The 'tween is helping with dinner
burgers
Hubster is cooking
I'm playing with a craft project
Clean-up is mine for tonight
A chunk of lettuce flies from
'tween's hands
and the discussion quickly goes to
the three second rule
"I didn't see that"
I say,
"It's okay," 'tween says
"the wet pieces may or may not
have been on the floor,
it's not like someone's feet were there
and we don't talk about Bruno..."
Noooo! not that song again!
I've had some bubbly today,
I don't care
dinner is cooked
it's spring break
I had friend time this afternoon
I'll skip the lettuce
It's still spring break
and I'm trying not to care
too much
Life goes on
with or without lettuce
on a burger
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 ¡
I am a piñata
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
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
Nerds Beget Nerds 