Walking Toward Rising Hope: The Sun, Ideas, Possibilities, Fresh Air, & Calm. #IWriteEveryDay @wolsyracuse @cwpfairfield @gerduany

2020 has been pretty memorable for all of us, and sadly we've shaken our heads side to side more than we've shaken it up and down. I also know we're heading to November, and it is unlikely that I will top my favorite two memories of this year: attending the North Texas Teen Book Fest (Holy Cow, Rose Brock is amazing) and working with, meeting, and becoming friends with Ger Duany. It's funny, because I've been reaching out to him since he was in The Good Lie, but never heard back. I guess it takes helping to promote and celebrate a book to get his attention. Ha. Actually, the last prompt for Syracuse's Writing Our Lives week comes from him: What do you walk toward in life and hope for? What rituals do you have that will get you there?

A friend of mine once asked me one time while she sunbathed on the beach reading books, "Why don't you ever sit still? Why are you always on the move?" I did sit still for 30 or so minutes, but then I wanted to run a few miles, and take a walk to look around, and see some more sights. I was born with ants in my pants, I guess.

But she was right. I am always on the move and walking towards something (usually running) and I understand that this is perplexing to a lot of people. A high school/college friend used to always say to me, "You don't know how to relax." It's taking me 48 years of life to realize this, but I do know how to relax and it is with three rituals: (1) walking, (2) running, and (3) writing - I Write Every Day. #IWriteEveryDay

I know some people don't see the three as down-time and calming, but they truly are the moments I'm at peace with myself. During all three rituals, I'm thinking, and in response to Ger's prompt, I know I am walking towards meaning-making and understanding. As a fixer, too, I'm always working towards resolving the issues that perplex me most (i.e., as the world begins to hate more, how can I find ways to bring more love to it?; as more and more people turn their backs to those most in need, what can I do to help them?).

The rituals I have are actually the habits I've created to let my mind do what I intend to do. Walking the dog is inevitable. It's a 3 -5 mile romp to clear my head and for her to make sure every blade of grass is watered in every yard we pass. On the best days (and they are getting harder to find), I also run. I can go anywhere from 2 - 10 miles depending on what my body thinks of itself. The older I get, though, the more it contemplates, "You probably should just walk this one out." My favorite times, and I'm creating more of them, is when I go for a two to three hour hike/walk with the intention of listening to a book. I usually get engrossed in the storytelling, but also think about my own writing, planning, and grant-searching. It's while moving that my brain puts ideas together. Without walking, there is no organizing of the work to be done.

The two photos I've used for this post are also ones I sent Ger when we were going back and forth about ideas, wonders, and curiosities, after his book debuted. He told me he walks 10-20 miles a day while thinking and I snapped a selfie and said, "That's actually what I'm doing right now." 

Today is the WOL Syracuse conference (the online edition) and I believe it is also Halloween. I bought stuff to hand out, but I don't think anyone in CT will be trick-or-treating given the realities of the moment. I probably will be wrong (besides, I'm likely to head out...I have the stupidest costume ever that I can't wait to put together). 

In the mean time, back to the beauty of this world. The sun gives me energy, warmth, growth, and predictability. Without it, I'm lost (even on gray days I know where it is). I will say of 2020, however, that I have new sun to help me to grow, and that is Ger Duany...a brother on this journey of life. Given his perspective, his life story, a Walk Toward the Rising Sun is all there can be.

Day #3 @WOLSyracuse. Inspired by Mapping Superpowers with @Abdaddy & James Haywood Rolling. The Result? #EveryDayIWrite

Confession: I studied with Dr. James Haywood Rolling while at Syracuse University and I really do believe it could be lethal if we spent too much time together. His genius was irreplaceable and I loved every second of his courses, especially the readings, the artistry, the creativity, the joy, the laughter, and the funk. I have folders and folders of work from his classes and, perhaps, one day, the two of us can create something spectacular together. I am a visual learner, and his influence helped me to bring forth ways to make meaning beyond text.

Today, I used his Writing Our Lives prompts: What are you superpowers? What activities do you love giving attention to? What do you work harder at? What might you contribute to the world? with Abdi Nazemian's call for mapping out ideas through word association - that is, seeing what might arrive when a word leads to a word and so forth (um, cool!). I started with birth and free associated all the way until I trapped myself by the chin: HOPE.

Here we go:

Rip was born amongst the pollywogs, but he didn't know it at the time. That song would only come when the universe taught him how to sing in frog ways during the time of Lily Pads and dragonflies, teaching and chalk...(and this was way before he was a Professor). Listen. Record. Create. That is how one finds their potential  inside. Rip was the Willy Wonka sort, nefariously testing the creatures he met with gobstoppers and fizzy-lifting drinks to see which would take the bait and which would show integrity. 

Integrity is what he was after...that, and the quest to decode morality to the very core of its chemical fiber. Were there genes for humor? For laughter? For mischief? For hate? Rip's work was (but he didn't care) the laughter of the academy and very few took him seriously. Dr. Doobie-Doo they called him behind his back. He was the Fool to everyone else's King Lear (and he learned this in London while rolling down the hills of Primrose Hill and dancing the streets of Wigmore...Picadilly circus was in his brain and Camden in his soul...there, the rebirth of sorts...birth after birth...born again and again... all on the quest to find serenity, the Siddharthean Om...despite human wars, hangnails, and despots). 

"Put a couple more fingernails into the sauce," Rip instructed his graduate student, Glamis, who maintained jars of poetry, magazine clippings, dog hair, eyeballs, and toes."

Strange hobbies Rip had, running through the veins of his girth and brain.

"Genetics. Biology. We will figure out a way to capture this human thing," Rip instructed Glamis. It was always a battle between quantifying the everything and qualifying the outliers to make every numerical finding a joke.

"Hand me some of the Sycamore leaves and one hair of Walt Whitman." Rip continued. "The last time, it was the follicle that helped us to pick Pandora's box open."

Secrets of The Great Whatever. Ways to read the word, and the world. 

Yes, Rip taught college, but he was after something bigger. The creatures he selected were strategic. It was  networking through soul-work, and most of the time they didn't even know they were part of his larger quest. Tell me your story. Share a time when...What was that like to live through.... 

In the end, it always was a quest to find hope. 

His superpower? Writing every single day.

#EveryDayIWrite and Today I Write with @WOLSyracuse with Special Guest @jetchez (What a Prompt! Phew!).

This morning, Thursday, I'm responding to Writing Our Lives - Syracuse's 3rd prompt (I LOVE my Syracuse Family). What is weighing heavy on my shoulders? Write someone a letter about it. What a prompt to kick off my day, but I'll give it a shot before I move on to the other tasks on the docket!!!

Dear You,

I'm writing because Charlie said you'd listen, and I tend to trust wallflowers more than I trust other people. They sit back, observe, think deeply, and listen before they act which has always intrigued me. They are the ol' still waters run deep people, and I try to channel them from time to time. I missed out on such a gene, and somehow found myself with Jim Carey, Robin Williams, and Willy Wonka tendencies. That is, at least, my out-of-house persona. Those who know me best, however, realize I hide inside a lot (in order to get things done) and can go days, if not months, without talking to people. I sort of have this introverted extrovert persona mastered. Truth is, if one is always performing and tap-dancing before others, they can't sit at home reading everything they can get their hands on. That is another confession I should share. I geek out a lot with books, and because of our current political situation, I find I am reading more and more, especially when I see that information that goes 100% against what has already been reported as true. I scratch my head thinking, "Where is this coming from? Don't people do research?" Then I go back to check the facts as reliable resources have reported them. I can't help the fact that they are choosing foolishness over the scientists, scholars, historians, economists, teachers, and journalists who have devoted their lives to their professions. Ah, humanity.

There's enough research out there to rely on. My recommendation is to begin there. Everyone can have their conspiracies and wild thinking (shoot, I still hope to be abducted by aliens one day), but at some point they must sift through information, process it, and seek the rationality I hope they have inside of them. I've been around too many irrational people throughout my life. Sorry, but they're bonkers.

Of course, then, I have to check my privileges, too. Only 6.7% of the world's population has a college degree (it fluctuates up and down). 25% of American high school kids drop out, and of those who remain 66-88% go on to two-year and 4-year colleges (different locations report different numbers, because schools often fib so they look better in the rankings). Of that population, 40% drops out. Even further, only 2% of all Americans have a doctorate. I'm constantly checking these numbers to keep myself honest (YOU DON'T THINK LIKE THE MAJORITY OF THE WORLD, CRANDALL. GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF), because it is very easy for me to get lost in my own thoughts, thinking that everyone lives their day-to-day just like me. They don't. They seek information that aligns with their world-view (59% of the globe can do this online because they has access to Internet information - note: that is WAY up over the last few years. I remember when it was just 7%).

Then there's the reality that 79.5 million people were displaced from their homes as refugees in 2019 and we have to keep that in check with Covid-19 realities, where the U.S. alone has had almost one hundred and seventeen 9/11s (I remember heavily what that September was like). And if you like numbers, sometimes it is interesting to calculate how many people have died in wars so that a blog posting like this can occur.

That's not what I'm writing about, however. I'm writing to young people, particularly those who just started college and who are about to start college. I'm simply sorry for everything being handed to you. As I approach 50, I'm shaking my head in disbelief, too. You would think adults would have some of this stuff figured out, but I think you can easily see they do not. To be honest, many amazing, great, and phenomenal people have tried - and their efforts are the giants whose shoulders the rest of us stand upon. The trickier thing is to fight against all the gnats and mosquitos who are tiny and annoying, but congregate as armies, and work diligently to impede any good in the world (all while feeling they are awesome beings: Hey, I'm a gnat. I'm suppose to be gnat-like. Everything I do and say is right because I'm a gnat, and I only know gnat things). There are way more of them, gnats and mosquitos, than giants whose shoulders we can stand upon, and sometimes I think it is impossible to battle them. So many fight hard for the equity, diversity, and democracy in the United States, yet there are even more work overtime to make you believe they believe in that, but they do not. That game is for you to figure out. Watch their actions. Actions always speak louder than words.

Lately, I've been nostalgic, especially for my time from age 16 - 22. My generation (graduates of the Class of 1990) had a completely different world than what exists now (and let me counter this claim - that is a lie. We were privileged, lucky, spoiled, and fortunate. We benefited from the Greatest generation, our grandparents, and the decisions made by our Baby Booming parents. Ah, but What is the 4th of July to a Slave? Our enjoyment of a time period was not the same experience for others. We were taught that we deserved this. NOPE. We lucked out, and it should be our responsibility that others have a chance to LUCK OUT, too).

In my case, I lived in a suburban area outside the City of Syracuse where working class people made just enough money to send their kids, if they chose - most of us 1st generation college kids - to higher education. Even then that was hard, especially as State scholarships disappeared. But that was the dream. That was a possibility. Distant relatives immigrated. They worked hard in difficult jobs. They saved. They provided. We benefited. This, though, needs to be placed in consideration of what Ogbu wrote as voluntary migrants, "I want to live in America," versus involuntary migrants...visit the Civil Rights Trail if you want to learn the reality and truth of that history.

Alas, tuition then was almost $7,000 a year. As a result, working part-time and, sometimes, full-time, made it affordable to finish a 4-year degree with no loans. I don't even know what the world of today looks like as kids graduate with mortgage payments for their education. That's just wrong. Even my own son, who benefited from tuition exchange because I'm an educator in higher education, had to pay more for housing while away than I did for my entire education. It's ludicrous. It's also insane. And, I benefited from it. I bite at the hand that feeds me (and him, to be honest). Education should be a right...now an unattainable opportunity because it costs each year more than what most families make. That system is truly broken.

But I'm also thinking about how important (transitional) those four years of my life were. I want every human being upon this planet to have an opportunity like I had to study, read, explore, think, understand, know, and grow. In particular, the semester I studied in London under the guidance of Dr. Carol Boyce Davies in a program called Literature of Exile and the Black British Experience changed my life for the better. Her influence on my thinking, my global understanding, and my privileges have been with me my entire life. Her intelligence and leadership coupled with my youth and curiosity, made for a remarkable experience (and awakening). The work transcended that program, and I was lucky to be mentored by her for several semesters after. The privileges continued, too, because at age 19 I learned how drastically different my worldview was, given the education I got in upstate NY. Yes, I had a view and believed in education, but that view was narrow and only partial. There is so much more out there. Sadly, I'm afraid that too many make it through with college degrees never having such luck in their education. They learn, but they don't LEARN.

I remember when I graduated high school, my boss at my job bought me a copy of Oh, The Places You Will Go by Dr. Seuss (there's a lot written about Theodore Geisel to squash my joy of this moment in time, but that is for you to find out). At the time, I thought it was a silly gift for a high school student, but it also impressed me. There was encouragement for growth, change, and movement. 

Growth, change, and movement. Should that be an educational mantra.

"Hey, kid. Welcome to my class. My goal for you is that you will grow, change for the better, and make movement so that others benefit from the knowledge you've gained," says Dr. Crandall.

Now, I see that I've gone places, and I'm lucky.

And places have come to me. I chose teaching as an occupation and have been gifted to work with kids from all over the world and with multiple perspectives in learning environments that were a dream. It's easy for me to see that here, however, is not there. It's also easy for me to see (and question, and wonder, and explore, and read about, and challenge) all the crazy nonsense that others spew. I realize, "Dang, Crandall. Now it is your generation throwing the garbage forward. And they actually believe the shit coming from their mouths."

Phew. Truth. 

Getting older doesn't make it easier. Rather, the issues remain more and more complicated. It's just that, as you age, you gain access to better defense mechanisms....that is, if you're privileged enough to have a home, to be enrolled in a school, to have groceries in your fridge, to read books from your shelves, to have access vehicles to travel, etc. That is not a global norm. That must be remembered. We have a responsibility to that.

There used to be a saying, "It's going to get better."

I still believe it will. 

I have faith in the Great Whatever, and right now the generations before you are failing you.  Shame on them, shame on me, and shame on all of us. You deserve better and as long as I can, I will do everything to fight for your chance in the world. A majority will fight me every step of the way, but I hope that you know  good humans exist. Many will work hard so that you believe they are good and should be trusted. Pay attention to what they stand for - watch their actions. The actions will tell you everything.

Just keep your eyes open. Question the world. Read as much as you can. Observe human behavior. Watch.And work your ass off. That is something no one can ever take from you. Own your knowledge and when something triggers your emotions, move yourself into them. Living with love at your side can be one of the most phenomenal weapons that can be carried. Hate is more common and ,most use it in sheep's clothing to look like love.

Just be cautious. Write everyday. Find the truth that makes you a better person.

Sincerely,

Bryan

#EveryDayIWrite - Day 2, Writing Our Lives #WOL2020. Find an Object at Your Side & Go For It (Write). Thanks, Evan Starling-Davis

Prompted by Lifting a Random Object Up and Thinking About It (a gift from Dr. Susan James, Emerald Coast Writing Project, Pensacola, Florida. Papa Frog Reading to Lil' Frog)

Time Flies

There weren't too many Frog stories told on the Lily Pad, except Hynka's parodies of Grandpa, my parents, and Southern Comfort. I'm in the mood. I'm in the mood. Shut up, kids. Shut up, kids. Not tonight. Not tonight. Don't Don't. These were the songs sung by all types of frogs on Loch Lebanon and I absorbed them all.

"What are they singing now, Grandma?" I wondered with my head tucked under a neck. "Tell us more."

No one told me I was a Frog at the time. Even so, such stories cracked me up (croaked me up?), just like the portraits that hung in the guest room of three cats - one for my Uncle Sam, another for my Aunt Bobbie, and a third for my father, Butch. He was the Siamese one being drenched in the rain with a miserable scowl on his face. The other two chased butterflies, books, and rainbows. Funny how they were hung at camp, yet there was none of my mother, even though she was the only child. She was the one that lived with the Guy Lombardo records, cousins, uncles and aunts, and the Colgate nerds who invaded her town every year. 

I see the birds and the birds see me. Damn cars. 5 points.

No, I didn't actually become a Frog myself until I was 26 years old. I was interning at the Beargrass Creek Nature Preserve, across from the Louisville Zoo, and they had frog backpacks on clearance so I swiped one to carry my books. You lifted the frog's head, saw the giant red tongue and tonsils, and put your items inside his mouth. Yes, it was made for kids, but the humor of such a backpack attracted me and that is how I transported by books. It came with me to the Brown School and very early, that first year in 1997, I began getting "Dear Frog Letters."

This is a true story. Letters from Chipmunks, Turtles, Dragonflies and Skunks. Some from Loons, Woody Nymphs, and Crickets. Many, many butterflies, rabbits, and squirrels. For over ten years, fellows of the pond wrote to Frog. Frog responded best he could as everyone on the Lily Pad had questions, curiosities, wonders, and worries about the pond-life thing. Frog didn't have a clue, but responded as best he could. There was Bryan the teacher, but also Frog, the fictional daemon that seemed to exist beyond him. Writing to Frog was their way of healing, and letters to Frog, they wrote. Word spread. Frog got letters from all over the place, even beyond school (this was when letters were sent via mail, too). No one told me that being human came with teaching, but it did. And to be human, kids adopted personalities as other creatures. Wild.  When you teach good books, ask great questions, and aim to represent the diversity and inclusiveness of ALL the beautiful creatures, suddenly the need to know becomes important. It became heavy.

Exiting caves comes from this inquisitiveness and such curiosity carried on for over a decade, until Umbridge, care of Voldemort, Sauron, Darth Vader, and the darkness that exists everywhere in the universe, arrived to the school where I taught and started saying things like, "How does curiosity, inquisitiveness, exploration, and creativity have anything to do with State assessments?"

Frog didn't mind, though. The pond creatures blew those assessments out of the waters. What worried Frog, however, was how leadership could be show short-sighted and the nimble-minded people would back her with the cages, walls, and boxes that came with her. They wanted to control free-thinking. They didn't value it.

So, Frog hung up his lotus flower, and decided to do a Ph.D. 

Frog stories disappeared for a while.

Ah, but then Frog met Pelican, and admitted to her, "I need you to hear my story," and suddenly hope was restored. Pelican sent him a Frog a sculpture: a Papa Frog and a little Frog reading together and it was put it on a shelf. Pelican knew the Eagle, and I guess Eagle had Frog pajamas. The metaphor worked. Little Frog is a metaphor for the work Frog tries to do.

Books. Ideas. Journals. And appreciation for the prompt that came from a wonderful, purple-backed Starling. The pond is about Togetherness. I am, because we are.

And the stories begin with us. Thanks for the prompt, Evan. #EveryDayIWrite

Every Day I Write #EveryDayIWrite Every Day I Write #EveryDayIWrite Every Day I Write #EverydayIWrite @MarcelleHaddix @WOLSyracuse

Eleven years ago, Dr. Marcelle Haddix at Syracuse University recruited me with a question, "Crandall, you want to help with a community writing event? A conference?" We worked on a collaborative grant, the Joan N. Burstyn Award which was awarded, and as a result I received Marcelle's mentorship, new community partners and locations to work with, and a hope for 50 students. Nope. It was standing room only.

Eleven years ago! 

And Dr. Marcelle Haddix keeps the magic going.

This year, Marcelle and her team are putting the action into digital spaces, offering writing prompts everyday, and culminating the writing activities in a virtual conference. The conference is Saturday and you can keep up with the call and prompts on the Writing Our Lives ~ Believe in Syracuse Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/groups/WOLwritingourlives.

Today's prompt was to respond to #EveryDayIWrite in our notebooks, but I'm pushing 50 (an old fart in the eyes of youth) and I've been writing online EVERY DAY for 13 years. Before that, I wrote every day in composition books and journals (ask my friends and my students)(my shelves are loaded with my doodles, thoughts, quotes, stories, poems, ideas, research, autographs, and collections). The same can be said of Calendric Crandall and the other themed blogs since 2008. 

Wow. Here's the first Writing Our Lives post in 2010: a poem called Writing Our Lives. It seems like yesterday we were welcoming drenched, soaking wet kids to WOL and giving them notebooks, pens, and incredible workshops. 

#EveryDayIWrite

Each summer, we put the following list on the back of our t-shirts. Why Write? Because #EveryDayIWrite

TO EXPRESS TO REFLECT TO  GROWTO  THINK TO COMMUNICATE TO BELIEVE TO KNOW TO  TAKE A STANCE TO EXPLORE TO QUESTION TO  REPORT TO DISCOVER TO PERFORM TO SING TO INQUIRE TO DREAM TO PROMOTE TO SEEK INFORMATION TO COMPLAIN TO ENTERTAIN TO ARTICULATE TO BLOG TO SHARE TO TO BE PROFESSIONAL TO MOVE ON TO HISTORICIZE TO RAP TO RELAX TO MAKE A CHANGE TO BELONG TO PLAN TO BE PART OF THE STORY TO MANIPULATE TO FLIRT TO RECORD TO FEEL TO ORGANIZE TO FORGET TO TRY NEW THINGS TO FLY TO CREATE TO LEARN TO TAKE NOTES TO PLAN TO LIST TO FASCINATE TO PLAY TO HUMANIZE TO SING TO MAKE JAZZ TO HOPE TO ACHIEVE TO ARGUE TO IMAGINE TO VOICE TO INFORM TO CONVINCE TO REMEMBER TO JOURNAL TO DOODLE TO WONDER TO BE HUMAN TO COMPOSE TO BE ME & TO BE FREE…

Here's the the weeklong celebration, all the great ideas that are planted in notebooks, and the daily prompts. I am, because she is. We are, because they are. 

It's always been about community. Let's write for them!

Revisiting @JackieWoodson's HARBOR ME While Adjusting Curriculum with Middle School Readers (AKA Remaining in Awe)

Long story short, I was  asked to write a guide for students who might read Jacqueline Woodson's Harbor Me, so I picked the book  up yesterday  and read it once more. They say the best way to learn anything is to teach others about it.  

In 2019, Fairfield County hosted Jacqueline Woodson for a One Book, One Town event, where the author came to speak at the University's Quick Center. Upon naming the book, several people reached out to me help promote the event. I had just read The Day You Begin, and with knowledge of Harbor Me being the chosen book, I quickly ordered it and added it to all my courses, both undergraduate and graduate. After finishing it, I purchased a copy for 42 middle schools teachers, too.

I went to the OBOT announcement ceremony (the reveal) and quickly realized I was one of three men there and and there was not a single Brown person in attendance. It was a sea of White women.  I work mostly in the City of Bridgeport and almost every classroom I visit is a simulacra of the ARTT room in Woodson's book - a pastiche of stunning children and diversity.  The planning for the event ran throughout the affluent school districts and zip-codes, with no community intentions for readers in urban school districts, especially middle school readers, who would benefit from the book. 

I knew as soon as I read Harbor Me, I needed to find grant money to make sure the book was in Bridgeport Schools. Luckilly, I found it and was able to work with several classrooms throughout the district to assure kids had an opportunity to read the book. With knowledge of the Quick Center talk, too, I also funded several buses so that teachers could bring their students to the event. I remember that the teachers and kids took over the front row seats - a facility where 700 people can attend. It was packed and I was glad to bring more heterogeneity to the campus.

I spent the semester writing curriculum around the philosophy of Harbor Me, because I was teaching an educational philosophy course. It paired well with our reading of Mission High, as well as discussions of Freire and Ubuntu (which guides so many of CWP's youth and teacher programs). 

I was honored to hear Jacqueline Woodson's talk that night and had flashbacks of first meeting her at Steve Bickmore's Young Adult Literature Summit at LSU (2015, pictured right), where we all read Brown Girl Dreaming and I taught a course on ways the National Writing Project mission might be paired with YA Lit (what I'm actually spending my sabbatical writing about). 

Perhaps it was my toothache, or just where our nation is right now in history with its backturned towards refugees and immigrants, but at two points I had to put the book down to check my emotions. I felt them too much. It was a punch in the gut and I was angered. The beautiful smiles of kids buried by the history of our nation once again. How can we not be furious?

Harbor Me is simply brilliant. I realized it in 2019, and I realized it now as I created a curricular guide. The way Ms. Laverne is written to  respect her 5th/6th grade students is simply stellar ( such a minor character... but major in how the kids bring her depth). The way Jacqueline Woodson understands the minds of young people , especially as they try to figure out their nation and its history (coupled with the current Millerarian rhetoric) is simply phenomenal. The six, a harmonic convergence - a Club Us, offer maturity, inquisitiveness, and critique. They also bring forward a hope for what the United States might actually be if the nation ever  realized its mission. Rather, like the Lenape, such stories get buried (i.e., choosing Harbor Me for a community read, but failing to include the very communities the story is about).

I just feel blessed to have been able to spend another day rereading Woodson's book. I'm always in awe of her craft, not only in this book, but with all her writing.

And and aside: Yesterday, I finally purchased a table for my new porch, one that has plugs and outlets for phones, I-Pads, and laptops. It's tiny, but it allows me to work beside my books, my thinking, and the scenery outdoors, where I can also be as Zen as possible (I also made my first pot of chili, which I didn't get to until 9:50 at night because I was so engrossed in the Harbor Me project). 

As I was building the curriculum, rereading, and remembering, it made me revisit photos with the wonderful teachers and students who were with us.

Inclusion isn't that hard if you actually believe in it. 

Murphy's Law, Every Time: If a Tooth is to Erupt, It Will Do So Over the Weekend, Beginning Friday Night

I've been moving right along, feeling productive, but woke up Friday morning thinking I must of been grinding my teeth in my sleep. There was a slight pain, but Ibuprofen took care of it, is I ignored it. By 6 p.m., it came back and I was like, "Oof. What is that?" I couldn't tell what tooth it was, as my entire jaw was throbbing, so I took more Ibuprofen. It was fine and I went to bed.

Then Saturday morning came, and I felt lightening bolts shooting on the entire right side of my mouth. At first I diagnosed it was a bottom row tooth, but then I swished around salt water (online remedy) and started playing Dentist with my tongue, figuring out which tooth it actually was. No effect pushing from the wide, but then when I bit down on a raisin (morning ritual...I need my Raisin Bran), I learned really quick which tooth it was (3rd molar). I jumped out of my chair. It was the tooth that was just given a new crown because the other one was cracked. 

The tooth responded to more Ibuprofen, and it worked to distract my brain...hiking for 6 miles, painting the upstairs hallway, reading, and doing some writing. It's winning, though. Now the top of my mouth has an ache and there are bolts shooting up to my right eye. 

Of course it's the weekend, and I called the dentist to say, "Yo," and knew they wouldn't be there. I hoped I could leave a message that I'd be there first thing Monday morning. There was an emergency number, but I decided I can suck it up for another day. 

This has happened before. A tooth rejects a crown, fights it, and creates havoc. I'm so used to these teeth issues, and have grown accustomed to surviving them on the weekends. 

It feels like a throbbing hangnail within the mouth...so annoying...just have to make it another day and hope they can take me on Monday.

And every time something like this happens, I flashback to 1995, when I had no insurance, and my wisdom teeth erupted. I thought I could fight it off, but the pain became so unbearable, I would pass out and get nauseous. I ended up having to go for an emergency procedure and, lo and behold, had to drive myself home. It was awful, but I recovered.

It's one of those times I understand why people remove their own teeth. That's not my style, but phew. No fun at all. 

When You Can't Draw a Wild Bird in a City, You Tell the Story of the Birthday Bird (for Casey) Instead

Once upon a time, a flock of sparrows settled into a castle of a very eccentric King. He lived by himself on Mt. Pleasant, although he did have his sons locked away into a different wing of their home. "They stink and study numbers, too much," he told the Stratfordian Press. "Besides, I prefer words, hope, and possibilities. Let me be abducted by aliens, kidnapped by gnomes, or hijacked by elves any day of the week, but don't make me do math. My wing of the house shall be books and poems."

"And sparrows," interrupted Spence. He was one of the birds and was named after the eccentric King's grandfather. 

"I'll get to you, Spence. Jeepers," extended the King to the Press. "Let me first begin with a story about me."

The King grew up with two sisters, the youngest of which was named K'dot C. Dot, a clumsy little sister with a knack for getting physical ailments, and an older sister named Ballz, who had a knack for drinking all sorts of wine (although she'd claim otherwise). Both K'dot C dot, and this King, have memories of her singing "I feel pretty, oh so pretty," when she'd come home form the bars fantasizing about Scott Baio and John Stamos. 

Th birthday-sparrow story has nothing to do with Ballz; rather this is a tale about KC, the K'dot C Dot, who was born on October 24th, and at age 47, had 47 years of ailments...including bruxism. Fiber myalgia. A flare of Psoriasis. Congenital Hip. Seizures (but no Grand Mal like Destiny, Penn Can or Great Northern - where she once lost a job a Kaufman's). This is long before she married a pirate, Captain Beard-Be-Long, and produced two offspring named Ye-Ol Sean-Man and JC the Tyrant (who also had a dog named Daisy Dukes, which is the name of the short-shorts Captain Beard-Be-Long wears on romantic nights)(alas, this is a a secret to be kept from Thor the Mighty, the Viking that sister Ballz married and there's to be no word of this to their children, Notorious Nik- we'll let her fame go unnamed - and Dinosaur D, the younger brother, who fires up blue-darters daily).

"Daisy Dukes?" questioned the Spence.Sparrow. "Tighty Whiteys, more like it."

"Spence, this is my story," the King blurted.

So, back to the bird. The Sparrows, that is. Spence. (Oh, the eccentric King of Mt. Pleasant might need some more bourbon to finish this story).

"You need some of that Grannie Annie good stuff," interrupted Spence again.

The King continued, reminding his listeners this is not a story about Ballz, because everything is always about Mike.

"You mean Thor the Mighty," Spence corrected.

Okay, Thor the Mighty. It's not about him. Today, it's about K'Dot C'  Dot and the story of the Birthday Socks (and how Spence delivered them). 

Spence was a pain in the ass, but he meant well. And he could knit like no other sparrow on the planet. Not only did he and his flock overtake the King's castle on Mt. Pleasant with their Budweiser, Ham's, and Camel unfiltered cigarettes, they also arrived with an amazingly annoying ability to sing songs from Free to Be You and Me, Grease (both I +II), and that musical about the orphaned redhead child. 

Spence began to sing, "It's a hard-knock life for us. It's a hard-knock life for us."

"Spence," the King said. "Shut it. Save it for the Birthday song."

Anyway, the sparrows moved in. The King lost sleep because of all their singing. The boys on the other end of the castle crunched numbers, and the twins who lived in another region, simply played Bob Marley with Cheech and Chong singing, "Every lil' thing is going to be alright."

Ah, but to the King of Mt. Pleasant, nothing was alright. Everything was wrong. 

The King was given a prompt from the National Writing Project's Write Out week on the same day his little sister turned 47. And for crying out loud, this prompt came from Ranger Casey, of the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area (wherein the King pauses, so that K'Dot C Dot can stop for a second to keep up  with the story. Yes, R a n g e r  C a s e y, o f  t h e  D e l a w a r e  W a t e r  G a P, etc.). 

"K'Dot C' Dot is likely to get confused that the ranger's name is the same as hers, King," explained Spence. "It will probably confuse her."

When the King, and older sister Ballz (who loved to sing about boys she loved after she drank wine) and the little sister K'Dot C' dot were were young, they used to visit the beautiful land of Vera, where all the laborers knitted, quilted, and sewed. When all three were in their early 20s, and bohemian hippie-dom was somewhat in vogue (the King even had Birkenstocks), K'Dot C' Dot fell in love with baggy woolen sweaters and warm, colorful socks. In fact, she'd do anything for them (in the same way Ballz would do anything for another bottle of wine, which she hopes Notorious Nic will bring her).

"No do," chimed Spence. "Notorious Nic's on a budget. Unless we Venmo her, there will be no wine for Ballz."

"Right," said the King. "Now for you. The bird."

The King couldn't draw, so he chose words instead, and since it was his lil' sister's birthday, and she loved socks, he knew improvisation might save the day.

The sparrows loved his house (as did the Carpenter Bees, including Kenneth, but that's another story), and Spence loved doing errands for the King.

King Crandall asked him, "Spence. Spence. What do I have to do in order for you and the others to stop building nests in my house? I can't take the singing anymore. This is a great City, but your morning songs are keeping me from reading all my great books. I can't govern. I'd love for y'all to get the flock out of here!"

Spence the sparrow (remember this is fiction and wishful thinking) responded, "Oh, my brothers, sisters, and I would love nothing more than to put our beaks into action for a good cause. If only we were provided yarn; instead of nests, we could knit incredible foot-stockings for the kingdom."

Done. Kings have power. 

The King contacted Bezos, the economical Titan who had a thing for Amazon women, and found an ol' wind mill to buy. He gave the wind mill to the sparrows who turned it into a sock-making factory. The King found a way to get sparrows from building nests in his house, and his little sister got a few pairs of knitted socks delivered on time for her Birthday. 

"Is this where I can sing?" asked Spence. 

(No one really knows how to sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY in sparrow, except Ye-Ol Sean Man, K'Dot C' Dot's son, who is sworn to secrecy, even though he's allowed to tell JC the Tyrant, who can also share it with Captain Beard-Be-Long. Whether or not they disclose the sparrow version of Happy Birthday to K'Dot C' Dot...well, that's up to them).

And that is how the King found a way to draw a wild bird in an urban setting, without putting a single pencil to his sketchbook. Also, it turns out that the mathematical son on the other end of the castle of Mt. Pleasant, was really, really, really good with a sling shot. He had a stone, and well, two birds could be shot with one he flung. 

(Enter the people of Crandall-dom, Barnwell-ville, and Isgar-ford to sing the human birthday song).

Happy Birthday to you!

Happy Birthday to you!

Happy Birthday, Dear KC,

Happy Birthday to you!

The End  

PS: And the socks lived happily ever after. The birds didn't fair as well, as it turned out that Thor-the-Mighty didn't like little peckers , and put a lightening bolt through their sock factory). 

PS: It's all good, though. The sparrows regrouped. They built a winery for Ballz (she kept them in business) and they found that nesting in Captain-Beard-Be-Long's beard (as well has his brother's, John's Be-Just-As-Long) was a much better gig. There, they helped to build a motorcycle empire and everyone lived happily ever after.

A Photo of the Books I've Been Fortunate To (Re)Read the Last Few Weeks & a Recognition that Others May Be Thankful. I'm Being Tame with This Response.

I've been thinking about Ranger Beth's writing prompt from Thomas Edison National Park, and trying to wrap my head around what it is I would choose for future generations to contemplate. My quirky sense of humor quickly thought of Mary Elisabeth, the severed, creepy, 1930s doll given to me by a friend. It arrived as a head, on a body, with all its legs and arms detached. It may be the eeriest item I own, and whereas it creeps me out (don't ask why I keep it - more out of superstition than anything else), I can only imagine what individuals will think of it in the future...I mean, it's a decade shy of being 100 years old now. What might the future think? 

I also thought about the collection of tiny, miniature creatures I have that represent various students and friends I've been fortunate to work with over the years. I suppose I should admit it's a glass menagerie, but I swear it's not in reference to Tennessee Williams. My grandmother used to have such creatures used to decorate her Holiday Branch each year (she didn't put up a tree; instead, she decorated a fallen branch with tinsel, fake snow, and her collage of tiny figurines). Each of mine has a tremendous story behind them, and I suppose I wouldn't mind having them thrown in with me when my body gives way to the soil and a tree is born from my aftermath.

There are photographs, of course, but they fade and become ghosts of yesteryear - not something to leave behind for future generations.

After thinking about it, I believe I'd like to donate my library of books that I've read and kept since I was a high school student. It's hard for me to part with any and I remember when I moved to Connecticut, my father said, "What the hell do you need all these for?" Seriously, half my pod was filled with boxes and boxes of books. It's only gotten worse. Students who come into my office for conferences often ask, "Did you really read all of these?" and I respond, "These are the ones I kept. My house is also filled with reading material I've never been able to depart with. Every room. Several book cases."

Once upon a time, this collection consisted of classics, old-school literature that was taught to me, and the theories that came along with them. Soon, however, the collection widened to books that I knew my students would read. These were texts that changed the lives of adolescents and made them lifelong readers. It grew more diverse, multicultural....rich and significant. They are the ones I encourage teachers to teach in school, but sadly are put to the side so that traditional texts maintain their cultural hold of society. I just sigh. I wish there was more of a both/and, rather than an either/or mentality. My reading philosophy is to read everything; nothing is off limits. Ask questions and find others who have chosen to explore them, too. Keep them nearby (like a child harvests stuffed animals) in case you need a hug and an old friend.

In the end, Ranger Beth, my response would be, "Send my bookshelves....all of them. Create a library of resources so that future generations can have the pleasure of reading that I've been fortunate to have."

And yes, these include my field guides so I can find a name for the moths, butterflies, wildflowers, trees, mushrooms, and birds that come my way. If you wish, you can include the 100s of journals I've kept, too, although my thinking moved online to Blogger in 2008.

I should also note: the books in the photograph above are just the ones I've read in my new reading/thinking/ writing space. Others from the last few weeks are on my desk upstairs, and a few are piled on the dining room table. I admit, when I was an undergraduate student and visited my professor's office, I was mesmerized but all the texts on their shelves. There was something comforting about these spaces, and although I'm not a book sniffer, I soaked in the feeling of comfort they gave me. 

Perhaps I'm crazy, but I'm thrilled to admit that I've become one of those people. I also take tremendous joy seeing the bookshelves being filled by the boys.

If you read, it will come.

Also of note. I'm so negligent in my reading all that is out there, and I know so many are more prolific than I can ever dream of being. That's why I find joy knowing these people, hearing their viewpoints, and understanding their thoughts on the world.

Alas, readers are not the norm. That's why I'd leave reading opportunities to future generations. 

A Letter From the Birds & Bees to Mr. Crandall of Mt. Pleasant Street (We See Your World Differently & Ask For Your Resignation)

Dear Mr. Crandall (Dr. Crandall, if you prefer),

We write because we've witnessed some gloating on your part as the contractors finalize their work on your front porch and you've moved to the outside where you are re-landscaping and thinking strategically about your external aesthetics. We also recognize Ranger Kyle from the Longfellow National Historic Site prompted NWP to write from the ground down, and not the ground up. Yet, as winged creatures who inhabit your home from the 2nd floor, we wanted to address the changes you've made on your home over the last few months to simply note, "You're an #@$#@$ fool if you think we're going anywhere."

We saw you outside yesterday, after spending Tuesday getting things prepped for the planting. Yes, you had to pull out your charge card at Lowe's to purchase the shrubs and trees you wanted (What idiot pays $$$ for what is natural and free in the woods?) and, sure, we feel for your checkbook recognizing the ridiculous prices you humans go to in order to beautify your yards. We especially took note with how filthy you became as you dug holes for the greenery after a night of rain. 

Congratulations. It's looking rather nice, but our interests are bit higher than your planting.

We appreciate the fact that the new reading/writing/thinking space (aka 'front porch')  has a ceiling fan now and is pretty much completed, but we wanted to leave you a memo to share this does not concerns us. We nest much higher, and your wooden rafters and roofing gaps remain perfect for our homes. Although you've tried to block some of us (the sparrows) and paid to rid others (the carpenter bees), your new addition will do little to detract us from living as brethren on Mt. Pleasant. In fact, we wish to acknowledge that we saw you watch us (the sparrows) as we watched you (you're an ugly Son of a Butch) with our heads cocked - yes, the eyes of the sparrow were upon you. Who did you think you were when you were  trying to plug up all our apartments? We're going nowhere.

As for the other buzz about town, Fox Pest Control may have worked last year, but this year they came back with Fun Dip to spray in your rafters. It was useless. Every carpenter bee in town got a kick out of your foolishness - it's why they came (we came) back in full force this past summer (and even came to play with you yesterday as you were doing the outdoor project). 

We write this letter to simply say, "You belong to us" You can put covering over the rafters and even scare us with fake eagles and wasps's nests, but we're onto your shenanigans, and unlikely to adhere to any of them.

Rather, plan on us moving back to Mt. Pleasant, spring 2021. Most humans will be sick with Covid-19, anyway, and the more you disappear, the better for the rest of us. 

The way we see it, your silly little beaver den is nothing but an anthropocentric, human-centered, whimsical farce to make a superficial, temporary claim on a piece of land. Ceiling fans, Zen rocks, fancy-smancy pillows, and state-of-the-art windows. It's all horse shit. 

Take our bird poop and our bee spit (the woodpecker holes in the wood frame) AND GET OVER YOURSELF. 

Yes, your entitled to a day or two of self-glory and satisfaction, but it should be short-lived. We're here and we're coming back for more.

Sincerely, 

The Birds & the Bees.

PS: See you soon. No need for an evil mwah ha ha. You have enough woodpeckers to provide the laughter.

PSS: The better letters will arrive from our colleagues ...the worms, slugs, centipedes, spiders, and moles who reside underground and who will one day be eating your face. 

Have a great day!

Thrilled by the Years, 2007-2011, but Resentful for them Stealing Away Personal Reading Time

Kwame sent me a few books for a project he's working on, asking me to contribute my views and resources as a proponent of youth and a writer of curriculum. In the pile sent, was All the Broken Pieces, a poetic narrative by Ann E. Berg. On the cover, Booklist writes in their starred review, "Will make readers want to rush to the end and then return to the beginning again." 

I am unsure if I've ever read anything as accurate. It took a few pages for me to get the gist of who was narrating and where we were (I thought, "Hmmm. This is YA Lit? It's heavy"). Then, I got hooked and tasted every word, poem, and moment like I was eating an apple dumpling in October, or having a feast at the Vietnam Kitchen with my friends Sue and Dave. It simply was delicious - and emotional read  that punches the gut in all the right places. 

My summary: It's gorgeous.

I'm trying to find out how I missed out on this book, especially with my work with Vietnamese students in Kentucky, but then I saw the publication date - 2009 - and realized, "Well, that explains it. Not much pleasure reading while one is doing a doctorate and having to devour academic writing."

This is a stunning book about Vietnam war vets, memories, an adopted boy from Vietnam, his memories, and the love of parents who stand by to help the healing process - the best that it can be. The weaving of baseball, playing piano, and PTSD workshops was tremendous and I was thinking, Phew! The muses must have had to leave Ann E. Burg alone for a while after they brought her this story. It's pretty remarkable. I don't think I've ever read a book before that made me want to instantly do research: Who is this author? How did she come up with this book? What awards did it win? Who's written about it? etc. I talked to the Book Dealer in Florida, Dr. Susan James, and she simply said, "Frog, it's one of my favorites, too. I can't believe you haven't read it." "Doctorate," I replied. "Oh, that. Now I see," she said.

Go, Scholastic. Classrooms need this book and I am definitely throwing it into my curriculum somehow, somewhere. I'm saving my real thinking for the work I'm doing with Kwame, and I have so much to say. 

Read this book!

After the Game - a Sestina for @AbuBility & @LBility (the Twins) on #NDOW #WHYIWRITE @WritingProject

If I traced the veins from a leaf (on the back of my hand), the roadways would be many and the stories plentiful. Today is the National Day on Writing, but it is also the birthday of Abu and Lossine Bility, the twins, who have walked, driven, and sailed with me since I met them in a library in 2008 in Syracuse, New York, 12 years ago today. Because of them my life was redirected for the better and I am thankful.

We're all given one leaf upon this life tree, and lines can be traced alongside theirs. Abu & Lossine helped me to understand the power of ubuntu, the importance of family, and the joy of laughter more than I knew was possible. Every year, October 20th, the National Day on Writing, I also get to celebrate Captain Splash and Lieutenant Glue Stick, both sidekicks to my Dr. Lick 'em. Between them in the photograph to the left is an individual who deserves awards and accolades for all she's provided. They are a result of the warrior woman who raised them - their mother who fought for them and did everything she could so they would have a chance in this world - the truest superhero of them all.

The National Park Service/NWP prompt for today came at a perfect time. I looked at my hands and started tracing their veins, but then went with intricacies of a leaf. This, set upon the oldest picture I have of Abu & Lossine, reminded me of the semester we spent in a library talking and putting story to page. Stories matter: they lead to driving lessons, soccer games, high school graduations, college, summer employment, building the Connecticut Writing Project, Crandall specials, alien invasions, teaching, and adulthood. 

From every leaf, a labyrinth of hope and possibility.

I'm thanking Ranger Ann from Capitol Reef National Park for prompting today's thinking. I didn't label the lanes or bifurcated intricacy of the leaf, but was able to name memories put them in sestina form, the traditional structure that offered me a way to branch language into a poem. This one was written for their birthdays. Happy B-Day, boys. Phew. Years fly by.

After the Game (2008) - a Sestina

At first, we’re all new to the field - immigrants,

arriving to green grasses, Sudan, Somalia, Liberia,

with histories intertwined & ready to be written

from veined leaves of colonial and imperial games

that uprooted ways of being…ways of life - 

it’s a global story, after all, and we’re in this together.

They were 15-years old and education brought us together -

stories shared between a teacher, youth (aren’t we all immigrants?),

sitting at a table talking about war, “Ah, man soccer is life!”

Charles Taylor, Samuel Doe, violent coups in Liberia,

running from bullets, losing family, hiding, death, it’s a game:

crying, laughing, hoping, praying, dreaming - and we’re writing,

capturing words to page that have never been written.

We are weak on our own, but stronger together -

“Tell me more about life in the refugee camp.” They discuss the games

played in dirt with bags taped into balls, the sport of immigrants,

Mandingo twins caught in civil war, violence, Monrovia, Liberia

“The man in charged wanted to kill everybody…to take life

from others. He wanted power.” Uprooted. Displaced. A refugee’s life.

“Now We’re busy. We play on varsity. Video games. YouTube. Who has time to write?”

Yet they do. Excel. Gaining honor in a new society. Boys from Liberia

on a team of twelve nationalities in an American High School playing together.

“The kids who were born here cheat off us, immigrants,

because we do our homework. Stay up late. Study before and after the game.”

“Playing in the suburbs is the worst, too,” they say. “Did you see their fans at the game?"

Stands were filled, cheering & chanting “Go back to Africa." Such privileged lives.

“Our mom works three jobs. All our parents do. We’re immigrants

and they can’t take off work to watch us play.” I have a note pad and I write.

The boys tell me everything. What fortune it is to be together,

stitching history and truth in the United States, in a library

with so many books and resources. “We're proud Liberians,

proud to be American, land of milk and honey. Here we can enter the game.

Here, we need three things to be successful as we work together:

Education. Education. Education. We have to take advantage of the life

given to us. In America, learning is free and it’s up to us to do what is right.”

Lady Liberty. Huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Sunset gate for immigrants,

opened for these young Liberian men, a leaf, offering the chance for a new life,

before 2016 changed how the game is played and hate rebuilt itself on walls writing

another narrative for our nation...what we’re supposed to be…this land built by immigrants.

All love, as always. Shoes and elephants. Elephants and shoes.

Bridge Over Somewhat Calming Waters, but Worth the Hike (Albeit, a Challenge Unexpected)

I chose to hike to a different beach today, Walnut Beach in Milford, and was surprised the distance was the same as the one I've been doing to Short Beach in Stratford. I should have known it would be a bit wonky when I realized I downloaded a book I wanted to listen to, I German. That is what happens to Crandall without his glasses. I was thrilled that the trek was rather easy, with sidewalks, and was looking forward to crossing the bridge in Devon. Just as I got to it, however, the barriers went up (which never happens...only once in a blue moon). It was because three sailboats with tall sails were coming in to roost. 

And I had to wait. 

And wait.

Which caused my knees to cramp up and ache, despite the fact that I was stretching. I can only imagine the jokes in the cars behind me that were also stuck.

It was worth it though. After helping run errands with Pam, and hanging up her solar lights on the patio (again), we were able to walk to see the sun slightly before it was setting. That's always a win, and I never lose when looking out at the skyline and ocean.

I came home and Chitunga treated me to Chipotles once again - so delicious, and perfect for a Sunday night (although a burrito in the stomach makes me feel like I drank a keg of beer).

Ah, but it's Monday again. I did stay away from work all day Sunday, which always makes me feel guilty, although I read another book at night - which was on my agenda for the project I am working on (so I guess that is work).

So, we're off once again. Have a great work week. 

I'll Take It. It's the Simpler Evenings (& Flashbacks) That Mean the Most (and I Know They Are Never Set to Be Forever)

This is actually from Friday night, because as I was writing on the front porch, Chitunga came downstairs to watch a documentary, and within minutes of listening to the voice-over, I was hooked and came out to see what he was watching. At that moment, Glamis was asleep on his chest and I realized, "Shit. Fewer are these  moments." When I got a photo, she moved down by his feet.

Moments of relaxation and chilling out are rare on Mt. Pleasant, but the parent in me loves every second of such moments when they happen. 

Boy and his dog. Watching t.v. - relaxing. Not necessarily normal in the adult life, and I totally understand anyone and all who post similar pictures at the chagrin of their kids. This is the very definition of bliss for me - they're relaxed, which causes me to relax, too.

Okay, weekend...not sure what's going on, but Saturday was like a Friday so I'm somewhat confused on where I am and what is going on. I do know, Sunday, I want to move a bit more, read another book, and finish 4-projects that I think should be easy to etch off my list.

Then again, I can save them for Monday, so I will see. 

In the meantime, I'm going to hold onto the more 'chill' moments in my house, because they don't happen too often. When they do - I love every second of them.

Crandall's 5 Reasons: The Importance for Protecting Public Spaces & an Argument for Those Who Work to Conserve.

Public spaces educate: teach, mentor, guide, coach.

Public spaces provide: feed, shelter, clean, protect.

Public spaces heal: harmonize, offer, allow.

Public spaces historicize: live, exist, become part of.

Public Spaces know: keep records, understand, caution.

Today is the 5th day of prompts from the National Park Service's rangers, and it took me a short bit to think how I'd respond. I don't like to argue. I know that the Common Core State Standards has been in tremendous favor for argumentation, especially with fact-based justification and reliability, yet as this movement has fogged the national education system, we've also arrived at a time in history where facts are ignored, people believe the unreliable, and the simulacra of factlessness is upheld as truth. C'est la vie (which is French, not English...but that's not my argument: although they're knee-deep in this crazy, too). 

My discussion here, which is mostly for me, arrives 25-years after I was given a tremendous opportunity in Louisville, Kentucky. I was hired as the Beargrass Creek State Nature Preserve intern to write newsletters, to create educational programs, and to keep the preserve clean. Across from the Louisville Zoo, and within city limits, this green space was set aside to maintain a greenway along creeks and forest. I was an English literature dude with a passion for the written word, and this gig was incredible. I had my Birks, long hair, hiking boots, and optimism. I also had the most incredible mentor in the world: Barbie Bruker-Corwin. Also of note, I met my Louisville mom, life-coach, and host-teacher Sue McV when she was hiking in those woods. In that space, I saw my first flock of migrating cedar waxwings (so amazing), became friends with a protective mother raccoon and her kits, moved numerous box turtles out of harm's way, and had bark dropped on my head from an enthusiastic pileated woodpecker (as if Woody himself was laughing his wonky humor).

For several years, I led hikes, offered programs for urban, suburban, and rural kids, and learned much about how quickly people would take away green spaces for their own whims and fancies. I also chose to do a 2nd Masters with the Kentucky Institute for Education and Sustainable Development.  As a result, I see green spaces as necessary:

Green spaces educate: teach, mentor, guide, coach. To know life, is to know nature. To know the meaning of life is to comprehend nature. A sure way to keep children from developing an appreciation of natural spaces is to force them into concrete jungles and rectangular, bricked-buildings to make them get  believe such environments are 'home.'  I'll never forget when a group of refugee youth hiked with me one day and they asked, "Why did Americans move kids like us to cities with roads and buildings when we came to the U.S.? Why didn't they bring us closer to outdoor spaces? That is what we know." Good question.

Green spaces provide: feed, shelter, clean, protect. I don't have to go far with this one. Oxygen is good. Animal life: birds, insects, fish, mammals. They're beautiful. When they are plentiful, we understand the world is in good shape. I'll take a path (even if I can be chased by a mountain lion) over a road any day. There's wonder that comes from how sunlight trickles through varying leaves and hit the patterned trails. And it's exercise. Hello. Move.

Green spaces heal: harmonize, offer, allow. This is simply Zen and spiritual. Anyone who has ever gardened understands the therapy that comes with having one's hands in the soil. I need the outdoors, not only for my lungs and sanity, but for the earth's lungs and sanity. To be in opposition of the natural world (let's take, conquer, destroy) is to set one's self up for mental aggravation throughout life. Go with it. Be with it. It cracks me up, even as a home owner. Yes, I buy grass seed to sprinkle in my yard and I have grass. I own my house, but do I own the blades of greenery that blends with my neighbors? Does the grass see me as its sovereign? Nope. It's why I love every blade.

Green spaces historicize: live, exist, become part of. I'm not the historian, but the older I get I realize the importance for history. Land politics are world politics. See how land is destroyed and you'll learn the power-infrastructure of the globe. All trees can tell the same story (ask the Ents). It is a tale of humans losing their way, taking, overcoming, flexing, proving, and capitalizing. Funny how an economic structure has been built to claim ownership, when in the end, we all get owned by nature. I've told the boys bury me out back like a dog and let a tree grow out of me. That's what I desire when I, too, become history.

Green spaces know: keep records, understand, caution. Look at a tree's rings or ask the soil what it can tell you about human influence. As part of God's plan, perhaps, they narrate a better story for all of us when we enter St. Peter's gates. Wouldn't mind being greeted by Maude and St. Francis upon arrival and hearing, "Crandall, in favor of your entrance is all the work you did with kids to put nature on their radar and the attempts you've made to create butterfly and hummingbird gardens in the homes you've owned. Working against you, however, are all the miles you've put in your cars constantly on the go with a need to see the world; such hypocrisy doesn't bide well with us (and, yo! what's with all the environmental paraphernalia you've accepted from organizations trying to make you more green and conscious - have you not seen the silliness in this?). Note: Of course I have.

And that's my argument. It's simple. The more we preserve and protect natural spaces, the better future generations will be. Alas, I leave such argumentation to the ladybugs, wolves, cockroaches, and eels. Long after humans, nature will prevail. Perhaps our decisions will destroy us, but I have faith in the power of nature, itself. I'm a comma, semi-colon, and period in a Walt Whitman poem.

And it's okay if you give me a C on this argumentative essay. It was written on a Friday night after a full week of work and before a full Saturday of teaching. I'm tired. I'll let Blue's Traveler be my final statement. Whoops.