Just a Wikipedia of Trees - A Sestina in Response to @WriteOutConnect (Day Two) #WriteOut @writingproject

It's another prompt from a special collaboration between National Park Service and the National Writing Project, and I'm excited to give it a shot: What kind of messages might trees send to each other? Hmmm. I went for a sestina and this is what resulted.. Shout out to Ranger Makenzie from Sequoia & Kings National Marks for her question. I never know what will result when I set out to compose, but I truly appreciate the invitation - love a good tree question.

I love drawing on childhood memories that brought a sustainable rhythm to my adult life. Perhaps it's the innocence, the wonder, and the curiosity, but I always find so much material from the magic of youth that is no longer - a belief in the outdoor world before succumbing to the human quest to name and have domain (Ursulla Leguin's "She Unnames Them," 1985) over ever aspect of it. So, here's a sestina born in response to a question.

Just a Wikipedia of Trees

My grandmother was good at talking with the trees,

because she would listen to their stories and sing them to the ants

that collected crumbs blowing about her summer porch from the winds

that trickled down the hill, over the lake. My childhood has roots

in her journals, her doodles, her drawings and her poems that branched

from page to page where she scribbled, painted, drew, and offered the universe hope.

Driving up the hill, towards our camp, my sisters and I always hoped

we’d see water-skiers, boats, and swimmers, and we’d sing, “I see the trees

and the trees see me,” like she did while waving a willow branch

to shoo away house flies and to rid laborious, work-a-holic ants.

If they got too close. Swwwphh. Gone. Ann. E. Rip. Hynka, with white roots

giving way to her burgundy-dyed, Merlot hair - any color to match a glass of wine,

to be raised to Mother Nature (Hynka she called her) and the wind.

God + Hynka (did the nasty, she said) and made Mother earth = Maude/Hope.

Artemis would approve. So would Bacchus. And Dionysus gave us our roots

(a love of bourbon and hiking comes naturally, as does contemplating the trees) -

shoot, when I first read Tolkien and discovered Bombadil & the Ents

I thought, “Crap. How did all of Grannie Annie’s ideologies branch

into the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien? Such family trees. The Ukraine branching 

perogies & possibility across the United States. Ancestry. Another narrative winding 

throughout a pastiche of potential democracy. Who are my uncles? My aunts?

Where did we come from? How deep do the rhizomes go? Hopefully

there are ways to untangle such Gordian knots residing underneath the soil of family trees.

Okay, so this Dane married that German, and these Scots created deep roots

with those English folk, and there there was the Irish (oh, how we love to drink: bourbon + root 

beer + a squeeze of orange = nirvana). A few of those, phew, and I’m ready to branch

into poetry and the personal tapestry of reading landscapes & writing nature while talking to trees.

Thirteen years of blogging, 101 writers’ notebooks, my two shits to the wind,

and I'm still trying to compile a theory of language and words. Oh, how I Love to Believe in Hope…

Yes, Godzilla meets Bambi, I know. And we humans are nothing but career-oriented ants.

So, I became a runner. Love the oxygen, and on the pavement each day I try to avoid ants,

beetles, and mud-puddling butterflies who get nutrients from life’s roots,

stones, and leaves. All this is evidence of being alive on the paths. I pace myself, hoping,

narrating, and singing optimism to the clouds overhead while leaping over fallen branches.

They’re epic songs, actually, once sung by the warriors to the stars on windy nights,

but forgotten by storytellers who battled much less, who relied more on the shelter of trees.

Ah, humanity. Those ants have a better orchestration of it all - their logical plans branched

throughout intricate, underground routes. Their truth is whispered (so they tell me) in the wind

blowing against Pandora’s box. Human hope, I guess, is just a Wikipedia of trees.

Writing About Place #WriteOut for @writingproject - This Time I Took a Turn with a View from the Inside

Every year, when prompted about that one location that centers me, that gives me pause for reflection and a need for introspection, I typically write about Loch Lebanon, which is a Walden of sorts where I had the fortune to spend time as a child. This was Grannie Annie and Grampy Spence's camp, our home away from home, which was actually Lebanon Reservoir, a tiny spring-fed, man-made lake near Colgate University, outside Hamilton, New York. How lucky I was to have such a location as a boy. A diving board, a deck, fishing poles, a fire pit, a porch patio, and acres of land to have kick-ass softball games. My grandmother seemed to name everything: the chipmunks, the ducks, the trees, and the stars that bathed during the day (which was actually the sunlight trickling off the water). We swam regularly, hiked to the candy store on the other side and back, and counted dam cars. I loved seeing Monarch larvae working its way through milkweed.

My allergies were something else when visiting, but I loved every second I spent there, laying beside my grandmother as she took a swatch from a willow tree and waved it to shoo the flies. The outdoor world (and wine) (and Southern Comfort) was a way to survive.

Yesterday, I discussed with teachers that this has always been my go-to place, but my mother, Chitunga, and I visited while he was at LeMoyne and the site was not anything like I remembered. We sold the camp when I was a freshman in college. The property we loved was let go, unkept, and not merely the nirvana I remembered when we visited. In my head, I always want it to be the oasis that it once was...just like my Aunt Rena's house on the St. Lawrence River. 

Times change, though. A good lesson to learn.

I don't live on a lake, but I live 4.4 miles away from the Long Island Sound which helps to keep the aquatic-drive of this Aquarian satisfied. It's become my new location of serenity...walking on Short Beach or chilling out on Walnut Beach. I can't afford water property and, because of undetected water damage, I had to replace the front porch of my home this summer. It is a small location, to small to entertain, but cozy enough for reading, writing, and thinking. Since I had to spend the money (I compared it to building my own beaver den), I've chosen to make the best of it. I can watch from inside my windows and make note of nature and the outdoors (on brisk days like this one, when I feel a bit cozier inside). 

This guy refuses to turn on the heat. If I still had a wood-burning stove, I would be feeding it right now. Who brought the crispiness back? Weren't we just sweating with August humidity?

Glamis the Wonder Dog is always at my side (usually begging to go outside). She seems to like this new space, too (she'd better. I'll be paying for it for a while), especially since she discovered she can bark and see from the porch without having to run inside to utilize the bay window to do her barking. 

This space, this place, is rather new...lots of light, views of the neighborhood...and an extension to typical inside living. I've already noticed the rhythm of squirrels and chipmunks. I'm not sure where they go, but they run from the trees and woodsiness across the street, scurrying to my yard every morning. I know that there's an abundance of chipmunks nation-wide this year because of last year's mild winter (reproduction has a few more cycles without the heavy snow), and these are the first I've seen in my neighborhood. There are also many red-tailed hawks, and on occasion a bald eagle shows his might in the skyline. We've had a incidents with bobcats and fisher cats in the area, and even a few bear - all bio-indicators for a healthy ecosystem (one that grew more abundant with the onset of Covid-19 and less traffic along the I-95 corridor). I've adored the wide variety of warblers, woodpeckers, and nuthatches, too. My backyard, a butterfly and hummingbird sanctuary, has shown tremendous life and I love watching the varieties that frequent the plants.

I don't think I'm writing today to name a new location, but I am stating that place is everywhere. Perhaps the goal of #WriteOut is to allow kids and teachers the time to notice everything around them - to chart life, rhythm, wonder, and possibility. Perhaps it is to pay attention to the details presented to us everyday.

And I have to include my dog. After our day of Reading Landscapes: Writing Nature activities - a program sponsored by National Parks and the National Writing Project, I finally had time to take her for a walk. It was dark out already, but I wanted to move, too. I've been intent on allowing her dog-time and to go on a sniff-bonanza as she feels fit, especially after the long office-hours I keep - it is her memory, after all. But about 3 miles out, I had to stop and ask her, "Seriously? This is walk time. Exercise! Do you really need to pee on every blade of grass (Whitman didn't) and fallen leaf you find?" I also told her this is our time to move, not to urinate (she had all day for that in the backyard), but then I realized, "Wait, Crandall. This is her nature. She doesn't live to record each and every day on a blog. She lives for the moment, and to make sure she knows where she's existed while she has life at this time. This is her way of marking I WAS HERE." 

So, I decided to pee alongside her. 

No. That's a joke.

Instead, I let her be a dog, while I could be an aching, middle-aged man trying to figure out why, like her, I  feel a need to mark territory, whether it is with posts like this or squats underneath the Sycamore trees.

My conclusion? There isn't one...just that we are human, we have the ability of craft, paints, art, and words. While our time on Earth is limited...the creations at our fingertip are endless. She has her bladder. It is beautiful, too.

Ah, then let us mark today with kids and colleagues, so there's possibility they will be able to continue marking meaning tomorrow. And hopefully it will be in rhythm of a beautiful world and not the destruction of it.

I am no different than the taggers of trains and buildings. I am Glamis, the Wonder Dog, too. It's just that I don't have to lift my leg.

I write.

She'll Come For You in October, My Sister. Cynde-Loo, Cynde-Loo, Cynde-Loo. Coming Soon to a Haunted House Near You

I'm trying to remember, exactly, how the story would go. Were we in elementary school? Middle school? Did my parents allow my older sister to babysit us after she became a certain age, and after Tony Caroli did that great stunt when, we weren't behaving, he fell down the stairs and pretended to be dead - full ketchup effect and all? I think her name was Cynde-Loo, and it had to be around the time she was in Gillette Road Winterguard because she had bangs. She would squirt her hair with a water bottle, comb her hair down the front of her face, then chase my little sister and me around the house. 

Cynde-Loo, Cynde-Loo, Cynde-Loo.

(and now I know I'm probably giving Mike role-playing ideas).

Anyway, I've been chronicling my hair every day since March when we were first put onto lockdown. I wanted to see what strange shenanigans my head could get into and I have almost 100 photographs to document the days. I have, however, gone to get the back and sides shaved, and the twins talked me into the man-nub thing (which is getting old and stupid). Still, yesterday, when I combed my hair down, I jumped back. HOLY COW! THAT'S CYNDE LOO. She's back and after me again. 

I have so few memories of my older sister while growing up, because she was too good to play with Casey and me. I do remember, however, when she'd put on this evil persona and haunt us in a game of chase. She'd run after us, and whatever dog we had at the time, would most likely run after her. 

It's October and I'm thinking Halloween (and thinking I might try this haircut out with Mary Elisabeth at my side - the armless, legless doll that was gifted to me....she loves when I allow her to play with others). 

And I'm also loving this photo, because I know it will be added to all the ones Google has for me when you type in "Bryan Ripley Crandall." Eventually, I will post all the others I've taken during this time of crazy, but I'm holding out to possibly write a book about Covid-head...not that anyone would buy it, but they might.

Cynde-Loo. Cynde-Loo. Cynde-Loo.

24 Hours Later, I Open William & Jessica's Gift (Phew). They Captured 7 Years of Ubuntu Academy in a Book & Gifted It to Me. I am Grateful.

Yesterday was something. Chitunga needed to get fingerprinted for work a.s.a.p., and all locations in Connecticut were backlogged for weeks so, being him, he searched high and low and found a location in Madison, New Jersey (2.5 hours there, 2.5 hours back)(traffic). We left early, and I simply was a passenger making him listen to Scythe until he couldn't take it any more. For those of you who don't live in the NYC vicinity, just know that maneuvering between the tri-states is costly because of bridges and tolls, and jam-packed with traffic because of population. For a while, Covid took away the insanity of I-95, but it is back. 

Ah, onto a happier note. 

Jessica and William handed me gifts Friday night before Ger arrived, but I put them to the side as the gathering took off quickly. Last night, however, I picked up the book they made for me (for Christmas, I was told, but they couldn't wait). They collected a chronicle of the past 7 years of Ubuntu Academy. It's so beautiful to know the love they put into the work they do, including this book

The three of us have stayed committed to what we know is right and best. It also kills us that anti-immigrant and refugee sentiments have risen again in the United States - ah, the Deatheaters hate the Muggles within the imaginary claim to superiority. Yet, it fuels us to work even harder. To love teaching even more. To do all we can to put resources into the communities that start with the least, but have the greatest drive of us all. 

Years ago, the three of us bonded over the joy that comes from working with immigrant and refugee families and we set out to build literacy support, not only during the summer but throughout the academic year. Quickly our community and its success grew.

This community has touched the lives of hundreds of teachers in schools all across Connecticut, and he lives of 1,000s of American-born and immigrant- and refugee-background youth who have come to our summer programs. Looking through the pages, the memories, the kids we've worked with, and the events we've hosted caused me to tear up. I've been made into a more beautiful human being because of these educators and students. My understanding of what it means to have strength, to appreciate hard work, and to live a life of integrity comes from this work (and I'm simply saddened for any and all who stand against  it - ignorance and stupidity are something else...we've always known this).

So now it is time to look ahead to year 8, now that Will & Jess found a way to motivate me even more. I am so grateful to have them in my life.

Coincidences of Coincidences. Look Who Came To Dinner on Mt. Pleasant. The Great Whatever is What It Is - Personal Book Tour

In 1992, I was an undergraduate student working with Carol Boyce Davies in London, having my worldview reshaped and my understanding of global history realigned. To be honest, I thought I knew much, but I knew very little (a truth that continues today - the more I know, the less I know).

I've written about this before, especially as I justified my research, grant proposals, conference presentations, and reports. I was 19 then - wide-eyed and adventurous, living the life of an American, studying the Bard, traveling. Meanwhile, in countries across Africa, civil wars were breaking out, families were displaced, and the numbers of refugees were increasing. I did not know Sudan then. It took an article in the New York Times, From Hell to Fargo, to piqu my interest and reshap how I know life.

In 1999, 200 Lost Boys of Sudan were relocated to the City of Louisville and through the Kentucky Refugee Mission, I began to volunteer. I mentored many (and they mentored me) I also began teaching their story alongside books such as Heart of Darkness, Things Fall Apart, Waiting for the Rain, and Cry The Beloved Country. We discussed my cousin's work, Hoops4Hope, too, and asked the question, "Why refugees? How? What is our local responsibility to a globe that is unlike here? How do all these histories connect?"

I remember seeing I Heart Huckabees for the first time and laughing with the character, Mr. Steve Nemieri, who became "the coincidence" throughout the film. I loved the term, and even had my students write about individuals who were coincidences in their own lives - you know, those who appear in your life and cause you to question your world when you see them.

Fast forward to Connecticut when The Good Lie came out. I took Fairfield students to the opening in Greenwich and met some of the cast, knowing that the same guy from I Heart Huckabees was in the film.

Then, last fall, I was sent a manuscript to vet and within pages I thought, I bet this is the work of Ger Duany, the Sudanese-American actor, model, and activist. Sure enough, it was. And now Walk Toward the Rising Sun is out. I'm proud of his work and love the human being that he is. He shares much in his memoir, but the words don't capture what a genuinely kind, interested, engaging, and witty human being that he is. He's one of a kind and what an honor to know him

Well, last night Ger trained from New Jersey for dinner, conversation, a fire (thanks, Chitunga) and human connection. It was a great evening of heart-felt, deeply connected life work. Funny, because with knowledge of this book coming out this Fall, I got permission from the publisher to have Ger and the book put into our NCTE proposal (the only one kept after going online) this fall. So, Ger, Jessica, William and I can continue the work. We will be presenting and I can't wait.

Now I need to watch I Heart Huckabees again, as it was a philosophical romp that whimsically played with life's meaning and potential. Knowing Ger was on Mt. Pleasant last night, just to hang out, offers another another coincidence to the entire tale. What a joyful, meaningful evening - my heart and brain appreciated every second of it.

Here's to the friendship, future gatherings, and a continued commitment to the world!

Well, Batman. We Did What We Had to Do. The Burial was Proper, but the Demise was Rather Brutal @pamelaMarieKell

I don't think it is in me to lead a national campaign to get human beings to stop putting in glass windows; perhaps I might have success with creating sky signs that are legible to bird brains, so they know what is coming and know when they must yield ahead. Flying full speed into what looks like a clear path is rather unfair to any Turdus Turidae Chordata T. Migratorius. Bless this bird, as my friend Kirsten used to say.

The text came early that there was a loud crash and something tragic might have happened. Then there was the plea for help, "I don't think he made it. He must have flown into my window. Can someone please help me?"

I promised I would, and next to the Northern Flicker who found a similar episode at my house a year earlier, this was as brutal as they come. I've never seen such carnage at the sight of a feathered accident' even a hose didn't help clean up. 

A coffin was found, a boquet of drying flowers was created, a few prayers were sent up to the Great Whatever, and then a few bars of Elton John's Rockin' Robin were sung in his honor. Tears were shed, and a proper burial was done along the Long Island Sound. As the congregation left, a few stray cats peered their heads from the woods. We asked them kindly, "Stay Away."

I asked Skeleton-Frog to be with me for the transition and, cleaning up, I tried to create a rainbow bridge from the hose washing away human sins and shining sun throwing its armbands to the pavement. A statue of St. Francis looked on, "Lord, please guide the brave spirit of our brother Robin to fields that are always green and full of seed, where the insects are plentiful but not too swift, and the skies are ever clear for flying; and make us all more aware of the presence of your beautiful creatures, whatever form they may take."

Amen.

Life is too precious, and such endings deserve human kindness and respect. 

"Bless that animal." As we said, "Bless this bird."

Any Mycologists Want to Name These Shrooms for Me? Snapped This on My Walk Last Night. Intriguing

Of course I thought it was dog vomit when I first walked by, but then I did a double-take. They were mushrooms, I do believe. I have no idea what kind, but let's hear it for Fungi. Woot Woot. 

Why did the Fungi leave my front porch? There wasn't mushroom!

Why did Leo want the mushroom at his party. Because he was a fungi.

Know what a mushroom car sounds like? shroom shroom!

What is the best mushroom to serve on planes? Airport-abela!

Want another mushroom joke? They might need a lil' time. Eventually they'll grow on you.

I probably should just stand up and get my mushroom books out, but it's been a while; they might be dusty.

And if I'm being honest, I didn't take this photo yesterday; I took it last week but never wrote about them. Because yesterday I worked from 7 a.m. until 11 p.m., I didn't have anything really interesting to report for today's blog, so I dug into my files and remembered I wanted to look these guys up, knowing I wouldn't unless I made a bigger deal about it.

I've narrowed it down to ascomycetes in my Simon & Shuster Guide to Mushrooms. They're cup-like so a sac-fungi. Now, there are 64,000 species and at this point I give up.

I'm throwing it to you my mushroom warriors! Name this find. Go!