of course none of my classes surprised me with silence today.

My 6th hour class just may be the rowdiest class I've ever had as a teacher. I was fully expecting them to titter during the quiz today. But it didn't stop at the titter. Oh no. Why do anything small when you can super-size it? That's their motto. So it didn't surprise me when they all wanted to talk at one. I informed them that I would only listen to those students whose hands were raised. (ugh, huge mistake, right?) To my surprise, a girl on the front row, who's usually pretty good, raised her hand. I figured she was safe to call on, so I did.

And this is what she said.

"I know a guy who's name is Dick Astle and it's spelled a-s-t-l-e but the t is silent."

How could I possible refrain from laughing at that? I'm sorry to say I couldn't.

Oh dear.

After several seconds of good solid laughter, we got back on track for the quiz. Unfortunately we derailed once again. While we were correcting the quiz in class, I did this thing I sometimes can't help from doing. I opened my mouth and let a bunch of words spill out without pre-approving them with my brain. When we came to "dic" which means "speak", instead of just spelling the cell and saying the meaning, I said something like this:

"Dic, d-i-c, which means speak, or in the case of Mr. Astle, is an unfortunate first name."

Oh dear.

She's not a middle-schooler anymore!

2010-09-23T13:50:00.002-06:00

Yesterday was my birthday. My wonderful husband made a delicious meal, took the girls shopping for presents, generally made me feel quite special, and so one and so forth. As part of our birthday celebrations, we go around the table at dinner time and say nice things about the birthday girl (or Brock). When it was Brock's turn last night, he said, "I think Mom is special because she has such sexy legs!"

And without missing a beat Emma sang, "Bow chicka bow bow"!

What?! Just last year she would have groaned and rolled her eyes. I guess that's what high school does to you.

And then, of course, we spent the rest of dinner trying to figure out the joke that leads to the punch line, "brown chicken, brown cow." Something to do with a farmer, I'm sure.

An exciting opportunity for you and your family!

2010-09-14T21:20:00.003-06:00

I've been a member of a writers' critique group for a little over a year now. It has been a great venue for me to get valuable feedback about my writing. I haven't been as faithful as I should be in submitting my writing every week, but I have managed to accumulate about 90 pages toward a novel.

We have four regulars in our group, two of whom diligently submit pages every week. At this point, it would be great if we increased our group by one or two more writers. So what do you say? Have you always been interested in joining a critique group? Are you a closet writer who'd like to start expanding your readership? Do you live close enough to Brigham City to travel to a weekly meeting in a very comfortable middle school library (we always bring treats!)? If so, please let me know. We would love to include you in our little group.

Here's how it works: our goal is to submit 10 pages of whatever our current project may be via email to each group member by Tuesday every week. Each member then prints the submissions and reads and marks them up with suggestions, comments, and smiley faces. We meet Thursday evenings and talk about our thought and reactions to the submissions we received. We are all working toward publication. Two of our members are currently under contract for a 2011 publication of their first books. One has a completed manuscript she is actively peddling. And I am 90 pages in to my first novel. We're all serious about improving our writing, so we give each other serious feedback. It's a little uncomfortable at first, but I tell you what, this process has seriously improved all of our writing.

If you are interested, leave a comment or email me at runnershan@hotmail.com .

Mrs. Cheney is currently reading . . .

2010-09-06T09:15:00.002-06:00

At our school, the teachers all have these signs next to the entrances of our classrooms:

Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So is currently reading _____ by _____

Mine says, Mrs. Cheney is currently reading Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins. (Though I finished it more than a week ago, and I've read a book and a half since then)

The idea is that students will see that their teachers read for pleasure, and maybe some will be inspired to pick up one of these books to see what all the fuss is about. It's a nice idea, but many teachers keep the same sign up for months at a time. Some keep the same sign up all year. At that point, it ends up sending the exact opposite message from the one we would hope for. Students are then free to use teachers as examples of grown-ups who just can't find the time to read.

As an English teacher, one of my goals is to help students discover there is something out there in the world of literature that appeals to them. I want them to always be in the process of reading a book--and not the same book for months at a time. I want them to eagerly look forward to trips to the library to find new books to read. This is my goal.

To promote this attitude, I give my students reading time every week. They get to read whatever they choose. The 8th graders get 15 minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and the 9th graders get 40-45 minutes every Friday. I present this reading time as a gift and a privilege. It seems like such an easy way to promote reading, right? Wrong! There are always a few kids in every class who just won't do it. I suggest specific books I think may appeal to them, I let them read whatever they want, including magazines, I take them to book chats with the librarian so they can see what's out there, I ride a unicycle in circles while juggling burning torches, but nothing seems to reach this small group of students.

I am a firm believer that there is something out there for everybody. I'm a firm believer that all students like to read something. Otherwise facebook would fail and texting would be a thing of the past. So what's the trick? How do we translate the hours a kid will spend online or texting with a friend to a quiet 45 minutes with a good book in his hands?

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a former student. She was one of those perfect kids who did everything she was supposed to do. Over the course of our conversation, she told me she doesn't really like to read. She reads because she's required to, not because she wants to. I was genuinely shocked. How could this happen? We talked about it quite a bit, and she came to the conclusion that there have been so many requirements for reading, including the personal reading time each English teacher has given her over the years, that she now looks at all reading as a chore.

That hurts.

I don't know what the answer is, but I've sure been thinking about this a lot lately. I think about my own children. They are all readers. How did that happen? Is it an innate thing? Is it a girl thing? Is it something I did? And if it is, how can I give that gift to my students as well? Maybe this will be my career-long struggle. If anyone has suggestions, feel free to comment.

P.S. I read the best book this weekend--Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech. It's been a long time since I've been so emotionally engaged with a book.

Jiggity jog

2010-09-02T14:07:00.002-06:00

I've been thinking about taking up the old blog again. It's been ages since I wrote anything more than a few lines. I'm sure you've all been wondering, wondering why. Well, I think I'll tell you.

Toward the end of the 2008-09 school year, my principal called me in to his office. I had no idea why he wanted to talk to me. I think I must have felt much like my students feel when they get that call--filled with dread and terror. To make things even more frightening, it was the very end of my third year of teaching, which is a significant time for Utah teachers. During the first three years of teaching, we are considered provisional, and we can be released from our duties without so much as an explanation as to why we are being let go. At the end of the third year, if we have satisfied all the conditions required by the state of Utah, we are promoted to level 2. It is basically the equivalent of being tenured. So a call into the principal's office right around the time I should be triumphantly sailing through the final hoop left me feeling more than a little worried.

When I sat down across from Mr. S in his office, the first thing he asked me was, "Have you had any parents complain about your blog?"

I had started a teacher blog that year where I kept an update of what we were doing in class along with assignments, due dates, vocabulary lists and links to handy reference sites. The parents who had used my blog loved it, so I couldn't understand what he meant. I assured him that the parents of my students loved my blog. Why should they complain?

"No, I'm talking about your personal blog. Your 'Letters Falling' blog."

I involuntarily gave him my best whatchootalkin'boutwillis look. I'd never told any of my colleagues about my blog, and I'd certainly never informed my students about it. How would my students' parents even know I had a personal blog? And why would they care if I did?

I'm sure all these questions were playing around on my face as I sat there in shocked silence. After a few awkward moments, I realized he was waiting for an answer. I spit out a defiant "no" while regarding him through slanted slits that were once my eyes.

I'm sure at this point he could tell I was upset, so he started to explain. Apparently someone had sent an anonymous (coward!!) letter to him, my superintendent and Deseret News (of all places!!) about me and my inappropriate blog. The letter outlined all the terrible things I was publishing on my blog, including "the glorification of self-mutilation!" Whoever wrote the letter, he told me, must have read every one of my posts looking for dirt. In her (I'm assuming) righteous anonymity, she suggested that I be removed from my position as a teacher because I was a negative influence on my students, and my blog proved it.

He went on to explain that both he and my superintendent read my blog (ugh!!) to see if I had posted anything inappropriate.

Of course my mind was sprinting at this point, trying to recall every phrase, every word I had written. Had I been inappropriate? Had I written things I wouldn't want my boss, my boss' boss, my students and their parents to see? And the answer was, yes. I had written things I wouldn't want that particular world of mine to see. Not because they were inappropriate, but because I didn't want my professional life and my personal life to intermingle. I didn't want to always be Mrs. Cheney. I wanted to just be Shannon sometimes.

I'm sure it was clear to Mr. S at this point that I was distraught. He reassured me by saying he didn't believe my blog was inappropriate, but he went on to say that since I was a teacher, I had a responsibility to live the moral code of the community. I needed to be careful, he suggested.

I put aside the fact the he implied that I was somehow living beneath the moral code of Box Elder County, Utah, and I asked him if he was asking my to shut down my blog.

No, no. He wasn't asking me to shut it down. He was just letting me know that someone found it offensive. He wouldn't want to see things get ugly over something as silly as my need to be an individual who has a personal life beyond the classroom. It could be bad PR for the district.

I began to feel somewhat incensed, so I suggested that since I wasn't inviting students, parents, bosses and their bosses into my personal life, they should just stay out of it. He informed me I gave up my claim on privacy when I chose to become a teacher.

And there was nothing more to say.

I left his office in a bit of a daze. I had purposefully avoided telling local people about my blog for the very purpose of keeping a professional distance. Yet someone found it. I googled my name to see if my blog came up--I searched pages and pages of hits without finding my blog. I asked a couple of trusted teacher friends to try to find my blog without giving them an address or any other details. Neither of them could find my blog through searching the web.

All of this left me feeling vulnerable and suspicious. So I decided to lay low for a time.

And now that time is over. I think I'd like to try this blog thing again.

Because dammit, the moral code of my community is far looser than my own personal code of ethics. And I defy anyone to claim otherwise.

Is this thing on?

2010-09-01T21:12:00.000-06:00

*tap, tap, tap*

I have a new niece!

2010-01-14T14:23:00.004-07:00

Congrats Mike and Wendie! Little (10 lbs. 6 oz.!!!!) Melanie was born yesterday. I can't wait to see her!

open invitation

2009-11-24T09:24:00.002-07:00

Every year the Cheney family hosts a Christmas celebration the Saturday evening after Thanksgiving. It is a sort of a kick-off for the holiday season. If you are in the area, please come. It is always a beautiful experience. There will be a handbell choir, a brass quintet, vocal ensembles, instrumentalists, readings, and congregational singing.

Saturday, November 28
6:45 p.m.
Bountiful 13th and 53rd Ward LDS Chapel
1356 North 650 East
Bountiful, Utah

Sunday dress is appropriate.

Hope to see you there!

This is Halloween

2009-11-07T09:12:00.012-07:00

Emma is Katniss from The Hunger Games

Kate is Glinda the Good Witch

Jane is a Zombie!!

Em had a party with friends. She made bones and fingers for dessert.

2009-10-16T21:48:00.002-06:00

Please don't tell me you didn't get Where the Wild Things Are. My lands, this was the saddest movie I've ever seen. Tragic--but with flare, and finese, and heart. I was astounded by the depth of emotion I felt while experiencing this movie. Wow. If you see it, try to see it through the eyes of a torn child. It was nearly overwhelming for me. Maybe it's because I've just been reading the tragic autobiographies of 165 8th graders, maybe it's far more personal than that, but I just couldn't stop crying. This was one of those life-changers for me.

Salt -n- Peppa's here!

2009-09-13T14:42:00.002-06:00

I haven't dyed my hair in over a year. It's a strange thing. I found my first grey hair at the ripe old age of 21 whilst serving as a young sister missionary-to-be in the MTC. I was horrified. I swore then and there that from where the sun then stood I would dye my grey hairs forever.

But the thing is, hair-dying is such a commitment. You can't just dye it once and forget it. You have to do it every 6 weeks or suffer the consequence of nasty roots. Therefore, I found myself with an inch or more of a floured path following my part every few months for the next dozen (or more) years.

Then I married Brock. He's a historian, most of you know, and it was his opinion that prematurely grey hair was the desirable feature in eras gone by. He suggested (read: begged) that I grow out my greys. He insisted that it would add to my youthful glow rather than detract from it. Grey hair frames a relatively young-looking face with the contrast of the unexpected. The idea being that the grey hair makes the youthful face look even more youthful. If you follow . . .

So I tried to grow out my greys when we got married three years ago. After about 2 inches of conspicuously contrasting roots, I caved and bought a box. I tried again the next year, but some event came along that required me to become vain and, therefore, I succumbed to the box again. I tried again the next year, and after a couple inches of growth, I decided that if I were to ever successfully grow out the greys, I'd have to chop my hair. So chop I did. And now I'm grey.

So . . . what do y'all think of my salt and pepper mop? (see pictures below) Am I:

a) waaaay too young for grey hair

b) looking rather age-appropriate (I turn 40 a week from Tuesday, yo!)

c) pulling it off like a pro. I mean, you can't BUY highlights like that. Ya know what I'm saying, hmmm???

*a cute aside*

One evening when Kate was 3 or 4 years old, I was in the process of my bi-monthly coloring job--my hair was dripping with dye and piled on top of my head. She came into the room, saw (and smelled) that I was coloring my hair, and said, "Hi Mom. Is your hair dead yet?"

Out of the mouths of babes!

Some pictures of this and that

2009-09-12T20:40:00.024-06:00

Move along. Nothing to see here.

2009-08-29T16:23:00.003-06:00

Well, it's been eleventy billion years since I last blogged, and . . . not much has happened, actually. The garden grew. We swam. We camped. We hiked. We family reunioned. You know--all the normal summer stuff.

The big news here is--school starts on Monday! I have to say I'm pretty excited for a new school year. I have new ideas for teaching writing. I'm planning to enhance the rigor of my curriculum. I am going to produce more writers, I've decided.

So now that that's out of the way, I need to figure out something really important. What am I going to wear on the first day of school????

organically and locally brought to you by . . .

2009-06-30T15:19:00.010-06:00

We decided to take a stab at selling our produce in a small fruit and veggie stand in our front yard this summer. Today was our first day to give it a try. We put out cherries and peas--and we sold all the peas before noon. We've sold about a third of the cherries we put out so far. There are about a dozen little cherry stands on the stretch of highway where we live--but apparently not many peas for sale.

How exciting!

Trek

2009-06-16T07:23:00.001-06:00

Up

2009-06-06T23:07:00.001-06:00

Just cried my way through Up. Sheesh!

Happy Birthday Brock, my love

2009-06-03T19:29:00.005-06:00

Memorial Day hike

2009-05-31T17:43:00.005-06:00

I was going to post this last week, but the last days of school have been consumed with students buzzing around my head like a hive full of bees. "Mzzzzzz Cheeeeeneeeeey," they buzz, "Mzzzzzzzzzz Cheeeeeeeeneeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!"

Deep breath . . .

On Memorial Day, Brock and I took Emma, Kate and Jane on a 10 mile hike! They trooped their way up and down the mountain to see a really old tree--The Jardine Juniper. It's over 1000 years old. You can kind of see from the picture how gnarled the limbs have become. It's a pretty cool thing.

I was so proud of the little squirts. Ten miles is a long way for a 9 year old kid--but little miss Jane did it without a complaint. Kate had a bit of a hard time coming down the mountain. I think her long and lean legs were taking quite a bit of impact that she wasn't used to. Emma was very strong on the mountain as well. I was happy that she had this experience so she can feel confident about the pioneer trek we're going on in two weeks. If she can do a ten-miler, she can trek.

Kate thought this rock looked like the heads like those you see on Easter Island.

Good job little squirrels! Brock and I are so proud of you!

We have a lawn!

2009-05-30T18:32:00.002-06:00

Hooray!

Plenty of work yet to do, but at least we have sprinklers and grass. What a difference it makes!

Poetry Slam!

2009-05-07T11:40:00.005-06:00

We had a school-wide poetry slam at BEMS yesterday. The Ogden Standard Examiner came and covered the event. Read about it here. There is a short video with some pictures at the bottom. The chick pronounced my name wrong (that darned Dick Cheney and his long "a"), but oh well.

We wrangled some excellent poetry out of these 8th and 9th graders. One kid even brought a bongo drum and played during his poem called "I am a Soldier". It was seriously good stuff. I was proud of every one of them.

We had one slam for every class period throughout the day. All the kids enrolled in language arts that hour came down to the auditorium for the slam.

Emma got 2nd place in her class hour. There were four classes competing--so about 120 kids, give or take. She did an excellent job. I was quite proud. She won this impressive glitter ball for her efforts. (Love the black!)

But the coveted first place prize was . . . The Black Beret!

And since it's not exactly beret season in our local shopping mall, these are hand-crafted. By me, of course. Six lucky kids won the black beret from a sea of about 800 language arts students. It was a fun, fun day.

National Poetry Month

2009-04-20T13:07:00.003-06:00

I went to the Utah State Poetry Society convention over the weekend. I heard some wonderful poetry. I wasn't going to go, but the contest chair called me and asked me to read the winners in one of the categories. I was so glad I went. There is nothing like hearing a poet read his/her own poems.

And here's the good news: I got an honorable mention for this lovely little ditty (warning--it's kind of weird!):

The Offering

The kitchen drawer paring knife
with the bent tip
pierces the skin between
the long thin foot bones above the
second and third toes.
not a clean, smooth scalpel drawn line of blood
but a jagged, meat-torn window
to where the bones are.

That’s what I’m after:
The bones.

I remove them, one by one,
from the right foot
and pile them,
clean and white,
like kindling
on a clean white plate
with a chipped rim
carefully placed on a clean white cloth
with one frayed edge
at the head of the dining room table.

Thin, delicate, unbroken.

I harvest the bones to the ankle.
I pause.
Why am I doing this? I ask myself.
And I can’t recall.
I just know it must be done.

The newly emptied fleshy flap of skin
sags at an awkward angle
from my right ankle
as it rests on my left knee.

Enough, I say.
And it is enough.

And the big news is . . . I won FIRST PLACE in the sonnet/villanelle category for my winter sonnet!!!!! I was soooooooo excited. I was up against some very good, very experienced poets. I recognized the names of three of the people who placed LOWER than I did!!! I BEAT THEM!!!!!! Huzzah! I've been validated!

This frigid wintry wind still blows forlorn;
From blue-black north the steel-grey clouds are sent.
The mountains with white fur themselves adorn,
And with that heavy fur, the firs are bent.
Look! Lacy crystals, gossamer they seem;
Yet look again, their jagged edges found.
And sifting down from heaven? No, they teem--
Collide, cascade, conflict, contend, crash down.
Benumbed are all by endless brumal skies;
All flesh is bit with brisk and bitter breath.
Abysmal, boundless winter -- future lies,
Hell frozen o’er, in truth’s a hellish death.
What’s this? In snow, a crocus head I see.
Thou, Winter, who deals death, soon dead shall be.

I was pleased with it all. There are some incredible poets in this state! I was happy to rub shoulders with them for a moment.

It's been a while . . . (update)

2009-04-15T09:57:00.002-06:00

Spring break was nice, but it was hard to come back to school yesterday.
Let the countdown begin--31 days until summer!
School budget issues are getting me down.
I'm impressed by the creative solutions our superintendent has conjured up.
By "creative solutions" I really mean "multiple and non-negotiable teacher salary and benefit cuts", and by "impressed" I mean "pissed off."
Good news! I passed my Praxis! That means I qualify for a change of level accompanied by a salary cut!
I'm also nearly done with my ESL endorsement. Which means I qualify for a lane change.
One of the impressive ideas is to suspend all lane changes.
Back to spring break--we made some good progress on the yard. Brock is putting in a sprinkler system. It involves a lot of digging. The girls and I cleaned up a side bed and put in a patch of strawberries. We've tilled the garden and planted peas, spinach, radishes, lettuce and onions. We have 70 tomato starts and 50 pepper starts growing in our mud room. We're going to have a killer garden this year! Which is good since we won't be able to buy groceries next year.
We saw Monster vs. Aliens. It was very, very funny.
We went on a great little hike in the mountains across the street from our house. These mountains are craggy and steep. We discovered a beautiful spring waterfall.
We went swimming after the hike at the BEHS Natatorium.
Easter was nice. Brock and I went to the Episcopal Church for their Easter services as well as our own church. The music at the Episcopal Church was very good. We went to Brock's parents for dinner. It was very nice.
We had a Seder feast on Thursday evening for Passover. We used a script I got when one of my college professor's had a Seder at his house for his students. Brock and I do this every year, but it was our first time to involved my girls. They liked it. We just finished up a Holocaust unit at school, so it was great for Emma to make some connections with what she learned at school and the Seder.
Jane had a birthday a couple of weeks ago. I can't believe she's nine years old! She is such a sweet child. She is always trying to be helpful to others. I'm so glad she's my girl!
I'm teaching poetry this month! I'm the luckiest salary-slashed teacher alive!

I'm Not Dead Yet

2009-03-03T09:44:00.002-07:00

Good news! I ate the apple on Friday and I'm still alive and well.

I almost always eat food gifts from students, and I haven't been sick yet. What do you think, too trusting?

The find!

2009-03-02T13:15:00.003-07:00

We found a great carved wood screen at a little consignment shop in Idaho over the weekend. I coveted it, but we had no room to transport it back to Utah.

Sunday evening, there was a knock on the door, and when we opened up, the beautiful screen was there--thanks to my fabulous brother, Greg.
This is not a great picture, but it looks pretty cool through our window at night. I'm diggin' it!

Jane Says

2009-02-27T09:09:00.004-07:00

"Mommy, is your sweet tooth a baby tooth or an adult tooth?"

"It's not an actual tooth, hun. It just means you like sweet things."

"PHWOOF! I thought I was going to lose it!"

An apple for teacher

2009-02-27T07:52:00.002-07:00

I found an apple on my desk this morning. Still cold.

Happy Fat Tuesday!

2009-02-24T07:38:00.002-07:00

Last night during dinner we talked about Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday and Lent. This morning we had pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Brock had accidentally bought a bottle of sugar-free syrup, and Kate made a comment on how weird it was. Jane, with a shocked look on her face, said, "Sugar-free syrup? But isn't it Calorie Tuesday?"

I have enemies!

2009-02-23T10:52:00.002-07:00

"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life." ~Winston Churchill

I came across this quote today.

I like it.

I live it.

My new niece

2009-02-20T09:59:00.006-07:00

I'm a great-aunt!!!

2009-02-19T12:54:00.002-07:00

My great-niece, Jovi, was born about an hour ago. I adore that bottom lip! Princess Steph's baby was born with a pout! How fitting. Congratulations Steph and Jared!!!

Brock in the news

2009-02-19T07:58:00.002-07:00

Brock has been working on a book about pioneer foods for the last several months. The Mormon Times published a feature article about some of his research in both their print and online versions today. You can read it here.

Brock submitted his proposal and first three chapters to the USU publishing department yesterday. Cross your fingers!

2009-02-10T15:20:00.003-07:00

Em got the oh-so-popular bangs-over-the-left-eye haircut. Am I ready for this? It's a good things she such a great kid!

Valentine Box Derby

2009-02-10T15:18:00.002-07:00

It's Valentine season again. This year Jane opted for pretty rather than time-consuming. Hooray! Ain't she cute???

This Old House

2009-02-06T18:55:00.006-07:00

We've done some more fixing up. I'm loving our new paint

She is her step-father's step-daughter

2009-02-06T11:49:00.002-07:00

The other day Brock was talking about some current event and the significance of the meaning of something or another, and Emma piped up with a contradiction to whatever he was saying (darn this memory of mine!). Brock kind of looked as her with his typical I-won't-believe-you-until-you-cite-your-sources kind of a smirk. With hands on hips and eyebrows raised, she smiled, cocked her head and said, "I heard it on NPR."

He was satisfied.

Did I mention she turned 14 on Sunday? Happy Birthday Lu!!!!!

2009-02-03T14:23:00.001-07:00

This frigid wintry wind still blows forlorn;
From blue-black north the steel-grey clouds are sent.
The mountains with white fur themselves adorn,
And with that heavy fur, the firs are bent.
Look! Lacy crystals, gossamer they seem;
Yet look again, their jagged edges found.
And sifting down from heaven? No, they teem--
Collide, cascade, conflict, contend, crash down.
Benumbed are all by endless brumal skies;
All flesh is bit with brisk and bitter breath.
Abysmal, boundless winter -- future lies,
Hell frozen o’er, in truth’s a hellish death.
What’s this? In snow, a crocus head I see.
Thou, Winter, who deals death, soon dead shall be.

Student Writing Club

2009-01-28T12:36:00.002-07:00

I started a writing club at my school a few months ago. It has been wildly successful! A couple of months ago I set up a blog for my students to "publish" their writing. Check it out! But if you leave a comment, keep in mind these are 8th and 9th grade writers--so please be kind. :)

Historic home for sale in MY NEIGHBORHOOD!

2008-12-10T07:49:00.002-07:00

Cody, Brock's good friend, restored this beautiful old home in Willard. It would be a great home for a family with two or three kids. Check it out.

My stalker

2008-12-04T11:56:00.003-07:00

Lately Sophie has been following me around everywhere I go. Even when I head to the potty, she sneaks in before I can close the door and she rubs against my legs and purrs until I'm done.

If she wasn't so cute and cuddly, I'd consider getting a restraining order.

All together now

2008-12-02T12:13:00.006-07:00

We had all six kids for Thanksgiving this year. We had a wonderful time together. I didn't get a picture of the dinner, but we hosted it at our house. This was the first big holiday meal with extended family we've hosted since we've been married. It went very well. The food was fabulous (blowing my own horn) and it was great to have my parents, our kids, two nieces, a nephew and a nephew-in-law.

Every year, Brock's family hosts a non-denominational worship service. This year was Brock's turn. It was simply beautiful. The music was heavenly, the scriptures inspiring, and the poetry spirit-filled. Brock gave a wonderful reading of Christmas on the Prairie. The grandkids sang "Christmas Time is Here", from A Charlie Brown Christmas while Tawna played some great jazz piano. We had a musicians playing the trumpet, flute, bassoon, piano, organ, percussion instruments, and violins (Emma being one). We had a family bell choir in which Emma, Kate, Sarah, Brock and I participated. Lane's conducting was superb! He had the congregation anxious to follow his lead. Susan was fabulous on the organ (as always!) and Mark and neighbor Karalee read scriptures and poetry like pros--move over Garrison Keillor! It was a wonderful, spirit-filled evening that I won't ever forget. Our children loved participating. I don't think they really understand what an unusual honor it is to participate in such an event, and how rare these types of gatherings really are. I hope they remember how it felt to be a part of it all.

You'll shoot your eye out!

2008-12-01T12:42:00.002-07:00

This trimester I have a student who seriously looks like a skinny version of Ralphie from A Christmas Story. I wish I could take a picture and post it, but there is that little issue of ethics.

More Kiln stuff

2008-11-24T12:05:00.002-07:00

My new favorite picture of Brock!

Cody's wife, Kari posted some pictures and her recap of the burning of the kiln here. You can watch the KSL news story about the kiln here.

Yummy hot buttered rum

2008-11-22T21:29:00.002-07:00

One of our favorite night time treats in the winter is hot buttered rum:

1 lbs. butter, softened
1 lbs. brown sugar
4-5 tsp. spices, we like cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, ginger, allspice
2 Tbsp. rum extract
1 quart vanilla ice cream, softened

Mix the softened butter with brown sugar, spices and rum extract. Add softened ice cream and mix thoroughly. Freeze. Add one heaping spoonful to a mug of hot water. This recipe makes about 30 cups.

Best enjoyed with a loved one in front of a fire while it's snowing outside. Now if it would just snow outside . . .

Insert clever title here (too tired to think)

2008-11-21T12:23:00.011-07:00

After all, between the two of them they have read the four books in the series a dozen times. So of course I took them to see the midnight showing.
I mean seriously, how could I refuse these darling faces????

And Reesa, of course, had to come. Cuz, you know, she's Reesa.

And how can you have a GNO without making kissy faces?

And eating popcorn. (which Reesa won in the pre-movie PAR-TAY!)

What the heck? A test at 11:30 p.m.? That's not right!

But winning a calendar is WAY right!

Bedtime, schmedtime!** I took my girls to see Twilight last night! I am the coolest mom EVAH!

**An 8:30 p.m. bedtime is strictly observed in our household on school nights with this one extremely rare exception.**

Writing clubs

2008-11-20T11:55:00.003-07:00

I used to belong to a writing club when I lived in Salt Lake. We usually ended up providing free therapy for each other more than useful feedback on the writing we shared, but it was a fun, positive experience for me. I've been wanting to start my own writing group since I moved here, but I have never felt like I could find enough willing participants to make it really fly, so I've never followed through.

But then I realized that I am surrounded by willing participants every day in my profession. I asked my principal, and he said yes as long as I don't expect to get paid for my extra time (which, duh!, if I don't know that by now I must be pretty danged stupid!!!). So I started a writing club at the middle school. The day of the first meeting I was soooooo nervous. What if nobody comes? I thought. What if everyone thinks it's stupid idea? But guess what? Students came. Twenty-five of them. That's like a whole classroom filled with 8th and 9th grader who came willingly to an after-school writing club. WOW! And the next time we met, we had 27! I just couldn't believe it.

Sometimes I get so frustrated with all the apathy I see in many students from day to day. I sometimes feel like I'm not making a difference at all--that I'm sending an entire generation into the workplace without any real language and communication skills. But then there are moments when 27 kids show up after school to spend an hour learning how to be better writers and it brings some value into it all.

November is National Novel Writing Month. Writers all over the country participate by writing a 50,000 word novel between the 1st and 30th of November. I am proud to say that we have a group of students from Box Elder Middle participating! What a great experience for them. My Emma is even working up a file of character profiles in preparation for writing a novel (she probably won't make the 50,000 words in November, but she's working toward something, and I love it!). I just love being a teacher.

Yay for writing!

The kiln, continued

2008-11-20T11:46:00.003-07:00

Last night we went to a dinner at The Athenian in Ogden (yum!) as guests of the historical society that funded the kiln project. They were so grateful for all the hard work the team put into the restoration project. Brock even got a nice little bonus check. It was a satisfying thing for Brock to be involved in this project.

Brock, posing of course.

Brock, Cody and Kenzie. Kenzie is Cody's sister. She's been working on the project from the start. I'm so impressed--those rocks are heavy! She is one hard-core gal!

Kate is GREAT!

2008-11-18T09:27:00.005-07:00

I sure love my Kate! Isn't she just the happiest girl you've ever seen? Some of the best things about Kate:

She has a natural ability to understand how people are feeling, and she often interacts with people based on her understanding of their emotions. She has incredible empathy. What a gift!
She loves to read. She simply devours books.
She is an artist. I've posted her creations before. She is always drawing something.
She is very tender. Sometimes she tries to hide her tenderness, but I can always see it in her. I think this is what gives her empathy.
She makes friends in a moment. She is surrounded by good friends wherever she goes.
She willingly and happily practices her piano every day. I don't even have to remind her. She finds joy in the music. Once I watched her reflection in a mirror while she was practicing. With every staccato note, she raised her eyebrows high. It was just so cute. The next piece was smooth and graceful, and her hands became very elegant, her body swaying to the music. She is so very expressive.
She got 100% on her language arts core test last spring. 100%!!! Speaking as a teacher who administers language arts core tests, that's pretty dang rare.
She loves the mountains purely for the beauty of it all. Her dream is to go to a secluded spot with a notebook and draw the beauty of nature.
Her teachers love her.
She has a very sensitive gag reflex. She can't clean out the cat box without gagging. I think this makes her even more endearing.
She has a joyful smile.
She has beautiful skin.
She has a gorgeous singing voice.
She gets frustrated sometimes. I like that because it shows that she cares deeply about doing things well. I wish she'd be a little more patient with herself, but at the same time I see kids at school every day who don't care about anything. Kids can be so apathetic these days. Kate is not that way at all.
She asks questions. Lots of questions. She endears herself to people by asking them questions--but it's not in a fake way. She is genuinely interested in the answers.
She recognizes that the world is not black and white. She sees the shades of gray. She also recognizes the injustices in the world. She has her own opinions about the way things should be. She is an 11-year-old with actual opinions!
She is not judgemental.
She is open to trying new things. She wants to learn. She wants to experience life.
She doesn't like to play competitive games. She does like to participate in cooperative games and activities. She is always looking for win-win situations. I suppose that goes back to the whole empathy thing.
She loves all five of her sisters. They will be friends for life, I am sure.
She has a great new haircut. It is even cuter when we flip it out.
She gets innuendo. (Yikes! We have to be careful!)
She laughs. A lot. And it's a great laugh.

I sure love you, KATE!!!! I'm so blessed to be your mother.

Toddy Tavern gets a makeover

2008-11-17T12:48:00.012-07:00

We found this great bar on KSL.com last weekend ($80, what a steal!). We decided to buy it for our Toddy Tavern kitchen to use as a work space. Well, one thing led to another, and we ended up rearranging all three of our front rooms. I took a few pictures, and I was surprised to see how much wood we have in our house. I love it!
The kitchen

I love our sink. Doesn't it look like it's straight out of A Christmas Story?

This is our living room, looking in from the dining room.

I adore the built-in book shelves.

This is the dining room looking from the living room.

Our dining room table looks so much smaller now that it's out of the kitchen.

All the angles.

I just love old houses. Ours was built around 1917--and it still has all sorts of the original moldings--never painted.

Next order of business--our bedroom. Then we'll be ready to move on to the yard in the spring. It's hard to be patient with these things, but we have made some great improvements--things are moving along quite smoothly and steadily. We love our Toddy Tavern!

Brock and his girls go climbing

2008-11-17T12:44:00.006-07:00

We took Brock's girls climbing on Saturday. Rachel wasn't up for it, but Maryanne and Sarah were little mountain goats! They did such a great job. Here's Maryanne kissing the chains at the top.

And here's Maryanne coming down.

Sarah kissing the chains.

Sarah coming down.

They each went up twice. Brock was so proud of his tough-as-nails cutie-pies. They had a lot of fun. We are so lucky to be the parents of six of the best girls in the world!!

Brock and Cody finish the kiln!

2008-11-17T12:33:00.007-07:00

Brock and Cody on the job. Look at all those mud-covered 5-gallon buckets behind them. Guess what they used those for? To carry to the TOP of the kiln to mud the rocks. As a result--Brock has UNBELIEVABLY studly shoulder. MMM HMMM!
Brock digging out the chimney. Once he made a hole, he had to squeeze himself through to come out the bottom. In other words, the kiln birthed him. My claustrophobic self would have just freaked right the heck out!

This is the top of the kiln. They put a grate over the chimney for obvious safety reasons.

And here it is! They did a great job. Today they're cleaning up to make it all nice and neat. If you're ever driving through Ogden Canyon, stop at the Indian Trails and take a look.

Top 10 reasons I love teaching at the middle school my daughter attends

2008-11-17T11:46:00.002-07:00

10. Her teachers tell me how great she is when I see them in the halls.

9. Starting on Thursday, she will be a student in my class, so I can make darn well sure that she is learning English.

8. Her friends say hi to me in the halls--some of them call me "Mrs. Emma's Mom".

7. Right now (my prep period) she has health in the room next to mine. I can hear her teacher using words like "gonorrhea", "syphilis", and "milky discharge". I'm almost positive I heard her say, "EWWWW!" As a side note--I also just heard a kid ask a question about oral sex! Poor Mr. Johnson.

6. She sometimes comes and hangs out in my room after school. However, it's usually just so she can take control of my computer since we still have dial-up internet at home. I'll bet ya didn't know that still existed, didja?

5. She sometimes writes me notes during health and has her locker-buddy pass the note to me during 5th period.

4. I know who her crush is--and I have him as a student starting on Thursday. hehehe

3. She completely trusts me to not embarrass her when I have her crush in class starting on Thursday. hehehe

2. I witnessed last year's crush TOTALLY flirting with her in the cafeteria the other day. I mentioned the observation later that night, but she just rolled her eyes because she was, "Sooooooo over him!"

1. Sometimes when I'm walking down the hall, I pass Emma with her cute-as-buttons group of friends, and she bounds over to me and hugs me! In the hall! Of a middle school! With hundreds of students all around! I love that!

I've adored having this connection with my Lu! I'm a teensy bit apprehensive about having her as a student. I'm sure she'll be just fabulous, but I sometimes have to get after kids who are squirreling around, and I don't want them to take it out on her. It will certainly be another adventure.

The long and short of it

2008-11-11T11:56:00.003-07:00

I got my hair cut on Saturday. And just for the record--I'm not depressed, I'm not feeling fat, I'm not failing in my profession, I'm not unhappy, I'm not feeling trapped in a horrible marriage, I'm not a failure of a mother or any of the other things I associate with my short-haired years in my past. In fact, I'm happier than I have ever been. My marriage is phenomenal (I found the greatest man to ever walk the earth since Jesus!), my professional life is progressing quite nicely, and while I don't have the skinny-Minny runner's bod I used to have, I look pretty damn good for an almost-forty-year-old woman. I'm even feeling like I'm a better mom now than I've ever been.

There was a time when I swore I'd never have short hair again, just because the associations with former haircuts were so traumatic. The short hair became a symbol. I was a scared, miserable, inferior, stupid person then. I had no self-worth. None. There was a time when I even felt suicidal. I was too chicken to do it, but I thought about it quite a bit for a several-month period of time.

When my first marriage ended, I started growing my hair out. It grew. It grew and it grew and it grew. I began to associate my long hair with my happy, smart, confident self. Once again, my hair had become a symbol.

So what does it all mean? I suppose it might mean the symbols have lost their meaning because I'm absolutely content with my life. It might mean I have moved beyond silly things like the meaning of a hair style. It might mean that I got tired of using lots of shampoo and conditioner. Or it might mean I am trying to grow out the natural color of my hair, and the best way to do that is to cut off the dyed ends.

Yes, indeed, I'm embracing my grays! It takes guts, don't you think?

My little baby's all grown up and saving China!

2008-11-11T11:46:00.003-07:00

Yay! No more braces! You look absolutely FAB-U-LOUS, my Lu!

faux-pas-mah bin what?

2008-11-06T12:02:00.004-07:00

Yesterday the students were all abuzz about how they all think Obama will be assassinated. Sheesh! Our principal caught the drift, so he decided he needed to do something to stop the madness. This is pretty close to what he said over the P.A.:

Students, we have been hearing a lot of you dialoguing (yeah, he really said that to a bunch of 8th and 9th graders!) about assassination. We want you to know that this type of communication is unacceptable. Our new president-elect, Osama buh . . .

He stopped talking and paused for several seconds. Meanwhile my students were going crazy with what they had just heard. One girl kept saying, "He did NOT just say that!" Others were saying, "See, Mr. Principal wants him to be assassinated, too!" Oh dear! Of course anything he said after that had absolutely zero effect.

I felt really bad for the guy. He's a good principal, and it was obviously an unintentional mistake, but sheesh--could you get any worse than that?

Kate's Art Gallery

2008-11-05T14:55:00.005-07:00

With her permission, I am posting some pictures of Kate's latest creations. I think she is such a talented artist! She wants to become an artist when she grows up, so we are doing our best to encourage her as much as we can. I'm looking around for someone who will give private art lessons, but I'm not having much luck. anybody have any ideas of where to look?

I couldn't get a picture of this without the flash making a glowing sheen on the monkey's face. Isn't he cute?

Kate wanted me to make sure to say this one is a work in progress. I LOVE the turtle!

This is her Van Gogh oil pastel assignment from her art class at school. It is currently showcased in the 6th grade hall. I just think she is so very, very creative!

Middle School Mock (the) Election

2008-11-04T16:06:00.002-07:00

We had a mock election at the middle school today. Box Elder County, as you might guess, is excessively conservative, so I expected many students to vote straight ticket. In an effort to get them to really consider candidates instead of parties, I strongly discouraged straight-ticket voting when I handed ballots to my advisory students. I explained that most intelligent adults consider individual platforms when voting. I even went so far as to say *gasp* it may be a touch irresponsible to vote straight party.

After the ballots came in, I glanced through them. And guess what? Nobody had filled in the "straight ticket" bubble! However, all but two students had filled in individual bubbles for all the republican candidates. *palm to forehead*

Of course the vast majority of students simply voted the way their parents are voting. (Emma voted the way Brock and I are voting, though she was on the other side of the aisle from the majority here.) So all you parents out there who think your children don't listen to you--you're wrong. They soak up all your opinions, and many times they interpret them in crazy town ways and spout them back to their friends at school. For example, here are a few things I overheard students saying in my classroom today:

If Obama wins, he'll take away all our money.
If Obama wins, he'll just get shot anyway.
If Obama wins, the economy will just get worse.
If Obama wins, the whole country will have riots.
Obama is a socialist.
Obama is a fascist.
Obama is going to take away all our guns!
Obama scares the crap out of me.
Obama is a Muslim.
Obama hates Mormons.
Obama is the anti-Christ.

Oh dear. I just have to bite my tongue! I mean, sheesh! Why such hatred? I really don't understand this. They can be pro-McCain without bashing Obama, can't they? I try to ask students to tell me why they support McCain instead of why they hate Obama--and they generally can't come up with a single reason.

I suppose they are quite young, and maybe I shouldn't expect them to think on their own yet, but I would love to help them understand that they should at the very least understand what their "opinions" are based on.

Actually, I would love it if more adults could vocalize why they support their candidate. It seems like lunch time talk is all centered on vague rumors and feelings rather than actual platforms.

It will be nice to have the highly charged atmosphere neutralized in a few days (after everyone calms down from their initial freak-out mode after Obama wins!)

Hope y'all voted!

On the rocks

2008-11-04T13:13:00.007-07:00

I suppose most of you who read my blog know that Brock got his teaching certificate last spring. It was a three semester program, even with his Master's under his belt. (Crazy, huh?). Unfortunately, history teaching jobs are extremely hard to come by around these parts. In the six closest districts, only three real history jobs were posted for the 2008-09 school year. One of them was a history/P.E. combo (as, if!), one was an A.P. position (no first years were considered), and one was a plain old 8th grade U.S. history job. Unfortunately, there were thirty-odd applicants for that job, and while he made the short list, he was not offered the contract, even with the absolutely raving evaluations his cooperating teachers gave him. Go figure.

This isn't really uncommon among teachers. The only areas with shortages are elementary, math and science--all other subjects are flooded. I had to deal with a crappy part-time job teaching the druggies who were about to drop out of high school for a year before I landed my current contract. When I was searching, I applied with all the districts from Nebo to Box Elder. I considered myself lucky to land a contract at all--and it was just an extremely happy coincidence that it was in Brigham. In fact, I was considering Boise at one point.

So fast forward to now, what does Brock do with his days? He has been doing some subbing (my students told me they wished he was their teacher instead of me after he subbed for me one day--the little snots!) But most days, he is doing something really cool. His long-time friend, Cody, is a stone mason. Brock has worked with Cody in that past, so he hired him to work on his current project. The great thing about this project is the history behind it all. Cody has been commissioned by a historic preservation society to restore an old kiln in Ogden Canyon.

This is what it looked like when they started.

Cody and Brock hard at work.

This is the chimney, viewing from the top of the kiln. They are still filling in around the chimney. This is what it looks like from the front now. It is far more impressive in person, of course.

The best thing about the kiln work is what it has done to Brock's manly shoulders. He has always had strong shoulders, but now--YOWZA! What a MAN! He comes home dead-tired every night from the hard work, but what an accomplishment! I'm so proud of my hubba-hubba honey!

Halloween adventures

2008-11-03T11:52:00.016-07:00

Here's the gang on Halloween night. I guess this will probably be the only time the six of them will be together for Trick or Treating fun--so we made sure to have a great time. The weather was great. The costumes worked out fine. The kids got TONS of candy. So I proclaim the weekend a success.

I'm not quite sure what Rachel is here. A witch, maybe? But she's happy with her costume, so that's all that matters, right?

SPOOKY!!

Jane wanted to be something scary for the first time this year. Usually she's a princess of one sort or another.

Don't worry, she wore her shoes for the Trick or Treating.

Maryanne was a countess. She has very pretty hair.

Kate and her friends dressed up as gypsies. Don't you love the wig?

And the fake eyelashes?

Sarah was a ninja. Girl Power!

Even ninjas need to see . . .

Undead cheerleader, Emma.

In all her blood and gory glory.

I sure love these little stinks! You looked great, girlies!

And the collar still pops!

2008-10-30T12:38:00.008-06:00

I'm the student council advisor this year at the middle school. It's lots of work, but lots of fun too. This week is 8th grade week, so we're having dress days each day this week. Today is Decade Day--meaning wear clothes from your favorite decade. So, of course my decade is the 80's. And guess what? I still have some clothes I wore in H.S.

Plus my hair remembers how to do "The Claw" (or "The Awning", if you'd rather)

How many of y'all had a shirt like this? I have a picture somewhere of my freshman (college) boyfriend and I wearing our Coke shirts. His was short sleeves with peach on the top and mint green on the bottom. My roommate had a red and white one. I borrowed from both of them.

While these jeans aren't technically from the 80's, they are from Gap, and they're pegged, so I'm calling them authentic.

Emma wore my old parachute pants and my Gag Me With A Spoon t-shirt. Love the headband, Lu!

Rendezvous

2008-10-20T11:37:00.014-06:00

We had a great time at the rendezvous this past weekend. The girls had a fun time exploring and making new friends. There were more than 70 participants, half of them children. We had to sew and sew and sew to get ready, but I think the experience for the kids was certainly worth the effort. Brock made some killer food!!! The weather was gorgeous, and the trees were colorful. We had a great time!

Here's the fam standing in front of our tent. I was shocked when I saw this picture because EMMA IS NEARLY THE SAME HEIGHT AS ME!!!!

Maryanne and Jane

Sarah and Kate

Rachel

Jane was stung by a bee/wasp/hornet something-or-another on Friday morning. The poor girl's cheek looked deformed. It's better now.

We camped next to our friends, the Wrights. There were lots and lots of kids.

Emma

Kate

Emma, Kate and Sadie, our neighbor

Jane

Rachel and Sam

A fabulous potluck dinner. Brock made a wonderful ham and bean dish in a dutch oven. The food was seriously great.

It was a fun time. If anyone wants to come with us in the spring, I think we'll do it again. Now that we have the clothes for our kids, all we need is plates, utensils, washtubs, a water jug, benches, bedding, a fire pit, fire tools . . . I suppose this will be a work in progress for quick some time.

He might be the queen

2008-10-10T15:09:00.002-06:00

I have a crazy 6th period class. The problems are tri-fold:

The boys outnumber the girls two to one
There are six class clowns (and only four corners)
It's the end of the day and the students and I are all tired

So earlier this week, four of my six "spirited" students were taking up the four corners, and one was in the middle of the room, surrounded by the quiet kids. That left me one more, very energetic, extremely intelligent, highly distracting boy. I couldn't figure out where to put him. I moved him all over the room, very strategically, of course, trying to figure out the perfect place for him. He just didn't fit anywhere! Finally, I was just tired of trying to strategize, so I moved him to the desk on the side of the room--the one that is purposefully isolated from the rest of the class. It worked, so I actually considered keeping him there, until . . .

The next day. He came to me and begged me to put him back with his peers. I said, "Billy (not his real name), why don't you show me where you can sit without getting into or causing trouble." I handed him my seating chart. He looked at it. He sat in his desk. He studied, scrutinized, even strategized.

Within a minute, he came back to me with the chart and said, "If you move this student here, this student here, and this student here, I can sit here." He seated himself in the front row, closest to me and moved all his distractions (and followers) to places where they would likely be okay as well. Then he said, "Man, this is like chess or something!" (can I get an AMEN?!)

And he's been better ever since!

Ya gotta love 8th grade boys. (In a totally teacher/student sort of a way, of course!)

I think I have a new BFF!

2008-10-07T12:45:00.002-06:00

One of my students just brought me a note--from Emma! I'm not sure if I should get after her for writing a note during 4th or if I should go out and buy twinner outfits for us to wear to school tomorrow.

2008-10-07T11:53:00.006-06:00

I've been tagged--my first time ever! How about that. So here is it:

8 TV shows I love to watch:
(I don't watch much T.V., so I'm going to start with the present and work my way back through time. We'll see if I can make it clear back to Miami Vice)
1. American Idol
2. The Simpsons
3. Saturday Night Live
4. CSI
5. Oprah
6. Friends
7. Seinfeld
8. Days of Our Lives
(Miami Vice would have been #9)

8 Favorite Restaurants:
(this changes all the time--so here's the as-of-now list)
1. Chez Brock
2. The Athenian
3. Virg's
4. Cafe Rio
5. The Merry Piglets
6. Jeremiah's
7. Peach City
8. Greek Souvlaki

8 Things I Did Yesterday:
1. Ate Brock's delicious biscuits and gravy (he had to get up mighty early, see #2)
2. Took Emma to violin lessons (6:45 a.m.!)
3. Taught school
4. Stayed after school to tutor some struggling kids
5. Listened to Jane reading Nancy Drew
6. Helped Emma with her pitches on the violin
7. Watched Kate raise her eyebrows on every staccato note she played
8. Sat in Cody and Kari's kitchen with Brock where we had some homemade grape juice and a pleasant conversation while the kids played

8 Things I'm looking forward to:
1. Brock getting a teaching contract
2. Emma getting her braces off
3. A decision from the judge
4. UEA
5. Halloween with all six girls (our first time!)
6. This weekend with no girls (it's nice to have a quiet weekend sometimes)
7. The presidential election
8. The Holidays!

8 Things on my wish list:
1. A front yard
2. A second bathroom
3. A teaching contract for Brock
4. A straight front tooth (I had braces for 4 YEARS!)
5. More time with our children
6. To be a published poet
7. To have my old runner's body back--just because I was so fit I could do anything
8. Enough time in the day to actually run. I can't seem to force myself out of bed any earlier than I already do--and night time just plain doesn't work for me.
(Ugh! This list is not parallel! Oh well.)

8 People I Tag:
I really don't think 8 people read this blog, so I'm not going to do this one. I'm a rebel that way! :)

Mrs. Cheney's Students Write

2008-09-18T13:05:00.002-06:00

Last week was character analysis week in Mrs. Cheney's 8th grade language arts class. I invited students to choose their favorite character from a book, movie, story, fairy tale, t.v. show, etc. I was pretty sure Edward Cullen would be the most analyzed character among the girls, but who knew Sponge Bob would be so highly regarded among 8th grade boys. Actually, it doesn't surprise me at all, but it does illustrate the disparity of maturity levels between 8th grade boys and girls quite nicely.

So, here are some highlights. If you happen to be one of my students who has happened to stumble onto my blog, please know I love you all and I am in no way making fun of you. I think you write cute things that make me smile. I like to share my smiles with others.

From a paper about Bella Swan: "She is positive, but also negative. She is generally happy except for when she’s not. Mostly people like her or they don’t."
On Edward Cullen: "There are three things I know for certain one Edward Cullen is a vampire, two some part of him thirsts for my blood, and three I was inexcusably in love with him." (In quotations at the beginning of the paper) Here is the real quote from the book jacket: "About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him-- and I didn't know how dominant that part might be --- that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him." I don't know about you, but I think "inexcusably" is a much better fit.
"Sponge bob square pants is a show directed by David Hasselhoff." (To be fair, I think he DID make a guest voice appearance in one of the episodes.)
"Ariel is the kind of girl that likes to go to the sheriffs when she is not supposed to." Oh that Ariel is a naughty mermaid! I think it's supposed to say "surface" instead of "sheriffs"--another example of the joys of spellcheck.
Bart Simpson's nemesis--"Si-jo Bob"
And my personal favorite from an essay about Snow White--"I am uncertain whether or not they even verbalize before they get married. Even so, they apparently have a happily ever after." She goes on to conclude that "Snow White has respectable intentions, but she is quite needy and is very high maintenance, just like all the rest of the Disney Princesses." This essay made me want to write A + + + + + + + + + + + all the way across the top of her theme with my most dramatic flourishes for all the class to see . . . *sigh*

mmmm, mmmm goooood!

2008-09-17T13:01:00.003-06:00

My 8th graders are at it again!

From a spelling quiz:

The word was mediocre. The student wrote "meatyogurt".

During a grammar quiz I asked students to write three concrete nouns. One student wrote:

"cement, cinder block, granite"
Some kids have to be so literal.

Another kid wrote:
"twinkie, hemlock, cyanide"
I'd love to know what's going on in this kid's head. Or maybe I wouldn't . . .

Coming attraction: Mrs. Cheney's Students Write

Finished!

2008-07-25T13:29:00.005-06:00

We finished our quilt! Brock pieced the top about eight years ago. He started quilting then, along with the help of some friends and family. Life got crazy and the quilt got put away for a time. We got it back out last year, and we finally finished it on Tuesday. It is fitting because it is a reproduction, down to the fabric and design of the quilted wreath, of an antique pioneer quilt. So here is our toast to the Utah Pioneers!

Hooray!

Good news! I'm not dead!

2008-07-21T10:13:00.043-06:00

We've just been so busy with our adventures that there is no time for the blog.

We tried to climb Ben Lomond the Saturday after school was out, but it start snowing so hard we had to turn back. This is a lovely view of Ogden Valley with a nice blanket of mist.

The next week we went camping at Payson Lake. We nearly froze our butts off. This is a nice little area in Payson Canyon called The Grotto. It is an absolutely stunning little waterfall that falls into a little cavern in the rock.

The chickies did a great job enduring the cold. There was still snow in our camp--the second week of June! Crazy times.

The sun shining on The Grotto

Emma competed in a fiddle contest in Weiser, Idaho--my home town. She did a great job and had a fun time. Brock and I LOVED all the live music. This is a national competition, so the musicians are really top notch quality.

Towards the end of June we gave Ben Lomond another try. This time we made it. This is a pretty little spot on the way up. It is a 16 mile round trip hike.

Brock at the summit.

Pretty wild flowers on the way back down.

I thought the paintbrush was especially vibrant.

The first week of July we went to two family reunions. The first was for my family. We camped at Upper Payette Lake near McCall, Idaho. This is Kate getting reading to jump off a cliff into the ice-cold lake.

And here's Emma.

This is a waterfall above the lake. This is my niece, Stephanie and Kate. It was a beautiful area. And much warmer than the Payson camp-out. But there was still snow on the ground in the camp area. Crazy.

The second reunion was with Brock's family. We went to Newport, Oregon and stayed in condos on the beach. This is the bulb in the historic lighthouse in Newport.

Da Cheney Boyz.

The cousins playing on the black-sand beach below the lighthouse.

Brock on the beach. There are a bunch of seals on the rocks behind him.

Kate checking out a tide pool.

Jane touching a sea anemone.

Emma checking out a huge starfish.

That red thing is a crab hiding under an anemone. The purple things are starfish.

We thought this one looked like Patrick.

Jane really enjoyed holding small crabs.

It was pretty cold, but we all had fun playing in the ocean. The kids all went completely under. Brock and I got up to our necks or so.

Look at all those star fish!

I'm not sure what this thing is--it is like a starfish but has a lot more legs. This guy was hanging out in a tide pool upside down. Those little yellow things are tiny leg things that move him around. They were all just waving in the water--helpless as can be. The kids begged Brock to pick it up and move it to a safe spot, right side up. It was purple of the other side. I don't know why I didn't get an after shot. Oh well.

The second week of July was girls camp for Emma, so the rest of us went on a little nature hike.

The columbine was blooming--and thick, thick, thick.

Isn't it pretty?

We also saw some sego lilies. It's the Utah state flower. Pioneers used to eat the roots.

We are now in our second week of no kids at home. Last week we spontaneously packed our backpacks and headed for the High Unitas. We hiked into this beautiful high lake filled with cutthroats. As you may be able to tell by the green of the lake, it gets very deep very quickly. It was great fishing. This lake, Priord Lake, is about 10 miles into the Uinta Wilderness area.

Brock pointing to a fish.

This is a pretty stream that connects Priord Lake to Norice Lake, where we camped.

A lovely sunset.

Norice Lake. This is a pretty shallow lake, but there were still fish. Brock had fun fishing the stream that feeds this lake.

It was pretty marshy all around the lake, which makes the place a glorious color of green. It also makes the place a perfect breeding spot for mosquitoes. We stayed two nights here instead of the three we had planned because the mosquitoes were so thick. But despite the nasty little bloodsuckers, we had a great time fishing, nature gazing, and eating the fresh fish fry from our little campfire. It was a grand adventure.

We've managed to hike about 70 miles this summer so far. We're hoping to fit in another 30 before we give up the freedom of summer and head back to school. The next peak on our agenda is the Pfeifferhorn. We're also planning on Timpanogos this summer. If any of y'all wanna join us, just let me know! We'd love to have you along.

Concerts

2008-05-30T09:08:00.008-06:00

Emma and Kate ready for their orchestra "Monster Concert"

you have to be all serious if you play violin and cello

and you also have to dress in black

but you can still be cute

and you can still have cute hair

Jane before her choir concert.

I love that crazy-toothed smile!

Is my "face" red?

2008-05-02T08:31:00.003-06:00

The past two or three months I have been involved in a group discussion of the book Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, with a group of teachers at my school. It's a pretty great book about how to become a better writer. As you would expect, we have been devoting a portion of our discussion time to guided writing exercises. It has been a lot of fun to hear the writing styles of my colleagues as we share what we've written during these exercises. Here is where we have problem #1--I used to go to a writing group called The Would-Be Writers' Guild. We had guided writing exercises every month, and most of us basically put our true selves out there with no thought of guarding our privacy or dignity. I found myself in that special place yesterday during this professional development activity with my colleagues.

As soon as the buzzer went off telling us to stop writing, I realized I had spilled too many personal beans in my writing. There was NO WAY I was going to share. So I borrowed a typical 8th grader move and nonchalantly draped a napkin over my words. This is where problem #2 makes a scene--the English department chair (have I ever mentioned how intimidated I am by her?) noticed my little trick. And in true old-school teacher fashion, she said, "I think Shannon has something to share," as she peered at me over her tilted-down glasses with eyebrows raised and chin tucked.

"Oh, no, I'm sure we'd all much rather hear what you've written. I know I always enjoy your writing," I demurely replied.

She smiled and read a lovely bit of writing about green. Problem solved, right?

Problem #3, sneaking out from under the table and snatching my napkin away--"Okay, I read. Now you."

Problem #4, which has been swimming around the room (imagine Jaws music here) since Problem #2 made its grand entrance--Mrs. Department Chair kind of runs the show in our school. No one ever contradicts her. Not even the principal.

Problem #5, having been lurking in a messy room in the creativity wing of my brain for about a week--this is what a wrote, and this is what I read. To my colleagues. Several of them males. And my principal. Who is also a male.

I have chosen red. Red is a color of passion--love, excitement, anger, embarrassment, humiliation. I am often told my face is red (as if I don't feel the heat caused by my uncontrollable, spontaneous, fierce blushing). Sometimes it's during lunch in the faculty room. Sometimes it's when I'm with friends and family. It rarely happens, oddly enough, in the classroom with my students (who say things with specific intent to embarrass me). Last week it happened when my feet were in stirrups (you know, the kind that aren't attached to a saddle or stretchy 80's pants). My new gynecologist said to me, during an exam, "You get red and blotchy when you're nervous." Of course he wasn't looking at my face when he said it. I told my husband about his observation when I came home, and he kind of snickered and said, "Yeah, you do." I suppose red is just my color, from head to, um, toe.

Mrs. Cheney's students talk

2008-05-02T07:55:00.002-06:00

9th grade boy: Mrs. Cheney, if your husband dies and my mom dies, would you consider dating my dad?

9th grade girl: Yeah, his dad is hot!

9th grade boy's best friend: Yeah, but dude! What would you call her if they got married?

Chorus of 9th graders: Yeah. Oohhh. That'd be freaky. Ewwww. Dude, she'd be your mom!

boy: I'd keep calling her Cheenizzle. Or maybe I'd switch it up and call her Che-to-the-ney.

my brain: That's it, I'm outta here!

Mrs. Cheney's students write

2008-04-29T09:47:00.002-06:00

From a persuasive essay on why Sweeney Todd should be rated PG-13.

"Sweeney Todd doesn't even have nudity, drugs or comments pertaining to sex or other absurdities."

It's all about perspective, my friends.

2008-04-15T11:34:00.002-06:00

Another chapter in the 9th grade mythology unit debacle:

Students are to write significant details about each god or goddess on a chart to turn in at the end of the unit. The chart has headings such as "Major Accomplishments", "Physical Description", "Hardships", etc.

At the end of a group presentation about Hestia, a student raised her hand and asked, "What was her major accomplishment?"

The presenters answered, "She was an eternal virgin."

To which a boy replied, "Oh, I put that under 'hardships'."

Did I ever mention?

2008-04-11T10:12:00.004-06:00

In my 3rd period class I have a boy with the last name of Shakespeare, a boy named Tennyson and a boy named Dante. When I looked over my list for the trimester I was thinking, "Hey, that's kind of cool to have such literary names together in an English class." And I said as much to my class on the first day before I took attendance (to their blank stares, of course).

The first time taking roll in a Utah school can sometimes be rather awkward. Utah people come up with the stupidest names sometimes, or they come up with regular names with outrageous spellings. I always mispronounce at least one name in every class on the first day. However, this particular class was filled with Katelyns and Collins and Cheyannes--the only unusual names were Tennyson and Dante. So on the first day when I was taking roll, I was feeling pretty confident. I called out every name without a hitch until I got to the last name on roster.

"Dante."

No answer.

"Dante?"

Silence. And then somebody says, "Ummm, we've never heard of a Daaahntay."

And then this squirrelly little redneck kids says, "It's Dant." You know, like it rhymes with ant. Dant. Except it's spelled Dante. Oh dear.

So I said what any self-respecting English teacher would say. "Well in this class you're DAAAAHNTAY!" Then I closed my attendance book and started teaching.

If I quit posting it's because I got fired . . .

2008-04-10T13:23:00.002-06:00

Why-oh-why did I agree to teach Greek Mythology to 9th graders???? And what was I thinking when I decided it would be a good idea for them to give group presentations on the Olympian gods? And where was my brain when I suggested they might look on the internet for pictures for visual aids?

Highlights from today:

during a presentation about Athena, two girls giggled as they told a myth about Hephaestus spilling his seed on Athena's thigh
during a presentation about Hades, the boy who put together a PowerPoint presentation complained loudly because the only pictures of Hades he could find online had visible twigs and berries
during a discussion about The Odyssey, in response to my wondering whether Odysseus might have been a willing prisoner of Calypso, a male students says, "Heck yeah he was willing--he was gettin' lucky in Kentucky!"
which of course directly relates to the two girls who could not stop giggling after telling the class that Athena's gift of olive trees was appreciated by the Greeks because olive oil makes a great lubricant
and to top it all off, at the end of our discussion of The Odyssey, a student said, "Man, this sounds just like The Bible." I said, "Good connection--The Bible is the Christian version of a book of myths." Immediately I had a dozen angry and offended students shouting at me, just as the bell rang. So I yelled after them, "Oh don't be so thin-skinned. All religions have a set of myths they hold to be true." I'm pretty sure that didn't help anything. It could have been an excellent discussion, really, if we had some time to really talk about what it all means. I will try to have that discussion tomorrow, of course, but my take on the comparison of The Odyssey and The Bible is from a Bible-as-literature sort of a view. There is a difference between looking at The Bible as literature and looking at it as scripture. As an English teacher, I'm making literary connections, not religious ones. Oh well, I'm sure they will all go home tonight and cry to their parents about how Mrs. Cheney said The Bible isn't true. I think I feel my first phone call from an angry parent coming on.

Toddy Tavern?

2008-04-04T09:51:00.003-06:00

Last night we were discussing the idea of naming our house. Kate has been reading Anne of Green Gables, so this idea has been on her mind lately. Every time I read an English novel, I think it would be fun to name our "estate". I love the names you find in those books--Thornfield, Pemberley, Netherfield, Howard's End, Wuthering Heights, Windy Corner, and the list goes on and on and on.

So last night we came up with a very short list of possible names for our home:

Toddy Tavern (Kate)
Lilly Lane (Emma)
Hollyhock Haven (Shannon)
Rocky Road (Brock)

Apparently we're under the collective impression that we require alliteration.

Oh, and lest you think Kate is a regular imbiber, I must explain. We have a hot buttered rum mix we make in the winter. It is made of a mixture of ice cream, butter, rum extract, cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg. You just add a huge spoonful of the mix to a cup of boiling water and it makes a nice hot bedtime drink. In the cold winter months, the kids like to drink one before going to bed. Brock told them that hot drinks before bed are called toddies, so the kids have been calling them toddies ever since. It's a tradition. And the tavern must be dictionary definition #2 rather than definition #1. You know, the one that says "A place for weary travelers to rest." It's really rather clever, I think. I'm almost prone to say, "From where the sun now stands, this home shall be known as 'Toddy Tavern' forever." But what would the neighbors say?

The thing is I want to explore my options a little more before the decision is made. I don't want to name my home just to change her name in a few months when we find something better. Just think how confused our house would be. I still feel guilty for doing that to our cat.

So this is where y'all come in. What are your ideas? What would make a great name for a home. Our house is a nice-sized 90 year-old red brick bungalow with a decent front porch with a swing. Our lot is nearly an acre with a long and narrow back yard. We have some huge trees, some of them dead. Our lawn is a work in progress (hence Brock's name idea), as is the back yard garden, and we are hoping to plant a small orchard over the next few years. So picture it in your mind, or remember it if you've been to visit us, and tell me what you think. What do you think makes a good name for a home?

Shall I call this post "A lesson in irony?" or "Google Claims Another Victim"

2008-04-04T08:09:00.005-06:00

I just finished up a poetry unit with my 9th graders. For the unit assessment, each student was to create a poetry portfolio consisting of a collection of original poems as well as a collection of poems gathered from a list of approved poets I provided. For each poem, the student was to write the poetic device the poet used next to the example. One student included this poem, by the great Billy Collins.

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

And here is where I'd like to stun you all with my great teaching skills by saying the student wrote, in thick-lined red sharpie, scrawled down the entire length of the margin, the glorious word --
"IRONY!!!!!"
Sadly, this student wrote "metaphor" next the to paragraph that contained the word "metaphor". Because, I'm sure, this is the poem Google gave her when she keyed "Billy Collins metaphor" into its search bar. *sigh*

Mrs. Cheney's students write

2008-03-28T10:40:00.002-06:00

On The Diary of Anne Frank -- "Anne's nickname for her father was Pimp."

In case 8th grade was too long ago for you to remember, it was really "Pim."

I'm sure I'll have more fun stuff to add after I crawl out from under this pile of poems and quizzes.

Oh ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a COMING

2008-03-19T14:23:00.003-06:00

Emma was in her school production of Music Man. It was cute. She was one of 120 kids on stage. Apparently the musical thing is pretty popular at her school . . .

Overheard at the movies

2008-03-06T07:22:00.004-07:00

When: yesterday afternoon
Where: at a very old-school movie theatre during the previews before Alvin and the Chipmunks
Who: A mom with her two young sons

cute little tow-headed 5 (or so) year-old boy: I'm Alvin, Cameron is Simon, and Mom is Theodore

mom: Theodore?

cute little tow-headed 5 (or so) year-old boy: Well Theodore is the fat one.

mom: I know Theodore's the fat one.

Jane says

2008-03-04T07:35:00.002-07:00

"Mom, can we read 'The Tale of Vagina Puddle-Duck'?"

"I think it's called 'The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck,' honey."

"Oh. Yeah, I thought Vagina was a kinda funny name for a duck."

Epiphany

2008-02-29T15:04:00.000-07:00

I saw a bird flying in place,
madly winging,
but held captive by a strong-willed wind.

Flap a little harder, little bird.
You’ll make it through.
Just try a little harder.

But she didn’t flap harder.
She stilled herself instead.
With wide wings she embraced the wind,
and the current carried her far, far away.

The Great Interview Experiment

2008-02-25T09:45:00.003-07:00

Neil, at Citizen of the Month, has this little experiment going on. His idea is that all people are worthy of an interview. We don't have to be somebody to be somebody. So he has invited bloggers around the world to participate in "The Great Interview Experiment." After reading several fellow bloggers' interviews, I decided to jump on board.

I interviewed Marge, of Marge in Real Life. Her blog is all about self-expression, self-discovery, and self-disclosure. I enjoyed getting to know her through her blog. Here is the interview:

The Great Interview Experiment
Getting To Know Marge of Marge in Real Life
- by Shannon of Letters Falling

I love The Simpsons, both for its entertainment value and as a social critique. Are you a fan? Do you consider yourself a Marge in real life? Is Homer really Homeresque? Or are the pseudonyms just a fun approach to an anonymous blog?

Sometimes the satire of the Simpsons hits entirely too close to our home. I don’t have blue hair and Homer doesn’t spend all his free time in the local bar, Bart’s not nearly so mischievous but we all say “d’oh!” a lot and fight over who has to take out the trash (remember the sanitation commissioner episode?). As the woman of the house, I feel Marge’s pain in being the mostly-ignored voice of reason, constantly picking up after everyone, and trying desperately to project a “normal” family in the face of absurd abnormality. Homer’s ADD and absentmindedness is as close as he comes to being Homeresque although like Marge, I wish sometimes he would be a little more refined in social settings. Every day in our life feels like an episode of satirical proportions.

You mentioned that Homer has read a few posts on your blog. You are very frank about Homer’s weaknesses in many of your posts. Has he seen those posts? If so, how did he react? If not, are you worried he might see them at some point, and how do you think he would react?

One of the wisdoms I’ve come to understand well is that any healthy and worthwhile relationship is based on trust, the basis of which is honesty. He has seen my posts and I have no fear of his reading my blog. At first I was nervous when he showed interest and I warned that if he chose to read my blog, he should do so with a thick skin and a large grain of salt because I hadn’t written about him in a spirit of sparing his feelings. I’ve always said that I don’t read minds, if you have a problem, say so. And to be fair, I’ve encouraged Homer to express (in a blog even) his own experiences in our relationship. Even though he hasn’t chosen to do that, we do talk through all our squabbles eventually. What we have together is a treasure to us both and the growing pains along the way make us stronger.

I love your hamster-in-the-wheel/song-stuck-in-your-head metaphor. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be? Why?

Just one?! For the rest of my life?! That would be the early death of me. My worst pet peeve (a very furry green one with googly eyes) is redundantly repetitive repetition – especially in music (ex: Eric Clapton’s Laila – pardon me a moment while I go change the station). A catchy chorus is one thing, singing it over and over is enough to send one to the nuthouse. Um, how about this happy little playlist on random mode?

I Am The One And Only, Chesney Hawks (incidentally the theme song from the movie Doc Hollywood with Michael J Fox)
You’re An Ocean – Old 97’s – I just really like the piano arpeggios
Losing My Religion – REM
Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac
Only Happy When It Rains - Garbage
Closer To Free – Bodeans
Closer To Fine – Indigo Girls
Angels Of The Silences – Counting Crows
Crazy – Seal

When you take the messages of these songs together they sum up my personality and outlook quite well.

I also share custody of my children with my ex. It sounds like you have a pretty good working relationship with Bart’s dad. How do you do that? I’ve been trying to find peace, but haven’t had much luck. You must have some sort of secret to your success.

Oof, we’ve come a very long way. We’ve always known that no matter how we feel about each other, no pain or unhappiness in our past is more important than our son and like it or not, the natural consequence of having a child together is parenting him, together or not. After we split but before our divorce, we found an amazing counselor. She gave us a funny look when we told her we weren’t there to mend our marriage. We already knew that was over. We were there to mend our relationship so that we could raise an emotionally healthy child together. The real therapy took place in long healing discussions in the therapist’s parking lot after our sessions. I think the biggest key to our success has been to put our romantic past and pain completely and totally behind us. Both of us have taken sincere steps to move on in our lives and truly forgive.

I agree that God and religion are two different things. I also believe that religion can be helpful for some, but damaging for others. It sounds like you had a real awakening about your beliefs in your 20’s. Do you resent being brought up in a religious home? How do you reconcile your religious upbringing with your adult beliefs? Are they connected at all?

Resent is a strong word because I feel no bitterness about my upbringing. My parents truly believed in what they were doing. They sheltered us kids out of love, not because of their religious beliefs. They raised us to fear God and I know that much of my true understanding of the spiritual realm I learned from their actions and personal faith, not from church or Biblical teachings. I do however recognize that my parent’s heavy control had some very undesirable impacts on my ability to develop a sensible world-view. Now when establishing and questioning my beliefs I have learned to take guilt out of the process and add common sense in. Breaking free was a rebellion at its height but became a necessary freedom that I hope to one day see my siblings understand as well.

You really picked up the blogging in January (from 3 posts in December to 59 in January). What was it that caused such an increase in your posting?

My introduction to blogging was on MySpace and I made my first post in August of 2007. It was mainly a way of keeping my friends and family up on the happenings in my life. My posts were usually cheery or funny and pretty much the kind of thing I might put in a newsletter about me. In October the stress in my life reached a peak; I was working very long hours doing my job and a coworkers too, I was trying to cope with my depression since going off meds the previous May, and Homer was sinking deeper and deeper into a depression I couldn’t understand. As my emotional world caved in, the holidays came on and then I was called on to go help my ailing grandmother in Florida. I stopped posting on MySpace mostly because I didn’t have time but also because it wasn’t the kind of thing I knew how to share. I knew that any kind of patronizing advice or sympathy from my friends would make me angry. At the very end of 2007 I had an emotional meltdown that prompted me to step back and assess my forms of release and ask what exactly was I doing to help myself out of my troubles.

Marge In Real Life was sort of my gift to me. It started as a totally anonymous place to vent. Quickly I saw the benefits of uncensored writing and began to post multiple times a day. Soon I realized that I wanted to share my feelings with some that knew me. When I read back through my posts I was startled to realize that I was leading a dual life in some ways and I didn’t like that the honest, open me was the online me. I resolved to bring the two together by opening my private blog to those in my MS friend list. If they were true friends, they would accept me with my shortcomings, frustrations, and depression.

Is your blog cathartic (the emotionally purging definition, not the bowel-purging one) for you? You’ve said writing is like free therapy. In what ways?

So much of the self-torture that takes place in my head is a result of not giving myself permission to do what I need to do. I’ve now given myself permission to release my emotions in my blog – good bad and ugly. I authorized myself to take full creative license without the least concern for what others might think. Don’t ask me why I’d never been able to do that before – fear of self-invented retribution or scorn maybe? Thankfully, it’s been a very cathartic experience for me and as you’ve read, it’s more positive and cheerful than not.

You made a quick reference to being a former runner. What do you miss about running? Is there any chance that you might take it up again?

Many nights I have running dreams. Sometimes when no one is looking I watch Parkour videos on YouTube and fantasize about being so light and free. I’m a very long way from being in good enough shape to run again. Last time I tried it, I had shooting pains through my ankles. I know though that losing weight and embracing athletic endeavors again is a matter of strengthening my resolve and rearranging my priorities. I will run again.

You and Homer love jeeps. The only thing I know about jeeps is that I got stuck behind a highway full of them in Moab one April. I realized then that there are plenty of fanatical jeepers (?) out there. Do you consider yourself a fanatic? What is your favorite jeeping activity? Have you ever turned over one of your jeeps?

One would probably categorize me as a fanatic, though I like to think it’s mostly by reason of association to Homer who is unquestionably a fanatic! My motivation in buying a jeep was to have a vehicle capable of taking me to remote places for unique photographic opportunities. My jeeps have certainly served that purpose and then some. I have many breath-taking photos from the tops of mountains and ancient mining camps.

A little part of me is a tough little tomboy and I like to take on a rough trail with the guys and see their surprise. Yes, I’ve turned jeeps over several times, mostly in my Betty P while tackling stubborn obstacles in Moab, UT. In the most recent incident my cat was sitting in the seat next to me and I thought she’d bolt but she just hooked her claws in and looked at me as if to say, “now what.” Not all of my rollovers have been so fun. A year ago last September I accidentally rolled my Grand Cherokee several times on a dirt road near my home and I feel very grateful to be alive.

I love your taste in Pyrex. I can tell you love color (I recall an orange or red wall behind a fish tank in one of your photos). Describe the most colorful area in your house.

Bright colors have tantalized me since I childhood. In high school I started the Colorful Liberation Front (CLF), a cult group of kids that made colorful little stickers and posted them clandestinely in the blandest places. I really have to write the post about that already.

Visitors to my home are sometimes taken aback by the décor of my living room. Two of the walls are “Moab” orange, the furniture is modern puzzle-style birch with black upholstery, the curtains (partially finished I’m sad to say) are a matching orange, a wood-burning stove with a vintage Wagoneer grill hanging over it dominates one wall, and antique camera paraphernalia adorn the walls. My home is an eternal work in progress. Soon I also hope to complete a very bright yellow utility room, a blue accent wall behind our big commercial stove in the kitchen, red walls in my son’s room, and retro green curtains to compliment the green and black motif in the master bedroom.

The Flame

2008-02-22T08:00:00.002-07:00

By the time anyone noticed it,
the fire was too large to contain.
Ashes pulled free from the flames
like so many bats,
black and beastly,
their angled, tangled wings
dipping, ducking, diving
in a swirling spire.
The last remnants of a life which
so recently was.

You looked at me
through squinted eyes,
“Do you remember . . . ?”
“Yes.” I nodded
and took your hand.
And because it wasn’t us,
we went home to make love,
all the while wondering what
marks the difference
between ecstasy and agony,
hoping for a difference,
but knowing they both start with a spark.

Silent Night

2008-02-20T11:44:00.003-07:00

Snow settles slowly
as the streetlight-orange glow
finds a space
between the conventional curtains --
to edge through
and share its dim tinted light
with me
and my new love --
whom I have loved for months
without seeing.

I see her now,
her perfect profile at my breast
for the first time.
And in spite of my
exhaustion,
or perhaps because of it,
I am more awake than ever --
keenly cognizant
of my enhanced heart.

Some things in life
are beyond description.
Even the best of poets
are unqualified
to humanize some feelings
by naming them with words.

These are my kept
deep-down emotions --
cherished for a few mid-night hours
after the agony,
the ecstasy
of the emerging,
when our once cord-connected bodies
divided.

She is
no longer me,
but forever mine.

The Cutest Shakespeare Ever!

2008-02-19T09:07:00.005-07:00

My 9th graders have to complete one Shakespeare learning activity every week for the duration of our study of Romeo and Juliet. I've given them a list of possible activities (delivering a soliloquy, making a model of a Shakespearean theatre, writing a character analysis of one of the main characters, etc.), but I also gave them the option of coming up with their own ideas (which I must pre-approve). Today I got this lovely bust, sculpted from clay. So fun!

I LOVE the hair!

It may be a decent likeness, but I must confess, I would prefer a Shakespeare who looks like this:

*swooooon*

Sometimes I'm just like the rest of them

2008-02-14T14:36:00.004-07:00

My youngsters needed Valentine boxes for school. It used to be that a couple of pieces of pink and white construction paper stapled around three sides did the trick. But these days we're not talking about 24 paper-thin cards and one box of conversation hearts from the rich kid. These days kids expect (and get) the mother load. So we needed something a little more substantial.

Plus, other kids' moms spend all their stay-at-home daytime hours for the three weeks preceding Valentine's Day constructing papier mache frogs whose mouths open and tongues stick out with a ribbet or two for every candy-laden card deposited into their bellies. Or toilet bowls where children put their candy gifts into the bowl, press the lever, and their bounty "flushes" to a compartment below. And I'm not kidding.

So this year, I decided to join the frazzled-mom trend. We made papier mache igloos. I wanted to put "ice to see you" on the side, but then I remembered that I would likely post pictures of our creations, and I didn't want Tiffany to think I was stupid. So we just put their names on the sides instead.

Don't you just love the gaping hole ready to receive mounds and mounds of candy? Just think of all the snow that would fall through that hole! I'm certain it is not even close to being up to igloo code. I pity the Eskimo who calls this igloo home. The tiny papier mache eskimo. Who left his tiny fishing pole next to his ice hole. Yep, I truly pity the fool.

I think I might need some sleep . . .

My Valentine's sonnet for Brock

2008-02-14T11:36:00.002-07:00

I was looking in my sock drawer and found this rolled up in a corner.

Two years ago in budding spring we hiked
the mountains, as sun-softened snow dashed o’er
a tow’ring cliff o’erhead. The mist, like ice,
sprayed faces red. I’d never loved you more.
High ridges bid us come as summer rolled.
We, happy guests, accepted the allure.
Our highest, hardest trek--the summit cold
and beautiful. I’d never loved you more.
One early morn, in autumn, in the rain
a muddy mound we climbed, our vows to store
from that day on in memory unstained.
You kissed your bride. I’d never loved you more.
We’ve ranges yet to tramp, heights to explore,
And with each peak, I’ll ever love you more.

A Valentine for Ernest Mann

2008-02-14T08:35:00.001-07:00

by Naomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

Getting back to what I came here for . . .

2008-02-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

My original intent with this blog was to post an original poem once or twice a week. The idea was that I would be motivated to write poetry more often because I'd have a place to share what I've written. I'd like to try it out for a couple of weeks and see how it goes.

I'll start with a poem I wrote three (or so) years ago. It's based on a very vivid dream I had. (I sometimes dream in allegory). It's probably a bit of a diversion from my usual approach to poetry, but I kind of like it. Hope it doesn't make you sick. Hope you still think I'm sane. Hope you thought I was sane to begin with. Here is goes:

The Offering

The kitchen drawer paring knife
with the bent tip
pierces the skin between
the long thin foot bones above the
second and third toes.
not a clean, smooth scalpel drawn line of blood
but a jagged, meat-torn window
to where the bones are.

That’s what I’m after:
The bones.

I remove them, one by one,
from the right foot
and pile them,
clean and white,
like kindling
on a clean white plate
with a chipped rim
carefully placed on a clean white cloth
with one frayed edge
at the head of the dining room table.

Thin, delicate, unbroken.

I harvest the bones to the ankle.
I pause.
Why am I doing this? I ask myself.
And I can’t recall.
I just know it must be done.

The newly emptied fleshy flap of skin
sags at an awkward angle
from my right ankle
as it rests on my left knee.

Enough, I say.
And it is enough.

2008-02-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

Kate played in her piano recital on Saturday. She did a great job. Afterwards I asked her what she thought was the best part of her performance. "My look," she said. She's such a funny little stink. Brock and I were really proud of her very poised performance. I accidentally pushed the off button on my camera instead of the the start button at the beginning of her performance, so I missed her introduction of her pieces. She was very articulate.

Hear Me Roar

2008-02-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

I became a feminist at BYU.

I know "BYU feminist" sounds like an oxymoron, but at that time there was quite a group in the English department. I attended BYU during a short-lived golden age for feminism. Many of my professors openly proclaimed themselves feminists, and those who didn't accepted feminism as a viable world view rather than a silly notion embraced only by lesbians and women too ugly to ever hope to find a man. I had never considered which side of the feminist fence I embraced--in truth, I had never really known what a feminist was before my BYU education. Many of my respectable and admirable professors helped awaken my world views on status and value of women in a still-very-patriarchal Utah society. Feminism wasn't just some quirky idea of a woman who no longer wished to wear a bra. Throughout history, mysogynist* attitudes in our society had created gender inequality. I wanted to help bridge the gender gap. I wanted to help make a change.

When I was approaching graduation, six well-known scholars were excommunicated from the church for publicly pronouncing their secular views on Mormonism. In addition to the six, several professors at BYU were disciplined for spouting their feminist rhetoric to the young and impressionable in their classes. At least three English professors were asked to leave BYU. After the massive house-cleaning, the atmosphere of the English department changed. Professors were extremely careful with their words. The passion, the excitement, the fire had dimmed.

After I graduated, my fire began to dim as well. I was no longer associating with fellow students who had similar opinions, hopes, dreams, desires. I was married to a man who scoffed at the thought that there could be such a thing as a feminist. I always felt like he considered my feminism a silly phase. Instead of fighting to keep my feminist views, I found it easier to comply with the role my society expected of me. And while I would never consider my decision to become a stay-at-home mom a mistake, I do consider my willingness to let go of my feminist views a weak reaction to a difficult situation.

For a long time I felt like I had been silenced. Like I didn't have a voice. I knew had a voice once--back in my BYU days. I longed to find that voice again.

After my marriage failed, I decided I should find out who I really was--deep down in the core of Shannon. I wanted to be true to myself. I knew the failure of my marriage had hinged on my failure to understand myself properly and my subsequent inability to go on living as someone I wasn't. I'm not going to delve into my road of self-discovery here, but I will say that little by little I have regained some of that spark I had back in the college days. And these days I can embrace that side of myself because I chose a husband who embraces it in me.

Which brings us to yesterday.

Yesterday I voted for Hillary Clinton. Most Utahns would consider my vote wasted (Clinton didn't have even a tiny sliver of hope to get Utah's democrat delegates). I endured jokes in the faculty room--"You're going to vote for Monica Lewinsky's ex-boyfriend's wife????" I overheard my daughter's friend tell her, "I heard that someone asked Hillary what one plus one is and she said, 'Ummmmmm'." I have felt the need to explain why I'm voting for Clinton, as if it is a huge mystery just begging to be solved. (Why is it that everyone calls her "Hillary" anyway? You never hear anyone calling Obama "Barack" or McCain "John". It irks me.)

And then today, I read this article by Robin Morgan. It really struck a chord with me. Why should I feel apologetic for supporting a highly qualified candidate? Why should others feel the need to casually dismiss Clinton because she's a woman? Worse, why do people make condescending remarks about her gender--our society would never stand for condescending remarks about Obama's skin color.

I have been reminded there is no shame in being a feminist. There is no shame in supporting the best candidate. There is no shame in standing up for the dignity of my gender. In fact, the opposite is true. It is shameful to use Clinton's gender as a reason to either reject or support her. I am proud to support Hillary Clinton in her quest to become a candidate for president based on her experience, her intelligence, and her stance on the issues. And I refuse to apologize for my support.

*A funny aside--I used the word "misogyny" in my 9th grade language arts class yesterday during our discussion of Romeo and Juliet, and there was a collective gasp. They thought I had said a bad word, apparently. Ha!