#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!