Post a link to your blogged slice to schoology.com before the start of class Friday.
Post a link to your blogged slice to schoology.com before the start of class Friday. what's in a brand? pickles! I was reading the news on the AP's app (Associated Press) during my prep on Wednesday, and was admittedly, and surprisingly, intrigued by the simple green bar ad that appeared below the menu of Top Stories. The slogan "Migrate to the Fridge!" was book-ended by a tiny penguin icon and the well-known Clausen logo. Though I typically avoid those pop-up ads with disinterest and distrust, the kelly green, fire truck red, and white lined circle-and-rectangle logo is dually industrial and classic; it has as much staying power and history to me as Pittsburgh's great Heinz ketchup, which is another preferred brand that is both established in the outside world, and homey, recalling images of our kitchen table with Mom's homemade fries and the venison burgers Dad's sprinkled with flecks of ground pepper and grilled waiting warmly in a Pyrex casserole dish; the ketchup, pickles, and a plate of raw onion rings waiting to garnish dinner.
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Post a link to your blogged slice on schoology.com before the start of class Friday. pleasant things + daydreams There is a blurring of memory that occurs in the minutes and - admitted - hours spent on a daily basis completing the seemingly trivial, mundane habits and almost un-actions that are the "chores" prescribed to us in the modern life we have formed. Driving your car, for example, is something that teters between exhilerating and punishment. On a windows-down, sunny spring day, or even a drippy fall day when fat rain drops plop against the windshield at their own, slow pace, a drive can be soul-engine revving, and as fulfilling as anything. But, on a pre-dawn winter crawl out of bed and off to work, or an "I'm already late!"-drive to an appointment where you're cursing any slow drivers who don't turn when you stomp your foot to the floorboards of your car - those trips in the car are cruel. The last two weeks of mornings and afternoons have taken me past the smile-inducing scene of spunky, adolescent cows playing 'king-of-the-mountain'. Yesterday, in a wave of comfortable Thursday afternoon carpe diem, I braked, turned into a driveway, headed back west, used another driveway to complete the turn-around, and pulled on to the south shoulder of the road to sit beside the barbed wire fence of eager, dog-like friends who soon came ambling up to see the hooooooooman (rhymes with 'moo-man') who'd approached. Somehow, moments later, the next car coming down the road was a county cop; I had to pause picture taking to roll down window and assure the officer that I was fine and was only snapping some photos. Satisfied with my explanation, he continued on his way, and my attention turned to the trio/burgeoning herd of kitties trotting out of the tall grass and the barn cats who emerged to see what was up. When I cruise along country roads on my way home after school, and when I'm plenty prompt for where ever I'm giong, I enjoy the road and the ride. It's a little treasure I carve out of hum-drum stress or a "cherry on top" of a fluffy cloud, blue-sky sundae/Sunday when I pull over and take a few pictures. Post the link to your blogged slice on schoology.com before the start of class Friday. dear cousin dog, I've got a bone to pick with you. The humans have found the scratches in the door frame where you apparently tried to dig your way out of the bathroom; the girl, the real smart one I like best, noticed the shellac of the finish on the floor right away but didn't think it came from three feet above the floor.
She also knows you and your people kept me up on Saturday night; I slept for hours on Sunday night, tired from playing with you and being dog buddies, but also from the extra ruckus your people were making. Aaaaaaand, the mess you left in the kitchen, with chairs exhaled from the table, playing card-confetti, and snack crumbs all over: that's not how we fly around here. The 1/2 cheddar cheesestick atop the garbage could've at least been shared between you and me - had your people forgotten that we dogs get down on cheese? You're wearing my patience and hospitality, Cousin Lily Post the link to your slice on schoology.com prior to the start of class on Friday. this kind of day On this kind of day, when a dreary, heavy sky wears a solid, "I just know it's gonna rain"- layer of clouds like the nubby inside of a sweatshirt, I want to walk into my Mom's kitchen and have her mashed potatoes, which are only ever real, peeled-by-hand potatoes, which have been mixed with Chemistry class precision to add a measuring cup of milk and some portion of a stick of butter. I can see the brightened skins of freshly scrubbed potatoes sitting in a clear, cold bath of a Farberware pot waiting to be peeled with one of the paring knives that an are-older-than-me institution at my parents' house; that pot with its black, smooth handles and the wooden, gold-spotted grip of the knife are images in my mind as vivid and known as the butter-yellow formica countertops that radiate a warmth in a kitchen where only good food can be made.
And, where, during the late afternoons and early evenings of my eighteen years at home, I would find myself called silently, like a magnet to a pole, to the kitchen to initiate expansive talk with my mom, recapping my day, and asking the question I later learned she valued, appreciated, and would miss: "How was your day?" During a phone call my first week of college, "How was school?" was answered with Mom's voice breaking, "You're the first one to ask my how my day was." And I wondered with my mind's eye looking out the kitchen doorway into the combined space of the dining room and living room, "What were those guys [my dad and brother] doing, if not asking Mom how her day was?" The simple question, asked thousands of times out of habit as an unspoken ritual of time together, was a chance for my mom, a teacher, a feeler, a person, to talk, too, and be heard, and get out all the stresses, successes, and weather-balloon emotion of each day in the classroom and l.i.f.e. in general. In the room that is the heart of our house, I have been fed confidence and a rarely discussed, but everpresent understanding and example of what it means to be good and something good for others. Here's to a new year of thinking, writing, sharing, growing through the weekly Slice of Life experience. To set the tone for slicing this year, here's some clarification:
summer solace When I hear “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros I think of the consistency and calm I have found this summer walking my dog down and back, west and east on our mostly empty road. I now know the pattern of potholes and can narrate how far along the mile stretch we are according to the grass along the road, the smiling tree trunk, the predatory flies, and the likelihood of me saying aloud – to only myself, the creatures (my dog, the birds, the burnt red cows), and the openness – “Goooo-duh morn-ingggg, Kouwz!” or enjoying the few moments of chat my husband and I make with the little neighbor boy and his visiting cousin who share their perspective on the world from the eyes of a gonna-be first grader.
The flowing, jangling energy of the song matches the bouncing, enthused steps and rhythm I can get in during two walks a day: slices of solace as savory as the ruby dinner plate-portion of watermelon my family enjoys which get carved from looking and feeling deeper during the already pleasant wavelength that is summer vacation. The metaphor lyrics painting the truth that so many of us know: home is a person, people, the insulating c.a.r.e. we feel in those core people’s presence, which simultaneously makes us safer, more confident, happier, calmer, better. That is the home and love I have with my husband, with whom I do share about half of the walks with, discussing school, our families, education, politics, the dog, the abstract, everything. When I was feeling overwhelmed on Tuesday night at the prospect of being responsible to 167 people spread out into groups of 31, 33, 27, 20, 28, and 28, my husband surprised me Wednesday morning with a dozen teaching-theme memes (below) posted around the house on mirrors, door frames, my desk, and the breakfast table. I was smiling and laughing by the second meme, feeling home in my relationship, my profession, and this late July life of alarm clocks, hazy but pleasant morning drives, and the prospect of a new school year. |
Ms. McCullough
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