Jessamyn's Piece

            Brady told me it was the perfect night for catching snapping turtles.  With Brady, I knew that a comment like that was an invitation for adventure.  When he rattled his Dodge truck down the curve of my driveway I was already waiting on my porch dressed in warm clothes, a ball cap pulled down over my long braids.

         I climbed into the truck, kissing him hello but not yet speaking. Brady grinned and slipped the truck into reverse, turning to rest his arm across the back of the worn bench seat as he set his eyes out over the back of the truck. In the fading dusk, the red brake lights illuminated his face, which held a look that was all at once happy, but tired and solemn.  I felt as if I was entering a sacred moment - snapping turtle fishing was, by rule, a boys' night activity.  Brady hadn't mentioned this breach of tradition when he asked me, and I wasn't going to argue.  Instead I sat noiselessly, anxiously, afraid to break the silence and desperate to make myself worth it to him.

         Martin Mill Pond was only a mile away from the house, a river swollen fat by a dam at the bottom, lapping near to the edge of the new Route 38A. Of course, when the dam was built there was only riverside farmland to flood; the train came much later and then the new Route 38A was built in the 1950s, following the track line along the winding river.  At that time, they reinforced the tracks along the pond with concrete and stone supports.  Like something orchestrated by fate, these constructions culminated in the creation of the perfect fishing spot.  The road gave clean access, the long unused railroad bed left a flat spot to sit, and the bolstering of the trestle created a quick drop off deep into the murky pond, where big fish and turtles alike waited beneath dark water.

         The others were already there when we arrived.  Brady pulled the truck off the highway into the dusty shoulder and hopped out to unload his gear.  There was very little light left before the night settled, and we moved quickly to get everything out.  No one spoke, just moved silently over the sound of the nighttime crickets.  The pond was slate, still and ominous past the edge of the trestle.  It didn't reflect the pinkish-hued sky that lingered above; instead it rejected all femininity, remaining cold and impassive, as if it could feel my anxious heart beating fast.  I would find no solace or friend in that cold-hearted body, and so far none of the boys had done much but grunt in recognition of my presence.

         I stepped back up into the truck with Brady, wondering if I had made a mistake in coming. We drove it up the road a ways where the years of fishermen pilgrimages had created a parking area big enough for a few cars. Brady gently shifted into park and leaned back in his seat, sighing. I squeezed my hands together, knitted almost in nervous prayer, and gazed out the window.

         "Are you sure it's okay with the guys that I'm here?"  My voice sounded out of place against the blanket of silence and he glanced at me surprised; I couldn't tell if it was because I had asked that question, or just that I had spoken aloud.

         "They're great.  You already know Bobby, and I'll introduce you to my cousin and uncle when we get back." He reached over to squeeze my hand and I realized how cold I was, a sign of my uneasiness.  His fingers draped so completely over my knuckles that it made me think of the night we had finally decided to be more than friends; hands palm to palm he had marveled at how perfectly our fingers fit together, like a line from a cheesy movie. At the time I had been contemplative; I wasn't sure what I really wanted and the borrowed line rang out like a sour note. It hadn’t felt real to me. The thought of it now made me shiver and he mistook me for being cold, offering me his oversize sweatshirt.

         It smelled like him, a combination of cologne and outdoors, maybe a bit of campfire, too.  Whatever I had felt then, it felt real now. Comforted, I pulled the sweatshirt around me as we started back to the others, picking my way across the train tracks.  The air was heavy on the cusp of rain and the rising breeze pulled at my braids, desperate to let loose my errant curls.  Brady took a moment to purposefully move between myself and the road, placing a hand at my back while I navigated the rails. He would often surprise me with the protective nature I was gradually discovering.  I could feel the warmth of his palm through his sweatshirt and momentarily rallied my courage to face the rest of the boys.

         I had known Bobby for longer than Brady, but both had been my good friends for a long time.  Bobby was the older brother of my closest girl friend, and his brotherly protection often expanded to include me.  I could see him watch as Brady carefully led me to them, meticulously noting the attention he paid to keeping me safe.  His grin at our arrival could just have easily been an approval as a welcome.  He was setting up a propane lantern atop the largest of the coolers; the darkness was finally settling and the lone light from the lantern was a beacon, casting shadows on his features.

         Brady's cousin Jake was a lot younger than us, just out of high school and working at the factory down the river.  Brady was Jake's best and possibly only friend, so I swallowed away my worry and smiled warmly at him, desperate to prove to him I was a good girl, that I wouldn't break Brady's heart, that I was okay for him despite our disparate backgrounds. Despite my attempt, he shook my hand formally. I let go of a disappointed sigh. I tried once more to ask him a friendly question, which he answered perfunctorily, adding on a polite, "ma'am," to which Bobby and Brady let out whooping laughs that shattered the air.

         Jake's father, Brady's Uncle, stood on the far side of the perch, but turned at that moment and started to stumble toward me.  Something felt wrong and I froze to the spot; his eyes were glazed and his steps were offbeat.  Both Brady and Bobby moved subtly closer to me, not blocking the Uncle all the way, but still an immovable presence. He reached out a hand to me and introduced himself, coming close enough for me to smell the alcohol.  Despite my terror of him (Brady, although reticent to share much, had bitterly described his habits), I did smile to try to make the situation more relaxed but it only seemed to encourage him; he wouldn't let go of my hand.  I nodded politely even though I only could understand a word or two of what he was saying.  Finally, Brady tugged his arm away, moving him along, and set him up with a pole on the far edge of our area; the Uncle mumbled to himself but drew a fresh gulp from the bottle he pulled from his coat and left us alone.

         Our little sphere of light glowed under the chapel of the cloudy sky. We set up chairs near the coolers, each of us opening a bottle of cheap cold beer and settling in.  After giving me a chair, Brady placed one for himself on my left and one for Bobby on my right, further protection against either the Uncle or the darkness.  Bobby stood on the edge of the pond, now a dark abyss expanding past the limits of the lantern, threading bait on his hook. His decrepit fishing hat sat askew on his head, making him look far older than he was. A silly-looking thing, I'm sure it was for luck that he even wore it.  He cast his line out into the night, searching for the poor little fish that would become Snapper bait.

         It was quieter than I thought.  The boys seemed settled in their routine; their camaraderie was implicit in their systematic movements. Each knew when the other needed a lure, a beer, a seat, or a joke.  They spoke infrequently, vacillating between crude humor (Brady would wink in my direction and Bobby would cluck in disapproval on my behalf) and thoughtful observation of the night. I felt superfluous and intimidated by their inaudible intimacy, although they never meant for me to feel that way.  Jake sat off on his own in silence, at the farthest point away from his drunken father, hunched over his reel and rod with a leg dangling just above the cool water. Brady would check in, pass me a drink, or squeeze my shoulder. Bobby would explain this or that technique like he was preaching a sermon, his fishing rod and line probing the depths for the baitfish.         

         Shadowed against the night sky, I studied their silhouettes. Jake seemed a polar opposite to Brady and Bobby. Jake was skinny and shorter than me; the others, military-muscled, towered at over six feet tall. Where Bobby's shoulders hunched to hide it, Brady's fell relaxed.  Brothers in everything but blood, they were tied together for life; I envied their closeness.  While I loved them both in different ways and for different reasons, I felt even then that I would never come close to touching their lives as they had done for each other. Still, they stood as pillars of my protection, sanctuary against my worries. I was a silent observer to their quiet communion with the wild.

         Once the poor baitfish was caught, the atmosphere changed for all of them.  The Uncle had long gone to sleep off the booze in Jake's truck, but the rest of us remained waiting for the big catch.  Brady pulled the heavy-duty line from his tackle box and baited the hook before he settled into the chair next to me.  Jake, lighthearted without his father nearby, cracked a joke and turned on a little radio I hadn't noticed.  He adjusted the dial and a country guitar rang out across the water, echoing back from the tiny lights on the opposite shore; the turtles wouldn't be spooked by the music like the fish. Lines in the water, Brady and Bobby traded stories I had never been privy to, and I watched with fascination.  One of them got started on boot camp stories, and they spent several minutes trying to prove to me who had the best (or the worst) story to share.

         It wasn't long before they caught a Snapper.  The pole bent until I was sure it would snap, but said nothing and kept myself out of the way.  Brady, whose line bore the turtle, squinted his eyes in focused concentration on the line, muscles outlined in the lamplight as he held fast; putting down his own pole, Bobby stretched his great frame along the ground to prepare to pull the turtle out when it got close enough; Jake kept his eyes along Brady's line, but shouted encouragements between curses and took out his knife, ready to cut when required. It took a few minutes for the beast to surface through the churning water, but I shrieked when it did; it was enormous.  Even Brady swore in delight, and the others joined him in admiration of the creature.  Just as it dragged against the side of the trestle, Bobby swooped in and snatched hold of his tail, holding it dripping at arm's length, his arm swaying with the weight.

         I was in awe of the scene. The dark and leathery looking skin of the turtle was cragged and spiked; its giant shell was scratched and battered. It snapped its jaws and thrashed around, indignant at being fooled by what it thought was a free dinner. Its stony eyes were full of anger, an ancient and venerable rage.  All at once it was terrifying and beautiful.  Time froze and the world faded as I watched; the dark creature and the jubilant heroes never seemed at odds, but rather moved together in an odd dance. The boys were methodical; they had caught it but never intended to keep it.  How could they? Instead, Brady worked to get the line free so they could return it to the murk.

         Then it was over.  The turtle slipped beneath the inky water and the boys sat back on their heels at the water's edge.  I went back to my chair, suddenly tired.  It had been just a few minutes, maybe even seconds. It was as if we had all been confronted with something truly wild; yet, for them, it was one of many such encounters. I was different, a foreigner to their easy understanding of the way of nature. I shivered in Brady's sweatshirt. I loved being there, despite myself. Something had clicked. I could see it all through Brady's eyes; it was the nearness to nature he loved, the explanation for his desire to fill his precious few free hours with fishing rather than always choosing to see me. There under the night sky I could finally understand, watching him as he looked out across the water. 

         When he turned back to me, grinning, I smiled happily. He didn't rebait his pole, but came back and sat next to me, his arm curling around my shoulders and drawing me near. Jake turned off the radio, perhaps to preserve the holiness of their victory, and the air filled with the hymn of circling night creatures, swarming to the lone lantern light. I settled in against Brady while we watched Jake and Bobby fish for a little longer. Their casts were less purposeful this time; they had already won the battle. 

         It wasn't long before the clouds above us spilled over and it began to rain.  The boys rushed around to pack up while I went and got the truck. Our laughs were interspersed with their controlled commands, organized in post-triumph glow. They bellowed at each other trying to decide what to save first: their tackle or the beer.

         I felt like a giddy teenager when Brady dropped me off at my house later that night. We sat in the truck talking for hours, the previous silent sanctity of the night broken by the torrents of rain that had driven us away and now pattered against the roof. I wondered why he had brought me out with them, although I was glad he had. We talked about anything; he excitedly detailed all the fishing places he wanted to take me to see, camping trips we would share with the guys, and future snapping turtles we would catch. Now that I had been a successful part of boys’ night, I could join them again; I was completely and utterly happy. Our kisses were full of hope and happiness for what had occurred and what could be. When the rain broke, we were reluctant to separate, but in the end he walked me to my door where we kissed goodnight while moths dive-bombed the light bulb over the door.  I went inside, electric with joy. His truck backed out of the driveway, headlights disappearing down the road.

         I never went snapping turtle fishing again.

Dechert

Michelle P.'s Writing Piece

Denise and Greg are fighting again—quite publicly.  She writes a not-so-veiled comment on the newsfeed about being stuck with the kids AGAIN by herself and how she is sick of it.  He attacks her by demanding that she not vent where everyone can read it and she knows where she can find him.  The irony is lost in the ensuing back and forth debate, in which “friends” occasionally try to mediate.  

Miranda’s relationship status has gone from “In a relationship” to “It’s complicated.”  What’s that about?  There follows the typical series of comments that range from the maddeningly misspelled: “Its ok hunny” and “Ur better off without him anyway” to the clueless “What happened?” 

(Those types of status updates are always fascinating, though nothing beats the time I read Ben Gonn’s, which went from “Married” to “Single” and on which his wife? ex-wife? posted, “It’s nice to find out you’re planning on divorcing me through Facebook!”  In this case, the cliché of watching a train wreck definitely applies.)

Terri is angry at her son’s teacher, who must have done or said something during class one day. (I’d have to probably go to her home page to see the backstory on that one and it’s hard to read posts that bash other teachers, so this time, I refrain).  Her post ends with a self-congratulatory “You don’t mess with the Mama Bear!” 

Troy has posted a picture of the Pats game—which he attended.  There’s a photo of him down on the field post-game, cheering and pointing his finger to the sky in the “We’re number one!” sign. 

Emma just had her baby.  Declarations of “Congratulations!” follow suit.  Pictures too—in which everyone looks happy and the pink-cheeked child, swaddled in fleece, is sleeping for the camera.

Heather is once again raving about what a wonderful boyfriend she has—and look, there’s the bouquet of peach-colored roses he bought her—“just because.”

Jill has posted pictures of her children—looking adorable—as they sled on the hill outside their home, and then come in for hot cocoa.  Oddly, there are no pictures of them smacking each other on the head, pushing each other off the sofa, or wailing about stolen cars that have mysteriously “absconded” from the room. (Oh wait, those are my kids.)

Mark’s son just won the school spelling bee.  His daughter just cured cancer.

Shelley has just finished cleaning the house, baking a four course dinner (of which she posted pictures), and is now headed out to Zumba—after which she will save the world.

Before I know it, I am sucked in.  Soon it’s been a half an hour, the kids are hungry, I haven’t started a one course dinner yet—let alone a four course one--and I am convinced that—aside from those publicly venting or fighting or complaining-- everyone else is a better parent, better teacher, or is better at juggling life’s responsibilities than I am.  

And apparently, I’m not alone.  According to a study done by Utah Valley University, Facebook—along with other social media sites—makes us sad. 

The study references the kinds of pictures and information people post: most of the pictures show people smiling, having fun—not people sitting depressed in a darkened room.  And there are plenty of people who post funny or positive statuses rather than parading their problems for the world to see—present company included.  So it’s easy to understand why those who spend a lot of time on Facebook come to the conclusion that other people have better lives than they do. 

I remember how excited I was when I first opened my Facebook account.  Ten friend requests.  Then eight more.  Then twelve. Fifteen.  Seventeen.  Six.  Nine.  I had eighty-one friends!   And more.  And more.  I spent time creeping around on my new friends' pages, discovering what they had been up to for the past several years.  It was fun, catching up with former students--who comprise many of my Facebook friends--since, without Facebook, I probably would never know what most of them were doing with their lives.  The downside is that sometimes I know a little too much about what it is that they are doing.

The irony is that while Facebook is touted as sowing connection and community, it often reaps discontent and isolation. 

Facebook users paradoxically isolate themselves from the people who physically surround them in order to interact with people whose only presence is online.  Conversations exist through posts or chats, rather than face-to-face.  After all, when you only have so much time to cook dinner, bathe the kids, do laundry, and grade papers, jotting a quick comment on a friend’s status or hitting the “like” icon is a lot easier than picking up the phone and calling to talk—or better yet, getting in your car and driving over for a visit. 

But maybe that’s the problem.  It's easier, but it isn't as fulfilling. 

I recently got the chance to reconnect with one of my old college friends who lives in Pennsylvania.  Our April vacation was spent roaming through city streets, visiting the Crayola Factory with our children, going mini golfing, eating ice cream, and talking.  I didn’t go on Facebook over the whole vacation.  And (if I’m being honest) mostly, I didn’t miss it.  At one point, my husband logged on so he could print off directions to his cousin’s apartment in New York City.  Like an addict, I succumbed to temptation, briefly, and saw a few status updates by my friends, started feeling left out of the loop, and had to remind myself that I was having a nice time with my family and friends while I was on a vacation—and had to remind myself about how good it felt to visit with someone in person.

My excuse is always that I don’t have time to do this type of connecting.  I’m too busy walking the tightrope of mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, teacher, advisor to do much more than keep my head straight, arms extended, one foot in front of the other. 

Yet how much time each day do I end up spending on Facebook?  On a weeknight, maybe not so much.  A half hour.  Sometimes 45 minutes, if the posts are interesting.  On weekends?  Some Saturdays I feel like a user, in every sense of the word.  I spend my time procrastinating various chores by plunking myself down in front of the computer, scrolling down the screen, wondering why everyone else has a life but me. 

Wendy is going to Hampton Beach to check out the sand sculpture competition.  (It’s a gorgeous summer day.  Why didn’t I think of that?  Probably because I was thinking of all the grading I still have to do. Too late now.)

Jane is hiking up Lovell Mountain with her family.  (Ditto my previous comment.)

Nancy is thanking Tina and Steve for a fun date night the previous evening.  (People have date nights?  And when was the last time we got together with anyone?)

Susan is baking muffins with her girls.  Next they will be making crepes.  (I could do that.  I can bake, right?  Well, maybe not crepes.  But muffins, yes.  I could do muffins.)

It's a sorry way to spend a Saturday: sitting at my computer while other people are out seizing the day. 

So maybe it’s time that I stop letting Facebook get me down.  Maybe it’s time to recognize that the honest answer to the question, “What’s on your mind?” isn’t always what fills everyone’s pages, and that the “faces” that people present on Facebook are the ones that they want the world to see—for better or for worse—and if I want more meaningful relationships, while Facebook is a fun way to interact with people, it shouldn’t be the only way I do so.

“What’s on my mind—and that of my family and friends?”  Maybe it’s time to log off and find out.

Tomasen's Piece

Good Day I am attempting to see what it would be like to post each of our pieces separately so that we can respond to each other one at a time.  If you send me your pieces electronically I will post them along with the individual histories of your pieces as I have done below mine.  

stillness
the world's eyes opening
squinting
     stretching before
                    my
                        eyes
the sacred yawn of morn
brings a solitude
             of newness
hope, renewal and life

the woods
       my magical forest
with twinkling eyes
                        winking
surrounding me
as we usher in the
day as
one

The History of this Piece

This poem started a year ago when I was working in an 8th grade classroom modeling a writing in response to Ralph Fletchers book, Twilight Comes Twice.  What started out as a quick write on the white board instantly became something that resonated with me in terms of trying to capture that feeling of those walks with my dog, Ruby in the woods.  There are moments when we are walking, usually alone, that something completely wonderful, magical and mystical happens.  It is almost as though I can feel the forest come to life.  I posted this poem on my personal blog over a year ago and then again recently.  I was thinking I would revise it and yet, each revision I tried was just not any better.  And so I leave this poem, as is, for now...knowing that I will return to it yet again as I wonder...does the dog need to be a part of this?  Is this enough?  And each time I do go back I realize it is what I want...for now!!

Final Reflections...

Take some time to reflect on the LTT course, the course text, Write Beside Them, Class discussions etc. and think about how your thinking has changed.  Read through all of the blog entries, yours and those of others, to see if you can track how your thinking has or has not changed.  Reflect on your personal experience and how you hope to take what you have discovered with you into the future.

Difficulties and Challenges

What is one of the most difficult and challenging parts of your teaching?  If you could assure that your students left your classroom with ONE thing what would that be?  What is it that makes this such a challenge?  I am not looking for answers here as much as thoughts about one thing you would like to be different.  It could be anything...such as "I wish my students would talk more in class discussions" or "I would like to have better classroom control."  What is the one thing that keeps you up at night and makes you crazy?

Writing History

Who are you as a writer?  What are the memories you have as a writer?  If these are hard to remember try making a timeline for yourself and writing down all of the different memories you have from the earliest to the most recent.  Take some time to write down your history and what you think defines you as a writer.

Reading Reflections

Take some time to reread what you have read in our text through chapter 8.  Choose a line and write to that line to reflect on your thinking as a teacher of writing.  What shifts are you starting to see in terms of your teaching?  They can be very small or very large.  What facilitated this change in your thinking?