I'm in Syracuse Again. Pile of Photos Left on My Bed Including This One. Relieving Cynde From Duty. Pretty Sure this was from Her House.

First of all, special shout outs to Binghamton who has, after 26 years, finally finished its highway construction plans. For the first time in forever, there was no construction, delays, orange barrels, or misery. I was like, "Really, Binghamton? You are finished?" I actually drove through the town flawlessly. I kept wondering, "Where's the catch?"

The 4.5 hours were really smooth and I continued to listen to David Sedaris's Best-Of essays. He writer between obnoxious, hilarious, poignant, touching, deep, and disturbing. I meant to listen to one essay, then move to another book, but there's something about his work that is engaging. The time flew.

I arrived to Syracuse in the afternoon, startled the sleeping parents, sparked an energy of my father who suddenly resurrected to pick up sticks, greet the neighbors, and want to mow the law...that is before he realized he was exhausted and started complaining, "I'm too old for this," and went back upstairs to sleep.

I tried to make open face turkey sandwiches for them, with candied carrots and potatoes, but dad grew impatient, and simply wanted a butter-on-bread, turkey spread with butter, butter on bread sandwich. He didn't wait for dinner. I couldn't stop him and he ate the whole thing - The Butter with a Hint of Turkey- which it was reported was the first time in weeks he took effort to feed himself. That's good.

And in the pile of photos on my bed included this one - one I have no idea about, but I'm guessing had to be around 2006 when I shaved my head for St. Baldrick's. Definitely Cynde's deck, but no clue what is going on in the photo (nor what prompted it). It must have been a Mike dare or something.

Anyway, I'm home in 'Cuse and here to help out where I can. In true Syracuse fashion, it will rain for the next week, have miserable winds, and possibly snow.

Woot Woot. 

Seasonal, Predictable, Patterned, and Repetitious Holiday Post #2. The Tree is Up, Decorated, & Glamis is Sound To Sleep

I am definitely sick of leftovers, but there's something to be said for mashed potatoes and turkey gravy. I wish could say my Saturday was productive (got two long walks in, did a lil' shopping at local stores, and spent a chunk of time processing receipt porn for WorkDay). 

Receipt porn? Well, in the world of WorkDay, we have to photograph receipts to upload into our accounting systems, so I find myself scrolling through photos and photos of receipts, trying to match the CWP purchase with the online reporting. It's a total joy, especially when you spend a month mailing out POW! in increments because you don't want to overwhelm any one Post Office. I had a box filled with receipts.

It's done though, for November. Phew.

And there was a Harry Potter marathon on again - sorry, too easily to distract myself for hours pretending it's actually time to unwind. Because it was Thanksgiving weekend, I pretended it was okay. What's a Harry Potter movie or two? And what about the latest episode of the Mandalorian? Phew. So addicted. Then Tunga and I watched the Korean film Parasite.

As for my latest psoriasis flare, let's just say the Mother Ship was destroyed, so now she's sent her minions all over my legs in a chicken-pox-like flareup. Ugh. And these #@$#@'s itch and burn. 

Okay. That's my post for the day. I need to get a move on.

The Transition from Fall Cauliflower to Holiday Lights and Hutzpah All On an Abnormally High-Temperature Day

The older I get, the more I know that I am compulsive about my traditions, neurotic about my pacing, and hypnotic with the rituals. Thursday's Thanksgiving might have tanked (whomp whomp whomp) but Friday's Christmas decorations were not going to fail me...

...except I had a migraine (which I haven't had in a century)...

...and I needed to meditate, take a hot shower, and reconfigure. By 8:30 p.m. I felt better and I went to work.

As always, I love taking out my Aunt Bobby's nativity set that my mother made her in ceramics. I've juzzed it up a bit (that is a Pam word) with my Buddha's, Japanese counting cat, frogs, and adult Jesus (I've been scolded for years that Jesus should be made into a burrito until Christmas morning. That's when he can be unwrapped), 

As always, 75% of the outdoor lights worked find, with the one strand messing up the entire line, causing me to have to repurchase another season of white lighting. I live having my house decorated in white lighting, as opposed to all the crazy colors. 

I was also able to do the inside of my new porch, which I love, because now I feel like I am working in a hippie sanctuary and I can return to being called Mr. Moonbeam, Aquarian warlord of the Pond people. I've also created a tradition of not throwing out all the family Xmas cards that come every year, because I find it funny to see the evolution of people (especially as kids become teens and I know the parents are thinking, "Why did we want to start a family again?"). 

Tomorrow I will hit the 2nd floor, doing candles in all the windows and adding dangling lights, too. Tunga's on tree patrol as I inherited one of the 8 trees Pam has bought over the last decade (as she has an addiction to post-Christmas tree purchases). I have no problem with the one she was throwing out in 2012. It is just fine for me - my first tree and probably my last. I do believe, however, it's about the reflections and rituals that make the transitions what they are. I remember on Amalfi Drive, how fun it was to get out mom's ornaments and all the decorations they hoarded over the years. 

The same is true for me. I still have my first adult gift of a singing, croaking frog that a parent bought for me in the year 1999. The same batteries still work and I let it croak "Jingle Bells," every time I remove it from its box. I'm in my 3rd house now...and I am guessing this is the one I will be in for a while (who knows?). As  always, I will enjoy the lights up until a departure to upstate NY. I've yet to stay in MY own house for a single Christmas, but that's a tradition I've loved sustaining. 

"There's no place like home for the holidays."

Perhaps the Greatest Joy of Such Holidays is When You Realize You're the One Maintaining the Traditions

It was eventful, but not eventful. I've been hosting the Turkey-fest for almost 7 years and I'm getting pretty good at it (I just need to rely on Pam's stuffing because I have no idea how anyone can make it better than her). I got up at 7, started prepping, and had the bird in the oven by 10 for a 3:30 removal. In the meantime, I peeled the potatoes and carrots, prepped the cauliflower and Brussel sprouts, then set forth to make the mashed potatoes, barbecued vegetables, and maple carrots. The call was for 4 p.m., and at the last minute I made green bean casserole.

Trouble is, Tunga was feeling his 25th birthday and went upstairs to nap, Edem was sleeping because he has an overnight shift, Pam is on weight watchers, and everyone else was social distancing. So, Pam watched me eat a portion of the 22 pound gobbler, and shared a bottle of wine. Jake and Glamis played and then conked out, and as I was cleaning, Pam left, & Tunga came down for festival. 

It's all good. Nothing was supposed to be normal this year, and I'm just happy the refrigerator is stocked for the boys for a few days. Pam also brought Kaitlyn's creamed kale and it was delicious.

I am simply grateful that a feast was made and everyone will get to it when they can get to it. I also found bizarre orange cauliflower, which tasted the same but added cool Autumn colors to the plate.

I did get the coma at around 7 pm as Tunga headed over to Patrick and Stephanie's. So, the ritual happened, just not in the ways of the last few years. I think Glamis went into a turkey coma, too, as she didn't stir when I went into the garage and back to take out the trash and recyclables. She was zonked out. 

Now, it is time for the holiday ritual of Christmas decorating. 

Phew. What food and delight (and so many phone calls and FaceTime gatherings).

I hope everyone is safe, quarantined, and doing well. That's the priority we all should have. 

Happy Turkeys, Days Off, Potential Shopping, Naps, Football Games, Social-Distanced Gathering and Family Chaos (I Mean Love)

I spent a portion yesterday celebrating Chitunga's birthday (horseradish baked salmon and carrots at Knapp's Landing. Phew). That was delicious and you needn't know what I spent on his birthday dinner - it's been ages since I've been out. We did it up fancy.

I also prepped today's turkey, potatoes, carrots, beans, cauliflower, and Brussel sprouts and I know I'm making food for 15 people, but that is what I'm used to doing. It will likely just be him and me, but we'll adapt. I can bring food to anyone who is hungry and without family. We've got wheels, too, and many means out of all to come. 

Perhaps the best part of the evening was listening to Chitunga talk last night to Nikki, Casey and the boys, Dylan, and Patrick (buzzed and chatty). It was pretty funny, and I know I'm groggy this morning. I can only imagine how he is going to be.

Connecticut is a down pour, and I guess if Macey's is having a parade, it will be a wet one. What a lousy, horrible day for floating balloons.

But, it will be a great day for food and whatever company you were able to scrounge up. Be safe.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

And This Is Where My Brain Is This Holiday Week. I Think I Am Adjusting. I Am Seeing Spots, Though. All of This is New

I woke up this morning to post, and realized yesterday's post was actually posted a week ago. I said to myself, "Well, that is just where you are post-NCTE and post-ALAN. It's been a busy few days and you're not sure which way is up or which way is down.

Am I seeing spots? dots? Or is this all an illusion?

I decided that today is going to be spent cleaning, prepping food, and celebrating Chitunga (who gave himself a retreat for the night in Mystic, Connecticut). I know I will get online, because I have to, but I'm hoping it isn't the 14-hour days this past week has been. It's been a lot (although I love it). I used my large screen tv as an alternative screen and my brain is a little buggy from it all (albeit satisfied). 

I am simply looking forward to ice-cream cake, the vacuum cleaner, putting items that are stacked everywhere away, and going for a long, long walk with Glamis. 

The walks are what I live for. And I'm looking forward to Vietnamese food tonight. 

Short post today, but it's been one of those crazy periods, and I want to limit how much I'm looking at a screen today. I hope you are doing the same. In the mean time, I'm celebrating this kid...well, young man. He's focused, determined, mature, intellectual, and kind. I've been a lucky man for a long time.

Definitely Saving Money by Conferencing from Home @NCTE @writingproject @ALAN - Although a Break From Cooking Would Be Nice

The good news is the kid has a 25th birthday on Wednesday and a decision has been made - we are ordering out (and bringing it in). I'm off duty that night.

Every single second of NCTE, NWP, and ALAN has been incredible, and the only thing that is catching me off guard (and whacking me upside the head) is: (a) not having to run from one end of a convention center to another for several days, (b) fear of leaving things in my hotel room that I might need, and (c) the complete loneliness of not socializing from sunrise to sunset (well, the bars close). I also miss breaking bread and well-researched restaurants with colleagues of today, yesteryear, and tomorrow. One of the greatest perks of gathering together is the plotting, planning, dreaming, and co-creating for what might be possible in the year ahead.

Alas, I grilled, steamed some beans, and panned another round of perogies  (my latest addiction, fanaticism, and obsession), Glamis the Wonder Dog just stared at me with a face that asked, "What are you doing? You've been on your laptop, the big screen TV, and in notebooks for the last 5 days. AND you've been power walking me twice a day since this began, because you've felt guilty that you are spending so much time online."

All this is true. 

I've been learning so much and thinking strategically of the work that needs to be done, not only next year, but over the next several years (if not decade). 

I saw Ann E. Burg! I saw Ann E. Burg!

Sort of. I was overly excited to finally hear Ann E Burg speak and Murphy's Law #$234324. 4GHj says the town inspectors scheduled to review the porch two months ago would come 30 seconds into the interview. Yep. And so I had to leave the interview to entertain them for exactly 30 minutes (I will be going into the archives to retrieve, post ALAN). 

But I did catch Tiffany Jackson....wonderful, wonderful Tiffany Jackson, and her interview with Julia E. Torres was a highlight of the day.

Now it is time to make some coffee and kick off the 2nd day of ALAN. I know I am spoiling myself this year and will unlikely not attend in the near future (a sabbatical and a pandemic afforded me this - what does that say about academia?). For now, I will carpe diem, especially because Laurie Halse Anderson is on the roster. 

And Crandall is Simply Enthralled by the Writing of Ann E. Burg (and Excited She'll Be at @ALANorg Today) - a Poetic, Historical Narration We All Should Read

 

I was sitting in my office (well, front porch) when the mail truck stopped by my house to deliver a package. I instantly thought, "What did Chitunga order now?" as his generation shops via the Internet and I imagined he needed something for his own work - his own office (his bedroom)(stay at home realities). When I looked at the return address, I kissed the sky, "I cannot believe I've just been gifted a copy of Flooded: Requiem for Johnstown by the one-and-only author, Ann E. Burg!

See, I have Dr. Susan James to thank for this. Actually, I have to thank Kwame Alexander and Carmen Oliver first, as they sent me All The Broken Pieces a little over a month ago. I reflected on the book in a previous post, reconciling that I was doing a doctorate in 2009 and there wasn't time for pleasure reading (my guilt for not reading it until 2020 is immense). I'm in awe of the verse, storyline, skill, narrative, pace, and punch that All The Broken Pieces gave me - a perfect book, and I wish I had it while I taught in Kentucky. Kwame said he read the book over and over while trying to figure out his own story arc with The Crossover. 

The red-headed Susan said, "Oh,Frog. You need to read Flooded: Requiem for Johnstown next. It's a sad story, but is told with amazing grace, research, and craft. I can't wait for you to read it." Soon after, she sent me lines take from the book and asked me if I would kindly craft a 'found' poem for her, which I did. I should have known that Susan (I love my NWP sister) would know Ann Burg and send the poem I wrote to her. The next thing I know, I'm gifted a copy of the book by the actual sage! 

The Great Whatever is magical, indeed.

Throughout the last couple of days of NCTE, I kept sneaking between sessions to read. Finally, Saturday night, I told the boys, "I'm out of commission for a while. I have got to finish this book. Stay away." 

I need to preface my thinking, too, admitting I'm idiotic, moronic, and a doobie doo (in the words of Susan, I'm a "goob"). It's all good, though, because I've always been who I am.

In Kentucky, I began to see the importance of history and, in fact, while doing my dissertation at Syracuse University, and seeking advice from Dr. Alfred Tatum, I was told, "Crandall, don't go a-historical." When eight African-born male refugee youth shared their writing worlds with me at an American High School, a decision was made that one of the chapters needed to be historical ethnographies, to capture a history that resulted in their relocation to the United States. I have Dr. Carol Boyce Davies to thank, too, for post-colonialism and a criticality to question everything I was learning (and positioning) as a Western-born, educated White male. 

Why am I writing this? 

It's easy. Not enough history is taught in school, and as I wrote in 2018, "History Should Come First." That is exactly what Anne E. Burg does in Flooded: Requiem for Johnstown (Facts are facts / but some time / you need to dig deeper / to find the truth (p., 294). It's another brilliant novel in verse that shares the story of May 31, 1889, when the South Fork Dam collapsed in the city of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a town outside of Pittsburgh. Burg (whoa! I just noticed Pittsburgh/Burg - cool) does deep research in what is known about the event, which is little, and uses creative license to recreate the story(ies) of children, teenagers, and families who lived (and lost) during the man-made/nature-inspired event. The poetic narrative is told in three parts, piecing together a period of time where, post Civil War, families worked the land to help build an industrializing America (where the wealthy found themselves able to afford summer retreats and recreation)(I wonder why / some folks spend their summer / by a cool, crisp lake / while others stay home / scrubbing soot from their bones) (p. 45).  

Flooded is a story of economics, class, ecology, love, togetherness, and human tragedy. The communal narrative has three parts (before, during, and after May 31, 1889). It is a story told by the Little Conemaugh and Stony Creek Rivers, which flood the town to bring forward perspectives, puzzle pieces, and storylines (which, the doobie doo in me had to seek help - "Keep reading, Crandall. You'll get it. It all comes together") (You'll see - A-17, B-46 - is not a manufacturing error, nor Bingo. It's not Battleship, nor is it a poetic coding devise used to help Ann Burg keep the characters and voices in her head). It's history. It took me a second, but eventually I got it. Willy James, Joe Dixon, Monica and David Fagan, "Gertie" Quinn, and George Hoffman bring the voices of youth to the forefront of the town, before an environmental tragedy requires the adults to help make sense of it all. 

Pa tells Willy,  you can't pay bills / with pages from a book / and and you can't weave a blanket / from pretty words (p. 25), but that is what Ann Burg accomplishes with her brilliance. She places a poetic blanket around the readers sitting alongside a soaked and shook Gertie to help to make sense of a period of time that is underreported and a horrible metaphor for the world about climate, humans, ego, and "progress". 

Now I am dreaming that there will be another round of National Parks/National Writing Project collaboration grants, because I know Kristin Lessard of Weir Farm and Rich Novack (English teacher) will do a brilliant job with teachers participating in Reading Landscapes: Writing Nature in the 21st Century. They have no choice. This is the book we will read (that's my call, ha ha!)

And, as Susan also said, "How great will this book be for educators in their classrooms? Wouldn't you love to read this with kids?"

Yes, indeed. 

And I will. 

Hopefully, we all will.

Every page of my copy is marked and I will read it again (and again, and again). I have way too much to say for a blog post alone. The intent this morning is merely to tease.

In the meantime, ALAN, today - the author will be in the house! Woot Woot. 

Truth: If Dad's Going to Be Interacting with @NCTE @WritingProject All Day, Then I'm Making a Nest & Dozing All Day

Actually, that's a lie. She got two long walks in on Saturday because we had abnormally warm weather, which was perfect for being outside. I looked for moments in my schedule to get fresh air, and she put in several miles. She was also glad that I went to BJs and stocked up on more dog food. She was less pleased that Chitunga was gone all day taking part of his CPA exams, and that the pizza he supplied at night was not shared with her.

Alas, this is the life of Glamis the Wonder Dog. It's a rough one. No papers to grade, no ZOOM calls, no bills to pay, no vacuuming. No laundry. Nope. I pay the mortgage so she has full reign of every room to sleep and shed. Occasionally, I get her turd nuggets or vomit. Such is the beautiful life of dogs in paradise. Yet, she keeps us sane, centered, entertained, and loved. Still a man's best friend (and I wish that I got the photo of her climbing atop of Chitunga last night as we watched the Mandalorian. He made a barricade so she wouldn't climb on him, and she weasled her way through his wall of obstacles and still laid her head on his heart. Then she fell asleep).It was more beautiful than the baby Yoda - the Child.

This morning, I'm ready for several breakfasts and brunches, and then I need to think critically about ALAN, which I've never attended. You can imagine my excitement when I learned that Ann Burg was a featured writer for her new poetic narrative Flooded (more on that later). Seriously,  I'm simply excited to learn as much from the writers as I can. I think I have a secret plot for my note-taking ahead. I have an idea brewing.

Happy Sunday.

Oh, snap. Jason Reynolds in ten minutes. And don't judge me for eating so many maple-glazed donuts this morning. I had The Book of Mormon running through my head all night long. 

A Socially-Distanced Gathering to Semi-Make Some of the @NCTE #NCTE2020 Conference Seem Traditional and Real

Two of my favorite people in the world called an outside, backyard, distanced gathering last night to tip a glass to everything that has made this semester. Rebecca Marsick and Kimberly Herzog. They are the two incredible educators who were with me in Texas when we had the irreplaceable experience at the North Texas Teen Book Festival by the invitation of Dr. Rose Brock. We also were able to collaborate with the incredible Dr. Susan James. Although we've had partial ZOOMs, we haven't seen each other since that incredible event. 

Because Rebecca had a stellar presentation at NCTE with Tracey Flores and Shawna Copollo, we decided last night might be a good time to meet - a high five for her work. We're all highly aware, especially now, about face-to-face shenanigans, but Jeff, Rebecca's husband, had a great porch warmer (heater) and the table was superb to tap glasses and distance a meet-up from the four coners. 

I needed to capture the food tray that Rebecca provided (and thank Jeff for the delicious bourbon, before I had to run home for my last meeting of the night - some things are the same with NCTE, even though we are all in our own spaces). I am so fortunate to know these educators and to be able to keep up with the magnificent work they do in their classrooms and with their colleagues. 

Driving home, however, I reflected on how much crazy and intensity is on our teachers right now. I knew this before, but the weight from this year has been extra-intense. Perhaps next year's conference will be a collection of "how we did this work in a time of Covid" and I imagine it will be extremely cathartic if we can actually gather. I simply think that colleagues need colleagues to process everything that is going on. It's always been day-to-day survival, but this year the extremities have been tremendous. Every educator I know is pushing forward with grace (such integrity), but there will need to be time to process and reflect when this all ends - the field is waiting to exhale, to borrow a term from Terri McMillan. 

Kudos to all educators, especially those that have school-aged children at home. Kudos to administrators who are seeing their teachers and providing them support. Kudos to those in higher education that are throwing their resources to those most in need and Kudos to the authors who continually show grace with their work and nurture the educators who teach their words. 

There are two more days of digital presentations to go, and so far it has been awe-inspiring and mightily impressive. With that noted, I will be the first to say, "Whoa. This is a lot." Even so, I'm beyond impress by the drive, passion, professionalism, and intelligence of our network.

I do believe all of us will come out of this period to see the field has changed, and perhaps some of this will be for the better. I'm also thinking about the privileges that come with the life we live in the United States, virtually (pun intended) by the abundance of resources that we have. We are in our homes gathering as a nation of literacy educators via technology - this at a time where almost 80 million people are displaced world wide because of famine, poverty, war, and violence.

I am very thankful, as we all should be. 

It's Only Been a Day, But I'm Absolutely Thumbs Up & Thrilled by the 2020 @ncte Annual Convention (Online)

I am sure I am missing something, as networking, gathering, conversations, dinners, drinking, meetings, and introductions are all a part of the NCTE Annual Meeting, but the entire online format works. I find the areas that interest me, I put them on the big screen of my t.v., and I multi-task by writing, taking notes, and checking resources provided. I even let my dog out without needing to get a sitter. 

For people who aren't as connected with others from all the previous years, I'm not sure if this is the same from home, but I will say, I do think there is an imperative to offer both in-person and digital presentations. That may need to be an undertaking by a post-Covid Convention Center consortium (to offer in-person and live-casting presentations) but it is equitable, affordable, and healthier in these times. 

I'm 100% finger-snapping at the professionalism, ease-of-navigation, and line-up for this digital conference. Over the next three days (5 days with ALAN) my schedule is filled to capacity. I love so much of this and I'm able to view everything from home (no hotel, airline, or taxi expense). I usually pay for 12-16 teachers to come with me for our presentations (huge savings this year).

Maybe the economical structure of what we've been doing for a couple of decades might be reconsidered given the availability of modern technology. YES, I'd much rather see everyone in person, but I'm totally groovy with not being out of my home for weeks on end to travel to conferences across the country. I love it, of course, but this year has helped me to think more critically about the teachers who have never had access to such an experience. It is not cheap.

If our aim is to be a professional organization for teachers, then maybe more needs to be invested in the digital spaces made possible for more of us in 2020. It's a lot to think about, but I've always been a both/and sort of guy, rather than an either/or.

Trevor Noah and Detra Price (BRILLIANT). Both were unbelievable. 

I can't wait for a 2nd day. Even Glamis the Wonder Dog took an interest....

It's the Little Things in Life: Gum-ball Machines, Crayons, and Finding a Wad of Extra-celestial Stickers While Hiking During Lunch

Well, conference week kicked off last night (as well as the National Book Awards) and I'm ready for NCTE and ALAN. There will be no LRA this year, as last year - leading up to Covid - I had almost 18 presentations. It was too much. This year, I get to ride low, as only two presentations were sustained at NCTE and I didn't apply for LRA at all. I did, however, treat myself and will attend ALAN for the first time. I can't wait to see what it's all about. I also can't wait to dig into the books they sent.

I'm still on my writing schedule and am making progress, knowing there will be multiple interruptions until next Tuesday (I can say that all the copies of POW have been sent to the families of summer writers...I didn't want to inundate the post office, so brought 10 copies at a time - okay, I admit it, I would go to Stratford, then Devon, then Milford post offices, so sent 30 a day for the past week. They are officially out of my house.)

And even though my sister finds $20s when she walks, and other friends find lottery tickets worth money, I've scored twice in the last week. First, I found an unopened roll of dog shit baggies (SCORE!) and second, I found a pile of robot/space saucer stickers ready for the taking. I don't know what I will do with them, but I know I will do something. They'll definitely find their way into one of my notebooks.

There are also many finger snaps required for the fact that mom is out of the hospital and back home, but now we need to return 'prayers up,' for my father. Phew. And for my older sister who continues to be a saint. And for Chubby's who is likely to blame for it all.

Listen to frontline workers, doctors, nurses, and any one in the medical fields. They are dealing with a lot right now, and it's scaring even them. Mask up. Wash the hands. And stay home if you can. 

Seriously.

"So Shines a Good Deed in a Weary World" ~ Willy Wonka. I Suppose I've Always Wanted to Win the Chocolate Factory for Myself

I wish I could sleep past 7, but it doesn't happen. It's all good, because I wake up, start writing, and look out to the world for its magic....or its fallen leaves. Mt. Pleasant and all surrounding streets are inundated right now. We have sycamores, maples, oaks, and sassafras trees galore and even though I thought the crazy winds from the other night would blow them all away, it only loosened them all up so they'd fall all at once. 

Now, I don't have trees. 

One of the reasons I chose my house is that I envisioned leaves would fall on all my neighbors' homes and not mine. I was a fool to think that, but it was a clever idea. This morning, I watched Edem go outside and attempt to rake the leaves into neat piles, sort of getting overwhelmed, and eventually giving up. I let him go at it, because I know how futile it all is. As soon as you rake a few, more blow in to replace them. It's best to wait for all of them to fall, then go lawn-mower crazy.

A few moments later, my 91-year old neighbor, Stephaney, came outside and began to labor. She's from Poland, speaks very little English, and refers to me as Bronco. When I see her we have short conversations like, "Oh, Bronco. The snow. The snow. Oh, Bronco, The heat. The heat. Oh, Bronco. So tired. So tired. Oh, Bronco. The boys? The boys?" She is one of my favorite neighbors. Her son, Paul, who is a real-estate agent in NYC, comes to visit her often and he works just as hard as she does. He just can't get here as often as he wants to. He lost his father a year ago, she her husband (me another neighbor who called me Bronco), and for now Stephaney's all alone. Glamis the Wonderdog, however, loves to run to her house every chance she can get. Why? Because in Stephaney's words, "Glamis, psie cię, robię kiełbasę i pierogi. Gotuję bekon tylko dla Ciebie," which translates as, "Glamis, you dog you, I make you kielbasa and perogies. I also cooked you bacon, just for you." Glamis loves to dine there. Stephaney makes Glamis a plate and laughs and laughs, clapping her hands while Glamis devours the meals prepared for her.

Yesterday, however, I finished a 3-hour writing marathon and saw Stephaney outside with her rake. It just about crushed me. It was drizzling, and I was heading out for a run, but thought, "No. I can't let this happen." Her yard was covered in fallen leaves, so I got my rake, my leaf claws (the big-ass yellow hand clamps that let me pick up large amounts of leaves at one time), and several leaf bags. 2-hours later, she and I worked together to clear the side of her house.

91-years old. 

She didn't stop, and as I helped I listened to her breathing. It was not easy for her. She constantly pointed to her swollen ankles and said things like, "My knee. It's no good." And I channeled my older sister who works so hard to help my parents and wish I could be there to help, too. I know it sucks to get old, and I channeled Shaun and his family who irreplaceably helped my Grandma Vera back in the day and Karen and Gary who were God-saviors for my Grannie Annie. People need neighbors, especially elderly people.

"Liście, Bronco. Liście. Tyle liści."

The leaves, Bryan. So many leaves.

And I raked. And I created a curbside nirvana on both sides of her street. 

At one point I said to her, "Imagine if all these leaves were worth money, and we could cash all this in," in which she replied, "Jeśil tylko, Bronco. Gdyby tylko." If only...if only...

And almost 30 bags later, we can see her grass again. And for a few moments in time I felt like I was doing something right.

Autumn's Here, Tomorrow We Dip Closer to Frozen Times, and I Need to Put on a Pair of Socks (My Feet Are Cold)

I read this quote a few weeks ago, and stored it aside for later thinking, which I'm taking up this morning as blue skies awake the sun to my left, and graying clouds push the night away to the right. I want to sleep in until later hours, but two neighbors have yip-yap dogs that begin barking at 6 and, alas, the bright orangish-red orb rising from The Atlantic to the Sound, throws lasers between my curtains that always hit my eyes. There's no avoiding them. Even under my pillow or with a scarf around my head, they penetrate my brain simply to say,

COFFEE.

As soon as the mocha is triggered, I have to get up. 

When people fall in love with someone's flowers, but not their roots, they don't know what to do when Autumn comes.

I've been looking for the origin of these words, and find they are used ubiquitously, without reference to the origination. My hunt will continue, and something tells me we might get close to the bard himself (but I may be wrong). 

We are heading to the honest months: the cold, biting, gray, miserable ones. It is the season that doesn't lie, and I will trade boots for sneakers, probably move my workouts indoors. Spring and summer lie. They glitter gold, yellow, and orange, which is attractive on a surface level. Fall, it begins to whisper us to wake up and think a little deeper. 

I suppose Jenny Tran was right. Back in the 2000s she gave me a quote about the solitude of a philosophical man, and how he's never content in his head; instead he's always thinking. I think the work is closer to understanding the root systems below the surface. They are amazingly tangled, dense, complicated, and strong. Life above the surface, in this sense, is a facade. We are just temporary blooms that benefit from oxygen and water while we have it. We then pass it on to the blooms of tomorrow. 

I used to think that the majority who spend their lives as thinkers, especially in higher education, were more dazzled with the roots than the blooms, but time has shown me otherwise. Those locations have roots that are just as complicated (even leading to the craziness of Oz). 

Autumn is here. It's telling us to look below the surface. To think deep. To reflect and understand a little more. I'm not done thinking about these words, but wanted to harness them on a post, especially on my front porch where I should be wearing socks because my toes are turning blue.

And I need another cup of coffee. Middle school kids are strutting to Wooster (about 1/20th of what usually strolls by on a given day). Glamis is still sleeping. She's not triggered by the sun, the barking, or coffee. She just likes to sleep.

Tunga is at his desk crunching numbers.

Meanwhile, history was written below the surface of what most of us can see. The entanglement is intense, and from time to time, understanding it is ugly, grotesque, vile, and nasty. Fool's gold arises to the surface as dandelions and fly traps. The frost will get them, but they will be back, 

just like the barking dogs and blinding morning rays. 

Before the Tropical Winds and Rain, There Was Sun: Both Glamis and the Plants Took Notice (So Did I)

It's been a crazy 24 hours in the Crandall, Isgar, Barnwell world with worry, hope, prayers, and appreciation to health care workers everywhere (and to Cynde for being a saint, savior, and super human). A slurry of phone calls, texts, research, and patience seemed to keep a could-of-been crazier day from going overboard with crazy, none of us need more crazy in 2020.

Glamis and I got our five-mile walk in, and later in the afternoon, as it started to drizzle, I went for another 4 miles walk to clear my mind. Also great to hear from my Uncle Milford and my Aunt Bobbie, and to talk to Karen Perra once again. I've been asked to be a prayer warrior for others, but yesterday I called on others to do the same for us. 

And I made mashed potatoes. I told Chitunga I'm nerve-cooking. Don't need to eat them, just needed to occupy my brain, as I knew I wasn't going to read any of my books, nor be able to write. I just had to think and do more research. 

These next several months are going to be trying for everyone, as nature is testing our societies to their core. Be safe, wear masks, resist gatherings, and be smart. 

Meanwhile, the books I've been waiting for have not arrived and I think I know why. They were delivered to the University, instead. Ugh. I've been beyond green with my envy of other ALAN participants and thinking, "Did I not sign up for my first ALAN conference?"

I did. It's just that NCTE/ALAN only has my business address for it's a business conference. Ugh. I hope I can get my books this week!

Was About To Name Yesterday, Saturday, a Total Bust, But I Did Accomplish a Few Things (with Prayers Up)

The sun was out and major goal was to get a good hike in with the dog, which I did. I also wanted to winterize the outside, as the weather is going deep this week with a high in the 30s on Wednesday. No more need for patio furniture or umbrellas, so I spent a few hours loading items into the shed and covering items from getting bit by the snow. And I started the day with my favorite large mug, an uncle one, from my niece (although she claims she never gave it to me). 

Meanwhile, Cynde proved her superpower as an older sister and assisted my mother to the ER with a fever, pain, and swelling in her legs. Because it hasn't broken over several days, my mother (who has been resisting) decided it was best. Of course, with Covid-19 and normal Syracuse crazy, all the hospitals are loaded, so they sat for 7 hours before she was admitted. She then sent Cynde home. 

And then there's Butch having to take care of himself on Amalfi Drive. Obviously, my mind is on Central New York this morning, and hoping for the best. I'm also wondering if I should head north and simply do work on my parents' internet. I can't imagine dad doing well with more than one night with my mother out of the house.

Chitunga went out for a beer and I stayed home to write student recommendations and to aimlessly stroll for articles that might help me make sense of the world (including the fact that I can no longer upload pictures to Blogger via my internet browser. I have to go into other browsers to add pictures, which is simply dumb). Of course, I'm always relieved to learn others are having the same problem, but it does become a WTF moment because it was fine for the last 12 years.

The rain returns today, as does my need to list out what can be accomplished given all the circumstances. I found myself staring off into space a lot yesterday, simply to think and hope. That's all I'm good at, any way.

One More Trip Should Do It. And Then I Need To Return with a Random Act of Kindness. They Are Working

Phase one was to get the book edited. Phase two was to approve the type set. Phase three was to place the order. Phase four was to address the envelopes (and thank the cow I employed to help me seal them all). Phase five was to mail them out to 100s of families. And, I was smart, I only brought one box to the post office at a time.

Because they are books, I'm able to get the media rate, but because each envelope is a different recipient, they must be entered individually. There were no other customers in the post office when I arrived, and I was lucky with the first box because all three employees helped me to move fast. Before we could finish, however, the line picked up behind me. I asked them, "Am I the only idiot driving you nuts today," and they responded, "This is our new work. Since so many people are working from home, mailings from their jobs are coming through us. It used to be letters, but now it is parcels all day long."

I went home and reloaded another box, but brought these to another station. I didn't want to be 'that guy,' and figured I'd burden the employees by dispersing the mailings. I have to say, everyone was super friendly (I didn't expect it), but it was a lot of work. I started racking my brain for a better way. Typically, I cart the books to the University mailroom and they have the code for my Writing Project account. This, of course, is not happening this semester because I'm on sabbatical and the Grad School is online anyway until Covid-19 clears. 

I guess I'm posting today, simply because I'm happy the Post Office accommodated me. It's a lot of work, but a labor of love. 

And Then There Are Days When Addressing Hundreds of Envelopes is Therapeutic, Calming, & Just What I Needed

I don't have the office or the campus to recruit a few graduate students for a mass mailing, and I have to say, I'm several months ahead of schedule because of sabbatical, but I have boxes and boxes of POW! 2020 to be mailed and they should be going out this morning. I spent much of yesterday writing addresses, checking zip codes, and stuffing envelopes. The conveyor belt kind--of-day was wonderful, especially after I spent most of the morning writing curriculum.

The rain was heavy, but I managed to get an hour hike in, and continued to listen to the Best of David Sedaris. The few essays I landed on were stellar and, although he's an odd taste to many, I can't help but think he's one of the greatest story-tellers of our time. When he's on point - that is, with an astute observation about the world and our wackiness in it - there's no one like him. 

I'm also still in leftover mode, which wasn't appealing to Chitunga, so he went out to dinner (he makes money now...why eat what's in the fridge?)

And I'm feeling Friday. Actually, I'm looking at the calendar and knowing that the oasis of a sabbatical will not last forever. I can go into sweats knowing I have to return to the agenda of everyone else and not my own, and I don't like one bit of it (I don't want to return to that, actually...I work just as hard on my own without having to do everyone else's biddings). 

Ah, but that is the nature of the beast. I need to squash that out of my head for a couple more months, and keep on grooving in the ways I find most groovy. 

Short Friday post. I have another book I want to finish,. 

And Then There is @varianjohnson and THE PARKER INHERITANCE, a Coretta Scott King Honor Awardee (Dang...He Can Write)

My love for Dr. Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz is a no-brainer and yesterday I posted about her NCTE talk. Even so, I dropped a hint of what I've been up to the last couple of days...even shared a photo of me reading at the beach -  perhaps the last warm day until next spring. 

Yes, the rain came and I knew I'd spend most of Wednesday indoors...in my office (cough cough, front porch) finishing The Parker Inheritance by Varian Johnson. I stayed up late Tuesday night after Yolie's NCTE interview trying to finish his middle-grade book. I didn't succeed, and as soon as I woke up my first thought was, "What will Candice and Brandon learn about James Parker today? What else will they learn about Lambert, South Carolina? How will race relations be resolved (well, contemplated)? What about Danielle?"

Phew. I sort of grew irritable with anything that stood in my way. I had several obligations in the morning, and even more in the evening, but I did hunker down in the afternoon rain to finish the book. 

Want to know my final analysis? 

Well, it's easy. Whenever I read a book that makes me think, "Damn. My mom needs to read this. She'll love it" (I can never thank my mother enough for modeling the importance of reading as a child), I know I've hit gold. This was true for Kwame's books and especially true for anything by Matt de la Peña! I'm not sure The Parker Inheritance will steal her heart away like We Were Here did, but I think it has a chance. Why? It's brilliant. And I also know my mother will read Varian Johnson, calling me with questions, curiosities, and wonders just like I did. That's what good writers do. They make their readers think.

I'm not one for detective stories or mysteries, although I've occasionally picked one up and thought, "I should read more of these." Perhaps it's because I pick up a book to be entertained and to have my reality stolen, more than I seek to be stumped, puzzled, and challenged. Ah, Scholastic won with this one...hands down, The Parker Inheritance was one of the best reads of my year. It's not easy - I found myself taking notes, doing math, leaving the text to do Google searches, and coming back to the story, all so I could follow the narrative, but also stay atop of the clues being left to the kids (and through the brilliant narration).

I loved everything about the book, especially the interrogation of history, of time, of cross-generational narratives, and especially the pursuit of truth. In addition (I may be off base here), but Varian Johnson wrote quite the romance novel, too - dang, he might want to meet up with Candice's mom and give her a point or two. I'm a sucker for could-of-been stories: Siobhan and Reggie. Dang. Just dang.

Seriously, the one thing I kept thinking as I read The Parker Inheritance is that all over the United States, there are kids like Candice and Brandon who are flocking to their public libraries looking for the next great book to read. These are voracious readers who eat-up stories, revisit them over and over again, and who live through characters, settings, and possibilities. I'm not sure if Varian Johnson will ever experience the tremendous impact his writing will REALLY have on kids...the fact that his accomplishment is the same that Ellen Raskin accomplished with The Westing Game..but it's coming. Throughout my reading, I earmarked pages, underlined text, placed stars, and collected notes trying to piece together the ending. I love any book that crafts an ending better than I can imagine it to be.

Yes, Scholastic billed this as a kids book, but it's quite sophisticated and will give most adults a challenge, too. It is timely, clever, smart, extremely well-written, and alluring.

MUST MUST MUST READ.

I know this, because last night before Dr. Sealey-Ruiz was doing her thing, someone saw me reading The Parker Inheritance in the background and wondered what was capturing my interest so much. As I went off of mute and started talking about the story, I noticed that several (including the guest of honor) began taking notes about what I was saying. It's been two years since its original publication, but something tells me this book is going to see a resurrection of interest again and again and again. 

Mr. Varian Johnson...I look forward to meeting you some day. And now, I need to read more of your books!

Prompted by @RuizSealey in a @NCTE Gathering After a Day of Writing (Reading) at the Beach

Because I had great success writing in the morning, I said, "Crandall, the weather is ridiculously warm for November and they're calling for rain for the next three days, so get yourself to the beach and read for a couple of hours." I listened to myself and that is exactly what I did (totally mesmerized by Varian Johnson's The Parker Inheritance). Phew, Kwame. These books you keep sending me. I've not read a lot of mystery in my lifetime, but I know from the sketchpad I have beside me trying to figure out clues and unravel possibilities that this might be a genre I need to explore more. This is an incredible book and I hope it inspires generations of critical thinkers who pick it up!

Meanwhile, I saw the National Council of Teachers of English was hosting my friend Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz for a membership gathering and, with anticipation of our annual conference in a couple of weeks, I couldn't help but sign up for this session. There are some people in the universe that simply bring a person joy, and Yolanda is one of these people for me. I can't resist. 

Yolanda kicked us off with three questions: (1) Where does love show up in your work?, (2)What does love mean to me?, and (3)What person or book represents love to you? (I put in the chart, "Great. I will see you in a year when I finish my manuscript." Just a few light questions for a Tuesday night!)

Actually, in my current quest of scribbling sestinas before I go to bed, I thought, "Why not write a reflection of her question in poetic fashion?" I was fortunate to be placed in a break-out group with Antero Garcia and Mike Jones (who happens to live in CT, too...although I don't know him), and stole words from them both. My response at first gave me six words to play with:  (1) youth/listening, (2) community/pond, (3) Yolanda/The Color Purple. Then, listening to her talk to the NCTE community (stealing words from her, as well), and adhering to the prompt, the following sestina was born (I compose fast):

Dear Yolanda, A Sestina (for, of, from, with) You

Funny how I’m hidden away from the young people I love, the youth,

and licensed to be a loner. I'm the village idiot thrown away from the community

(granted I'm on sabbatical), trying not to become too radical (Oh, but Yolanda

NCTE’s guest for English teachers!!!!). You speak and I find myself listening,

sweating in crush-nerves and glistening with admiration). Oh, Frog and his pond…

All these watercolors: green, blue, yellow, orange, and always the color purple…

because I’ve been sketching with Alice, and walking with her color purple

ever since I graduated high school and turned away from my childhood, my youth:

it's the metamorphosis of everything and began with lakes and rivers sculpted into this pond, 

this fellowship of dragonflies, turtles, eagles, rabbits, and pelicans (so many others) in a community

of justice (love), revisiting (resisting) history for a better understanding of life, and listening

to those songs yet to be composed. Yes, liberation comes from critical love, Yolanda.

and when I find myself digging an archaeology of self, escalating (tripping) over footsteps, Yolie,

I end up in my library of life - the books that change me - The Color Purple,

Siddhartha, All the Broken Pieces, Perks, Charlie, Perks (too many to name), as I’ve been listening

to others (spiritually and academically) to collect poetic language for educators and youth,

bringing ancestors together in unexpected conversations while I stand incognito in a community

like ours. They. This. Makes me. I, myself. We becomes us, togetherness, through our pondering

of questions, ideas, worries, dreams, & curiosities in our notebooks. It is our pounding

purpose, meaning, and being through all the love the vortex allows. Ah, Yolanda,

inshallah, attempting to find myself worthy of the children before me, their community

of Crayola box crayons and unwritten tomorrows, their royalty, with the color purple

a testimony of women and men, strength, and promise...ah, youth.

I’m an 80s teen, babied in the 70s, but I’ve been unlearning, listening,

orchestrating, composing, dancing, moving, and listening

to the ways cattails sing, butterflies flutter, and Gholdy-fish cake-walk across the pond.

I hear the stories (the secrets), the narratives (the scripts) - the tales only youth

can tell. I read their hope and love (twins), Yolanda,

Shug's epiphany, Celie's forgiveness: wholeness -“everything will be okay in the end" ~ The Color Purple.

Yesterday touches its fingertips with the hands of today so we can have tomorrow's community

of dreamers. I am, because we are. Motho ke motho ka batho ba bangwe, our diverse community

continues to read, present, experience, develop, challengs, and listen

to the songs of The Great Whatever while performing wisdom within proud, purple colors. 

The happiest people don’t have the best of everything; instead, they have a pond

 and make the best of everything they have (Son of a Butch, Yolanda,

I'm so lucky to have you in my sphere - you're so good/beautiful to educators and youth)

This, I write for a community, prompted with three questions thrown at the Pond.

This, I write as I wonder and listen to the Sealey-Ruiz herself, Yolanda

This for all the colors (purple, in particular) and the possibilities of our youth.

I appreciate the opportunity to think about her excellence once again.

@binghamtonu Caught My Attention Yesterday, Especially with The University Magazine and Shout-Out to Dr. Al Vos

I seem to have a mailbox that likes to horde University magazines: Binghamton, University of Louisville, Bread Loaf School of English, Oxford University, Fairfield University, and Syracuse. When they come, I quickly glance through them to catch up on updates, stories of interest, and class updates. Always great to see the sights (and thoughts) of yesteryear.

I have to be honest, however, and brag a little bit.

Binghamton University produces the best magazine of them all. The articles are always developed, timely, thorough, diverse, and positive. After I read through the Fall 2020 issue, I looked out my office window and said, "Phew, I was so lucky to go to Binghamton University as an undergraduate student." I knew it then, and I know it now. Binghamton University is simply an incredible place. I left there knowing that critical, intellectual thinking, research, hard work, exploration, and a drive for excellence is what it takes. 

I guess the Fall '20 issue was the Covid-19 issue, and each story made me nod while whispering the word "integrity." Graduates of Binghamton go on to amazing careers and scholars at Binghamton bring out the best in their students. From virus research, to photography, to psychological studies during chaotic times, to dashed-dreams of athletes, or the importance of campus diversity, I simply found myself nostalgic, "I remember my time on that campus. Those were the 4 best years of my life."

Truth: I've never been back. I lived my 1990-1994 Binghamton existence and left in a Toyota Tercel when it ended saying to myself, "I want to freeze the memories I made and never return. I don't want to  ruin any of them." Now I live in Connecticut, so I often drive through Binghamton when I visit my family in Syracuse.   I always wave from my heart, and give high fives with my head. I see the campus off in the distance and, perhaps, that's the way it should be as adult realities settle in.

While I was on campus, I never could afford a sweatshirt or any Binghamton paraphernalia and I remember the year my advisor at Louisville went to Binghamton to interview for a Dean's position. She didn't get the job, but returned with a sweatshirt for me that I still wear proudly.   I can only imagine how much has changed in the last 26 years - in my head it is still 1994 (and I will keep it that way, thank you).

I chose to make this post today, however, because I was so happy to see the story on Dr. Al Vos. He was one of the many English professors who guided my path, took me under their wing, and helped me to think strategically about my future. I drove him nuts, because my sense of humor piqued in his classes with the material we read (often more challenging work and, as a whimsical learner, I make fun of what I don't understand). I loved his teaching though - his kindness - and one day when he kept me after class and said, "I want to get in on the laughing, too, but maybe tone it down a bit." I was so embarrassed (because sometimes I forget how annoying I can be). I made jokes with those around me, keeping my brain active and engaged. He saw this in me and let me know he loved how my brain worked - as whacky and Jim Carrey-esque as it is. In fact, he wrote recommendations for me to go into graduate school. He saw beyond the idiot I was at the time. He always invested in the students.

As I read "The Heart of Hinman" in Binghamton University's magazine, I became all sorts of nostalgic - tet title perfectly describes the man he was (I was also a Hinman college resident). 50-years in one location. It is simply remarkable...a testimony to the scholar, educator, and pro-learning individual that made him phenomenal.

I'm so happy for Dr. Vos and his retirement, and loved having a tiny chance to celebrate his impact on me while reading the story. I knew I would write this morning's post about him (and how I too have to say from time to time now, "I want to get in on the laughing, too, but maybe tone it down a bit."). Actually, that's not true, because my whimsical learning style continues to make me the bigger imp in the classroom. More often than not, I continue to be the ultimate distractor. 

What a champion, though! Dr. Al Vos! So honored to have learned from him. So much appreciation for the Binghamton family.

'

I Think I Got This Monday, Because Sunday Was So Good To Me: Walks, Books, and @bookdealerSusan

2:43:38 - that's the time for my walk yesterday to Short Beach and back, all while listening to The Best of Me by David Sedaris (Only 10 more hours and 19 minutes to go before I finish). His books are actually digestible because (a) they're hilarious, (b) each chapter is its own piece, and (c) I shake my head with the question, "How does he get away with this?"

I discovered his writing in 1995 while living in Louisville when my aunt made the recommendation that he'd probably crack me up. I was into Dave Berry's writing at the time, whose pieces were often syndicated in John Yarmuth's LEO (The Louisville Eccentric Observer)(funny, because now John is a huge National Writing Project advocate in DC via his role in Congress. I used to love seeing him every year (when educators had a reason to go to Washington to meet with politicians)...I'm wondering if that will be restored, as we haven't been back since 2016. 

While walking, Susan James contacted me with ideas about a project, but also said she sent me a challenge: a Six Room poem as described by Georgia Heard. She sent me six boxes of words and I didn't know what she was talking about so had to do an Internet search. I've never done one of these before and she said, these lines are from Ann E. Burg's Flooded: Requiem for Johnstown. I haven't read it yet, but I said I would write a poem from the six rooms she sent (I took different lines from each of the rooms, somewhat reflecting on my walk, but also trying to find optimism and hope for my red-headed friend). I can't wait to read the entire book, as the "found poem" resulting from words sent to me in Susan's six rooms were intriguing. So, without further ado:

With the Sky on the Horizon 

~b.r.crandall

congregating in stately homes 

and private clubs,

rich men buy fields

cocooned with wealth 

and cuffed with pride, 

while we, the immigrants, work 

in gardens of rotted potatoes

and in the stench of death.

we know the decay of sinking ships,

because we are both the mud 

and the manure.

we scour the wasteland 

searching for those we love, 

the red, white and blue buntings

that are suffocating and sleeping 

beside stone railroad bridges 

where the thick, black clouds

begin to steal away the stars. 

we see them

where the sky was always blue

before the fancy rows of houses

arriving and starting to cry…

we knew the torrents of rain would come,

and our sadness would tremble in the gale,  

caught in a treacherous current.

we are lost,

but also forever.

we need mountains,

oceans, 

books, and

for the butterfly to quiver …

to deliver hope.

she asks me to call for the whippoorwill, 

through the sounds of my harmonica

and to bring a banjo for the memories 

that would help us chase our dreams. 

she asks me to love the world again

despite the wretchedness of war…

the selfishness of mankind.

her desperation creeps 

inside my bones, 

our heavy history for working hard, 

possibilities from our patience,

a kinship born from kindness.

those who we love are never far from us…

they are a breath away, 

a walk along the beach, 

where the blue sky belongs to us 

all.

(written for Susan James)