Another Dog Story

Yesterday I called my parents by accident while putting a leash on an overly-excited dog. I kept saying "no" to calm her until I got the harness around her. She loves her walks. Unfortunately, though, my parents caught the "no's" in an inadvertent phone message. A few minutes later they called me to make sure I was okay.

When my stepdad said he thought I'd "butt called" him, I agreed and thought the embarrassment might be over. But when I answered him, my tongue slipped and added an "f" after "butt"! I stopped myself, but the "f" was out. My mind must have been on "butt f..." Illinois, a term some people use to describe my small town.

It was odd to say the least. I don't know what embarrassed me more: their hearing me yell at my poorly trained but very nice dog or my near slip into very bad word land. Aw, the joys of dog ownership continue!

Eastern Illinois Writing Project Chronology Crossword: A Day in the Life of the Writing Project

First Chronology Week II

Across

4. A new curriculum Casey explained

7. State with Portfolio Assessment

8. Best Professional Development

10. Time to work together

12. Why we left the room

Down

1. Type of writing

2. Flawed Technology

3. Studies Models for authentic assessment

5. An Authentic Assessment

6. One element of an effective writing assignment

9. Focus for Assessment

11. Kristin's Chronology

Sacred                                      Springboard

Ihavewhohas                           Case Studies

Audience                                 Printers

Practical                                  WritingGroups

Heat

Purpose

Portfolio

Kentucky

When Dogs Act Like Dogs

Last week I faced a traumatic event. My dog, a lovely female lab mix, caught a rabbit in my back yard. As usual, I let her out in the back while I fed the birds and collected the newspaper. When I came back to retrieve her, she was lying quietly beside the fence. I didn't see the rabbit at first, but when I called her and she looked up, there it was, alive but suffering some loss of fur. She came over when I said her name again, and the rabbit ran off, presumably finding a space under the fence to escape. But now Dolly dog has tasted her skills. Will she hunt again? We'll see!

My Aunt Nellie

My Aunt Nellie

My Aunt Nellie ate a banana a day

every day after her husband, Carl, got his pacemaker.

The doctor noticed the red splotches on her face and arms

and took her blood pressure in spite of her protests.

My Aunt Nellie wore pastel polyester shorts

with elastic waist bands and sleeveless white shirts

with mock turtle neck collars

every day the summer I visited her.

She looked like a turtle herself

in her green rubber webbed thongs.

She could almost swim across the Ohio

and dive for her dinner on the way back.

My Aunt Nellie smoked Salem 100s out of the corner

of her pursed red lip-sticked mouth

until the end of that summer on the river.

Carl’s doctor warned her, gave her little

white explosive pills she forgot to take—

Carl spent too much time in the garden without a hat

and lost part of his nose. Aunt Nellie snapped half-runners

into a thick iron pot, tossed in wide slices of fatty bacon

turned the burner on low and walked downstairs

to the screened-in garage summer house.

She drove an off-white VW bug with a stick shift

to the market for corn and tomatoes.

My Aunt Nellie fished all afternoon on the dock

in her straw wide-brimmed hat.

I sat on the river bank porch swing with my brother

dreaming of capless blondes and redheads

wearing jeans so tight no corn bread and fried catfish

would fit between their seams.

I hugged my Aunt Nellie when I left her.

Aunt Nellie ate a banana a day every day until her husband, Carl,

entered the hospital one more time. The doctor didn’t notice her shortness of breath

and fading color. She drove home from her sister’s climbed the steep stairs to the living room door and searched her purse for the house key.

The neighbors say she staggered and fell on the stoop without a sound.

But when I eat my banana a day every day,

I hear an explosion

and smell half-runners flavored with bacon simmering on the stove.

The Heat

I know I'm supposed to enjoy the summer sunshine and heat, but I really prefer cooler temps. Even the bitter cold of winter inspires me more.

I wilt in the heat, sweating over my morning coffee and evening tea.

Exercise has been a challenge this week. I continue my dog walks but search for any shade I can find. I'm attending exercise classes but slowing my pace, moving somewhere between low and high impact while I drip. The glass doors on the workout joint seem to perspire too, letting in too much sun for the air conditioner to work.

To save energy costs, they're even turning off the air all weekend at school, so my office rarely reaches acceptable temperatures. The windows keep me from feeling claustrophobic, but they bring in the heat, too. To cool off, I spend time in the main inner office, away from windows and sun. I'm also drinking way too much Diet Mountain Dew.

So, I'm whining away when I should be smiling at the sun. My garden looks lovely in its light, and the colorful birds cheer me from beyond my picture window. I'll blame it on my age and get back to work.

My Mother Tells Stories

Forgetting

Grandma carried a catfish

wrapped in newspaper

and an empty bird cage

on a bus ride across the river into the mountains.

She must have missed the muddy river

where turtles, frogs, and bottom feeding fish

fed family reunions and summer parties

on her brother’s river bank and pontoon boat:

When she moved Grandpa to Florida

they bought a house between the Ocean

and the River, so close to each you could

see water on both ends of the street.

After her sister moved down

Grandma phoned her every morning

begging her to beach fish

after typing practice.

Wearing Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouses

straw visors and clip on sunglasses

they sat on short green woven folding chairs

and threw long lines into the waves.

Once grandma caught a shark

on a long pole in a bucket

and kept it on the hook

dragging it up the beach and the block

just to prove she’d caught it.

A neighbor made necklaces

out of shark teeth, wearing one

with a puca shell bracelet.

My mother tells stories.

Scrub jays swoop down from live oaks

grab peanuts out of fingers

fly off to peck ground holes

and bury shells in the sand.