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Someone lost a glove last week...
during the winter storm.
When the snow melted, the glove was there,
black cotton fingers limp, in the mud.
I passed the glove on my way to the park
and thought how sorry someone would be
when he reached into a pocket to find only one,
shaking his chapped hand...
looking behind...
looking down...
patting the other pocket...
Frustrated,
tucking both bare hands
deep in his coat, squeezing the lone glove in his fist.
What good was one
without the other?

The next day someone had moved the lost glove,
sticking it high on a garden stake, marking the spot
where a new tree had been planted last summer.
The glove slumped, its fingers sagging loosely.
Then the wind lifted,
the fingers fluttered,
a half-hearted wave...
hopeful.

That night, I passed the glove once more.
My dog strained against her collar,
pulling me through the fog.
The glove was reaching skyward...
toward the hidden moon.
I dared not look back.
My own hands inside my gloves,
clinging to the leash,
trembling...
but warm.
I'd hate to lose a glove on a foggy winter night.

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Someone lost a glove last week... during the winter storm. When the snow melted, the glove was there, black cotton fingers limp, in the mud. I passed the glove on my way to the park and thought how sorry someone would be when he reached into a pocket to find only one, shaking his chapped hand...

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We can't measure the promise of a day in the good luck moments of a morning.

We don't find it in the right bright sun.

Or in the still calm.

The lack of sirens, honks or shouts don't hint at anything.

Looking for signs as we trace our regular routine route from many a morning before is also futile.

It's not in the full cup of coffee. The wiped clean board. The stacks of notebooks, ready.

It isn't in the quiet. In the noticing. The hoping.

It isn't hiding waiting to be found.

The promise of a day doesn't know itself.

It doesn't announce its arrival in advance.

It doesn't whisper or yell, "I am here. Notice now."

The promise of a day is felt in moments. There is a shiver, an extra breath, an extended minute.

When it happens, you will know. Even if sometimes, you hesitate.

But absolutely, the promise of a day is known as night falls.

You have collected it in your arms like a snuggly child. A pile of warm laundry. A stack of tippy books.

Now when you pause and give it your full attention, it unravels and reveals all of its intricacies.

It was possible all along.

In the frustrated sighs.

In the timid smiles of pride.

In the tiny moments of kindness.

It was there when you smiled. When you laughed instead of roared. When you listened instead of talked. It was there when you nodded at a question not spoken aloud. In the little hand that reached for yours. When your response held no judgement. When you welcomed forgiveness.

The promise of a day will happen again. Tomorrow.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

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We can't measure the promise of a day in the good luck moments of a morning. We don't find it in the right bright sun. Or in the still calm. The lack of sirens, honks or shouts don't hint at anything. Looking for signs as we trace our regular routine route from many a morning...

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(This is for Slice of Life, a weekly writing activity hosted by Two Writing Teachers. The aim is to capture the small moments of life. You write, too.)

flickr photo shared by dianecordell under a Creative Commons ( BY-NC-ND ) license

A bunch of us teachers wandered down the hallway. After a long Monday of teaching (on the heels of a disappointing loss by the New England Patriots that seemed to cast a solemn glow on all of the classes), and then an even longer afternoon of a staff meeting, our working day was nearing an end. Many of us were checking our phones for messages from home or maybe glancing at a cat video to transition away from work.

We stepped out through the door towards the parking lot of our school and paused. All of us. Just stopped. Phones were put away, or at least, feigned towards pockets. The sun was shining, although the soft wind still had a winter bite to it. Faces turned upward.

"Last staff meeting, it was dark when we came out," someone observed. "The days are definitely getting longer."

We all just stood there, a small group in silence, nodding.

"I guess Spring will be coming," another added, and we all gave quiet thanks that the storm that walloped the East Coast not far south of us had deemed us an area not worth visiting. None of us wanted to acknowledge that it is still only January, and New England weather has a way of making its presence known right through April some years.

"I guess so," I said, and smiled, and then we all wandered off to our cars, making our individual ways back home after a short communal gathering in observation of the changing nature of Nature.

Peace (in the moment),
Kevin

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(This is for Slice of Life, a weekly writing activity hosted by Two Writing Teachers. The aim is to capture the small moments of life. You write, too.) flickr photo shared by dianecordell under a Creative Commons ( BY-NC-ND ) license A bunch of us teachers wandered down the hallway.

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Thank you to Stacey, Betsy, Dana, Tara, Beth, Anna, Kathleen & Deb for this amazing platform to write and share writing! What a wonderful community you've created! I'm honored to be part of it. Join us at Two Writing Teachers .

Just when I thought I had nothing to write about, life happens. We have another snow day...or should I say, ice day.

I'd woken up early, walked Bella, eaten breakfast and I was just about to sit down to write when the power went out. I waited and it flickered for a moment and then again it was out. It's unusual for my neighborhood to lose power. I looked out the window and saw that everyone had lost power, even the stores and restaurants near me.

Bella was scared. She refused to leave my side. She was shaking so much. I wonder what spooked her. I remained calm, which isn't like me. After lots of comforting and petting, we found our way upstairs to the writing room. There a candle and the twinkly tree provided some light for writing.

The power came on. It took about an hour. I loved the silence. I loved how it knocked me out of my routine. I loved the opportunity to comfort Bella and I loved the uninterrupted time to write.

Just when you think, "There's nothing to write about!" life comes along and provides. A writer must be looking for those opportunities.

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Thank you to Stacey, Betsy, Dana, Tara, Beth, Anna, Kathleen & Deb for this amazing platform to write and share writing! What a wonderful community you've created! I'm honored to be part of it. Join us at Two Writing Teachers . Just when I thought I had nothing to write about, life happens.

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Upon first glance, Lemay Wok looks like any other Chinese restaurant. A mural of bonsai trees and cranes in mid-flight that has the faded blue look of a fuzzy television screen stretches across one wall. Each mauve tablecloth is covered by a plastic protector to ward away errant dabs of sweet and sour sauce and hot mustard that overly zealous customers sling Pollock-style across the tabletops. An aquarium sits in the corner, and my favorite fish flutters her angelic fins, her white scales milky and translucent. The menu has the old standards: chicken and broccoli, hot and sour soup, egg rolls. You get the picture.

But Lemay Wok has something that no other Chinese restaurant has: Nick. Quite simply put, Nick is the best waiter I've ever seen. Tonight, just like every night I step into the well-oiled machine that is his dining room, he looks up with a cheery smile, his dark hair falling over his right eye as pauses one of the approximately eight million things he does around the restaurant to wave hello and point to a table. He remembers that I love jasmine tea and brings me a pot without comment, the ceramic glasses clinking as he holds three in one hand without breaking a sweat.

I watch him as he moves across the dining room, a dance of sorts as he spins and sways, ducks and dodges, reaches and pulls. He is always in motion, one hand holding a water pitcher deftly over my glass while his other proffers the straw he knows I will ask for. He is a blur, a whirling dervish, a master of his craft. He recites my order to me, without me having to breathe a word, scrawling it quickly on the pad I am sure he has no real need for, the smile never leaving his face.

And then, he's gone, a faint outline where he once stood for just a beat. He's off to take another order or pack up leftovers or grab another napkin before one even thinks to ask, and I watch him as he spins away, leaving behind a trail of satisfied customers.

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Upon first glance, Lemay Wok looks like any other Chinese restaurant. A mural of bonsai trees and cranes in mid-flight that has the faded blue look of a fuzzy television screen stretches across one wall.

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I don't like house cleaning, but I like having cleaned house. That's the dilemma with which I've been wrestling for much of Presidents' Day weekend.

Guests are due to arrive today, which necessitates enhanced spic-and-spanness for home, squalid home. So, I briefly became a dervish of dusting, scrubbing, vacuuming, rinsing, buffing, straightening, stowing, and pitching.

Those dust bunnies clinging to far, high corners? Succumb to the wave of my (Hoover) wand! That square of floor under the fridge? See the light of day and feel my broom's cleansing wrath! The three pendant lamps hanging above the kitchen? Lovingly polished for the first time in years -- once I ninjaed my way onto the counter to bring them within arm's reach; that same counter then given its own polishing to erase each tell-tale footprint.

The words of John Keats come to mind: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." His statement turns out to be a half truth. It sweeps under the proverbial rug what feels to me like joy-sucking effort needed to make things fleetingly clean.

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I don't like house cleaning, but I like having cleaned house. That's the dilemma with which I've been wrestling for much of Presidents' Day weekend. Guests are due to arrive today, which necessitates enhanced spic-and-spanness for home, squalid home. So, I briefly became a dervish of dusting, scrubbing, vacuuming, rinsing, buffing, straightening, stowing, and pitching.

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"Mom, can you come upstairs when you are done?'

"Yup. Let me just put this in the DW."

"I want you to tell me if these jeans still fit."

Megan is 11. Megan has always been quite happy in athletic shorts, leggings and a shirt. Megan has two sisters. Hannah, 17, and Grace,15. Megan has never worn jeans. We've always joked around with her - "Hey Meg, that shirt would look so cute with a pair of jeans." Her response has been consistent over the years "I don't like jeans." We'd let it go and let her be.

Last fall, she actually let me buy her a pair of jean jeggings - that denim with loads of spandex so they feel more like a legging than a traditional stiff jean. "It's good to have them." I said as we walked out of Justice with our purchases in hand. "I'll probably never wear them." She said quite matter-of -factly as we walked out. Her tone said, "Mom you just wasted 22.99."

I finish loading the DW and I head upstairs.

"I can't find those jeans we bought last year."

"Go check in the dresser in my closet."

She returns empty handed. I watch as she begins to dig through the drawers in her own dresser. "Are they in here with the shorts?" she asks her self as she lifts and sorts the clothes.

"Try your closet. Are they in one of the cubbies?"

I sit on her bed and watch her search her closet and cubbies.

She turns to me "Where are they?" It's obvious. She's not giving up. "They still have the tags on them. They were from Justice." She remembers.

"Let me be the second set of eyes." I get up and head to the closet cubbies. I reach in to a pile of fuzzy socks and grab a dark colored material. I have found the jeans.

"There they are!" she exclaims.

The fitting begins. She pulls on the jeans. "Oh good! No zippers! I hate zippers!" She jumps up down pulling on the pants. She looks at herself in the mirror. "These are OK."

"Try these." I hand her a pair of jeans from the attic. Hannah had worn them. Grace had worn them. Despite the fact that Megan was never a fan of jeans, I held on to them... just in case.

"Ugh. Zippers." She pulls them on. "These skinny jeans. They are so difficult to put on." she cackles. Accentuating the word difficult. I watch as she pulls the tight ankle over her heal. "Ohhh! I like these."

"Put this on." I hand her an old lightweight hoodie. The hoodie exchanges hands. "Grace LOVED that shirt. She wore it all the time. I think she even wore it with those exact jeans." I'm sitting there in the moment while simultaneously my mind is reliving a memory.

Megan slips the shirt over her head. Adjusts the hood and the sleeves. Hops on her bed to get a good look at her self head to toe.

"I really like this!"

"Go show Hannah."

Hannah pauses from her homework "Aww, Meg. That looks so cute."

I watch Megan exit Hannah's room and head down to Grace. Grace looks up from whatever Netflix show is on her computer. I can hear the sentimentality in her voice. "Ohh Megan! I remember wearing that! I love it!"

I hear Megan's feet dance up the stairs. She enters the room and looks at herself in the mirror one more time. "I really like this."

Megan is now in middle school. I know the next three years are going to be full of discovery - for her and for me. I remember the middle school years - the good, the bad, and the ugly, - with Hannah and Grace. Their personalities, their likes and dislikes, their willingness to test out their independence and identity played itself out during these years. During the fitting I was thankful that Megan was allowing me to be part of the discovery and identity play.

Gotta love shopping in the attic.

Reader, writer, runner, observer of all things, artist and journal keeper! Mom of three crazy girls and wife to one fun guy! Still a curious teacher after 25 years! View all posts by dmsherriff

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"Mom, can you come upstairs when you are done?' "Yup. Let me just put this in the DW." "I want you to tell me if these jeans still fit." Megan is 11. Megan has always been quite happy in athletic shorts, leggings and a shirt. Megan has two sisters.

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I took a peek out the window before mentioning anything to Charlie. It was time for a walk, but I wasn't looking forward to it. I had heard it raining all morning and wasn't excited to experience it firsthand. Just as I thought, the rain was still pouring down. I parted the blinds a few more inches to glance left and right. The snow from last week was melting at least, but it was leaving behind large puddles all over the road. Large, muddy puddles. I watched for a few seconds as rain fell, splashing cars, sidewalks, and windows. It was unrelenting.
As I stared, a mom and son came out of the building across from me. The boy, maybe four years old, immediately ran for a puddle, taking large strides in hopes of making the biggest splash. I watched as mom reached out hoping to catch him before the jump, but already knowing she wouldn't reach him, her arm outstretched half-heartedly. From the window, I could see mom sigh and watch him jump in the puddles for a few seconds before pulling him away.
I sighed heavily, understanding the mom's plight, and looked toward Charlie. He wanted to go out. He was excited to go out.
"You just took a bath yesterday, you know." I stated sadly. He just wagged his tail harder and stared back.
I tried again, "You're going to get all muddy and have to take another one." Nothing. He didn't care. He knew it was time to go out and nothing was going to deter him.
"You know you don't like baths." His tail continued wagging.
I looked once more sadly out the window and took a deep breath. "Alright, let's go." I hadn't even finished my sentence before Charlie was all over me, barking, wagging his tail happily. I scowled and gave him the stink eye, but he wasn't phased.
I slowly walked toward the door and pulled down his leash. "I'm going to regret this, I just know it."

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Tuesday Slice of Life- Watching the Rain

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I took a peek out the window before mentioning anything to Charlie. It was time for a walk, but I wasn't looking forward to it. I had heard it raining all morning and wasn't excited to experience it firsthand. Just as I thought, the rain was still pouring down.

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On Sunday morning I waved goodbye to my oldest daughter. My three daughters and I went to the movies on Saturday evening. We watched "Little Women." I knew the storyline, so no surprises there, but looking at my three daughters (15, 23,24) next to me, I felt swelling in my heart and eyes. At first my oldest didn't plan to come home. She changed her mind and came anyway. And then on Saturday morning, before others woke up, I waved goodbye to her through the living room window.

As I stood there, watching her disappear around the corner, a small white spot caught my eye on the ground in the midst of dark soil and last year's dried grass. Could it really be? In February? A snowdrop? It was. A month early, in mid-winter, the little flower stood straight, fighting the wind and rain. The timing was not right for this tiny beauty to grow. This didn't stop her from stretching up. The month, the season, the ground may not have been perfect, but she was ready to explore the world.

Not caring what others might think, I took my camera that I hadn't touched in months and went out in my colorful yoga pants and an oversized blue sweater. Protecting the flower from the wind and keeping my camera away from the rain I quickly snapped some photos and hurried back inside.

Looking at the photos, I thought of the upcoming month long Slice of Life Story Challenge. I am not ready. The days might be rainy and windy. The conditions will never be perfect. Then again I have never been fully ready. March will come, and I will show up. With curiosity. Life is full of small moments to notice whether looking with eyes or the heart.

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On Sunday morning I waved goodbye to my oldest daughter. My three daughters and I went to the movies on Saturday evening. We watched "Little Women." I knew the storyline, so no surprises there, but looking at my three daughters (15, 23,24) next to me, I felt swelling in my heart and eyes.

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"Miss, how long have you been teaching?" In one motion, he picks up a stool, arcs it under his body, and plunks himself down across from me. I stop eating my lunch and look up.

"More than 20 years. I've kind of lost count. Why?"

"Ok. So. You know how to make kids stop talking, right?" He's taking up a lot of space - legs spread, elbows on my desk, newly-bearded chin balanced in his hands as he glares at me intently.

"Well..."

I'm not sure where he's going with this line of questioning and it makes me a little nervous. He's not an easy kid to read. He arrived at our school early last year, and his life before that was not easy. Heck, his life after that was not easy. He's intense and funny and thoughtful, but he can be impulsive and independent well beyond what is good for him. When I taught him during that rocky first semester, I learned quickly that his questions are almost always multi-layered and that he wants real answers.

"It's never that easy," I tell him, and I think of some of our stand-offs in the classroom.

Some of those memories must occur to him, too, because we look hard at each other until I finally break. "Spill," I say. "Who do you want to stop talking?"

Three ninth grade girls in the math class he's peer tutoring are driving him crazy. "They talk all the time! They're so rude! They don't know what a great opportunity they have! Mr. W's an excellent teacher."

He's already tried to divide and conquer. He's figured out who's the leader. He's tried being nice...

-Pause here for a second-

He is a peer tutor.
He is working with 14-year-olds in a math class.
He's seeking advice from teachers he respects because he wants to go to the classroom teacher with ideas.

He is a peer tutor.
He is helping out in a math class.
He is seeking advice from teachers.

We had a good talk, and I made a few suggestions. And I told him that the suggestions probably won't work - who can stop three determined 9th graders from talking? - but I doubt he'll give up.

When he left, I might have been a little teary. He's a peer tutor. A peer tutor. I might be a little teary again right now. Sometimes teaching is the best job ever.

I'm a high school English and Special Education teacher in Ottawa, Ontario. I'm also a reader, a writer, a partner and a mother of two. I'm using this space to think and write about teaching and living. View all posts by Amanda Potts

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"Miss, how long have you been teaching?" In one motion, he picks up a stool, arcs it under his body, and plunks himself down across from me. I stop eating my lunch and look up. "More than 20 years. I've kind of lost count. Why?" "Ok. So.

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Slice of Life: Should We Be Impressed? #SOL19 #TWTBlog

Good news is we have plenty of gas.
It would never occur to me that we wouldn't have plenty of gas in our aircraft. Am I supposed to be impressed by this announcement? Shouldn't this be a basic expectation before takeoff? I would think checking fuel would be a priority. I think we need to do a better job recognizing what should be a given and what is impressive or commendable.

As I sit on the plane, my mind wanders to back to last week when I saw a teacher talking to her students as they lined up at the door. They were heading to music.
I hope you enjoy music. Please remind Ms. S that you will be walking back to class on your own as well.
With that, she went into her classroom and the students led themselves to music.

I connected these two experiences in my mind. So often I see kids getting a marble or some reward for walking quietly down the hall or cleaning up after themselves. I worry we are dumbing kids down when we reward them or compliment them for what should be an expectation. Kids should be respectful of their community. Kids should act safely. Kids should be polite and kind. We need to have higher expectations of our kids so that they will have higher expectations of themselves. Research has shown that often we live up to the lowest expectation ... this is important to remember.

It surprised me that I immediately put these two experiences together, but I know I will now be thinking more about both of them. That teacher knowing her class is fully capable of walking to music - no reminders, no rewards, no compliments. It's simply how they do business. Just like an airc raft should have plenty of gas.

Thank you, Betsy, Beth, Deb, Kathleen, Kelsey, Lanny, Melanie, and Stacey for this weekly forum from Two Writing Teachers. Check out the writers, readers, and teachers here.

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Teachers for Teachers | Slice of Life: Should We Be Impressed? #SOL19 #TWTBlog

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Good news is we have plenty of gas. It would never occur to me that we wouldn't have plenty of gas in our aircraft. Am I supposed to be impressed by this announcement? Shouldn't this be a basic expectation before takeoff? I would think checking fuel would be a priority.

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I have a secret.

I know something I'm not supposed to know.

I hate knowing.

We have a secret pal activity for teachers at my school. We start in the fall and leave a gift each month until May. We all try to guess who each other has, and then we have a big reveal party at the end of the school year.

Buying the gifts is so much fun. My secret pal loves the color pink, so this month I got her some OPI nail polish in pink and a file that says "Girls just want to have fun!" I gave it to her on Valentines Day with a card that says "Hope your day is tickled pink!"

But that's not the secret.

This morning I arrived a little before my usual time. We have sensors in our rooms, and when there is no movement, the lights go off. Yes, I was sitting at my desk in the dark. I had my 70's rock music quietly playing on my Pandora station.

And I see something sneaking in the hallway.

It's a gift bag with green and pink tissue paper at the end of an arm. The arm of my secret pal.

I have a secret.

I know something I'm not supposed to know.

I hate knowing.

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I have a secret. I know something I'm not supposed to know. I hate knowing. We have a secret pal activity for teachers at my school. We start in the fall and leave a gift each month until May.

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What's that sound? It's an early spring, according to the rodent in Pennsylvania.

Sniffle, hack, cough...cough

"Initially it worked its way through the kids, but I'm sick now." My co-workers are dropping by the minute.

Aaa-CHOO!!! Sniff. Sniff. Snort.

We're out of Puffs Plus Lotion and down to the tree-bark-like cheap tissues. The situation is desperate, dire.

UUUUHHHHhhhh...ufrump.

"Does anyone have more hand sanitizer she can donate to my room?" We've got chapped hands now too. Every exposed part is turning red from the abrasions of repeated washing and wiping and wear and tear.

(the heaviness of mouth breathing)

The janitorial staff has "fogged" the building over the weekend, covering all computers and keyboards with a clear plastic. It feels a bit apocalyptic as we come in Monday. "Attention staff, you may remove the bag from your computer. They were placed there to protect the electronics from the 'fog' this weekend." The announcement doesn't seem to reassure many.

Sniffle, hack, cough...cough...aww

Come on, spring!

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What's that sound? It's an early spring, according to the rodent in Pennsylvania. Sniffle, hack, cough...cough "Initially it worked its way through the kids, but I'm sick now." My co-workers are dropping by the minute. Aaa-CHOO!!! Sniff. Sniff. Snort. We're out of Puffs Plus Lotion and down to the tree-bark-like cheap tissues.

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"Look at the moon. It's bright." Kojo says.

He always notices first. His neck is used to being bent looking up at the adults towering over him all the time.

The moon is claiming its space in the cloudless early evening blue sky. We've been watching for a few days now. It's been growing quickly. On Saturday it looked almost perfectly cut in half. Today it looks like it will soon be a full moon.

As we travel down the new road past Amazing Grace's and the tiny mosque, we feel it following us. It reminds us of our position in space and signals to us that time is passing. I've thought about a lot of things today. I've worried about the busy week ahead. I've been looking down for most of the day.

"Look at the moon. It's moving." Kojo points up again.

We pass the dripping water spout, a little boy running with an empty fabric spool, the armless mannequin in the shop window, and the goatless blue house on the corner. The moon brightens a bit against the slowly darkening sky.

It's still there as we climb up the stairs to our front door. I help Kojo take off his dusty shoes before entering the house. It's time to fix dinner, feed the cat, take a bath, and think some more.

"Let's sit outside for a little bit longer." I suggest as I drop his shoes one by one on the worn down mat by the metal chair.

We watch the light reflecting off the moon's surface making it look like it's coming in and out of focus. One edge looks brighter than the other. It's so perfectly round. There is nothing interrupting our view. My breathing and my mind slow down.

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"Look at the moon. It's bright." Kojo says. He always notices first. His neck is used to being bent looking up at the adults towering over him all the time. The moon is claiming its space in the cloudless early evening blue sky. We've been watching for a few days now.

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A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Dear Maureen,

You are having a very good March!

I notice your self-care improves dramatically when you write every day...when you unlock, when you release, when you pour it out onto paper. Do you see the difference in yourself? Say, between today and this same date in February? Or January? You have been in a real funk, Maureen. Yes, you have your reasons for this...however, words release it. This I know: writing is healing.

This month,
You have been more patient.
You have been more present.
You are conversing more.
You are laughing more.
You are filled with gratitude.

Writing is healing.
You owe this to yourself.
You deserve this.
You must keep writing.

Advice for April:

Find a quiet place.

Write and reflect.

Indulge yourself in playing with words.

Dare to share it in your blog.

Breathe.

Smile.

Repeat.

Love,
me, myself, and I

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A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity for teacher-writers to share and reflect. Dear Maureen, You are having a very good March! I notice your self-care improves dramatically when you write every day...when you unlock, when you release, when you pour it out onto paper.

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Slice of Life story challenge, March 2019
Day 13 -- "Clickety Clackety"
******************************
When I was a little girl, my mother would sometimes type on her manual typewriter in the evening, practicing her keystrokes and trying to improve her speed. I remember being in awe as I watched her fingers flying over the keys. Clickety clackety clickety clack, DING, swoosh. Clickety clackety clickety clack, DING, swoosh. Clickety clackety clickety clack, DING, swoosh. Again and again and again, I heard those same sounds until "Zzzzip!" Mom snatched the piece of paper out of the typewriter and quickly rolled another one in.
I looked at the paper she had discarded: "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." That same sentence was repeated over and over and over again, all down the length of the page.
I was puzzled. Our dog could be lazy at times, but I didn't know anything about a brown fox being anywhere near where we lived. Why was mom typing about a brown fox and a lazy dog? And why was she typing it over and over? What was the point of it all?
That was the night I learned about that one special sentence and how it was used by many people to practice their typing. As Mom explained it to me, I found it fascinating that one silly sentence could be so important to so many people because it contained every letter of the alphabet. How funny. How intriguing.
Words still intrigue me to this day.
*****************************
JudyK :-) March 13, 2019

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Slice of Life story challenge, March 2019 Day 13 -- "Clickety Clackety" ****************************** When I was a little girl, my mother would sometimes type on her manual typewriter in the evening, practicing her keystrokes and trying to improve her speed. I remember being in awe as I watched her fingers flying over the keys.

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You know you've existed outside of a context for awhile when you can smell it. For many, it's the first experience "smelling" your parents' house. (Did it always smell this nice? Or was I the reason it didn't?) This was the first memory from my school visit with Grace: I pulled open the heavy blue door and for the first time in forever, I smelled school- a mix of mass-produced lunch, fresh pencils, and hallway cleaner. A smell that marinates teachers and students each and every day.

Still acclimating to carrying the car seat, I balanced its weight carefully as I turned the corner toward the ¾ classrooms. "Oh... hi!" Ms. Nowak eyes registered an unfamiliar sight- me, at school for the first time in four months, or me with a baby, not sure which- and enveloped me in a hug. "I don't think they know we're coming," I mentioned as I walked toward the classroom door I'd entered and exited thousands of times. "I mean, Abbie does, but I think she and Jill decided to leave it a surprise."

"Can I watch their reaction?" She peeked in the classroom door, catching Abbie's attention- our long-term guest teacher- who called students back to their tables.

I'm not sure I ever responded- my heart suddenly beating quick at the realization that they've probably changed in four months, and I was no longer a part of their routine. I opened our classroom door and walked in, still trying to mask my arm strain above the weight of Grace's car seat. You could hear a pin drop. Pairs of eyes tracked us to the side of the room, where I settled Grace on top of a white table. Was this what I expected? "Hi everybody," I said lightly.

"Hi!" a chorus in response, shy and new. It reminded me of the awkwardness when kids' worlds collide, their parents and teacher suddenly together, both talking to them. Two parties with whom they're close and comfortable and goofy and themselves- yet somehow, the collision makes them itch.

Grace and I walked around to each table for a quick introduction, their shy "hellos" turning into timid peeks inside her car seat.

"She looks like you!"

"Her eyes are just like yours!"

"I haven't heard your voice in forever!"

Warming up now.

We walked back toward the side of the classroom. I grabbed a chair at a low table and plopped Grace on my lap. "What's new in your lives? It's been so long!"

"We came in second in our hockey tournament last weekend!"

"My cousin finally had her baby too!"

"We might get a gecko!"

It was slowly coming back to me- the "pick up where you left off" nature of third and fourth graders, reminding me of what it felt like to be back here, in this place with these people. It was comforting, in a lot of ways- to be treated like my life hadn't been completely reinvented since I saw them last, and like I was still the same person who left on October 17th.

"Mrs. Goss! I saved Grace a piece of candy I got. Can she have Hershey's yet?"

And most of all, it was comforting to know that someday soon, my worlds- "teacher" and "mom"- would be the ones colliding.

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You know you've existed outside of a context for awhile when you can smell it. For many, it's the first experience "smelling" your parents' house. (Did it always smell this nice? Or was I the reason it didn't?)