What’s in the glass?
Milk, half full
Margarita, half empty
Coca-Cola, half full
Any kind of diet drink, half full
Coffee, half empty
Sangria, half empty
Ask a teen, “I don’t know.”
Ask a toddler, they spilled the glass
Ask a teacher, too full, no time for a bathroom break
Exhausted
Plodded through the day
It’s spring break
but
my spring broke
two long years ago
I need sleep
As I worked with a small group of students using the button maker, another student came in, hunting me down. What’s so urgent?
“Mrs. Garza! I have to show you this!”
She holds a folded red bandana. Usually students either show me their own copies of a book I recently added to our collection. A published piece of writing from language arts class. A LEGO mini-figure. A new mani. A second ear piercing.
Walking toward the desk, she slowly unwrapped the bandana. “Look what I have. I need to be careful or it’ll break. It’s over a hundred years old.” Leaving the bandana on the table, she cradled it. A book, but not one I recently added to the collection. It was old. Over a hundred years old. A yellow envelope peeked out from underneath the front cover. I almost didn’t want to touch it, but I couldn’t wait to hold it.
Leather. Old leather, with pieces so worn they had fallen off. I needed gloves to handle it and here she was, brining it to school wrapped in a bandana and plopped into a backpack. Our new library bound books can barely take the brunt of a middle schooler’s backpack. “Where…”
“I got it at a garage sale! The lady gave it to me. I didn’t even have to pay for it. She said it belonged to her grandfather.” Another story about an hour after the previous grandfather story. Must’ve been National Grandfathers Leave Something Special to a Loved One Day and I didn’t get the memo. “Look at the letter!” she exclaims excitedly. “It has actual writing from the 1800’s.” Definitely an artifact because it’s actual writing. Opening the cover, she explains how the page had fallen out, or rather, broken out. There it was, a note with actual writing on it.
I tried not to gasp. I’m not sure if the book is worth anything, but the page was glued onto a sheet of paper which was glued onto an envelope. Yikes! I’m not an archivist, but this one may or may not be worth taking to an archivist. Wanting to check the publication date, I tried to open the next page to find information. It was too brittle. Not wanting to damage it, I opened pages that wanted to be opened. The print is still in decent condition.
I imagine I would’ve fallen in love with this book had I been able to see it back in the 1800s. Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. I saved the title for last. A book of poems by John Milton. I spoke a little of what I remember about John Milton, which isn’t much, and his famous Paradise Lost. I asked for permission to take pictures. I suggested she check into having an expert take a look at it. What thrilled her most was the note written inside and the fact she got it free. At a garage sale.
This was a second story to add to my collection in the same day. My campus was without a librarian last year and library activities halted. It’s taken me a while to get the flow of it, get to know the teachers, and get to know the students. They are coming in more frequently now, teachers and students. And they’re sharing their stories with me. Even if they were free from a garage sale. I call that a win.
llena de alegría y deseos dulces ¡ dale, dale, dale, rompe la piñata ¡ uno, dos, tres, zas y pum, zas y pum doy más, y más, y más ya no tengo ¡ ayudame ¡
full of joy and sweet wishes go ahead, go ahead, go ahead! tear the piñata one, two, three zas and pum, zas and pum, zas and pum I give more and more and more I have no more [to give] help!
Is they’re ordinary basic inexpensive collectors of dreams disappointments mileage scribbles doodles facts and figures A crayon mark or two Sometimes they’re blank like a mind can feel or like a sadness or a fresh start, a new beginning with the possibility of an end or eternity Sometimes they're a continuation of ideas The thing about notebooks the containers of one's soul, potential, possibility, is people dismiss them as mere notebooks without appreciating the fact that anyone who bothers with a blank page may never be the same The thing about notebooks is the infinite variety in which they’re bound, that people want to read them the ones that are filled fat with words, oozing with thought, seeping with taped in mementos receipts, tickets, love letters to do lists notes a thumbprint coffee stains and the magnificence of what’s contained in the creator’s mind somehow finds its way into the world leaving an indelible mark on those lucky enough to read them
I belonged in a family that semi-celebrated Halloween Nana said we'd go to hell, it's the devil's festival But my pastor uncle, took us to almost every house in our small town, twice always starting on the good side of town, the ones that gave out mini-candy bars and never stopping at Nana's Rule follower me reminded him we'd already been to this house or that "They don't remember, go get you some more candy!" Once, my mom took us trick-or-treating- one round, no fancy houses, quick- there are other things to do "There's candy by the door," she instructs Dad. But it's Monday Night Football and the Dallas Cowboys are playing We return home with our bags all the lights out darkness Where is he? In the bedroom, under the bed a portable black and white TV flickers mini-figured gray football men, tackling Dad, a pillow propped under his chest lying on his stomach, mesmerized. A bowl full of black and orange paper wrapped peanut butter nougat candy untouched, waiting for us to split it. "I didn't want anyone to interrupt me." We give him some of our Snickers, his favorite. I became the family makeup artist the year all the younger cousins were clowns, costumes cheap to assemble and there was enough face paint to go around transforming my little brother into a skull Charged with getting everyone out the door, I don't remember them paying me with candy. I got married one Halloween my engagement ring cost a dollar A white fuzzy pipe cleaner looped into a circle a rock salt crystal gem hot glued to the top "I do." "I do." And that was that, teen-aged Halloween carnival vows without the promise of forever
Easing into fall Hill country sunset and wine Summer's kiss goodbye
Of all the tiny stories that make up a day a week, a month? Do I tell the one about being unable to make it to my cousin's funeral, the one who was like a sister when we were kids but somehow we grew up and drifted our separate ways like a dandelion seed puffed out of someone's wish? Do I tell the one about how I missed first day of school pictures? The one my husband took that wasn't full of smiles and eager tween bubbles giddy to meet friends in person once again? The one with one less in the picture because that one is enrolled in the University of Life? Of all the tiny stories, which one do I tell? Do I tell the one about the caterpillar in its terrarium? The one I caught wriggling and undulating, pumping its whole body, hard, to shake itself loose of its old skin for good, embracing its metamorphosis instead of fighting it? Do I tell the one of all the ordinary things that add up to a melting pot of emotions and reflection and trudging along, embracing changes but dreading them at the same time? Of all the tiny stories, which one gets to fly?
I sent S. back to school in January the same day I ordered E's cap and gown for high school graduation The beginning of the end to the first year of middle school the beginning of the end to the last year of high school E's spring orchestra concert that was cancelled twice once for COVID once for an ice storm Is that the last time we'll watch him perform? End of the year contemplation starts in April not December Calendars don't go in order around here The beginning of the end of another school year Did I do everything that needed to be done? Is there anything I'm still missing? Releasing E into the world, even though he'll still be home for a while the distance he's created to hang out with friends one last time brings the beginning of the end to his dependence on us S. turns 12 in June The beginning of the end of 'tweenhood We baked a cake on Sunday at her request for us to spend time together She cut the last slice in half for us to share The beginning of endings continue
Papá had a mouth full of sweet teeth Not a tooth He liked Folgers instant coffee with a heaping spoonful of sugar and milk No tomes café o te vas poner prietita, He pulled up his long sleeved shirt, proving it with his farm tanned skin I didn't care if my skin got dark I took a sneaky slurp of his hot coffee before delivering it with a small plate full of chocolate chip cookies or a thick slice of banana bread peach cobbler Mom's 7-Up pound cake carrot cake drenched under a thick coat of cream cheese icing pan dulce cinnamon rolls On hot summer days we greeted him with a tall glass of Coca Cola or iced tea garnished with lemon accompanied with a side of sweets When we had it, a bowl piled high with scoops of butter pecan ice made its way onto his lap, replacing his straw work hat We chatted, changed the channel to Bonanza or Gunsmoke reruns, his favorite shows Replacing his hat, the signal he'd had his fill, we collected empty dishes Rising from his seat, he thanked us and waved goodbye He'd return tomorrow, his sweet teeth urging him back
Nerds Beget Nerds 