Yesterday I spent some time organizing the many books, papers, projects, and accumulated stuff that littered my office. I find I can’t work well if my space gets too cluttered, so it was definitely something I needed to get to. And surprise – I was inspired to write about this space using a scaffold other slicers have used.
 
The room that is my office is on the second floor of our house. It houses a wrap-around desk with a hutch, an overstuffed bookcase, a file cabinet with a printer on top, and a futon. Although the futon was meant to provide me with a relaxing place to read, it mostly provides a comfy place for Cyrus to sleep while I work (it is one of only two pieces of furniture he is allowed to be on), or an extra bed when needed.
 
Before that, it was Brian’s teen-age bedroom. Posters of rock musicians filled most of the available wall space and different titles lined the book case shelves. A larger and sturdier desk replaced the desk that was mine growing up.  Mostly it was messy, but it was his domain.
 
Before that, it was Brian’s toddler bedroom, created for him to make room for his sister in the nursery. Bunkbeds, a record player (yes, an old one that played the Sesame Street albums he loved), an aquarium, and the desk that was mine growing up are some of the items that came and went or stayed during that stage.
 
Before that, it was a guest room with a double bed, an old bureau, a hand-made bookcase, and the desk that was mine growing up. Since we didn’t often have overnight guests, it doubled as my office while I was teaching and pursuing a graduate degree.
 
Before that, for a few months after we moved in, it housed waiting-to-be-unpacked boxes and furniture that needed a more permanent home. It was one of the first rooms we cleared, mostly to give me a place to work at the desk that was mine growing up.
 
Writing this, I realize this space has come full circle. It started as an office/bedroom and is now an office/bedroom, but oh how it has changed through the years.

                                         Dear Mr. Turkey,
 
                                         Please refrain from eating our seed. We have enough trouble with
                                         those pesky squirrels. We realize that technically you are a bird,
                                         but let’s face it, you are not like us. Your raspy “gobble-gobble” cannot
                                         compete with the sweet sounds of our songs. You cannot soar beneath
                                         a bright blue sky or gently perch on the outstretched arm of our cherry tree.
 
                                        And by the way, are you lost? Look around. This property is not a farm.
                                        There are no chickens or goats or cows. This is the backyard of a house
                                        in a neighborhood, not a pasture.
 
                                        Please don't misunderstand. We do not want to seem unwelcoming. We are
                                        simply looking out for your happiness. Hopefully you will find your way home
                                        soon. Until then, please look for food elsewhere.
 
                                       Thank you kindly,
                                       The Birds

​A few months ago I started a draft in my notebook during a session at a conference I was attending. I found it the other night as I was looking through my notebook for ideas. I remember thinking at the time that I wanted to continue with it, because I was surprised at what I wrote, at the feelings that came to the surface in a few short sentences. A line from another piece of literature (I think it was The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie) was the stimulus to get us started. This is what I wrote:
 
          I remember the summer I was twelve. It was 1963 and my family moved
          across the river to a new house in a new neighborhood in a new town, and
          I would be going to a new school in the fall. I would leave the school friends
                                                         I had for seven years and would be in class with a whole new group of
                                                         almost-teens. What if no one liked me? What if no one wanted to be my friend?                                                                  What if no one loved the Beatles, especially Ringo, like I did? What if everyone                                                                  thought I was weird because I played the violin?
 
I think what surprised me when I started writing was that I never really thought much about that summer and the feelings I must have had as a twelve year old, an awkward age to have to forge all new friendships. But the feelings were there, bubbling to the surface as I wrote. Perhaps I didn’t think much about that summer because the memories of myself as a twelve/thirteen year old were overshadowed by what happened in the fall of that year. The friendships I made then are some of the strongest I have experienced. These were the friends who surrounded me the day our principal announced that President Kennedy had been shot. Could that have had something to do with it?
 
Perhaps someday I will continue that narrative. But for now, it is enough to remember the impact that events can have on who we are or who we grow up to be, and we should write about them.

​Tonight I will be a fake. A charlatan. A rogue. I will be meeting with my book group and I have not finished the book. It has happened before (with me and others) and is always OK. No one is scolded or made to feel bad. But I didn’t just not finish the book…yet. I abandoned it.
 
I felt I gave it a fair shot, reading almost half. But it just didn’t pull me in. There have been plenty of books that were introduced to me in my book group – books I never would have picked up otherwise, but ones I fell in love with nonetheless. (Pillars of the Earth, The Red Tent, Year of Wonders), and this book group that I have been a part of for more than twenty-five years is important to me for many reasons. But I feel let down and that I am letting them down.
 
This is certainly not the first book I have ever abandoned. So why do I feel so bad? Maybe because there are many reasons why I should have loved this book. I read other books by this author that I enjoyed (one is mentioned above). The book is full of exquisite writing – rich descriptions and characters that jump off the page. But it wasn’t for me. Maybe just not at this time…but maybe never.
 
My Kindle would call to me when I would go to bed at night and I would look at it and think OK, maybe just one more chapter. But I realized reading was becoming a chore, and I couldn’t let that happen. So I stopped. I turned my attention to something else. And it has made all the difference.
 

​Setting: A first grade classroom at the end of writing workshop.
 
Problem: There is about five minutes for sharing and two students have been scheduled to share a piece of writing. The first writer, Emma, has chosen to share the whole story she has been working on about a dog who gets into a lot of trouble. She has ten or more pages stapled together.
 
Events: Emma starts to share but has trouble deciphering some of her words. She has two friends helping, but the clock is ticking. It will soon be time to line up for lunch. Getting through the whole story appears almost impossible. The teacher makes a quick decision. She suggests that Emma read the first two pages, then tomorrow meet with anyone who would like to hear more. Emma continues her story about a clumsy dog who gets loose in a park. He spies a hot dog cart and starts running towards it.
 
Teacher says: Let’s stop right there! A dog, a hot dog cart…I wonder what will happen next? Who would like to hear more?
 
Hands go up. The teacher directs those interested to meet with Emma tomorrow during workshop to hear the rest of the story. She compliments Emma on her word choice and enticing beginning. The second child is called up to share.
 
Solution: A young writer’s work is honored. She is made to feel special in the eyes of her classmates.
 
 
I enjoy helping in a first grade classroom about once a week during writing workshop. And while I get to spend time with young writers, guiding their efforts and listening to their stories, part of the appeal is being in the presence of an exemplary teacher. She is a joy to watch.
 
I tried a different format for today’s slice just to mix things up a bit. I hope it works. Let me know what you think.
 

​I am not in the habit of keeping many letters and cards. Somewhere in a box in the basement are some cards and letters Allan sent me the summer before we were engaged. Love letters, the best kind. I also have some cards and notes given to me by my kids when they were in various stages of learning how to write. (This collection includes the obligatory letter to parents from my son when he was at Boy Scout camp.) On a shelf in my office I have a few notes from parents of students I taught, and one very special one from my longtime mentor, Regie Routman. Yesterday I was lucky enough to place a second letter from Regie right next to the first.
 
I met Regie in 2005 at a conference I was helping to organize. I was awestruck! I couldn’t believe I was having lunch with such an authority on reading and writing who had taught me so much! At the end of the day I didn’t want the conversation to end – I had so many more questions and there was so much more for me to learn from her. Regie suggested I write her a letter, and she handed me her card. Over the course of the years our paths crossed a few times at conferences where I was presenting. Even though she must meet hundreds of people every year, Regie always made me feel special.
 
A few weeks ago I happened upon a blog post written by Regie that included a video of her working with students. Watching her in that video brought about a sudden realization of all she had done for me. I could see myself in her words and actions. I was reminded that I approach the teaching of reading and writing and the delivery of professional development like I do because of her. I have had many mentors, especially in the area of writing, but I think Regie has influenced me the most.
 
I knew immediately that I wanted to write to her and express my thanks. I didn’t know if the letter would even reach her! After all, the address I had was more than ten years old. Still, I wrote. The moment I saw the envelope from her in the pile of mail I gathered yesterday, I was filled once again with the awe I felt at our first meeting.
 
The power of response..and mentors.

Looking back at March 14, 2015, I see I posted a similar slice on Pi Day. Last year it was blueberry, today it’s lemon meringue. I love lemon meringue pie and don’t mind making it, but I always struggle a bit with the meringue – sometimes sticky, never high enough. But I’ve come to realize that it’s the taste people most care about, and that is always luscious. Enjoy!
 
 
                                                                         Lemon Meringue
 
                                                                        pillows of meringue
                                                                     swirl on lemony custard
                                                                         taste buds alerted

​

​    

      It was different, going to sleep with all that new breathing in the house.
                                                -from The Relatives Came by Cynthia Rylant
 

There is a lot of extra breathing in our house this quiet morning. Brian, Jane, Ann, Piper, and Nisha have come to visit, so with five adults and three big dogs we have stretched the limits of available space. The dogs, of course, were up first, let out, and fed. Now it’s back to bed for everyone…but me. I love this quiet moment.
 

Time to think.

Time to wonder.

Time to write.

Time to be thankful.
 
Soon everyone will be up and we will be back to laughing, reminiscing, and basking in the joy of all being together.
 And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

​I hesitated to share this conversation that I recently had with a first grader, but it was just too funny – a perfect slice, I think. I did change his name, however.
 
Having a brief conversation when starting a conference helps me get to know the child a little and hopefully puts them at ease. As Jake approached the table for his conference, I noticed some writing on his T-shirt and thought that might be a good opener.
 
Me:      What’s that on your shirt, Jake?
Jake (pointing proudly):      It says My mom is inked and she is awesome.
Me:      Oh. She has tattoos?
Jake:   Oh yeah. She has a lot! She has bubbles on her (hand down his shirt)…on
her…on her…you know…boobs. And she has a bee on her (pointing to his
bottom)…on her…on her…on her butt. She’s got a butterfly there, too.
Me (thinking I didn’t have to worry about putting him at ease and that we could probably
 move on now): Oh, that’s interesting.
Jake:   You should get one!
Me:      Really? Don’t you think I’m too old?
Jake:   No. You can do it!
Me:      Hmmm…I’ll have to think about that.
 
I loved him immediately.