Summer reading looms, like a welcome rain storm.  Knowing full well that the summer will take its toll in energy and time, I still anticipate the adventures of the littlies and middlies.  One of the greatest challenges is finding activities and ideas that will engage the middle school kids.  Parents will bring the smallest of the children and the early elementary school children will finally be allowed to walk to the library on their own – always an exciting adventure.  It’s the middle school children who are allowed to go to the beach by themselves and are left to their own devices much of the summer that I hope against hope will find the library. Although they occasionally make me want to rip out my hair, I would rather have them in my line of sight than worry that they are off getting into trouble, intended or not.  We’ll see.

In the midst of that energy consuming work, I have decided it is time to paint and redecorate.  It dawned on me several weeks ago that I no longer have school children living at home.  The grandkids are settled in a dual parenting thing with their parents and are no longer under my care.  While this is sometimes worrisome, it is as it should be.  What it leaves is a house that no longer needs maps and math tables on the walls; that cherished children’s art needs to go in frames or files; that walls covered with handprints and tape require a fresh coat of paint.  It’s all consuming, really, but I have begun now and there is nothing for it but to continue.

One bedroom is done.  A lovely beeswax color with dark furniture.  Braided rugs will complete the décor at some point.  The hallway was yesterday’s project – taupe and too many doors!  What was I thinking when I said, “Of course you can tape posters to your doors, darlings.”  That was even worse than, “Yes, Daisy, by all means.  Handprints on your walls will be sooo cute.”  And they were until I had to paint over all of them.  The living room is next. And I have yet to decide on a color.  The people at Lowe’s are becoming my new best friends.  I am tired of the browns and yellows I have used in the bedroom and hall.  I thought for a moment that slate might be nice but the room is small and I am afraid it will look like a cave.  All of that notwithstanding, the biggest advantage is getting rid of detritus.  There is so much CRAP in this house.  Bags and bags go to the trash and the Salvation Army every week. How is it we accumulate so much stuff?

On a completely different note…when you have a moment, check out Julius Lester’s blog.  It’s brilliant.  http://acommonplacejbl.blogspot.com/

And so it goes.

I sat by the river this morning.

The water was like glass.  Still.  A refection of the life around it.

A gaggle of Canadian geese grazed quietly. 

Were those the babies already grown or just the yearlings still afraid to leave home?

Who can tell?  It’s easier to tell with humans – maybe.

Perhaps it is easier to tell with geese if one is a goose.

Birdsong.

There was nothing else.

Not even traffic.

There is something restorative in that quiet.

Maybe that’s what my tears were -

my sobs -

restorative.

Maybe.

My reflection was in that river life too.

And my tears.

I got a phone call today….”Hi!  This is RM, you know J’s daughter.  It’s me!  I am the House of Representatives.  I didn’t mean to freak you out and make you think you were being stalked.  I like your blog and read it sometimes when things are slow or there is a completely crazed citizen on the phone.”  Oh.  OK.  Cool.  Nifty.  Come back anytime.

Thanks for the call.  I feel much better!

It’s not that I haven’t been writing.  I have. 

It’s not that I haven’t been reading.  I have.

I just haven’t been putting any of it in here.

Why?

Because the U.S. House of Representatives appears to be a regular visitor these days and I would love to know why.

If you guys want to know how I am going to vote I won’t tell you because it is the one illusion of secrecy and privacy I maintain.

Seriously – any one is free to ask me anything and I will answer or not as I see fit but these under the radar visits are flat ass annoying.

I’m a librarian for heaven’s sake.

I know we are the adamant upholders of the First Amendment but all that means is that we have McCain’s book AND Obama’s books AND Clinton’s book.  We got ‘em all, my friends because that is what the First Amendment means.  I don’t tell you what to read or think and you don’t tell me.  Somehow, with enough information we figure it out.  That’s what libraries are for – gathering information.  You may ask for help and you should get it and no one should ever tell anyone what you’ve asked or what you’ve read.  That’s the beauty of a free society – you get to know.

Hmmmm.  Could it be that this particular diatribe is why I get unannounced company?  So be it then.  It’s what I believe and I am allowed to believe it in this United States of America.

I’ll be back with regularly scheduled programming in June.  Just had to get this nonsense off my chest and decide that I really didn’t care why the good folks in D.C. are hanging out on my planet.  You’re all welcome here.

And so it goes.

I love alphabet books.  I haven’t always loved alphabet books because for the longest time they were rather pedestrian and boring.  The book that really started my passion for alphabet books was Chris Van Allsburg’s The Z Was Zapped.  I was teaching pre-school at the time and we had so much fun learning the alphabet to Van Allsburg’s surrealist and really rather macabre illustrations.  There was a video that went with it and it became a favorite as well. I tend to introduce the less that typical alphabet books – which I am sure comes as enormous shock to my faithful readers – so among my personal favorites is Mordecai Gerstein’s The Absolutely Awful Alphabet Book which is just so much fun to read aloud that I find any excuse to do it.  “D” is a dreadfully dangerous, drooling DEMON and “S” is a slimy, spineless SLOB who sneers.  It is grand, grand fun because I get to make weird faces and even weirder noises.  A new alphabet book sits on the desk now and it will join the ranks of my favorites.

Neil Gaiman (Yup!  The author of the acclaimed Sandman series.) and Gris Grimly (who has done some pretty nifty illustrations) have teamed up to create The Dangerous Alphabet which is, of all things a horror story.  It is a “…tale of adventure, piracy, danger and heroism told in twenty-six alphabetical lines…”  And for once, someone had the good sense to put the alphabet in the correct order.  Oh yes, this one is a favorite.  P.S.  The gazelle is pretty cool too.

And so it goes.

Honestly, I am too geeky for words.  Who would have thought that a five page paper for a high school sophomore English class would drive me to distraction.  Granted, it’s been a very long time since I have had to worry about transitions or actually paying attention to a thesis statement but jeezum crow, I am such a dork.  Twelve articles, one book of criticism in my hand and another three on order and only five pages.  And here’s the best part — I am having FUN!  Really – next to geek in the dictionary – my picture.  Not kidding.  Look it up.

And so it goes.

A much better day today.  Thanks for the kind words and understanding.  It’s good to be back in the coffee house.

Story hour was lovely today.  We talked about trees, what with Arbor Day and all.  Wednesday morning is a particularly imaginative crowd of littlies so it is grand fun always.  It is especially exciting as I begin to implement some of the strategies learned in the Every Child Ready to Read workshops I’ve taken.  While I am not one to lecture or instruct parents, I have no problem at all modeling reading and story telling styles. The parents seem to be picking up on that and are more engaged in the story hours, encouraging their children to participate and actively listening along with their littlies.  It’s exciting to watch this evolve and has been a much needed shot in the arm.  I may avoid story telling burnout for one more year and that is a good thing.

It’s a lazy day in teenager land.  While I object, on principle, to the kids sleeping in study hall, I am all in favor of afternoon naps.  I think we should be allowed to have our blankies and pillows and stretch out on the floor.  I adored the European custom of closing up shops and everyone resting for a couple of hours in the afternoon.  So much more civilized than the torturous eight-hour day.  (In my case those days are often 15 hours long but that’s my fault and my choice.)

In the world of all things that sound stupid….I needed happy music to keep me awake so of course I put on Bare Naked Ladies, a group that always, always makes me smile.

Your heart’s got a heavy load
There’s still a long way to go
Keep your eyes on the road.

There are moments when I should – quite literally – have my head examined.  Someone should open my skull and see if there is anything in there, because right now, I’m fairly convinced it’s empty.  There I was in a sophomore English class, helping with the creation of introductions and I said, “Here, guys.  I’ll write it with you.  You can pick the story or novel and I’ll write a paper also.”  I was quick enough to qualify it with, “I will NOT read Grapes of Wrath or Jack London.”  The English teacher was kind enough to say, “Give her a break and let her write a paper on Kate Chopin’s short story in our book, “The Story of an Hour.’”  Oh cool, thought I.  I have to limit this to a five-page essay.  Really – there is nothing inside the skull.  Due tomorrow – playing catch-up – thesis, introduction, biographical information.  Writing short has never been a strength.  Go figure.

And so it goes.

This ridiculous weeping for no apparent reason has got to stop or we are gong to have to christen summer reading The Veil of Tears. Honestly.Reach into the prize bag and get a packet of tissue to wipe Ms.Norman’s tears. Sheesh.

The tulips are blooming in the church yard so that counts for something. They are the yellow ones and that made me smile.

An early morning with the kids made me laugh.

All of these are good things.  So perhaps the tears are too.

I am bound and determined to attend a Quaker meeting this summer.  I think I need to sit in that silence with a group of people and get there from here – wherever the hell I am.

You can’t help anyone until you help yourself.  I used to think that was selfish but I understand it now – stuck as I am in this muck and mire.  Bootstraps, my girl. Pick yourself up by your own and get your act together. Enough of feeling sad and sorry and helpless and go or get off the pot.

Rah, rah, rah.

And so it goes

A quiet day.  Rainy.  Cold.  Having spent the weekend immersed in spring cleaning, it is good to be back at work where the order I created last week remains.  The scattering and clutter of summer reading will begin soon enough, but it is only my mess and my clutter.  There is no one else to blame and no one else to determine the value of this piece of paper or that tiny toy car and absolutely no expectations that anyone else will or should take care of it but me. 

Musings

Most women carry a bag of some kind.  Many of us still seek the perfect bag/purse.  What is it that is so magical and mysterious about these things, and why do women carry them and men don’t?  We acquire bags in stages.  When we are small it is the dress-up accessory of choice.  Then, somewhere in the early days of teendom we start carrying a bag everywhere to hide the “necessities of womanhood” as I think the Kotex booklet called them back in the day.  With the first baby, my purse was replaced with a diaper bag that I carried for more years than anyone needs to know about.  Many women now nearing 60 remember the Days of the Diaper Bag – there’s an evening drama for you.  And now, without diaper bag I am back to looking for the perfect purse – something that quite simply doesn’t exist so I carry whatever I have until it wears out or falls apart and could care less about the season.  I was reminded of all of this today as I watched a sixth grader fumble for her library card in her very first, I-can-carry-it-all-the-time bag.  The certainty or grumbling with which older girls and women move through their purses does not carry the same wonder as a young girl who is being grown up for the first time.  She was obviously so proud of the bag and the wallet that matched and that she had somewhere other than her pocket to stash her library card.  It was cute.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her she would never find the perfect container for all her things.  There just isn’t one.  And the minute you find something that might actually come close, the need changes.  Purses and bags.  A perpetual and unanswered fashion dilemma.

And so it goes.

I am struck by the utter simplicity of a bowl of fruit.  There was no thought or premeditation, just fruit, placed in a bowl.  It took me by complete surprise when I rounded the corner a minute ago.  I was the one who put the fruit in the bowl – a bowl that belonged to my mother – early this morning.  But I just saw it for the first time – the oranges and the grapefruit and the kiwi.  I saw the color and the complete, simple beauty of a the fruit in the white bowl on the white counter.  Who would have thought a bowl of fruit could salve a wounded heart.  Gifts and grace.  Thank you.

And so it goes.