“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” Jane Goodall
Gelada in Simien Mountain National Park, Ethiopia
life
My Hair–a Student Poem
Recently, my students read a poem where the eggs in a carton expressed terror at being removed by human hands and a Pablo Neruda poem about his socks–hand made, blue wool with a golden thread running through them. Their assignment was to also write a 20 line poem about something ordinary which they love or appreciate. One student wrote about my hair.
A Birthday Tale
Several weeks ago, the tail of my favorite horse, Miracle, disappeared. When she died from colic after giving birth several years ago, one young lady at the vets took hairs from her tail, made a braid, and gave it to me. Since then, it had hung in the hallway next to Dad’s spurs and a photo of the family farm above Dad’s parade saddle. Suddenly, it disappeared. Where could it have gone? No one had recently been to the house except Martina, my Italian exchange student, and me. My daughter and grandson had stopped by, but no one else. Nothing else had disappeared. It was a mystery like the time I found a handful of dry dog food under the saddle. I never solved that one and had given up on solving this one. I had even considered looking for something else to hang in its place.
On my birthday yesterday, the principal walked to my room with a bouquet of flowers and a package. The bouquet was from my grandson. I opened the package. Much to my astonishment, there was Miracle’s tail, the top of the braid carefully and colorfully wrapped, a thin copper wire winding through it, and and then wrapped around the bottom. My daughter had managed to take it without my seeing her do so, took it home, and had wrapped it so it would not come apart. When I originally told her about it, she and my grandson commented how strange it was and made note of the dog food incident as if some mystery lurked in that particular place in my house.
My grandson had picked out each individual flower. He obviously knows my favorite color is orange.
Then to top off the day my son also sent flowers. It dropped 50 degrees from yesterday afternoon to late last night, the wind shrieks, clouds loom dark and ominous. It is a good day for bright flowers.
Student Poems: Dogs
The instructions: write a poem about a pet or wild animal you love. Most of the students wrote about their dogs. Six more students requested I publish their dog poems. Here are three:
Kimba
my name is Kimba
I am really fun
but be very careful I like cinnamon buns
I run and I play
I sleep everyday
I ride in the car
but not very far
I really hate cats
They remind me of rats
I need to lose weight
So I can relate
back to when I was tiny
I thought I was so mighty
Author: Kayla Stephens
Sadie Mae
Sadie Mae is the best
Whatever she does, she makes a mess
She loves to play with all
especially her favorite ball
Sophie is her best friend
but their energy never ends
In the open pastures she runs wild
which gives her a big smile
In the middle of the bed she sprawls
sometimes you will see her crawl
Author: Jake Kenedy
Baps
My name is Baps. Milana
loves me I sleep on her
head so she can’t see
When Milana gets up I
have to get off When I
roll over I fall off
Milano needs me so does
Finley But beware of the
bird because he is my enemy
Be very careful we don’t get along
don’t put us together or he will
be gone.
Author: Milana Evers
An “Italian” Evening–Two
My daughter and grandson arrived shortly after six. First course included nuts, cheeses, crackers, blue corn chips and salsa–I know, not Italian. For the adults, Stella Rosa Black from Italy. For the non-adults organic apple juice.
While we snacked on the first course, we created two versions of Pasta alla Carbonara, one for my vegetarian grandson and one without much parmesan cheese for everyone else. Traditionally, this dish requires parmesan cheese; however, my daughter is lactose intolerant so we created the other one for her. The rest of us just topped off our dish with grated parmesan at the dinner table.
We used conchiglie from Monastero di Montebello in Italy for the pasta and for version two, pancetta cut into cubes. For the vegetarian version we used Morning Star bacon. Here is the basic recipe for pasta alla carbonara:
cooked pasta
bacon or ham, cut in cubes or small pieces
whipped eggs, approximately one egg for every two people
finely chopped onions sautéed in olive oil–we used one large onion for four
grated parmesan cheese–1/8 to 1/4 cup per person (you can use half parmesan and half pecorino)
Saute onions until translucent. If you are using any bacon except pancetta, cook it first but not until too crispy. Add the bacon and heat through. Add the cooked pasta and the whipped egg/cheese to the onion/bacon mixture. Continually stir until thoroughly combined and the eggs are cooked.
When to start cooking the pasta so it is cooked and ready to combine with the other ingredients depends on the type of pasta you use.
We served this with a large salad: leaf lettuce, shredded purple cabbage, chopped red bell peppers, onions, chopped carrots, balsamic vinegar and olive oil. We concluded the evening with three different ice cream choices for dessert.
In case you are wondering why the Christmas tree is still there, well, Martina and I like the lights so we keep procrastinating taking it down. I keep telling myself today it will be dismantled and then it is not. Tonight it will come down–maybe.
Thoughts on New Year’s Day
16 degrees, windchill 2, flurries.
Keep warm, reflect, remember, don’t relive,
forgive, move on.
Work hard to become the change you want to see worldwide:
-Empathy
-Kindness
-Love
-Patience
-Understanding
A Season of Gratitude
It started Thursday with the Winter Solstice and the full moon: the love, the presents, my astonishment. You cannot go wrong with moonlight hanging over a canyon. It never disappoints.
Then on Friday, astonishment. Teachers never expect what I received. I expect excellence and hope most learn something new, learn that books they will like exist, that they can do more than they ever dreamed. We do not expect presents.
By ten on Friday, my classroom was covered with gifts and food. Here is a list of some of the presents I received from my students:
frankincense and myrrh soap
a book about wine–yes, it seems they know me
a 4 by 4 black block that says Love, Smile, Enjoy, Laugh, Sing, Live
two gifts cards from a brother and sister for renting movies along with popcorn
a Picasso scarf
a thermal cup full of almonds–I received lots of almonds
all sorts of homemade candies, cookies, and other goodies
To top it all off, a mother walked into my room and handed me a bottle of red wine with this written on it: “Our child might be the reason you drink so enjoy this bottle on us, Merry Christmas.” I am still chuckling about this one.
My daughter and grandson are on a cruise and will get to see several ancient Mayan temples, my son is on his way here and will arrive around noon or early afternoon, I attended a beautiful Christmas Eve service last night, then came home and continued reading a fascinating book until late, and shortly I will make pumpkin bread using Mom’s old recipe.
The moon still shines, hanging in the Western horizon. I feel grateful.
Happy Holidays to everyone.
Juliana
Note: The Christmas tree my parents gave me decades ago with a skirt, simple fabric brought from Africa many years ago.
The Christmas Tree
In childhood, no fake tree for us.
Just after Thanksgiving, the family search transpired.
Mom and Dad preferred Douglas fir, six feet tall.
Dutifully, we kept the tree holder filled with water,
never used real candles. We put on lights, big ones,
blue, green, red, an inch long, then carefully hung on delicate,
colorful, round balls. The most difficult task: the icicles,
long, silver, reflective. They had to go on just so.
Years later, children gone, Mom and Dad bought an
artificial tree, fake Douglas fir, incredibly real in appearance.
When they left Missouri for Arizona every winter after harvest,
they abandoned Christmas trees, gave me the fake Douglas fir.
I still have it. How long? Decades, several at least. State of the art
when they bought it, it requires work, assembly, strings of lights.
Every year, I tell myself it is time to get one of those new trees with lights
already installed, so much easier to take up and down. I never buy one.
I cannot bear to part with Mom and Dad’s tree. One year, annoyed with
putting on lights, I decorated it lightless. I missed the lights. Now every year,
decades later, I assemble it, take the time to string the lights. Some of the lower
branches no longer stay, but I work around that, hang the colorful, delicate
Christmas ornaments I love, collected over years and years, wrap the base in
the red and white cloth given to me from Africa. On cold evenings, like this one,
I turn off the other lights, drink tea like my mother did, and remember my
childhood.
A Litany of Thanks
I heard this poem by Max Coots recited on Sunday and saved it to share today.
Let us give thanks:
For generous friends…with hearts…and smiles as bright as their blossoms;
For feisty friends as tart as apples;
For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers, keep reminding us we’ve had them;
For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;
For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and as elegant as a row of corn, and the others, plain as potatoes and as good for you;
For funny friends, who are a silly as Brussel spouts and as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes, and serious friends, as complex as cauliflowers and as intricate as onions;
For friends as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as dill, as endless as zucchini, and who, like parsnips, can be counted on to see you throughout the winter;
For old friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold us, despite our blights, wilts, and witherings;
And, finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past that have been harvested, and who fed us in their times that we might have life hereafter.
For all these we give thanks.
Autumn
dramatic weather changes
one day cold, next one almost hot
late blooms, gayfeather, groundswell,
native grasses blowing in the wind
owls hooting, robins on the patio
praying mantis, walking sticks
working on their last hunts,
other insects singing night songs
writingontherim 