All Things Orange Monday morning is drippy, gray in the Safeway parking lot. On my way in to school I stop in for Fuji apples. My errand sends me past the survivors at the floral counter where, at that hour, some bunches huddle like refugees – tipped out of water, wilted. Orange tulips hold my eye and slow me down: The bunch is so beautiful I think the ridiculous thought of buying them – to rescue them from the murky backwash of this corner and to warm my blue gray classroom. While gazing, I get it. Carlos is calling me. I’m missing my kitty. I wonder how many sorrows will silently trundle into my classroom today?

The rich petals remind me of the story of Hurricane Katrina bringing Alice out on an airplane with Carlos shedding furiously in a cat carrier. Yep, I’m looking at flowers and seeing the rich, reddish-tone the stripe in Carlos’ lush double-coat. I can feel the pleasure of petting my orangey cat as I hold the bunch of tulips close to my cheeks. Simple stories occur, of times when the master comforter waited until I was in bed, and then down from the sewing cabinet to jump onto my bed and flop his infamous fifteen-pound flop. I’d laugh, stroke him, and then drift. Or he’d listen sympathetically if it had been a day that brought tears. These fine, orange tulips remind me how Carlos graced my life with his attentive green eyes, luxurious welcomes and lavish fur. His story shortens to a week ago. The last time I saw Carlos -- but I just can’t think of that right now. I stuff the bunch back in the water.

Walking briskly past the pre-made salads, I’m asking myself how a feline affects me so much. How can losing a mere kitty reduce me to such grief? The entire week has been intense emotion along with the hard work. Answers?

Necessity drones on, but it is not what makes poets write. Orange tulips that beckon with flame petals, the lolling cat that looks up from lying on my paperwork with that quizzical, “Do you have to do this?”… These moments matter and they bid us smile or cry, admire, inhale and even try to write. Even while Carlos was comatose, with as yet undiagnosed diabetes, there were warm hues of the color wheel during tender moments.

Finally I’m at the check out. I have spent my half-century and a few years learning how to be strong and now I’m questioning this pattern. What if weaknesses are wiser? Maybe this vulnerable, quick cut that draws tears is not a bad thing. Perhaps, the same way joints wear out in our later years, so does the cushion against life’s joys and pains erode, and as we get older, we have less insulation? Maybe grief helps me empathize with my students’ lives. Even students, who are as transitory as the flowers, get into my heart. Missing a kitty this morning, I think of my fourth graders, some of whom will lug heartaches and loss into our classroom today.

I’m a lame grocery store philosopher. What really comes home, as I take to my car, is having no choice in the matter of grief. I can only struggle to adopt the manner in which I will deport myself while grieving goes on.

It began, one night a few weeks back, with me cross-legged on my futon holding a damp, limp cat that had suddenly lost a lot of weight. I’m weeping and he’s acquiescing. I know I’m helpless, so I cry on email to my boyfriend, who does foster care for felines. The phone call response is that he’ll look in on Carlos while I’m at school in the morning.

That last week had some hope, but Carlos stopped eating and lay listlessly. I learned to give him subcutaneous fluids. Bob came over and hand fed him from a small tin. After trying antibiotics with no response, we arranged the vet visit. When the diagnosis came back, there was no practical way any of us could monitor Carlos’ health and give the necessary injections at the right times. The vet did give Carlos some medication to stabilize his blood sugar, but we had to decide.

No, really it all began back in October 2005, when I met my daughter at the SJ airport, holding Carlos in a black mesh travel carrier. His mournful green eyes trusted me as I murmured apology for another vehicle ride. Evacuating from Katrina, he had spent over a week in a pickup truck with a pit bull. Carlos had just sung another blues set for that airplane full of souls and shed most of his hair into the carrier. I thought I had outgrown pets, but this was a special need, so Carlos moved into my small apartment.

Carlos’ backstory was told me when Alice and I talked on the phone and agonized over trying to find an alternative to euthanasia. Alice told me when she met him living in a West Seattle house occupied by several twenty-something-year-old men who had dogs. They say Carlos came from Utah in the back of a U-Haul van piloted by a woman who dumped him there with her brother. The brother later held up a bank and was jailed, so Carlos was on his own, hunting outside and sleeping inside. When the young men were evicted, Alice drove over and climbed in a window, finding Carlos sleeping on an old mattress in the attic. She had no carrier and put Carlos into her car where he promptly went ballistic. There are claw marks on the inside car roof today. Carlos’ life with a young woman in Seattle was good. Alice and I recalled how Carlos had always pulled off a triumph in the eleventh hour, but we racked our brains about what to do about this diabetes.

Alice and I wept concluding that euthanasia was our only answer. We scheduled it for Friday afternoon. Thursday morning I had coffee with Carlos in Bob’s study before I went to school. Bob had done a patient, tender job of caring for Carlos, taking him home to better observe, while I maintained my usual hectic teaching schedule. I could tell that Carlos like the study and really liked Bob. When I opened the study door, Carlos stood up and greeted me and then he even ate food on his own, actions he had not performed all week. He actually looked the best I’d seen him in over a week, which was pathetically joyful to me. I was so glad to see him better, but it made putting him down even more painful. I stroked his fluffier fur and we “talked.” He seemed so confident, whereas I was broken-hearted. It was a wonderful, typical morning coffee with him, the last time I saw “Carlitos Curlytoes.” Nevertheless the burial was planned.

Then Friday midday there was a call on my cell phone at lunchtime in my classroom. A very animated voice, Bob’s, told me that there was a vet tech who wanted us to release Carlos to her care. Bob had already called Alice and it was agreed. Carlos went back to Harbor Vet for the medicine to stabilize his condition. A quiet young woman, Nel, was his project. Carlos lives to be a fat, fuzzy cat that makes people happy. And, at the eleventh hour, he pulled it off. The vet tech, Nel, has a one year old who loves Carlos. He’s fine, managing diabetes now just with special diet food. Imagine, the big orangey on a diet!

Recently I told my story of the last time I saw Carlos. A fifth grade boy in my class crumpled into good, healthy sobs for a kitten who had died two months before. We were sitting on the carpet and friends around him patted his shoulders and said kind, consoling words, like “it’s okay, buddy.” Even dead kitties deserve tears. Grief needs to be observed.  ¶ 2:50 PM 0 Comments

  Drama warm ups & mime for classrooms DRAMA WARM UPS

In a Circle:

Sound Toss: First person tosses imaginary ball to another, making a single sound (not a word); second person catches the ball while repeating the tossed sound, then quickly tosses to another person making a new sound; the third person catches the ball repeating new sound, and so on. See how fast you can get it going. Add a second, simultaneous ball if they get really good.

Variations: Name Toss, same as above, bhut with names instead of sounds. Can be done with animals, color names, terms, whatever.
Pass the Sound: Similar to Sound Toss, but passing around the circle. First sound is repeated all around until it comes back to original sender, then next person does new sound that gets repeated around circle to sender, etc. Can also be done combining sound with movement/gesture.

Bunny, Bunny, Bunny: Everyone stands with hands on head with the index fingers sticking up, like bunny ears. Leader starts by saying Bunnybunnybunny” and pointing both fingers toward another person. That person must immediately do the same to someone else in the circle, passing the bunny around. You can try to trick people by looking at someone else untilt he last second. After getting it up to speed, it can be an elimination gtame; if you hesitate or slow it down you go in the ‘mosh pit.’

Time is Running Out: After students begin to know each other’s names, this is a fun reinforcer. Leader starts by pointing at someone, saying their name and walking slowly towards him/her. Pointee must say someone else’s name and point at them and begin walking toward them before the Leader gets to them. Remind them to get people who haven’t been done, don’t let them slow it down. Can’t start walking before they say a name.

Bung-A-Low: Everyone does rhythm – slap, slap, clap, clap – and leader teaches refrain: “bung a low, bung, bung a low a low (repeat). Then, “Hey ______(name)___,”
What?
“Are you ready?”
To what?
“ To bung”
Bung what?
“A Low, ready go!” My hands are high my feet are low and this is how I bungalow.
His/Her hands are high, her feet are low, and this is how she bungalows  ¶ 11:49 AM 1 Comments

  Professional Writing
or writing about my profession...

A paragraph:

SJAWP ISI 06

The 06 Institute, in two words, is creative and intense. Twenty participants – articulate, witty people - who teach in diverse settings from 1st grade to college, met for 20 days at the San Jose Area Writing Project Invitational Summer Institute, now dubbed ISI 06. This highly recommended group of educators rapidly melded into a community of writers and friends. They shared their expertise through demonstrations to highlight best practices or they bravely experimented with new approaches. We enjoyed humor along with the intensity and creativity: scribe notes, memoirs, diction exercises and creating our blogs. In our glorious four and-a-half week acquaintance, we have been reminded of the power of story, refreshed our poetic faculties, tackled essays from surprise angles and experienced multi-modal teaching. Book clubs reviewed latest professional publications in the field and writing groups have been attentive audiences giving honest feedback. Co-directors, Jonathan Lovell and Laura Brown, modeled and coached presenters and facilitated team building, but mostly have looked on in amazement as the ISI 06 reflects, writes and speaks.


The Deadline

Morning focuses slowly, with the coffee maker merely dribbling at the snack table, while participants mill around with empty white paper cups in hand. I wonder how could I feel so tired by Tuesday? Snacks appear and murmured repartee creates a skin of comfort. Some ISI friends are still in the parking garage getting their driving reputations out of hock. Today, even the reading of our Bird by Bird passage doesn’t alleviate a cold, inner strain. The scribe notes are funny, well-crafted reminders of how rich our ISI 06 has been so far. Finally, I begin to relax and smile naturally, when Jonathan mentions the P word.

He spoke only in passing, but the stainless steel moment kept some of us from breathing. It’s the Portfolio bit, with a capital P. A paralyzing prospect. Cognitive thought suspends. My stomach clenches and I try self-talk. “Come on, Brown…okay your wheels are spinning…you’ll get your professional writing done, somehow. Smile, you’re the co-director and – remember - you already got your certificate.” More emotional gravel flies and apprehension grapples with me. I cannot sensibly think when I might get this overwhelming task done. “At the very last minute, stupid!” says one of those inner voices. Our sentencing meeting will be later this afternoon. We don’t look at each other.

Gads, it’s contagious like the Anthology committee anxiety, only worse. I think I’m developing a full-scale anxiety neurosis. The summer calendar and deadlines are a blur. The end is rapidly approaching like the proverbial train. (You were eager and optimistic when you saw the light at the end of the tunnel, until you apprehend the meaning…)  ¶ 9:47 PM 2 Comments

 

Bayou

The velvet glove swamp defers to a pearl white sunset:
Rank undergrowth melds into a tranquil bottle green carpet.
A snowy white morph of a blue heron or a great egret – was it a Mississippiensis ibis?
The great bird turns our eye and rises smoothly into cream sky
I’m with elder daughter and her daughter, Rhiannon,
Photographed by Alice, my younger daughter -

Something fecund and serene – earthy, yes, prolific -
Not only the dank swamp, but the cloudy crane-laden sky
The humid horizon is softly low but not distant
While the flight deserts us on this small plank outpost.
My life points to Jessica and her arm caresses her daughter:

Jess, the next generation - something yielding and quiet about her yet strong;
Like this bayou swamp.
Simple and poised but unusual, almost exotic; with a grace of the crane.
The evening’s temperament is balmy after the sulky hot day.
Three generations rest placidly on the spacious Louisiana bayou.  ¶ 12:42 PM 0 Comments

  Laura Loves Listening to Landscapes

iPhoto fills up with images I captured along the coast; tidepools, wave scapes and close-ups of sea marfackt. Do I aim the lens at people less often? Or is landscape painting and photography a different mode, away from my work world?
Perhaps I love the landscapes because there's a play between light and earth - something serene and soothing about the land laid out in soft light. Hillsides on a Ruebenesque couch.

When I absorb the complementary colors and the fractal play of patterns from minute to macrocosmic, well, I like that feeling that it all fits. A painter wants no inch of paper or canvas not working.

Landscapes cause me to listen to the big picture. Of course, I mean the everchanging landscapes I see when I drive or gaze on vistas. Somehow, when they are captured on camera they become mere postcards.  ¶ 10:49 AM 2 Comments

  Two Crummy First Drafts
Meet Carlos
Here is Carlos, sleeping, as usual. Carlos is a fat, orangie cat. He is forgetting his trauma quickly. My daughter brought Carlos from New Orleans during hurricane Katrina. He spent a week in a truck with a dog before his flight. I comforted my daughter by taking in her cat. It was easy because I love Carlos.

Meeting Carlos
I have driven three frustrating rat mazes in the SJ airport, only to be trapped in the wrong parking area. My distress mounts because Alice and Carlo’s plane lands and I am late. Being stuck behind a big sports car driven by a high-maintenance woman who fishes in the depth of a large purse for a credit card to get her Porsche out of parking hock raises my anxiety. Gads, she has to sign for it on a clipboard. "“Hurry up, they’re here already," I exhale. The guard accepts my money, not my excuse, but now IÂ’m driving in the right direction. There is Alice, my lovely, urbane world traveler daughter, with a bag slung over her shoulder and a black mesh cat carrier. She meets me in the parking lot and we hug. I scruff my finger on the nylon screen and coo apologetically to Carlos for putting him in yet another vehicle. “I promise this ride will be short.” Carlos is a mass of sweaty orange hair shed around doleful green eyes. The exertion of performing two sets of the blues without a mic shows, yet he remains ever mindful in his cat composure.  ¶ 3:27 PM 3 Comments