Chapter 2 Don Quixote

Cervantes seems to be telling this story with a wink. Our hero is wearing a patched up helmet held on with green ribbons tied in impossible knots, can this be anything but comical? Quixote mounts his steed and leaves from the back door of his yard on the road to his first day in pursuit of his grand purpose. He's thinking though that what could be considered knightly might only be criminal if he is not officially dubbed by an official dubber. He's all worked up about this as he approaches a medieval Red Roof Inn. He sees this dump as a castle; being delusional has its advantages when it comes to touring Spain on zero dollars a day. He wants to be greeted by banners and trumpets, instead he is met by swine and strumpets, so naturally he is happy as a pig in mud. He's dead tired and starved and wants a trout, but the only thing around is troutlets and he can't eat them because of the ribbons covering his face. The "fair maidens" feed him through a reed while he claims he lives to serve them (this is a common male/female theme). His convoluted philosophies totally crack them up. The innkeeper is a pudgy old guy who welcomes him in and takes his armor (except for his shirt and helmet) and sets it on top of the watering tank. Quixote thinks that this guy is a high governor of the castle, so he hands over his gear, and continues to strut around the courtyard, still all bent out of shape about his LOD (lack of dubbing).

Joining the ranks of struggling readers

Here's a challenge. Michael and I received a dinner invite for next April in the mail this week. Why so far in advance? There is a requirement for the dinner, we must have read Don Quixote, the original by Cervantes who, I found out in the fine print, died on the same day as Shakespeare. Just watching the movie adaptation of the Man of La Mancha won't do at all -- all 1000 pages must be read.

On the shelf, as a stoic member of the Britannica Great Books collection I inherited from my first husband, I found the text, dusted it off and last night read the first chapter of Part 1. Cervantes may be a long time dead, but the man has a bit of a sense of humor, I was pleased to find. The language is complex though, requiring me to read and reread paragraphs before I start to get it.

A lot happens in this first chapter. We learn that Don Quixote is really a mad country gentleman who is arrogant and ill-conditioned (full of himself and out of shape) but also affable and well-bred (not cranky and from a decent family). And he is also thoroughly mad, "his wits being quite gone." Anyway, he is determined to "make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armor and on horseback in quest of adventures, righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame." He dubs himself Quixote and his horse Rocinante.

Then he thinks he needs (naturally) a lady fair, so he picks a local farm girl who he used to have a crush on, but she doesn't know he is alive. But that's okay with him, because he's nuts.

end of chapter 1. Maybe this won't be so bad. I just need to take time to digest it along the way. Rethink it in modern terms.

this is the gig

Today started with aerobics to get the blood pumping. A short family visit, trip to the store and home to sit in a leather chair by the fire, laptop humming to work on the new book.

This is it. Days and weeks away from home for a few days like these. Ahh.

Math Tanka 

McCord Junior High, Sylvania, OH

This was fun -- They broadcast my assembly presentation from McCord Junior High to two other middle schools, using all kinds of technology. In the old days, they would have bussed the other schools in, but instead they saw me on a screen. The pluses were that I could see (or be seen) by more kids. The down side was that not only did I not get to shake any hands there, I didn't feel as closely connected to the kids in the assembly at McCord. I think we are so accustomed to watching people on a screen, that more kids were watching my projected image than looking at me. And I wound up playing to a camera rather than to the live audience. I know this is the wave of the future, I'm not sure.

One thing I am sure of is that I don't want to remember McCord for their technology (which was state of the art). I was blown away by the poems the kids were writing, the ones that were posted about the building and the ones the 6th graders wrote in the two days I was there. Many thanks to Judy Bashforth for all her hard work and to the other teachers for preparing the kids so well.

The picture I'm posting is of two math Tanka poems from the hallway display. All of them were great, this just happened to be the photo that turned out the clearest.

Microsociety in Toledo

Birmingham Elementary is a Micro society school (http://www.microsociety.org/) – the kids, the first graders, asked me about being a poet as a job. Did I set out to make money at it? Was it always just a hobby? The kids were engaged and busy working on building their community.

In the shadow of the largest flour mill in the world (second hand info) which just happens to be in Toledo, in an aging Hungarian neighborhood sits Birmingham. Its old school – really old school, with the electrical wiring running on the outside of many of the walls. But the aging physical building is not to be confused with its revolutionary approach to education. The kids get paid in Birmingham bucks for participating in their business ventures. They hold elections and produce products in cross curricular activities. I’m not much of a fan of judging kids based on test scores, but its hard to not take notice when a school’s scores jump from 25% passing to over 80%. Zowie. Attendance is up, absenteeism and discipline problems way down. There is only one other microsociety school in OH.

So, I went to the website and guess what? The program was established by a poet!

Pretty exciting stuff coming out of Clinger’s old neighborhood. Dinner was chicken paprikash take out from Tony Packo’s. Yumm.

Back home at Bay Village Middle School

This is the first time my daughter Katie and I ever did a teacher workshop together -- at her school, which was much more stressful for her than for me. What is it about presenting to our own colleagues that freaks us out so much. I remember feeling the same way when I had to do such things in the old business life.

But the four hour workshop went well -- Katie even survived me showing a slide of her in the bathtub with her sister when they were both little.

I'm a mother.

Mothers do these things.

The teachers wrote questioning poems in small groups arranged in advance by subject area. The science teachers wrote one on reproduction. All I can say is, good thing the kids weren't there. One thing you have to say about middle school teachers in general -- they are (have to be) fearless.

In between the four hour workshop and the drive to Toledo -- a long bath. Just a year ago we were up to our necks in construction dust on a new bedroom/bath addition. Glad to have that in past tense.

The wind was in a hurry and at cross purposes with the turnpike on the way to Toledo. Listening to the election returns on the radio... The voter reform initiative calling for a bi-partisian committee to oversee elections in OH went down in flames. Sometimes the winds blow in the face of all logic -- I guess the best anyone can do is try and keep it on the road.

Charlottesville, VA

Charlottesville is south of D.C. and a full day at school is followed by a long drive back to Cleveland. So many flights have been cancelled that it was impossible to get a flight that would get me back in time for my day at Bay Middle on Tuesday. Michael did the driving through wild and wonderful West Virginia. Hours added onto hours. Too much driving the last few weeks. Next week is NCTE and then most of December at home, and boy howdy, does that sound good.

I had a conversation in the hallway of the school in Charlotteville with an Indian (Eastern)/American teacher about how we both love Tagore. I keep one of his books, Creative Unity, at close hand at all times. It is like the Bible, only less violent -- open any page and find an inspiration. It is a crime that his poetry is not taught in the U.S. What a pleasure to stand in a little spot of sun on a fall day and talk poetry. Looking back on all that was Monday, at first I thought of the back killing drive. But now, rubbing the memory of the day between my fingers and forehead, I decide to remember that patch of sunlight instead.

It is a choice -- what we decide to remember.

Cincinnati, OH

The Ramada Inn is set for rennovation, but unfortunately for me, not before I pull in late Thursday night. The room smells of old smoke, ground into the dingy carpet and painted on the walls. In the bathroom is a whirlpool tub that no longer whirls and a steam apparatus that must have seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d like to walk out, but it’s too late.

On the way down, I got a phone call that began “everyone is okay, but . . .” Not what anyone wants to hear. Michael’s son Max had been in a car accident. The fact that I wrote in my blog about a car accident just this morning is downright spooky. From this date forward, I think the entire family should just stay home on November 4. I am grateful to make the Ramada Inn, dreary as it is. Lots to be grateful for.

Greener Elementary is far from dreary – a fun school that has prepared for the author visit and is (literally) hopping with excitement about writing. The principal explains her attire and that of her teachers – if they pay money, they are allowed to wear jeans on Friday. This is how they raise money for the assemblies since the parent group isn’t very well-funded. Why don’t stories like this appear on Fox news as they complain about teachers? These teachers are so intent on their kids getting a diverse experience in school, they pay for assemblies themselves.

Extended day – I drove from Cincinnati to Purcellville, VA to see Kelly & Co. on Friday after school. This is a long drive – complicated by the fact that somewhere in West Virginia I managed to get off of the Robert Byrd Appalachian Highway and on the scenic bypass – which went on and on with 15 mile per hour hair pin turns through the mountains, herds of deer ambling beside the twisting road and no cell phone service. Nada. It is undoubtedly a beautiful drive in the daylight, but it loses its charm after dark and I frankly scared myself a few times wondering what would happen if I slipped down a side bank or ran out of gas.

Got into Purcellvile about 1:30AM, very grateful. Had a great time with Benny, who is enjoying reading (mostly memorizing) Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus and Where is the Green Sheep? Danny knows all his letters, but still speaks a foreign language and Thomas can almost sit up. Michael arrived on Saturday afternoon, by plane. No detours. Smart move.

A day to celebrate

21 years ago today, Katie, Kelly and I were stopped at a traffic light in North Olmsted, OH talking about whether or not we should continue cable or cancel and save the money. When we all woke up, we were disoriented and bruised. We had been hit from behind by an absent minded speeder. I remember hesitating one split second, aware but afraid to look to my right -- did Katie remember to click her seat belt when we left the mall? Still unconcious, she had remembered the seat belt and had not gone through the windshield like a missle. Kelly was in the back seat and crumpled on the floor. She was taken from the scene on one of those scary back boards, her neck still gives her problems. I had bruised lungs from my seat belt, which is a whole lot better than massive head injuries, but has caused me to be a little short of breath ever since.

Every year I remember that November 4 is a day to celebrate that we all walked away from that terrible crash with minor injuries. I always take a few moments to be grateful.

Topeka, Indiana

This is Amish country in Indiana. At least half of the kids in this district don't watch American Idol and wear simple clothes. Whenever I have contact with the Amish community I wonder if the rest of us aren't missing something a little less hectic. The drive was golden with buggies on the periphery. The children were bussed in for the programs, which went smoothly thanks to a coordinated effort by all the title one and other teachers. It was a great day. Right across the street from the school they were harvesting. I just stood there and watched for a while, city girl that I am.

When did it become cool to be dumb?

This is a question that has been haunting me. The attitude seems to start around middle school but it projects itself into the political arena all the time. Maybe doubting the intelligence of the world is simply a rite of passage, like the rite of passage where adults upon reaching a certain age (much older than I, of course) question why the world doesn't value the wisdom of its elders more.

I asked a group of students this question last week and one girl replied that Jessica Simpson started it. I dare say it started long before her chicken of the sea embarrassments, but it was good to know the student knew what I was talking about.

Have been working hard on two new books, many hours at the computer. Not enough time for reflection.

Westerly Elementary School

A week at Westerly -- this is the elementary school both my daughters attended. I was lucky enough to spend the week there doing writing workshops with the third and fourth grades culminating in a grand poetry jam on Friday afternoon. The auditorium was darkened, the stage set, names drawn and many poems performed to enthusiastic applause. Many thanks to Martha Fisher for her extra efforts in making the week a success.

Many many students have heard me tell the story of how I came to write "The Dog Ate My Homework." How our dog ate my daughter's report card and then the spelling book, how I had to make apologies to her teachers. What many students may not know is that that teacher is a real person and that she is still teaching after (rough estimate) 600 students have passed through her lively classroom. Her name is Mrs. Woodburn (see picture). In her cupboard she now keeps a three ring binder of homework excuses. She is a star in her students' eyes and in her profession.

Westerly's Poetry Jam 

Mrs. Woodburn and some half cracked poet with her eyes closed. 

Poems from State College 

State College, PA

Driving through Pennsylvania in the twilight of October is nothing if not a colorful experience! That drive was only surpassed by the fun I had visiting Mt. Nittany and Park Forest Middle School and schools in State College and meeting with all the students and teachers. Four days in the district, it's hard to pinpoint the highest point, but it might have been the visit to the class pictured below.

The teachers and libraians Kathy Billet and Dotty Delafield had the students so pumped up about poetry, their enthusiasm was in the air and on their papers as we shared our poems and even composed some new ones. Lots of poems on the walls and lining the halls. After meeting with the students, I spent a half day in-service with the teachers in grades 6-12. I wonder if the kids know what great poets their teachers are.

Many thanks to the staff, administration and especially the kids in State College. And a little thank you also to Mother Nature for sharing her pallet enroute.

State College Poets (a few among many) 

Who are you wearing?

Once in a while a student question just sticks with me -- usually the ones I don't have answers for. Last Friday (now Sunday) following the final assembly (eighth grade, last period, we all survived) after I had reminded the kids of the rights and responsibilities of free speech, revealed personal facts about my life, joked and urged them to put their own thoughts and feelings down on paper and share them with others, I asked for questions.

"Who are you wearing?"

I had to ask for a restatement -- not what was I wearing, but who?
Is this a sign of too much time spent aside the red carpet with Joan Rivers? Over exposure to People Magazine? The world has an elevated temperature, the country has been visited by plagues of winds and floods and fire, the heads of the senate and the congress are being investigated for illegal activities, the country is a war. . . and there was no discussion about the world, the content of my poems, the content of my soul or the student's, all he wanted to know was what corporate entity was on the label of my wrapper.

At first I thought it was such an insignificant question, I didn't even pause for a response, so many hands in the air. But the more I think about it, the more important the question becomes. Had I answered the question, would that have changed the boy's view of me? Colored it? I never intended my wardrobe to provide that ah-ha moment poets search for.

I didn't have a good answer.
I still don't.
But I can't erase the question or the young man's face from my vision of myself or the world. I guess today, that student is who I am wearing and to tell you the truth, the ensemble kind of itches.

tonight's the night

And even though today started before 6AM and the game is in extra innings after 11PM, even though the school day ended with a last period assembly of eight graders on a Friday afternoon and the school was an hour's drive from home and even though I'm a month behind in my blog and they are in the attic in a plastic tub marked Christmas ornaments, tonight is the night to pull out the flannel sheets.

There just comes a time.
And this is it.
Tomorrow will be the day for updating the blog with scattered journal scratchings.
Lots of writing this past month -- just not here.

Today was a great day with friends at Olmsted Falls Middle School where the kids were well prepared and the teachers were enthused and involved. The sun was out and the air and the falling leaves were crisp. It was a day to be grateful for.

And just made for flannel sheets.