Spring brings opportunities for growth and metaphorical lessons blossom this time of the year. As a kid, we drank down milk (chocolate for me) that accompanied our lunches and teachers reminded us to save our empty cartons. We must have forgotten frequently or the teacher stashed away said cartons, but the dreaded day came when it was time for sowing seeds.
I don’t remember much about the lessons, but I remember washing out and drying the cartons, opening the opposite end of the drinking side, and adding soil. Next came the seeds and a sprinkling of water. Lopsided red and white milk cartons lined classroom window sills with the occasional brown and white ones. A few of us didn’t like regular milk.
Sure enough, within days, someone announces the first sprout emerging from the carton-pot. We all gathered around, taking a look at the tiny green specimen boldly pushing its boundaries wondering whose would be next. Sprout they did. First one, and it seemed within minutes, another, another, and another. The race was on with observing leaves and measuring height. The first one to sprout raced to the top, leading the class in all of its spring time glory, a mini-beanstalk, not nearly as big as Jack’s. Would there be a mini-giant running after him?
I read too many books of imaginary little people and giants and magic beans.
Looking in my milk carton, the same soil sat there. Day after day, I willed something to grow. I followed the directions. I added the soil and pushed down the seeds, lightly topping them off with soil. I watered it like we were instructed. I placed it on the window sill with the others. Excited with all of the new shoots, classmates hurriedly crowded around the window sill to see whose plant led the class in height, or number of leaves, or even a second shoot.
Lucky.
There mine sat, a little carton of soil with nothing growing. I don’t remember any teacher giving me advice, allowing me to plant another seed, or encouraging me to pair up with someone else. No lessons on why some seeds germinate and others don’t. I quickly observed my dirt, went back to my seat and drew a little box, covered with brown crayon. My green crayon was much taller, the brown one getting worn down each day. Why couldn’t I use both like everyone else?
The special day arrived when we took them home as gifts. Mother’s Day gifts. This is for my mother? A lopsided repurposed chocolate milk carton full of barren dirt? My mother deserves so much more. Kids proudly walked out of school lugging book bags and lunch boxes, their plants proudly waving goodby to the rest of us as they were escorted home.
We did this for a few years. Each year, whatever I planted either barely sprouted or didn’t bother to grow. Later, I learned to stop at the trash can, making my annual deposit and walking home empty handed while everyone else took plants home. Did they re-pot them when they arrived? How long did they last?
I never knew and I never asked, but I did try my best.
Teacher me would have started the container gardening lesson with The Empty Pot, by Demi. Of course, I’m older than the book, but no matter. I used it with a class today and reminded everyone that sometimes, not all seeds will sprout. If that’s the case, they can try again. I just want them to do their best.
A few years ago, we watched a video during a staff development meeting. It was about not knowing what people are thinking and making assumptions about why they respond or behave in a certain way. What would pop over people’s heads if we could see their thoughts?
These are some of today’s bubbles hovering over my head.
Mom had two jewelry boxes. One held jewelry she wore frequently. The other was a larger cedar box with a hook closure. I liked organizing what she had in the first box, but everything was usually off limits. On special occasions, she’d let me wear a gold chain or her favorite pair of hoop earrings.
The cedar jewelry box held the exotic stuff. In a white cardboard box in one corner, there lived three thin glass bangles, two bright orange and one purple, both with a white stripe in the center. I can see why she never wore them. Carefully, I tried them on, making sure they didn’t hit one another too hard. “A friend from India gave me those.” From India? With a limited worldview and vacations consisting of family road trips to south Texas, I wistfully imagined having a friend from India.
Replacing the bangles before I had a chance to break them, I went on to a necklace. She had several silver with turquoise and coral pieces. One necklace held a Buffalo nickel. My dad, an avid coin collector, bought it for her long before we were born. She wore it occasionally, but it usually remained well protected in the cedar box. There were several rings with large stones. “They’re not worth much,” she’d say. To me, they were treasures.
One of my favorite pieces was a sterling silver charm bracelet. Popular in the sixties, she saved money to buy one. The story it held was that of my parents when they started dating. My dad was stationed at Ft. Hood in Killeen, Tx, just north of Austin. Against my grandma’s wishes, as typical love-struck teen girls do, she hopped on a bus to visit him. My dad took her sightseeing and they stopped at the capitol. He bought her a silver mini-capitol charm. I was fascinated with it. The other charms were silver disks, one with a Capricorn etched onto it. “It’s my birthday sign,” she’d remind me. One had her birthdate engraved on it. Another was a little boy’s head silhouette, maybe for my little brother? I’d try that one on too, little shiny disks dangling, with the capitol in the center.
When I graduated from college, I was at home chatting with Mom. I took out her jewelry boxes again, organizing everything in the first jewelry box, scoping out new additions. Saving the cedar box for last, I went through the same pieces. Not wanting to break the glass bangles, I didn’t try to slip them over my hand. I mentioned that charm bracelets were making a come-back as I shook my wrist, her silver charm bracelet tinkling in response. “You can have it if you want it. I never wear it. Take the charms off if you don’t like them.”
“What? Mom, I can’t…”
“Just take it. I haven’t worn it. I’d rather you get some use out of it.”
“Well, okay, but I can pay you…”
“No, it’s yours. You’ve always liked it.”
I took the charm bracelet, jumping a little inside. I liked the capitol charm even more since I attended The University of Texas. The capitol was a familiar view from the main mall on campus as I went to class every day, just down the hill. At night, I’d see it from the fifth floor window of the Perry Castañeda library, white against the dark sky. I’m really here!
I removed the charms except for the capitol. The first one to accompany it was an interlocking UT logo. Then it was a longhorn. I collected charms along the way, purchasing some, but many were gifts.
I was rarely without my bracelet. By now, it had become a conversation piece. Each charm told stories about me, but it always started with my parents’ story. My fourth grade students often checked it for new charms. Their favorites were the mini crayon and globe charms, symbols of the beginning of my teaching career. Because it’s bulky, I’d often take it off while I entered grades on my computer. I’d put it back on before leaving for the day.
One morning, I couldn’t find it. Before panicking, my husband asked where I had been the day before. School, pretty much. Where else do I go? I remembered entering grades before I left. Surely it’s still next to my computer. I got to school and immediately checked my desk.
It wasn’t there.
My heart pounded. Kids began entering the classroom. I’d check with the custodians. If they saw it on the floor, they would have saved it for me. Fortunately I worked at a small campus. However, they didn’t find it. I racked my brain retracing my steps.
Sonic! I had gone to an indoor Sonic after school yesterday, but before a meeting at church across the street. I would’ve known if it fell off though, it’s heavy. If I dropped it in the parking lot, it would either get run over or picked up. I might not see it again. My heart raced as I called the restaurant when it opened.
“Can you describe the bracelet?”
“It’s silver, there’s a capitol in the middle, a crayon, globe, angel, interlocking UT charm…”
“We have it. You’re lucky. Someone found it in the seat yesterday and turned it in. We’ll hold it until you get here.”
I drove there during my planning period with someone as back up to pick up my students from specials in case I didn’t make it back in time.
Sure enough, it was my bracelet. I put it on right away. When I returned to my classroom, I took it off to inspect it. The safety chain was broken. I never thought I’d see it again, but I’m ever grateful to the person who picked it up and knew it was more than a bunch of cute silver charms.
Where you look back look forward turn around or press on? 50/50 right in the middle
red cherry Popsicle split in half on a hot summer day
an age proudly proclaimed by a child inching closer to the next birthday I'm ten and a half!
two quarters, one for me, one for you, when one could get you a full sized candy bar
a marching band show sandwiched between two time clock quarters under Friday night lights of a high school football game, drum major on the fifty yard line telling the band what to do
a small town in Texas where Mom pulls over to let you drive the rest of the way home after running errands because you don't yet have a license
pit stops for stretching cramped legs letting the kids run around four more hours until we get to Grandma's roads don't seem to end in Texas
a mid-lifer assuming one lives to 100 contemplating what-iffing if-only-ing I should-ve... Stop! you're did what you knew best to do
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, hubiera escrito sus historias. Le hubiera preguntado de su educación. Le encantaba leer, pero casi siempre leía la Biblia. Su biblia la acompañó por tantos años. Yo sabía que no fue a la escuela muchos años. Era raro, con su experiencia, que sus padres tuvieron maneras de mandarla a la escuela. En ese tiempo, ella tenía la responsabilidad de ayudar con el trabajo de mantener el hogar.
¿Quien le enseñó escribir? También le encantaba escribir. Cuando fui a la universidad, me mandaba cartas por correo. Algunas veces, también me mandaba dinero. Sabía que para ella, era mucho, pero lo guardaba para algo necesario.
Nana era cuentista. Le encantaba el chisme y le encantaba contarnos de cosas que le habían pasado, siempre cuentos chistosos. Algunas veces, con lagrimas, nos contaba de su tristeza. Había mucha tristeza y tiempos difíciles.
Dos nińas, mis tías que nunca conocí, murieron demasiado temprano. Una se llamaba Olivia y la otra era Lydia. Eran las únicas hermanas menores de mi mamá. Olivia murió a los nueve meses de tos ferina. Lydia murió algunos meses pasado su primer cumpleaños de polio. No las llevaron al médico porque no había como pagarles.
Solo las conozco por sus fotos, en blanco y negro. En una foto, Nana estaba en seguida de mi mamá cargando su hermanita como si fuera muñequita. Otra foto era de Lydia frente de su pastel de cumpleaños.
Siempre pensaba en vida con mis tías. Imagino que, como mis siete tíos, ellas también me amarán muchísimo, y yo a ellas.
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, imagino que cada sábado por la mañana, nos juntaríamos virtualmente. Frente de la computadora o teléfono, mi mamá y Nana en la pantalla, enseñamos nuestras tazas de cafecito. Nana con sus carcajadas, mi mamá y yo temblando de risa. Con tiempo, imagino que la plática incluirá la historia de mis tías que nunca conocí. Ahora que tengo hijos, entiendo su dolor profunda. Le diría que yo también las extraño. Escribiría sus historias.
If Nana was still with us, I would’ve written her stories. I would have asked about her education. She enjoyed reading, but she usually read her Bible. It accompanied her for many hears. I knew she attended school for a few years. With her experience, her parents didn’t have the means to provide a formal education. She had the responsibility of helping maintain the household.
She also loved writing. Who taught her how to write? When I left home for college, she’d write me letters. Sometimes, she’d send money. I knew that for her, it was a stretch, but I saved it for something important. She wouldn’t let me refuse it.
Nana was a story teller. She loved gossip and enjoyed telling us stories about funny events that happened to her. Sometimes, through tears, she’d tell us of her sadness. In her life, there were many hardships.
The stories she spoke most of, were those of her two daughters, aunts I never knew. They were my mother’s only sisters, Mom being older than them. They were named Olivia and Lydia. At nine months old, Olivia died of whooping cough. A few months after her first birthday, Lydia died of polio. There was no money to take them to the hospital.
I only know them from their black and white photos. In one, Nana stands next to Mom who is holding her little sister. She looks like a doll. In another photo, Lydia stands on a chair in front of a birthday cake.
I’ve always thought of life would be like with my aunts. I imagine, like my seven uncles, they’d also love me as much as they do. I’d love them just as much.
If Nana was still with us, I imagine we’d meet virtually on Saturday mornings. In front of a phone or computer, Mom and Nana would appear on screen. We’d show each other our cups of cafecito. Nana’s cackling laugh would have us shaking. In time, our chat would include the stories of the aunts I never knew. With children of my own, I understand her profound grief. I’d tell her I also miss them. And I’d write her stories.
Yesterday, I actually read a WordPress post about the new and improved comments box. Always trying to keep up with the newest innovation (without interference from my pinkie toe and except for maybe using AI to probe my writing like an alien might probe a human-might-because there’s not a lot we know about them…and there Alice goes, down the rabbit hole…) I decided to read the entire post. Not skim. Not scroll read, but actually read. Go back and pay attention. Read the screenshots.
Slow my scroll and read the screen.
I heard myself sing what I often sing-song to students during research lessons, “Slow your scroll and read the screen!” I took my advice.
Here I go, I’ll be fancy and embed the link in the text when I comment. I noticed other people doing the same. It wasn’t hard, it looks like a typical WordPress block. The link icon is there. I drafted my piece and made sure to include the link to the original post inspiring me to write about five of my favorite things (only five?)
I’m usually a PM poster, sometimes late at night. Yesterday it was early (for me). I hyperlinked my slice, hyperlinked Tammy’s Day 13 post and went on my merry way.
I popped back in to comment and noticed my post was under moderation. No other posts appeared after mine for a while. First thought? I broke WordPress, yikes!It’s my pinkie toe acting up again.
I left it at that, went to lunch with my husband, spent some Barnes & Noble gift cards (they did away with their educator discount program, but I got a nifty bag and the free premium membership for a year-I must remember to cancel), came home, and popped back in for more commenting.
My post was approved. Nifty new tool, but if it kicks everything over to moderation before posting, it may not be the best tool to use for this writing challenge. Then again, I noticed a few comments on my posts at the beginning of the month that went to spam.
I don’t think it’s my pinkie toe after all. Some settings that are out of my control must’ve been what happened. So much for trying to use the next best thing. Sometimes innovations aren’t so innovative.
…but, I would like a search feature to only search the comments for key words or slicers I’d like to revisit later in the day…
Dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe was my favorite, not because I could do the simple line dance without tripping over my feet or because I liked country music. It was my favorite because I got to freely holler–BULL-SHIT!–at the top of my lungs without cowering at my little silent angel self who sat on my right shoulder coaching me into possible sainthood.
My little devil self who sat on my left shoulder jabbed her pointed little tail and pitchfork into me in time to the music. And she made me laugh. And told me it was okay to let loose and have a good time.
Little angel self firmly kept little devil self in check that wouldn’t allow her to go past that dance. No beer. No wine coolers. No running around with the wrong crowd after hours. I mingled with some of them, but veered off in a different direction once my dose of fun expired. When the clock neared midnight. Well, 10:30 or 11:00, and long before I had half a chance to lose a golden slipper that resembled a knock off penny loafer, here came my ride. Usually my mom, I saw her car’s headlights coming up the driveway.
First one to get picked up, unless my friend T was allowed out of the house. Her parents were worse than mine. She wasn’t here tonight so there I go, embarrassed at being the one to leave first.
I have to go!
I say goodbye to my friends and the music, just as the fun gains momentum and my confidence started taking off. I look wistfully behind my shoulder heading toward the car, wondering about the stories I’ll hear Monday morning.
Sunday morning communing with pen and notebook three pages, one is done
she bounds downstairs only in the way a teenage girl can bound bending down loving on the puppy resting at my feet
like a puppy switches her brain switches in an instant "Okay, hear me out, just hear me out"
I don't know what's coming a feral cat hiss with a puff of fire breathing dragon flames?
she continues her philosophical and theological conversation asking questions confirming views questioning others
"I feel closer to God... (or is it GOD or god?) now that I've distanced myself I mean, how can someone commit to something so important and life changing when they're so young? this is a big thing, more important than college or marriage and we have to make this kind of decision when we're young?
She steps back, surprised I didn't jump in
"I'm cooking! I'M COOKING!"
Yes, yes you are keep at it, feisty one keep at it
Nerds Beget Nerds 