I hadn’t even looked at my blog for a long time. I AM a
writer. I have written curriculum with kids, I have written books, chapters and
articles about teaching. I wrote lengthy newsletters to my students’ parents
about what we did each week in class and why we did it. I wrote during my
class’ writing workshop. I’ve written songs, responses to books, lots of
things. Really.
But I let this blog go. I stopped writing about the
essential every day noticings a writer needs in order to sustain an edge, that look at the world, that observational stance, which makes one more
careful, more watchful, more keen to pick up on little things that make a big
difference. We live those moments all the time. But writing about them gives
them their rightful place in our lives.
It’s all those small stories that make up the big story of
our life. And when you write them down, they find their importance.
Here’s one. A couple weekends ago, Heidi and I went up to
our son’s house. He and his wife bought this honey of a place in Tega Cay. It
had just been flipped. The previous owner went through as fast as possible and
slapped down carpet over tile, ignored drainage issues, and painted
surfaces that deserved a little more TLC before being whitewashed over.
Devin found mold behind some sheetrock and had to gut a
downstairs room. Carpet had to be pulled up, plasterboard broken up and removed, everything needed to be bleached. He had to get it all down to the bare bones. Not pleasant but necessary. He invited me up for the construction.
Neither of us had ever done any extensive rebuilding like
this. Instead of replacing the sheetrock we used tongue-and-groove pine boards. There were
four outlets on the wall, space for trim, lots of measuring and cutting. It’s
not like it was all that hard to figure out what to do. It’s just that we
figured it out together.
Here is this big strong man, who I used to carry on my
shoulders, who used to delight me with his first insect discoveries, his first
guitar licks, his first tricks on a skateboard, catching his first bass. Then
his first crush, his first car, his first experiences in college. Then getting
into grad school, getting that doctorate, marrying the love of his life, buying
his first house.
That one day of us figuring out – Measure twice, cut once!
– on the edge of understanding, of making small mistakes and figuring out how
to fix them so no one would notice but us. That one day of measuring and
cutting, of drilling and screwing, of trimming over larger than expected spaces
and spackling and calking in places where it was needed. That one day of
laughing and reminiscing and catching up on the miles and time between us. That
one day of sawdust in our noses and too loud noises in our ears, of cool water
drinks and fast food sandwiches. That one day.
If you’d asked me on Monday what I did over the weekend, I
probably would have said, “Heidi and I went up to Devin and Shae’s and we
refinished his sunroom.” But it was more than that. It was that one day.
I looked over the little profile piece for this blog.
Sheesh, it is out of date. I will do the necessary repairs to the blurb, but
after teaching little kids for thirty-eight years, I am a retired classroom
teacher. It feels weird to say it, to write it, to be it. When I find myself at
Lowe’s at 9:00 some random weekday morning to get paint for that shed
I’ve let go for so long, it still feels weird. When I look at the clock
throughout the day I wonder what my old class, my old best friends are doing
right now. When it’s recess time I wonder if they are playing the games we used
to play. I wonder what books they are reading, what science they are learning,
how their writing is coming along. I wonder if they laugh as much as we used
to. I wonder if they still read books that make them cry.
Here is a little piece Heidi and I published in a book called
Open a World of Possible
That being said – here comes the part that sounds trite – I
am working on my first novel. I told you I am a writer. But don’t many people,
at some time or another, start their first novel (and never get it finished,
never get it right, never get it submitted, never get it accepted, never get it
published)?
I have been working pretty seriously since September, and it
is more than half finished – well, the rough draft. I do understand that a ton
of work has to be done in the finishing. You know, filling in where there are
gaps, trimming over larger than expected spaces, calking, spackling, measuring
twice and cutting once. So far I’ve only measured once. But I’ll get there.
Thing is, it doesn’t feel like work. In some ways I have
been preparing for this for my entire adult life. I have read the greats
(Stephen King - On Writing, Strunk
and White – The Elements of Style,
Ralph Fletcher – What a Writer Needs,
William Zinsser – On Writing Well).
I know that in future blog posts I will write more about my sixth
grade characters set in northwest Indiana, in a Catholic school, in the 1967-68
school year. Back in the day there were 170 school days. The working title is One Hundred Seventy Days With Marilyn.
I hope that you stay on board.
I’ll be back.
I promise.
