Lake Wisconsin

Time to write:  Think of a memory triggered by a smell, sound, taste or touch and write about it.   Use as many sensory details as you can while writing.  Those sensory details will help your readers experience your scene more deeply.  Those will help recreate the mood of your memory.

    The water laps rhythmically against the aged wooden pier.  The waves echo as they gently push against the boat launch. 

     The breeze is warm and humid as it brushes my face.  It is a slight relief from the muggy air that surrounds me.

     Across the lake there are tree-covered hills, lush and emerald green with a light mist hovering over the hills in the distance.    There is an old white farmhouse and barn tucked into the hills, with farmland running right up to the river’s edge where it intermingles with the lake waters.

     Lake Wisconsin was once farmland until they built a dam at Prairie du Sac.  The lake was created out of low-lying farmland.  Tree stumps still come to the surface of the lake after over 70 years of being submerged. 

      When you round the curve of the land past the old white farmhouse you enter the Wisconsin River with glistening white sandbars and rugged bluffs that swallows nest in.  We are down river from the Dells, but some of that beauty is here also. 

     There is only one boat on the entire lake at this moment, its motor muffled by the distance between us.  The only other sound is bird song and the waves rippling to the shore.

     This morning I caught the aftermath of a fish leaping for its insect breakfast.  It was so fast I only catch the splash as it re-entered the water.

     At sunset, the sun’s rays streamed down from behind the gray cloud, making the heat bearable as the day draws to a close.  Different birds give their calls almost as if they are taking turns.    The silvery water is smoother now, with just a hint of a breeze from the northeast.  The breeze has a ‘fishy’ smell and the air is filled with the moisture of an impending storm.  Canada geese float by peacefully through the pale green lily pads.  All is peaceful again since everyone has gone indoors for the evening.

      Thousands upon thousands of fireflies now hover over the lawns at dusk.  I sit on the pier and look to the land to watch the surreal sight.

Greatest Living Author

     One easy way to be humbled is to run across the term 'greatest living author' and then do a search on it.  Here I am, typing away on the porch on a summer  morning, while these authors are college professors, Nobel prize winners, experimenting with sentence structure and stream of consciousness writing.   How dare I even put a word on paper?
     But then... I go to Amazon and look at the real reviews.  People can't figure out what these authors are trying to say.  That levels the playing field right there.
   So, why do I write?  I write to express myself, to learn about myself because there are always surprises that come out on the page, to use my imagination.  I would love to be a published author, but I don't think that will ever happen.  Does it matter?  I'm beginning to think not.  After you become published, you would always be under pressure to produce another novel, maybe not one that you would even want to write.
    As I mentioned before I would rather be like Harper Lee, but I add to that list Marilynne Robinson.  She has written very few novels, but they are deep and rich and thoughtful.
   The reasons we write have to be part of who we are, and not just about publishing or making it big.  Writing for Teachers Write is humbling, because I put my best work out there and it is basically ignored.  Others put something out there that  I skim over and they get 15 approving comments about how great it is.  We are not all looking for the same thing.
    So to make it clear for myself:
1. I write to express myself.
2. I write because it is enjoyable.
3.  I can learn from writing, how to teach writing to my students.
4.  Writing can capture a place in time, a memory otherwise forgotten.
5. Writing uses imagination, which is severely lacking in my life in any other way!

A Gentle Madness*

"Bibliophilia or bibliophilism is the love of books. Accordingly a bibliophile is an individual who loves books. A bookworm is someone who loves books for their content, or who otherwise loves reading. According to Arthur H. Minters the "private collecting of books was a fashion indulged in by many Romans, including Cicero and Atticus"." source: Wikipedia

     Even before I could read I loved books. We would walk over to our local branch of the library in a small storefront building and the kind, grandmotherly librarian, Mrs. Robbins, would take us downstairs for story hour.  She was my first mentor in loving books. When another librarian would substitute for her, it just wasn't the same.
      My aunt would take my cousin and I to the Children's Library across town before I was in kindergarten.  It was near the "real" library in Library Square downtown.  (Imagine:   a city giving its library an entire city block with a parklike setting...)  The Children's Library was in an old church building.  It was so exciting to go up to the balcony to look at more books and peek over the railing at the rest of the shelves.  I remember it as being a kind of children's book wonderland.
     Later, my sisters and I would walk to the branch library ourselves, braving urban traffic on busy streets to get there.  Every summer they would have a book challenge, and we would actually have to stand at the counter and report on the books that we read.  I would usually fill out several challenge sheets and collect more than one pin to verify that I had completed the challenge.  But these were not badges of honor in my neighborhood, they just labeled you a bookworm.
   I remember days when I would finish a book and come outside to find a sparkling sunshine kind of day, and realize how much of the day I had missed.  So, when I was in 7th grade, I made a conscious decision:  I will begin living in the real world so I don't miss so much.  I no longer allowed myself to live in the world of imagination and books, thinking about characters and plot lines all day long.  I still read, I still wrote, but not in the all consuming way I had before.
   Looking back, it was a  mistake.  Reality paled in comparison to my inner life with books.  Imagination will win every time.  I returned to my old ways when I was 25 and life had given me a situation that was hard to cope with.  I soothed myself by reading a compilation of stories by James Herriot every night before I went to sleep.  It saved me at that time.

Bookworm:

Synonyms

nerd, dink [slang], dork [slang], geek, grind, swot[British], weenie, wonk

Related Words

double-dome, egghead, highbrow, intellectual; brain,genius; academic, 

bookman, scholar; gearhead, techie

*Booknotes interview with Nicholas Basbanes on A Gentle Madness: Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes and the Eternal Passion for Books, October 15, 1995.

Watching a Rainbow Fade

     This morning as I was waiting for my coffee to reheat I saw a rainbow arching across the western sky and hurried outside to watch it.  Within moments it began to fade and all too quickly, it disappeared.
      I don't think I've seen a rainbow in years... the last time I saw one it was a double rainbow over Lake Michigan during a wedding reception.  Everyone rushed out to see it and had the time to stand in awe of it until it was gone.
     It takes patience to stand and watch a rainbow until it disappears though.  It is a phenomenon, a fleeting look at a promise, but we have things to do and places to go.  I actually had to convince myself to take a moment and watch it till it faded.  It was more than worth it.
     Of course being in a summer writing camp, I had to dash in and write my title before the memory of it faded.  Watching a rainbow fade becomes a metaphor for taking time to cherish moments that pass all too rapidly.  A happy moment, a feeling of accomplishment, a kind word, a moment of friendship...they all disappear in the rush of real life.  When I write them down and mark the moment they happened, they don't fade away as quickly.  I can go back and remind myself they actually happened.
     So I grabbed my phone as I went out to look at the rainbow this morning and quickly captured an image of it.  It is nowhere near as glorious as the real one.  But it will help me remember the beauty long after it is gone.

Sometimes...(for Teachers Write)

 Sometimes on a rainy day in summer
we say
it smells like the cottage
 or refer to the day as
cottage weather.
A rainy or humid day
 at the cottage
has a musty smell
all of its own.
The clouds hang low
heavy with moisture.
 I feel the  clamminess of it
as it sits upon my skin,
making me feel
languid and dispirited.
 Outdoors,
it becomes a jungle.
I almost fear going outside
 since
it seems like a rain forest
where the insects
 might be voracious.
The raindrops
drip
drip
drip
 from the leaves
onto the roof,
as steady as a metronome.
 There is tumultuous
 birdsong...
do they sing of
more rain to come?
I  press my face against
the saggy screen door,
looking out upon the
orchard of plum trees
willing it to stop
so we can have fun.
I wonder
what we can do
with this rainy
cottage day.

So Let Us Rejoice

      "Igitor?"  My father read the tv screen that posted the song currently playing on their classical music station.
     "Gaudeamas Igitor." My mother replied from her wheelchair. "For walking in and walking out."  She began singing in her strong contralto voice:
     "Gaudeamus igitur

Iuvenes dum sumus.

Gaudeamus igitur.

Iuvenes dum sumus.

Post iucundam iuventutem.

Post molestam senectutem.

Nos habebit humus —

      Nos habebit humus."

      A few minutes later she slipped back into the foggy depths of dementia and the moment was gone.  But I had caught a glimpse of the girl she once was:  scholarly, knowledgable, classically trained.

     I find it hard to express in words how it feels to see your parent diminish.  The pain of it  cuts to my heart.  The first evening I noticed that something was wrong I tried to will it away, explain it away to myself.  That did not work, it continued to progress.  What surprised me was the ebb and flow of dementia, for lack of a kinder word.  I had always assumed that once one slipped past a point, there was no return.  But there are days I see her as she once was: strong, intelligent, our matriarch.  It is hard to find that other days when she is sullen, stubborn, and confused.
    So when I visit, I search her face, who will she be today?  Will I find my mother there in those mottled blue eyes?

Let us rejoice, therefore, While we are young. After a pleasant youth After a troubling old age The earth will have us.

   

The Influence of Madeleine L'Engle

   

“When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability… To be alive is to be vulnerable.”

~Madeleine L’Engle

     When I was 10 I had a young teacher in her second year of teaching who was a free spirit.  This was a new and different experience for me, as most of my teachers were elderly.  Some of her procedures were very inappropriate, but she influenced my life forever by reading aloud A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.  We would sit mesmerized every day after lunch as she read one chapter.  It was as if I held my breath each day until the next chapter would reveal what happened.  When Charles Wallace finally was saved by Meg's love I was astounded at the thought of that concept.  It completely caught me off guard.
     As much as I loved the book, it was really the entire influence of Madeleine L'Engle that shaped my perceptions.  The parts of the book where beings sing praise to God come to mind so often when I sing in church that I fear Madeleine even shaped my perception of heaven.
     Later I read Meet the Austins and those books made me realize that being a teenager may not be an easy thing.  Most of the books at that time still talked about being 'pinned' and Saturday nights being picked up by a date.  L'Engle's books portrayed a world where a character met a troubled, even annoying boy and yet was drawn to him in an inexplicable way.  This was something I definitely could relate to.
      In recent years I have read her journals about her life, only to be disappointed to hear they weren't exactly nonfiction.  I forgive her, who would want to air all of the hurts and disappointments of reality? Any one should be able to understand coloring their world in a more flattering way, writing about life as we dream it could be, not as it actually is.  It is sad to hear how she may have been in denial about her husband, and also her son.  But she made their lives a thing of beauty in her mind, perhaps that was a comfort to her.
     Last summer I was able to read some of her very first books, and enjoyed her love for classical music that inspired me to listen to some of the songs mentioned online.  No matter what her faults may have been, she is a wonderful mentor in appreciating culture, the arts, science, astronomy, and in her admiration of others brilliance and the glory of God.