Farewell, Richard Simmons. Thanks for the memories!

Richard Simmons passed away this week.

I’ve been thinking a bit about Mr. Simmons over the past few days. Why, you might ask? Because I used to do Sweatin’ to the Oldies.

I attended a very small, rural elementary school in West Virginia. We didn’t have a PE teacher, so classroom teachers were supposed to incorporate phys ed into our day. When I was in first grade, my teacher would take us to the school gym a couple of times a week. She’d roll out the VCR cart and pop in Sweatin’ to the Oldies. We danced along with Richard in his short shorts and sweated to the point of exhaustion. To this day, when I hear It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to, I think of my 7-year-old self doing the exaggerated crying hand motions (and Judy’s wearing his riinngg - point, point, point to your ring finger). I have no idea if we did this routine ten times or a hundred times; memories are weird in that way. I don’t remember hating it, though, not in the way that I dreaded middle school gym class (where the activity was almost always warball, which was basically dodgeball on steroids). I remember being fascinated by Richard’s energy and the way his workout companions were people of all sizes. They seemed to be having fun, unlike the Barbies in leotards I’d seen on my mom’s Jane Fonda workout tape. Maybe a seed was planted then, that exercise is for every body. Maybe that early experience with group exercise led me to step class in the early aughts and then Bodypump in my twenties. Was it that first experience with group fitness that has kept me chasing an exercise high for most of my adult life, even though I’m not really an athletic person? Is that why I sometimes wake up at 5 am for an early summer spin class, when I could be sleeping in?

Given a choice as a first grader, I probably would have chosen to do something more developmentally appropriate for PE, like freeze tag or four square. Maybe Sweatin’ to the Oldies was just the 80s version of GoNoodle and my teacher was ahead of her time. Either way, it was one of those character building experiences that I’ll never forget. Thanks, Ms. S, for that bizarre introduction to group fitness. And rest in peace, Richard Simmons. You were one of a kind.

The Rooster

How a pandemic pet helped me appreciate the gift of time

Challenges come with parenting, but luring a chicken into a traveling cage was a new one for me. With some trepidation, I regarded Basil, a feisty red rooster, and the small metal cage I had to convince him to enter. Luckily, all it took was that old standby, bribery with a favorite snack. My 11-year-old daughter held out a tempting handful of raspberries, and Basil strutted right in. Quickly realizing he’d been tricked, the rooster began squawking, as did the rest of the small flock, still in their coop. My daughter and I were a bit emotional ourselves as we separated the chickens. Forget crossing the road. We were about to transport Basil on a five-hour journey, across state lines, all in an effort to save his life.

~

Some people ended up with new pets during Covid-19 quarantine. New cats, new dogs. My family ended up with pandemic chickens. We had planned on getting them later in the spring anyway; my daughter had been researching backyard chickens and making plans for a coop since Christmas. When the school cancellation announcement came, and it looked like we’d be home for a while -- why not? 

We picked up the day-old chicks from our local farm store, where they had just arrived in the mail. Amid a chorus of peeping and cheeping, my daughter picked out three fluffy yellow-and-tan babies. After guaranteeing (well, 90%) that the chicks were hens, the store worker stuffed them unceremoniously into a cardboard box for transport, and we brought them home to a storage tub with a warming light in our garage. 

I worried about the fragility of these tiny creatures. What if we woke up in the morning and found one not moving? During that first week, I got up extra early, just to make sure before my daughter woke up that they were all still breathing. Before looking into the bin I’d say a silent prayer, and each time, miraculously, three downy faces peeked up at me.

Chickens grow quickly, and we marveled at their rapid development. Baby fluff was quickly replaced by feathers, and the plastic home that had seemed so vast appeared smaller as they grew.

During lockdown that spring, when every day seemed the same, the chickens provided a welcome distraction from online school, canceled playdates, and the celebrations that would never take place  My daughter’s birthday party: canceled. Her fifth grade overnight trip: scrapped. The ceremony that would mark the end of elementary school was replaced with a Zoom meeting. Each day I checked the COVID-19 dashboard online, and numbers continued to climb. I felt gripped by anxiety as good news was hard to find. It was difficult to remain cheerful when life felt so gloomy. I heard about a few families who were making the most of lockdown by baking homemade bread, playing board games, and having cozy bonfires in their backyards. That wasn’t us. “I’d like to just go into hibernation for about six months,” I remember remarking to a friend. “Kind of like a medically induced coma…wake me up when vaccines are here.” 

But with three growing chickens to care for, there was always a distraction. As spring turned to summer, it was time to move the chicks to an outside coop. They loved their tiny wooden cottage and acclimated quickly. I couldn’t help noticing that the one we’d named Basil appeared to be different from the other two. Basil was the biggest, and seemed to be developing a strut. Then one morning the crowing started. There was no denying it: we had a rooster on our hands. 

“Maybe we can just keep him,” suggested my daughter. “No, absolutely not,” my husband cut in, worried about what the neighbors might think. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew he was right. Not because I cared about the neighbors’ opinions; the coop was simply too small for a rooster. This guy needed more room, and a flock with more hens. It wouldn’t be fair to the other two to leave him here.

But where could we take him? After brainstorming, my daughter and I decided on the Biltmore Estate, a nineteenth century castle located a few miles from our home. What chicken wouldn’t want to live on the grounds of a lavish Gilded Age residence? The outdoor areas of the estate had recently reopened, so we visited that very day. At the petting zoo area, where happy chickens were clucking around, we approached the attendant. Would they be interested in a well-behaved rooster? Kindly, the attendant explained that the estate has a “closed flock,” and doesn’t accept chickens from outside of its breeding program. A castle just wasn’t in the cards for Basil.

Closed flock was a term we would hear frequently over the next few days. From the local nature center, from a large nearby family farm. “Maybe you should just put him on Craigslist,” a neighbor suggested. Craigslist? I shuddered. Maybe he would find a good home...but more likely he’d end up on someone’s dinner table, or a backyard cock fighting ring. I couldn’t let that happen.

The quest to find Basil a home became a temporary obsession. But after a week of unsuccessful searching, when I spoke with a farmer who suggested taking him for a long walk in the woods and leaving him there, I knew it was time to turn elsewhere, to seek help from  the person I’ve always relied on in times of trouble.

It was time to call my mother.

My mother already had several hens of her own. “Mom, do you want a rooster?” I asked her. 

“Not really,” she answered. But when the whole desperate story poured out, she relented. “He can come here on one condition: If he gets aggressive, I’m giving him away to anyone who will take him.”  

And just like that, it was settled. That’s how I found myself facing a five-hour drive to West Virginia with a rooster. “Do we really have to take him?” my daughter asked, as we listened to Basil’s indignant squawks from the traveling cage.

“Yes,” I answered reluctantly. “Let’s go.”

Basil kept up the noises as we began the first leg of our trip. “What kind of music do you think he’d like?” I asked. 

 “Maybe...Taylor Swift?” my daughter suggested. 

Alas, songs about boyfriends made him squawk even louder. After flipping through Pandora stations, we discovered that James Taylor had a soothing effect. And so, with Carolina In My Mind as our theme song, we drove north through Appalachia. It wasn’t long before we crossed the Tennessee border. Soon we were in Virginia, winding through mountains, and then Kentucky. I hadn’t heard a peep from Basil in hours, but a quick peek into the hatchback at a rest stop assured me that he was still with us. 

Basil seemed to be in shock when we eventually stopped the car in West Virginia. Had the trip been too much? We took him out of the cage and nudged him into his new coop. He looked around, strutted a bit, and then began introducing himself to the hens. I breathed a giant sigh of relief.

We spent a blissfully uneventful summer evening with my parents, and I pretended everything was “normal.” For a brief time I forgot about the pandemic, giving in to that nostalgic feeling that always finds me at my parents’ house, that feeling of almost being a child again. 

Too soon the next morning came, and it was time to go. After giving Basil a few final raspberries, we said our goodbyes and began the winding drive back home, James Taylor still crooning on Pandora. 

“James Taylor’s songs are kind of sad,” my daughter said. ”Let’s listen to something else.” I changed the station to the Hamilton soundtrack and glanced back at my daughter in the rearview mirror. She was at that in-between place, teetering between a girl and a young woman. And as the Schuyler sisters sang, “Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now…” I thought about my own luck right now. How lucky I was to be present as my daughter makes her way into her teenage years. How lucky to be nearly 40 and still have  parents in good health; parents who have always been willing to lend support, even by adopting a silly rooster.  

Just to be alive and well in the midst of a pandemic was a stroke of good luck. With regret, I remembered my earlier wish for a months-long escape from reality and how callous that was. As hard as some days felt, I didn’t want to miss a moment.

“You know,” my daughter said, “I think Basil’s a pretty lucky rooster.” 

“Yeah,” I said softly, “I think we’re pretty lucky too.”

Being the Tortoise: My Slow Journey to National Board Certification

Today I saw fireworks.

There are some teachers who set out on the National Boards journey and complete all 4 components in one year and certify right away. I am not one of those teachers. I did this piece by piece, taking the longest amount of time possible—the full 5 years. I passed each component the first time, but my overall score wasn’t high enough, so I did 2 components over again.

Five years. My daughter was in kindergarten when I began this process, and now she’s a fifth grader.

I am the tortoise, not the hare. I am a dreamer, someone who stares out windows. I love to write, but I found the dryness of National Boards writing painful sometimes. There were so many times along the way when I said I wish I could just write a personal essay instead. So, here’s a mini personal essay.

When I began my first school library class, way back in 2008 at the University of Vermont, the instructor asked us to think about what we remembered about our elementary school library. We went around and talked about our experiences. Some people described warm and fuzzy memories of very sweet libraries and welcoming librarians. Others spoke about sterile environments and shushing librarians. When it was my turn to speak, I had to admit that my rural elementary school did not have a library. Instead, a bookmobile came every so often. I don’t think the driver had any formal library training. He had a Billy Ray mullet, and I don’t remember him ever actually speaking to us. The bookmobile smelled of moldy books, and I’m pretty sure the selection was terrible, but I looked forward to it anyway.

I work in an elementary school library now. When older students come back and walk through the space, they often tell me about the amazing puppet shows the former librarian put on. Apparently they were elaborate and wonderful. Sometimes I wonder, what will my current students remember about their library experiences? Will the memories be warm and fuzzy? I certainly hope they’ll have fond memories of the library. I hope they’ll connect their elementary library experiences with building a love of reading and learning.

I had a mentor my very first year of teaching who once told me that she could do her job with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. (Side note to any teacher reading this: never say that to a beginning teacher. That’s ridiculous, and she probably should have retired that year.) When I started on the National Boards process I thought of her. I wondered if that’s how I would feel if I ever earned National Boards, so extremely confident in my ability as a teacher that I could say I could do my job with my eyes closed and only one hand. Now that I can add NBCT to my email signature, do I really feel like that? Of course not. I will go to school on Monday and I will still struggle with classroom management. I will still plan lessons that are successful and lessons that flop. I will still go to my district Media Coordinators meeting every month and feel like my colleagues are doing way more amazing things than I am. I will continue to examine my teaching practice and try to do better each day. I will carry with me the grit I gained on this long National Boards journey to help me do the next hard thing, whatever that may be. It was such a long road, but I’m glad I stuck it out.

Becoming My Mother

I wrote this piece a few years ago, but it is still one of my favorite essays about one of my favorite people.

If you ever visit Burlington, Vermont, you'll find lots to see and do.  Walk along the sparkling water of Lake Champlain and visit the vibrant downtown. If you're a shopper, you'll find no shortage of options.  My favorite place to shop in the Burlington area is on Dorset Street. It's not the University Mall with its conglomeration of chain stores. Across the street from the mall, in a small plaza, is a thrift store called Replays.  For the six years I lived in the Green Mountain state, that was my go-to place for collecting unique pieces. Some of my best finds included a v-neck Banana Republic shift that is still my favorite little black dress, a charcoal gray blazer that could have been tailored especially for me, and a yellow fleece that became my security blanket for long winters. Once, though, Replays provided a serendipitous retail therapy experience that left me with a surprising realization.

One autumn, just a few months after my daughter was born, my mother came to visit. My mom just happens to be the queen of thrift store shopping and gladly accompanied me on a visit to Replays. We split up as we browsed through the store and I met her near the dressing rooms.  She went into one to try on a skirt, and re-emerged a few minutes later wearing a navy wool A-line piece that looked vaguely familiar.

“So what do you think?” she asked, spinning around.

I walked a little closer for a better look and then burst into giggles.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“Well, it's a nice skirt, but it can get kind of itchy. I just donated that a few weeks ago,” I replied.

“You're kidding! That's like finding a needle in a haystack,” she said.

I wondered what that said about my own fashion choices as my mother, almost 30 years my senior, was collecting a piece of my former wardrobe. I stood beside her and looked in the full-length mirror.  I smiled at the reflection of three generations--my mother and I, with my daughter sleeping against my chest in a sling. I was struck by how alike my mother and I are in appearance: the same brown hair and similar oval faces, mine smooth, and hers showing the evidence of time with fine lines. The same petite frame and pear-shaped body. I thought about all the fashion lessons I'd learned from her over the years: that skirts and sundresses will always look better on our body type than shorts in summertime, that classic pieces are always better than fads, and the how-tos of finding high quality clothes at bargain prices. I thought briefly of that phrase becoming my mother.  But I realized that perhaps becoming more like my mother wouldn't be a terrible thing.

Since my daughter was born I've been able to fully appreciate all the sacrifices my mother made to raise four children.  She has always offered support, encouragement, and shown me unconditional love. Through the skinned knees of childhood, drama of adolescence, and the joys and disappointments of adulthood, she has been my biggest cheerleader. She chose to be a stay-at-home mom while my brothers and I were young, which meant pinching pennies for several years.  She started her teaching career later in life and has become a phenomenal educator, creating a classroom environment that shows the same dedication to her students that she has always shown her own children. I have learned so much from her both personally and professionally.

As I looked in the mirror that day I made a promise to my daughter to try to be as good a mother to her as my own has been.  I realized then that becoming my mother wasn't something to dread, but something to aspire to.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, and thanks for everything.

My Child Shamed Me Into Giving To a Homeless Man...and It Was a Humbling Experience

A few months ago, I had an essay published on Motherly. It was a shortened version; the full essay is below.

A man stood by the side of the road, thin and ragged, holding a battered cardboard sign. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, willing the light to turn green. He was close enough that if my car window had been rolled down, I could have reached out a hand and touched him. But the windows were shut, a solid barrier between us.

“Mommy, what is that guy doing? What does his sign say?” my daughter asked from the backseat. She was in kindergarten, just beginning to read.

I cast a side-eyed glance at him. “His sign says Homeless and Hungry,” I told her. “He’s asking for money”.

“Well, aren’t you going to help him?” she asked. “He’s hungry!”

I rarely carry cash, so it wasn’t a lie when I mumbled, “I don’t actually have any dollar bills with me right now”. I felt a pang of guilt, though. To my daughter, it was obvious that we should come to the aid of a hungry man who needed help. Had I lost sight of my own humanity, zooming past this man without a second glance?

Next time, I resolved, I would stop and give something.

The following day I stashed a few one dollar bills in the console of my car and designated it “the homeless fund.”

About a week later, on the way home from school, we came upon another man panhandling. Homeless Vet, his sign said. I gave him a couple of dollars through my car window. He was gracious, and the interaction only lasted a moment. As I drove on, I realized I was feeling something I hadn’t expected: happiness. I remembered then what I had learned in my early twenties as an Americorps volunteer, that giving makes you feel good.

This continued for a few months. My daughter would announce “There’s someone with a sign!” and I would scrounge for loose change or bills. But I wondered if we could do more. The people we gave to were often stationed near the interstate exit closest to our house, not far from a McDonald’s. What about gift cards instead of cash?

My daughter and I talked about other small things someone who lives on the street might like. “A bottle of water,” she suggested. “A snack.”

I went online and found several ideas for care kits. We went shopping and packed a few large ziploc bags with chapstick, tissues, bottled water, granola bars, $5 McDonald’s gift cards, and pairs of socks. I stashed them in my glove compartment to have on hand, and my daughter and I began putting together a handful of bags each month.

Since then we have given away many of these care packages. The recipients have been men and women, young and old. Some are disheveled and some are well-groomed. The messages on their signs vary: Far From Home, Hungry, Anything Helps, Vietnam Vet, God Bless. Every time we give a bag away, though, we are met with thanks.

~

Then, last summer, I found that it was my turn to do the thanking. My daughter and I were at our local nature center and I had forgotten to pack sandwiches for lunch. A small hot dog stand was our only option, so I started to order. Then I noticed the “cash only” sign.

“Oh...wait. You don’t take credit or debit cards?” I asked.

“We only take cash,” the man running the stand replied.

“Never mind,” I said, embarrassed and flustered. “I don’t actually have any cash with me.”

Immediately my daughter began whining. “Mom-my, what are we going to eat? I’m starving!”

The vendor looked at her and then at me. “Wait here,” he said and began preparing two hot dogs.

“But I don’t have any way to pay you,” I protested.

“It’s ok,” he replied. “I’m giving them to you. I want to do this. Let me do one nice thing today.”

My voice caught as I thanked him, humbled to experience this level of kindness from a stranger. I felt a combination of discomfort with my situation combined with gratitude. For a moment, I realized what it must feel like to be on the other end of our care package project.

I’ll never know the impact of our project. “Most of those people probably throw it all away,” my husband has told me. “They’re just looking for money to buy drugs.”

Maybe that does happen sometimes. But so what? I’m not a Catholic, but I am a fan of Pope Francis. “Give without worry,” he said in an interview last year about giving to the homeless. ”Because giving to someone in need is always right.”

It’s been three years since my daughter and I began giving away our care packages. If she hadn’t shamed me into trying to help a hungry man, I would still be avoiding eye contact with people on the street who ask for assistance. Instead, I remember how I felt that day at the hot dog stand. I also think about the vendor’s words: Let me do one nice thing today.

The care packages are a simple project. But in a way, they’re anything but simple. The project has given me the chance to model kindness and compassion to my child. It’s created an opportunity for us to work together. And it’s allowed us to experience the joy that comes from doing something good.

When does a person become a writer?

In January, I finally gave myself permission to change my Twitter bio from 'aspiring writer' to 'writer'. I did this on the day I received my first check for a piece of writing. The amount wasn't much, but it felt validating to take that check to the bank. Was that the day I became a writer?

After some contemplation, I've realized that I must have become a writer long before that. Maybe it was in 2012 on the day I published my very first blog post. Maybe it was a year later when I attended a writer's conference and made an unsuccessful attempt to pitch my first manuscript to an agent. If I think back even further, I remember when I was in fifth grade and discovered that I liked crafting and sharing stories. Maybe a person becomes a writer when writing brings joy.

Of course, I still have days when writing does not bring joy. Sometimes it feels like the hardest thing in the world, and trying to find the right words makes me want to tear my hair out, strand by strand. Sometimes I sit down at my computer and feel like everything I write is garbage. But every once in a while I manage to write a piece that I really like. 

As I continue on my writing journey, this website is one more small step along the way.