So Many River Metaphors...but I Refuse to Use One in the Title

The first half of last week I was chillin’ up in Spokane, Washington, with two of my friends/colleagues from the Central Utah WritingProject (CUWP) to present at the Northwest Inland Writing Project (NIWP) spring conference.  Sarah and Janae presented on revision strategies—a topic I have dabbled in, and I revamped my shtick about wordplay in the classroom.  And although it wasn’t everything I expected, or hoped for, since I had a few technology glitches, it was a great venture for my first out-of-state presentation.

Jeff Wilhelm did an amazing job discussing the new common core and some strategies for implementing it in a language arts classroom.  It wasn’t anything new, but it validated what we, as a team at SFJHS, have been striving toward.  However, I didn’t receive my biggest a-ha moment until after the conference had finished and the three of us were killing time, passing time until our flight (full of Zag fans, by the way) departed.

The morning started out gray and a bit drizzly, not much in the way of vacation weather, but by the time we had breakfasted, the rain stopped and the sun played peek-a-boo haphazardly through gray patchy clouds.  We strolled through Riverside Park between our hotel and the conference center, crossing bridges, inhaling clean air and inspiring landscapes.  The ladies would pause and take pictures, but I didn’t have my camera; I had to capture the picturesque downtown area in my mind.

At one of our final panoramic bridge photo ops, I glanced across the water at a handful of tourists sneaking down a bank to get a better view of the lower falls.  That’s when it hit me.  I had been here before.  When I was seven, Dad was stationed at Nellis AFB in Las Vegas.  That summer we took a family vacation: a few days in Yosemite—awesome, but it did nothing to assuage my acrophobia—then across the Golden Gate Bridge and up the Pacific Cost Highway.  Once we hit the Columbia River, we crisscrossed the states of Oregon and Washington until we hit Spokane.  For some reason, my dad thought he would retire up there, so he decided to buy a few acres close to Mount Spokane.

I remember a few scattered details about the Spokane part of the trip.  My dad had a new Betamax video camera.  Marc or David, I don’t recall which, busted his flip-flop traipsing through the underbrush of those ten acres of pine trees.  We stopped at a gas station on the return and I had a pineapple Crush soda.  (Never had one since.)

But standing on the bridge last Thursday, the raging of the falls came back, the red brick buildings, the dilapidated wood and chain-link fences.  I knew these sights…and not from postcards or distant stories.  Even though the I-Max theater was new, I had been on Canada Island before.  I had crossed the bridges as a boy, walked the trails, chased the squirrels, thrown rocks and sticks into the rapids.  The familiarity, which had been absent the previous three days, was rekindled in a small spark of memory.  And that familiarity brought contentment.  The power of memory and connection across 29 years made the entire trip worth it.

I’ve addressed the importance of mining for memories and the power that it holds in earlier posts, and I’m sticking to that claim.  Stories have power, and working to uncover what was once hidden in our lives, be they pleasant or horrific, is a process well worth the blood, sweat, and embarrassment of yesteryear.

I move that the human population would do well to set aside time, every so often, to reflect, to remember, and to contemplate the past and present so as to create a fuller, more meaningful future.  Writing, or journaling, or blogging, or sketching, or anything (really) physical and mechanical helps to solidify our life’s experiences and assists in the meaning-making we all seek in life.  Actually organizing our thoughts on paper helps shape the marble, shade the coloration, or dry the cement.  And at times, we can completely reconstruct our experiences from a new perspective—one that only years and seasoning can give birth to.  It’s all in the details and how we relish them, how we revel in them, and how we retain them.

As a teacher, I suggest that we provide students with opportunities to explore different moment sin their own lives.  Depending on the age of the students, they may not have very many eye-openers that they can recall.  However, and this is where I want to drive my point home, it is up to us to help them realize how special each minute detail may be.  Teach them to capture a snapshot of life; sagas are not necessary (really, they aren’t).  Nobody truthfully cares about what happened every minute of the day that led up to the food fight at lunch.  They just want to feel the past-prime peas pelted against their pock-marked faces.  They want to hear the squelching of mashed potatoes sloshed across someone’s unsuspecting mug.  They want to witness the spray of the chocolate milk carton exploding against the brick wall.

Teach them pacing.  Teach them to slow down those special EPSN highlight moments that they have had.  I will always marvel at how a close play at the plate, a single blocked shot, or a tackle in the backfield gets stretched into a three-minute segment.  Teach them to explode a scene, to take a 30-second thrill and stretch it over two or three pages that will hold the memory captive behind paper and ink (or digital) bars forever.

What’s that you say?  They still struggle to find ideas, to discover instances of significance in their short lives?  First, remind them that they don’t have to be world travelers to have an exciting life.  Sometimes thoughtful moments come in that landfill of a bedroom while blaring the latest trendy flash-in-the-pan performing artist.  Other times we need to slow down those sad and depressing episodes of our lives in order to analyze or make sense of this crazy, mixed-up world.

Sometimes, we all need a kick in the pants to get us going.  Students seem to need this more often, so one thing I like to do is to provide some kind of inspiration.   At times, it’s a picture—an illustration, meme, or work of art that will hopefully get them thinking.  Every now and again I give them a hypothetical situation or a question to ponder.  My favorite way to get students into a moment, though, is through a text.  I love to use short stories, poems, quotes, picture books—something text-based, to fire up those gerbil wheels and keep them spinning.  Check out my post about Writing Prompts Based on Readings.  It might help you get an example of what I’m talking about.  For those who need a framework, a prompt provides safety.  For those who are ready to explore the recesses of their mental abysses, they are free to wander…as long as they haul proper spelunking attire and accouterments.  See some of my personal rambles (look at the tags on the side bar over on the right) to see how it works for me.

Now, after I’ve babbled, I guess it’s time for me to shut up.  I may not have conveyed my thoughts perfectly here, but just sitting at my computer and physically typing the words has given me an outlet, an opportunity to try and make sense of the flotsam swimming through the clumps of gray matter inside my skull.  This is just a rough draft.  If it’s important enough to me, I’ll revise…yes, even after publication.

Your assignment: revisit the Spokane River.  Find those moments that have meaning.  Make connections between past and present.  Solidify them.  Even if you need some prompting, just do it.  Try one of my prompts. Discover something on your own.  Whatever you do, just write (even if your inner muse is on hiatus), reflect (even when it’s worse than rubbing hand sanitizer over an unidentified paper cut), and enjoy your life (or else).

V. Day 2013, Part II

Yeah, I know it’s a week later, but I’ve been revising, and that’s my right as a writer.  If you want to complain, I guess that’s your prerogative, too.  Just don’t expect me to listen.  As it is said, complaining is like sitting in a rocking chair.  It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t really get you anywhere.

For those who just want me to finish the story, keep your pants on (please!) while I explain to those who are lost that they need to go back and read the previous post (14 February 2013) to catch up.  Hurry up.  I won’t wait long.

In honor of the “holiday” that, in my opinion, is a mild form of the extortion of the males of this species, I ordered Amy flowers, which were delivered on the 13^th— lilies and orchids (I think).  On the actual day itself, I had to go to class (boo!)   So, I had my colleague (Thanks, Katrina!) drop off a package at my house while I scooted off to sit in a hard, plastic chair for another 150 minutes.

The package contained one stuffed skunk—plush, not a taxidermy special, one card which read “Happy Stinkin’ Valentine’s Day!,” and one poem (which has since been revised).  Awwww.

How’s that for Mr. Unromantic?

For those who care, or are curious, here’s the poem in its most recent version.

“Portal to Your Soul”

Reposing on the gentle bank,

                                                                                              I gaze into

your soul’s portal:

two hazel pools

where I can skip glances

across the glistening surface

or flirt with the smile

hiding and dancing

behind the gray-green

stained-glass—

flecks of brown and gold

and blue floating,

reflecting

the laughter

and life.

But it’s the calm, dark profundity

beneath the shallows

that intrigues me most,

lures me in,

and keeps me captive,

spellbound as a waxless sailor straining

to hear the siren’s song,

longing to

fall in and drown

in your depths.

And in return, I received the most freaking awesome V Day present ev-er.

BACON ROSES! CRAZY DELICIOUS!

V.Day 2013, Part I

In my mind, this is how it started.  One night at dinner, the kids were discussing valentines and their upcoming elementary school parties.  I believe it was Brooklyn who mentioned that she didn’t want to give a valentine to a certain person in her class, and Zac, being ten, suggested that she give him one that said something rather malicious.  Immediately Amy corrected his pre-teen-ness.  I, having subjected myself to dealing with seventh graders who had been especially moronic that day, mumbled under my breath, “You could just say ‘Happy Stinkin’ Valentine’s Day!’”

Of course, Zac heard it and burst into fits of laughter.  Amy and the rest heard it, and being the good father that I am, downplayed what I had said and rendered my comment inappropriate.  And the conversation went on.  But unbeknownst to the rest, an idea had hatched in my brain.

Earlier that day I had been contemplating using Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Valentine for Ernest Mann” in my classes.  I’ve referenced that poem before (see the entry for 24 March 2011), but for those who are unfamiliar with it, I’ll include the full text here:

“Valentine for Ernest Mann”

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 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.

So I was thinking about skunks and their beauty.  And then I remembered one of my first experiences interacting with Amy.  It was February or March of 1996 when this incident happened, and we were both in the Missionary Training Center preparing to proselytize for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—I was going to Spain, and Amy was headed to Guatemala.  Our time was drawing short before we all left for our respective assignments.  On my own, I had come up with nicknames (in Spanish) for some of the people in my district that reflected one facet of their personality; however, I hadn’t finished with everybody.

One evening, as I was finished with my studying, I glanced around the room to work on my name collection (Side note: I never finished it.), and I saw Amy (Hermana Walker at the time).  She was wearing a black jumper with some lighter flower prints on it.  She looked up for a moment, and her bright shining eyes contrasted against her dark hair and her dress.  And a perfect image came to mind: a skunk.  (Another important side note: it was those same gorgeous eyes that first attracted me to her when we met again two years later.)

When she found out that I called her a skunk, I believe I hurt her feelings until I explained that I was thinking of Flower from Disney’s Bambi—because of her eyes.  I don’t know if she believed me at first, but it was the truth.  She definitely wasn’t a stinker.  That would have been some of the others.

So I took the skunk images, both from the poem and my nickname for Amy, and added it to the dinnertime conversation, and I conjured an excellent idea for my valentine!

To be continued…

(Tune in to Part II if you want to see this all ties together.  Mwa-ha-ha-ha!)

Don't Hold Your Breath

By my calculations, I left you hanging with four undelivered food posts from December.  As a peace offering in my attempts to make good, I am posting today about some dadgumlicious pork chops I made the other day.  They were so awesome that I didn't even take a picture of them when I ate them.  I had to wait and capture the leftovers.  The subtlety of the garlic was even better after they hung out in the fridge overnight.

Chops with rice, gravy, and apple slices.

Ingredients for the breading include crushed Ritz crackers, Parmesan cheese, a healthy helping of garlic powder, sage, and a touch of salt.  Smear the chops in plain yogurt before coating.  These are single-coated, but I've been known to double coat as well.  Some of you might remember that crazy P-day/transfer day where our apartment in Jerez turned into pork chop central for everybody passing through.  Dang, those were scrumptious!

The gravy is cream of mushroom soup and sour cream--nice and thick.

These were baked, but frying is good, too, just not as healthy.

So, there. One down, three to go. Don't expect them at any regular intervals.  I'm trying to be a little healthier and lower my sugar intake.  We'll see how that goes.

Introspection

About a week ago I noticed that my previous post was my two hundredth since I started in October of 2009.  I thought I should attempt to compose something profound, but this ramble will have to suffice. I took some time and thought about why I even started Joe Average Writer.  Good question since I can’t seem to manage keeping up with it.  The establishment of this blog was supposed to be, for me, a step away from my comfort zone, a “leap” into technology with which I was not familiar.  It has been.

But now I am comfortable; despite the fact that I am a little lax in my posting (despite my best road-paving intentions).  I still do not consider myself a professional blogger, nor will I ever.  And I still consider my postings selfish.  I do this blog primarily for me, not my readers, or those random people who stumble onto my ramblings.  Sorry, but it’s the truth.  If you are offended, well…that’s your deal.  Hopefully you can glean something from my introspection today.

Writing has been an outlet for me: a way to reflect and remember, a way to think and learn, a way to challenge myself and grow as a writer as well as a teacher and a human being.  Sometimes the writing extends to others.  You can usually tell which posts have a target audience and which ones are just for me.  This, for example, is more for my own sanity.  I need to write.  It helps me deal with my thoughts, interactions, experiences, and my self.  (Yes, I meant to leave that as two words.)

So, as I continue to write, perhaps those few who read this will realize that you are witnessing me happen.  It’s raw.  Genuine.  Granted, it’s an asynchronous observation of bits and pieces of what’s flying around the Ninja blender that is my head.  However, sometimes the pieces all come together to give birth to a worthwhile thought.  That is my intention, at least.  But sometimes—well, frequently, for me—I just need to pause and dump.  There is no processing, just a dump (like this post).  As some of you have read before, I try to teach my students to vomit all their thoughts onto the paper.  It’s messy, but if you sift through the chunks, eventually you make sense of what’s happened with your ideas.  It’s the same with your (my) thoughts.

I’ve been extremely occupied lately.  There have been rare moments for me to breathe, think, or write, but they have been few and far between.  I don’t intend to sound like I’m whining.  On the contrary, all of my endeavors have been worthwhile, especially those involving my awesome supportive wife and my five-ring kid circus.  But for now, I’m pondering the question asked by a wise religious leader: “In this fast-paced life, do we ever pause for moments of meditation—even thoughts of timeless truths? (Thomas S. Monson, April 2012).  Writing, and dumping helps me to do just that.

Now, to address your concerns, I have every intention on completing my food post endeavor, as well as the other ideas I hinted at previously.  But for now, I’m done.  More substance will come soon.