tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373341532012-01-31T18:55:32.815-06:00random thoughts from middle America since Nov. 8, 2006Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.comBlogger10581100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-42531945139386862582011-06-28T10:35:00.000-05:002011-06-28T10:35:18.048-05:00

Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-29568534792021885012011-05-25T08:49:00.000-05:002011-05-25T08:49:05.813-05:00

Or it might rain, cancelling games, disrupting schedules and making most of yesterday's post moot. I'll always have "Field of Dreams" though.

Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-47002507400742245022011-05-24T16:06:00.003-05:002011-05-24T16:29:36.272-05:00

A year to the day since the last post, I come here with the need for expression. Maybe no one will ever see these words, and I don't really care. That's not my motivation. It's baseball season, and that has me feeling nostalgic. My soon-to-be-old-enough-to-vote-and-die-but-not-drink-high-school-graduate-by-the-hair-on-his-unshaven-chin son was quoted in the local paper after leading his team to

Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-18283735564901213732010-05-24T21:47:00.000-05:002010-05-24T21:47:01.583-05:00

Whatever this space is to anyone else, it's a treasure trove to me. I return now and then either to discover or remember; in that sense, I'll never move on. I am writing elsewhere now though, as the change of scenery did me good. For various reasons I'm not making the connection from here to there public, but if you'd like the link, let me know.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-31175621103793795172010-04-11T20:01:00.000-05:002010-04-11T20:01:50.337-05:00

Random thoughts from the Go! St. Louis Half Marathon, a race I registered for months ago in the  Nike Women's afterglow and then, for reasons mostly medical and partly lackadaisical, didn't train for.  1. What goes up must come down is not topographically true. Nothing like a foot race for realizing the streets I've been driving for 25 years are not even remotely flat: they're all uphill. Both

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-57442435585478271472010-04-09T00:20:00.000-05:002010-04-09T00:20:03.143-05:00

"I was going to come up to school and invite u," she texts, and it might even be true.  I know I'd be welcome, even if it turns out I'm inviting myself: we go way back, this girl and I, and though the ties have loosened in the absence of day after school day, we are still connected across place and space and time.  She doesn't blink, I can tell, when my, "This is Ms. P" message barges into her

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-102254098625420412010-04-03T21:20:00.000-05:002010-04-03T21:20:33.387-05:00

In my mind's eye, I see his van in the driveway- is it silver or black or faded maroon?- and the question on her face as she pulls up to the house that I likely will never visit and would need a map to find.  I see her walking up steps that may or may not exist to the bedroom where he is but should not be.  I think of 911 and paramedics, rising panic and spreading alarm.  I see her students,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-69508426988477937282010-04-02T20:45:00.000-05:002010-04-02T20:45:22.302-05:00

We're three lines in to the conversation when I realize what she's saying. This is not, as it happens, a rarity, and not only because I'm slow on the uptake: spend enough time talking to the not-quite-proficient and you, too, will someday find yourself two nods and an "uh huh" in before it becomes clear that the Target bag stashed on top of the back book shelf is not full of supplies for her

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-72217614137462763712010-03-29T23:51:00.000-05:002010-03-29T23:51:37.340-05:00

"It's just the Half," I tell myself, alternately, after, "I'll just pick up my shirt," and, "It couldn't hurt to walk."  Months upon a time ago, I registered for the Go! St. Louis race (exclamation in the trademark) almost as an afterthought. Cincinnati's Flying Pig was the goal, and maybe it still kind of could be, but friends who had been motivated by if-Allison-can-surely-I signed up to race,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-9765232154842593652010-03-24T13:43:00.000-05:002010-03-24T13:43:41.765-05:00

"You can't see me," I am occasionally tempted to remind, "but I can hear you."  The seat backs are tall and the rows aren't crowded and we're all Americans practiced in the art of creating space where there's not much: don't see me and I won't see you, we generally pretend.  But I'm nosy, frankly, and with five hours to kill, if your conversation bleeds through the gaps between my seat and the

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-39222148581107568302010-03-17T22:50:00.001-05:002010-03-17T22:52:21.663-05:00

They're working on homework: it's algebra (always algebra) and bio and geo and chem; histories of conquistadors and doughboys running concurrent and intersecting, as so appropriate, with graphic reports on STDs.   It is, on a good day, a "How do I?" from one corner, "I don't get it," from the other and idle blank looks spotted from across the room.  It is multi-multi-get-them-on-tasking, but I

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-12394996608698870852010-03-10T19:23:00.000-06:002010-03-10T19:23:01.715-06:00

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-45159537573901144092010-03-09T21:13:00.002-06:002010-03-09T21:45:00.888-06:00

It's a stage-managed set-up, choreographed down to the hand-selected crowd of diverse-as-we-can-manage teenagers told to wear church clothes-- whatever that means-- to an assembly in an unnaturally empty high school they don't attend. I don't care. Because despite photo op, despite fund raiser (the true trip agenda), despite political push that just needs a live audience, the fact remains that

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-784833098495820362010-02-27T18:53:00.000-06:002010-02-27T18:53:02.753-06:00

"You mean people make computer viruses?" he asks, his open expression unmistakably sincere.  He's been listening to some conversation about the perils of Limewire, and once again I'm reminded that common knowledge isn't always. A boy seemingly tech savvy somehow believes that a plague of the internet is generated by nature: it's a virus, after all. It's one part language learner, I think, and one

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-21808891168763721002010-02-25T23:54:00.000-06:002010-02-25T23:54:13.938-06:00

It's just some Thursday in the dregs of February. A day after day after day.  But then she sits down and asks to talk, and it becomes something else.  She starts in the middle of the discussion, right where we left off last time we plotted her strategy. She is inclined to believe that she is destined for a lifetime of taking orders for sweet and sour chicken, and she does have reason to think so

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-62705844003495319872010-02-16T23:06:00.003-06:002010-02-16T23:08:44.473-06:00

"I'll try to be a good father," he writes, slipped in to the end of an unrelated message. Facebook may be killing my blog, but at least it does keep me in touch. I reply immediately, cautiously  are-you-telling-me-what-I-think-you're-telling-me excitement soon replaced by pleased, nearly aunt-like surprise and for a little while I reflect on this new milestone, this first of the next generation

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-75997929765273572952010-02-15T00:31:00.001-06:002010-02-15T00:33:08.071-06:00

I'm just putting a label on what's already obvious: I'm not writing much right now, and I haven't been for a while. I try, now and then: the drafts folder is full of not-quite-what-I-intended. I'll be back when I figure out how.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-77666703082399647072010-01-31T16:13:00.000-06:002010-01-31T16:13:39.777-06:00

In my heart of hearts, I am generally content with the work-related choices I've made. I chose my degrees based on interest and such-as-it-is aptitude without really any consideration for money or perhaps even job security. I have done what I wanted to do. And I do believe that in our current system teachers are partly compensated in time: I work thirty-six weeks of the year, officially, and I

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-42376576817720841272010-01-26T19:33:00.001-06:002010-01-26T19:37:03.097-06:00

"I've only got a minute," says my retired father from the cellphone he uses so rarely I don't recognize the number. I wonder, briefly and in passing, what's wrong: it's nearly the reaction inspired by a phone that rings too early or too late: "Who's in the hospital?" or, "Who died?" In a moment I am stepping into my shoes and pulling my coat, but only to meet him, as instructed, in the driveway

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-36948609102020196192010-01-21T20:40:00.000-06:002010-01-21T20:40:13.496-06:00

And thus the four became three, before we even met. Standing at a conference room table, the secretary and I sort out a pile of Mexican papers that represent a new family of students. "This is what we'd call the last name," I point out, differentiating family name from the appended mother's maiden, explaining the tradition. We agree that we like the way their culture preserves both names for

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-31568613769082797002010-01-17T17:46:00.001-06:002010-01-17T17:48:56.726-06:00

"Is that a lot of work for you?" Is my pause perceptible?  It's not as if everything I have to do and juggle and reconfigure to fit four new students into into my more-or-less program flashed before my eyes. Instead I'm stuck mid-cringe, wedged between, "You have no idea what I do," and, "I have no idea how I'm going to do it."  It is typical to have a new kid or two in January, at the

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-12041543581224501682010-01-12T19:47:00.001-06:002010-01-12T19:53:59.187-06:00

He is my object lesson, my there by the grace of God goes he.  Up until a month ago, not even a blink ago in geologic time, his home was an orphanage atop a fault line. But then the paperwork finally emerged from the byzantine Haitian bureacracy and his world shifted on a scale not measured by Richter. He was there, and now he is here-- except, of course, for part of his heart.  This evening

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-7653926226441130442010-01-10T23:28:00.001-06:002010-01-10T23:29:47.495-06:00

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-58431957382618252882010-01-05T13:27:00.003-06:002010-01-05T13:43:39.585-06:00

If the embedded video isn't working, click here.I am deeply in football mode now (Go Pack Go!) and my only reaction to the winter free agent ridiculousness that is at the corrupted heart of baseball is a dismissive shrug of my shoulders. But this? This speaks to the Cardinal fan that will always be a part of me. And, it's funny as hell.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-24178029786788083372009-12-31T11:41:00.003-06:002009-12-31T12:08:36.893-06:00

Twelve hours from clean slate, from resolution, from here we go again. I'm feeling optimistically curious-- curiously optimstic? perhaps-- for what comes next: eager, rather than hopeful. Because if my 2009 demonstrated anything, it was the power of just doing. A year ago, I had no idea, no intention. But at some point I realized never had doesn't mean can't, so I did and now I do. I don't

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-20416905814037023082009-12-28T12:51:00.003-06:002009-12-28T13:19:03.493-06:00

There is a story there, at the checkout in Walgreens, one that could go either way. As we both make our way to the no-waiting register, he hesitates and loiters, giving up his claim to be first. He could be half my age, but it doesn't seem he's being polite. Before I drop my armful of half-off impulses on the counter, I turn back to offer either, "Go ahead," or "Are you sure?" but his

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-37969528759862884892009-12-24T11:41:00.001-06:002009-12-24T11:46:24.935-06:00

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-36632705007884917052009-12-22T18:06:00.003-06:002009-12-22T18:20:14.214-06:00

"Is this officially an in-joke now?"She is 12 and a half, a newish arrival to the world to having a verbal password into a group."It is!" I confirm, as we giggle through the aisles in search of imaginary nuts. (You had to be there.) She is, I must admit, too often too wary when I speak in exclamations. That she can't always tell when my rants are serious is not a credit to me, her mother. The

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-1264973034220294322009-12-20T22:28:00.004-06:002009-12-21T00:47:31.630-06:00

Hand on the doorknob, eyes down the hall: "Thanks for everything, Ms. P."I nod, and we exchange see-ya-laters; this isn't goodbye but it is, so far, his second attempt to walk out that door. He had feared I'd try to celebrate him, so I didn't. He feared I'd try to give him something-- it's become a tradition-- so I refrained, calling him back only to hand him my card. His departure then, just

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-20994739481475079562009-12-16T21:54:00.000-06:002009-12-16T21:55:15.617-06:00

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-17638767239580851762009-12-13T18:45:00.003-06:002009-12-13T18:54:33.881-06:00

This clip is not timely, and the song choice has nothing to do with anything I might want to say tonight. But I'm up to my ears in finals week prep, and thus especially prone to distraction. Flipping post-football channels-- which actually is unlike me-- I ran across the rerun of this. I didn't expect to like it--nobody else should sing that song-- but I enjoyed it, so here it is. Take the

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-84814086539455206112009-12-09T20:40:00.003-06:002009-12-09T20:50:59.542-06:00

So the teacher e-mails the guidance counselor to confirm the origin of the new new kid. "You said he's from Colombia. Is that right?""No, Hades," she types out just like that. H-a-d-e-s. I pick up the phone. "Hades?" "Yeah, Hades." (Insert pause full of furious brainstorming.)"HAITI?!?" She agrees that the kid is from Haiti. I, ladies and gentlemen, am the one in Hell.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-44660582144767129592009-12-09T19:03:00.003-06:002009-12-09T20:00:19.916-06:00

To anyone and everyone who has ever said, "I don't know how you do it," when referring to my job, allow me just this once to eschew my traditional shrug of dismissal and instead offer an amen. Because me too neither, brother. It's not that there's anything different about right now compared to always. It's not as if each individual day or hour or moment is really that hard. I throw it together

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-47607387052287602612009-12-04T17:29:00.006-06:002009-12-05T00:15:06.543-06:00

She leans forward across the desk that's shoved up next to mine, something on the tip of her tongue. She takes a breath then hesitates. "I don't feel comfortable saying this," she says, whatever this may be. I have asked her no questions, personal or otherwise, invited no discussion. I'm just sitting at my desk finishing my lunch. "Then you shouldn't say it," I emphasize, both sincere and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-40241132464906292822009-12-03T20:43:00.002-06:002009-12-04T00:19:11.065-06:00

Once again, we're out in the hall, that public space always more private than a crowded room with three closed doors. The convoluted details are nearly irrelevant, just one more example of life on the undocumented edge, one more object lesson on the fragility of a life not sheltered by paperwork. Many of us are one false move away from one kind of doom or another; the trip wires are just that

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-13259247535755007322009-11-29T19:26:00.003-06:002009-11-29T19:49:05.275-06:00

Sunday night is so Monday morning, never more so than when the Monday promises to lead off the first five-day work week in three. I'd say I'd barely remember what I need to do, but that's not true: I'm just trying to forget. Crunch time is here: paperwork deadlines and meetings, curricula to cover, big state tests, final exams. Between my shoulders I feel the tension that pulls between the

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-20600922288829886062009-11-24T20:19:00.003-06:002009-11-24T20:54:00.408-06:00

I always work it in. These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-61408639918302050022009-11-23T22:00:00.003-06:002009-11-24T00:20:55.626-06:00

It's a fine line down the slippery slope that separates doing from did or intended or used to back in the day. Out of the habit, I am struggling mightily to write here. The back side is littered with fragments of thoughts, incomplete drafts, the detritus of can't-quite-make-it-work. I try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. And yet, I have not quit, though you'll have to take my word, being

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-34787607621984650432009-11-21T14:16:00.003-06:002009-11-21T14:49:54.322-06:00

Happy 89th birthday to a St. Louis treasureby Bernie MiklaszEighty-nine years ago today, Stanislaw Francizek Musial was born in Donora, a small mining town in western Pennsylvania. His father Lukasz, a Polish immigrant, almost immediately began to call the boy "Stashu."Later, after the young Musial had grown up to become one of the greatest baseball hitters who ever lived, he'd be known by

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-81915732313470479542009-11-16T21:51:00.004-06:002009-11-17T23:23:02.413-06:00

It's been a long time since I posted here. Guess I haven't I haven't had much to say. Then I saw this.

Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-90569213243934935682009-11-13T22:18:00.003-06:002009-11-13T22:29:59.980-06:00

Today's one of those days when I look up from correcting the Portuguese spelling (not that I know uma palavra of Portuguese) in a letter home to a family who doesn't realize that the location of their new apartment will require the deeply SPED son to change schools while talking to a graduate who has stopped by discuss his moral turpitude immigration problem and college applications while putting

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-11286534605019188042009-11-11T11:45:00.001-06:002009-11-11T11:47:28.881-06:00

I'd embed this if I could.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-13304085840524041482009-11-10T21:46:00.005-06:002009-11-10T22:22:30.949-06:00

I seem locked in a mortal battle with Tuesday. Though I always win in the end, knock wood and good genes, the work week's second round always seems on the verge of outlasting me, smug when I check the calendar or clock and react with a half-defeated, half-agitated, "Still!?!" So to remind myself that life is for living and that it all counts, whether it's the weekend or some red-letter day or

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-48512527716889160612009-11-04T18:04:00.005-06:002009-11-04T19:11:24.295-06:00

The calvary has arrived in the form of a girl born during my first quarter of college. Impossibly, this means she is a fully degreed grad student nearly as old as the newlywed me, and not, say, a sixth grader who wandered down the wrong hall. She is yet another English major taken hold by the late realization that after all she wants to teach; it is the circle of work life complete in its best

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-68225872986919920172009-11-03T19:19:00.002-06:002009-11-03T19:31:26.489-06:00

In my defense, everything happened in October. Football and football, Bruce Springsteen again, the marathon, the marathon, the marathon. But four posts! Four! Good grief. When so much happened! It shouldn't be excuse; it should be fodder. Perhaps I'll get around to the rest of the running stories, the tales of the girl, the students. I have a list, actual pen-to-paper, of things I don't want to

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-37600537189467124682009-11-03T18:40:00.003-06:002009-11-03T19:18:24.015-06:00

It is all habit. Witness, both of you, the precipitous drop in the number of posts here, from daily to now and then sporadic, as my time and my energy and my random thoughts have been redirected elsewhere. To slip out of the rhythm was hardly my intention-- the neglect here nags-- but it happened, not unlike (or totally different) from my verge-of-flagging running routine. After the marathon--

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-10279456932027208692009-10-21T18:39:00.004-05:002009-10-21T22:42:44.033-05:00

They call it The Moment: the point in marathon when the runner knows she will finish. For me, this time, this first time, I think I'd call it The Start. I'd sat on the curb for nearly ninety pre-dawn minutes as Geary Street filled in around me with dozens then hundreds then thousands of runners. I stretched, and I watched, and I waited, as calm as I now feel in the comfort of my living room couch

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-78510496285820300062009-10-12T20:18:00.005-05:002009-10-12T20:48:14.679-05:00

She is quiet in what seems a particularly Asian way, hands folded and passive: a stereotype in a seat. Though she's making friends with those girls who can relate to her word-by-word journey, her voice is barely known to her other teachers. She comes and goes, sits and works, sits and thinks. And while, with the aid of the electronic translator we do confirm that even at home she is known as shy,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-32190693382878386482009-10-07T21:16:00.005-05:002009-10-13T09:14:51.605-05:00

As far as they know, I'm a runner. Let slip or exclaim you're doing a marathon soon, and no matter how you couch it-- I am a beginner; I am slow; sometimes I walk-- that tends to be the impression. And while I give myself credit for the grammatical progression from, "I run" to, "I am a runner," applying the label is still a novelty, a shade of identity still complete with the tags. Forty years

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-68236339150004519622009-10-04T22:57:00.004-05:002009-10-04T23:31:57.126-05:00

I would totally feel better if I went out and ran around the block. I know this with absolute certainty. Nevermind that it's after eleven p.m., pitch black and cold, and that my street doesn't have streetlights not to mention blocks. Not to mention the fact that the ten godawful slow miles today already aggravated my knee, and I'd get barely anywhere before limping home feeling worse than when I

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-75887830589265954382009-09-28T18:05:00.003-05:002009-09-28T19:19:54.299-05:00

Ambushed again by my own tears, I must admit to myself the obvious: I am a crier. From poised to can't-speak-fighting-back I go in an instant, equal parts surprised and self-conscious. I am always, always unaware and oblivious until I hear the catch in my voice. Then I'm done for, my internal scales finally measuring the last straw right as they are tipped to the teary. I'm not sure, entirely,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-60828987576478196422009-09-22T20:31:00.001-05:002009-09-22T20:34:09.323-05:00

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-25427360799229280352009-09-21T22:14:00.003-05:002009-09-21T22:44:47.846-05:00

"What?" says the girl, eyes full of at-me or with-me as she seeks the source of my chuckle. She looks at the monitors, she looks at the screen, she looks, again, at me. As if there's nothing just a little bit funny about the two of us propped in my bed side-by-side, each with a lap-full of keyboard, sharing the wireless and vaguely inappropriate TV. I "nothing" her question away, and we click and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-1184413639443073952009-09-16T17:33:00.006-05:002009-09-16T18:41:09.889-05:00

At first he was the kicker, the punchline to my stats. Every time I rattled off my inflated roster of old timers plus freshmen plus transfers, I'd segue from the total to the tally of special needs and conclude with a flourish: "Plus the mute kid!" As in, "What am I supposed to do about that?!" Not much, it turns out. This morning he turned up with his aunt and heretofore unknown brother and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-79213367839630710582009-09-11T19:26:00.002-05:002009-09-11T21:24:29.276-05:00

Leaned back, feet flip-flopped apart, too big for his chair, elbow propped on the desk behind, he looks ready for something, something not school: I badger him into position, back into my boundaries. It's a habit, though questionably productive.A month into school-- already a month-- and we're still figuring each other out. I do, however, know his secret, not that it would take a super sleuth.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-76410102274892577512009-09-10T14:48:00.002-05:002009-09-10T15:23:28.056-05:00

It's a last-minute catch-up before he crosses the border, the last time we'll see each other, unless it's not. It's a handshake and a hug and a quick accounting of what's next and what's going on. He tells me, "School, always school," when I ask of his intentions, and he lays out his indefinite yet solid plans: maybe Cancun, for work and university, not sun, maybe Tijuana, which makes me cringe.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-53437629712201246082009-09-09T21:04:00.003-05:002009-09-09T23:31:17.260-05:00

I think I'll make a sign, or better yet a series. Paper the hallway down to my door with a Burma Shave shout-out no one would get. Every single one of you has something you’re good at. Every single one of you has something to offer. And you have a responsibility to yourself to discover what that is. That’s the opportunity an education can provide.--President Barack ObamaI read those words and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-80524972459635629872009-09-09T20:38:00.001-05:002009-09-09T20:48:38.142-05:00

by Leonard Pittsin the Miami HeraldWell, that was close.Surely, we are all relieved that at least some children were protected this week from the diabolical Barack Obama. It was touch and go there for awhile after the White House announced its plan for the president to give a back-to-school address to America's kids. They might have gotten away with it, too, but for conservative pundits and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-65223158575140931982009-09-07T13:56:00.001-05:002009-09-07T14:00:43.348-05:00

Prepared Remarks of President Barack ObamaBack to School EventArlington, VirginiaSeptember 8, 2009 The President: Hello everyone – how’s everybody doing today? I’m here with students at Wakefield High School in Arlington, Virginia. And we’ve got students tuning in from all across America, kindergarten through twelfth grade. I’m glad you all could join us today. I know that for many of you, today

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-66171847365571827992009-09-06T15:07:00.006-05:002009-09-06T15:40:16.030-05:00

Looking for some kind of Labor Day-ish music, I ran into these 1985 Paris videos again. I'm not entirely sure he was entirely sober, but they sure were having a good time, and watching these always makes me smile-- and not just at Nils Lofgren's fashion victim outfit.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-14108372389212602892009-09-03T22:58:00.005-05:002009-09-03T23:33:21.612-05:00

So it turns out that if I were to stream the duly-elected President's Back-to-School speech into my classroom next week I would be eligible for the same suspension as the teacher who played NWA's "Fuck Tha Police" to her class without permission. Both, I'm told, are in the same category--get this: potentially objectionable--and thus students or their parents must have the choice to opt-out. Stay

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-64481750902991077972009-08-31T20:49:00.004-05:002009-08-31T21:43:44.408-05:00

I am both tickled and mortified (in a long-ago, distant way) as I sit in the center of an unfamiliar classroom and try to lose my oh-my-goodness expression as the oh so young woman in her I'm-a-grown-up suit begins to address us parents with a shaking voice. I have so been there. Not quite in my element, not quite making any impression save, "Wow, you sure look young!" As I said, it's been a

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-11318222508168609382009-08-29T23:09:00.004-05:002009-08-29T23:52:38.100-05:00

The duranguence is blaring but only the lime and white balloon arches sway across the dance floor: soon the space will be filled with cowboy hats and tight ponytails, boots and strappy sandals, but for now the night is too young. At the surrounding tables,teenage girls in short dresses and their coolly untucked boys drink cans of Bud as they text and pose for pictures,and none of the grown-ups

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-64744311657781544942009-08-27T05:14:00.002-05:002009-08-27T05:25:23.984-05:00

A week without a post? This does not make me happy. But neither does the thought of declaring an official hiatus, de facto as it now is. What to do, what to do.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-61572296197908079392009-08-20T17:44:00.006-05:002009-08-20T17:50:49.605-05:00

I'd been meaning to watch this for months. So here ya go.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-46437960005163287872009-08-18T19:48:00.001-05:002009-08-18T20:36:28.096-05:00

From the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel's coverage of Favre's purple press conference: "Words truly can't explain how I feel right now. I am so glad my wife said no 3 years ago when I wanted to name my first born son Brett!"

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-21884799404624786752009-08-16T22:49:00.007-05:002009-08-17T05:53:29.119-05:00

And there she is again.The rules haven't changed but the secretary has, and thus a girl two years removed from my class stands framed in the doorway as I wait for what's-wrong-with-this-picture to register. Civics interrupted again."What are you doing here?" may be my first words, but she ignores any lack of welcome and claims a once-accustomed seat as I focus on my class. Until I realize what

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-49375865184244272992009-08-15T15:08:00.007-05:002009-08-15T16:55:02.434-05:00

"My grandfather's name was Melvin,too." His response, after a pause, is a surprised, "Really? That's cool," and I've a hunch that his hesitation was some unspoken variation of, "Was he from Puerto Rico?" Either that or he was just double-checking: his English is just on the verge. I affirm that he is, then, the second Melvin I've ever met, and I tell him that makes me happy because it does. I

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-91693488145093402272009-08-12T21:08:00.003-05:002009-08-12T22:05:58.587-05:00

It is not the mythical, may-be-a-figment runner's high: my weeknight miles aren't long enough for the endorphin flow. But each pound of the pavement seems to shake loose another care of the day until all I can do is breathe and wipe the sweat from my face as I bargain myself up and down the hills. As I race the sunset into the driveway, my shoulders slump: there's no tension left to hold them

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-20952706088710749452009-08-10T22:24:00.002-05:002009-08-11T00:45:38.554-05:00

I sit in a meeting, out of my element, surrounded by ninth grade teachers brainstorming ideas for some not-exactly-a-study-hall class, and amidst the talk of panel discussions and get-to-know-you games and parent contacts and syllabus, I feel a vague sense of shake-my-head wonder drift into my expression: how simple to plan what they'll all understand, at least in the most basic, bottomline way.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-64296649894363340222009-08-07T15:28:00.002-05:002009-08-07T15:29:16.741-05:00

My seventh grade daughter was in kindergarten when my grandmother died; to remember the year, I have to count back, do the math. Every time, the answer is a surprise. And so are the feelings that welled up when the handle of that depression glass plate snapped off as it slid off the loveseat and hit a stool on the way to the floor. That's what we get for dusting."That was my gradma's," I said

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-20487133888528205172009-08-07T13:51:00.001-05:002009-08-07T13:54:32.567-05:00

New Rule: Smart President ≠ Smart Countryfrom the HuffPoNew Rule: Just because a country elects a smart president doesn't make it a smart country. A few weeks ago I was asked by Wolf Blitzer if I thought Sarah Palin could get elected president, and I said I hope not, but I wouldn't put anything past this stupid country. It was amazing - in the minute or so between my calling America stupid and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-58947514495018001192009-08-05T22:58:00.007-05:002009-08-06T01:07:43.459-05:00

I wish I could remember how to write. In my mind's eye I see half-formed phrases stacked up in ragged piles, the words too fuzzy and vague to decipher. I type and delete, type and delete, type and delete: none of it is what I meant or how I intended it to sound. I click back in time to when I had the hang and find no clues or instructions, just a barely familiar voice. I can't decide if it's a

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-5557860853581860032009-08-04T11:34:00.002-05:002009-08-04T11:44:47.666-05:00

8 years later, books.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-49715926349580675292009-07-31T07:31:00.003-05:002009-07-31T08:31:51.309-05:00

July 31. End of the summer, regardless of the calendar, or the weather, or that popular three-month refrain. August is definitely Fall. I am trying to be ready. My trunk is full of school supplies, both for me and for them. I've made my first reconnaissance trips into the timewarp of my classroom, the place where time seems to have stood still even though May 2009 is now "last year." It happens

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-29753560642506598552009-07-28T23:53:00.000-05:002009-07-28T23:54:11.952-05:00

The outfit was merely the era: some polyester print--wagon wheels, maybe?--blouse with a blue spread collar that matched the skirt. It's the countryside background, hands posed on a rail "fence", and the unfocused expression that make the photo unmistakably a school picture. That and the bangs climbing across my forehead at a steep though unsteady angle-- an unfortunate home haircut (not by me,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-73205606810512226832009-07-26T23:04:00.003-05:002009-07-27T00:06:22.470-05:00

Everything is relative, and ain't that the truth. The money you have or the time you don't, the degree of surprise or disappointment. Whether it's worth it or whether it's not. Everything just depends. Reaching what must be the midpoint in my marathon training, I've hit double digits. Two weeks ago, ten, and this weekend twelve. Miles, that is. At once. An eight-miler is somehow now

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-72841155976116985792009-07-22T15:56:00.003-05:002009-07-22T16:28:01.258-05:00

Scuffed rubber toes of red canvas Keds, one in front of the other on a gum-splattered sidewalk: that's the image in my mind. My feet, age five. The dirt path across the field that separated our subdivison from the shopping center, that wide plaza sidewalk that we strolled every day to the dime store-- McCrory's, not P.N. Hirsch--to buy candy bars or toy gunpowder caps or short-lived fish, the

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-80558773825306765272009-07-20T21:05:00.004-05:002009-07-20T23:36:12.470-05:00

"You must feel great. Good for you!" "I do. Thanks! Now what are you going to do about school?" His text had arrived out of the blue, as always. Always unexpected, never unwelcome, his notes always bring a smile and a question. "Slow night at work? Bored at home? Alone?" I can't help but wonder what prompts him to punch in an unpunctuated, "how are you," from two rivers away, but I never ask,

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-6078387937828623542009-07-18T20:07:00.001-05:002009-07-18T20:08:06.470-05:00

I can picture it, easily. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad. A Sunday afternoon. A then-new portable black & white TV in the living room that must have been cramped. The original transmission of men walking on the moon, with Walter Cronkite setting the stage. I can picture it, though I wasn't a witness: my mother had some crazy idea about 10 week-old babies and naps. I've often told her she should

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-11405826140997357052009-07-14T20:58:00.003-05:002009-07-15T02:35:19.812-05:00

I'm not entirely corrupted, but close. I'm kind of, more or less, doing my part. I still pay for the delivery of the local paper, four days, if not seven. Not that I ever unfold the newsprint as I carry it to the recycle bin from the yard. If it were still possible to cancel a subscription through the newspaper's website, it would already have been done. But as it stands, I read its stories

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-37033383507149477312009-07-11T19:18:00.004-05:002009-07-11T20:54:20.076-05:00

Yesterday, as I finally stepped out to run, the sky began to clear and the steady rain that had fallen all day slowed to a sprinkle then quickly disappeared. I was disappointed. A week ago, I ran further and more easily than I ever had in my life, and by the end of those eight miles, I was soaked to the bone. I trust you see the connection. What the heat and humidity had been taking out of me, a

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-35428279284375346292009-07-08T00:19:00.004-05:002009-07-08T23:07:46.697-05:00

I may be a tourist, but at least I am a tourist who walks fast, stays out of the way, and knows how to use public transportation.I'm just sayin'.But then again, given that a fair number of establishments here can also be found at Disney World, maybe it's too much to expect visitors to act any different. Just an observation.Not that I don't love the Chicago part of Chicago, as my resident friend

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-67728475513908786932009-07-04T22:30:00.003-05:002009-07-04T23:28:36.089-05:00

That was a good day, too.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-19302627072111162072009-07-02T23:30:00.004-05:002009-07-03T00:15:23.650-05:00

It's the phone ring, the door bell, the in and out, the up and down. It's the door standing wide open. It's shouted good-byes and, "Will you please take us?" and a flip-flopped walk down a hilly half-mile that no longer seems too long. It's swimming and skating and long, convoluted stories that don't mean anything to anyone else. Pit stops for frozen custard or tacos. It's conversations that

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-52900123978441501162009-06-29T23:39:00.002-05:002009-06-29T23:40:42.140-05:00

Progress: Before, I never rode my bike in my neighborhood because it's hilly. Now I ride here because it is.

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-76896556207185875422009-06-29T23:36:00.000-05:002009-06-29T23:36:41.172-05:00

I first noticed him out of the corner of my eye as he rode lazy circles out close to the highway. And then again, one hill ahead of me, standing as he pedaled to the crest. Two thoughts: the first a kind of wordless satisfaction that the climb took the kid some effort, and then, as we both left the neighborhood and crossed through the new subdivision to the blacktop behind: "Does your mother know

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-72038973218049839162009-06-27T01:28:00.000-05:002009-06-27T01:28:54.795-05:00

I understand it's only a gesture, and a meager one at that. My contribution was minimal, my participation limited. In the scheme of things, it won't matter. Unless maybe, somehow, it does.Four weeks ago, a man I never met received a diagnosis. His cough was not just a cough, but lung cancer, stage 4. His funeral was today. As I pulled back my hair to head out into the lingering heat, a friend who

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-61082726230651969852009-06-24T23:13:00.004-05:002009-06-24T23:44:44.063-05:00

I admit I only knew the outlines of the story. I knew that Aaron Kampman, a Packer whose number 74 hangs in my closet, is one of four NFL players to play at and graduate from a tiny high school in Parkersburg, a tiny Iowa town-- remarkable in itself. I knew of the monstrous tornado that devastated Parkersburg in 2008, and I had read stories of coach Ed Thomas, and his role in putting that town

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-55485463299676008732009-06-23T23:14:00.003-05:002009-06-24T01:42:22.204-05:00

I'm not sure I have the energy. Then again, I'm not sure she's worth my time. Keith's got the gist, here, and honestly the prospect of picking through all the logical flaws, willful misunderstandings, and inconsistencies in Missouri state rep Davis's objections to the Summer Food Service program just hurts my head. I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps she is similarly flumoxed by her work

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-66495281325847261282009-06-20T22:08:00.004-05:002009-06-22T00:02:09.851-05:00

Twenty dollar bills and oil change reminders. Dire warnings about, oh, everything. A paralysis of worry over what might and who could and what will. Sentimental tears and shouted impatience. A certain family resemblance in the lines of my face or the edge of my temper. That's what I think of, when I think of my dad. That and talents rarely used but always perfected; pride in accomplishment. That

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-9386236103541823682009-06-17T22:42:00.003-05:002009-06-17T23:10:30.311-05:00

She does not, shall we say, tread lightly. And being a mother, I seem pre-programmed to shout over the rattle and the thump of the stairs as I wonder if it actually matters: "You sound like a herd of buffalo!" She leaps off the last step and peers in the laundry room door: "At least you didn't say elephants this time." "This time?" I think, despite instantaneous evidence. "Do I really have a

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-36237855251583458552009-06-15T18:33:00.011-05:002009-06-15T20:09:11.253-05:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/9681449@N05/3482064163/Okay, so Amtrak waiting areas don't really deserve to be called Little Calcutta, the epithet I was just hot, tired, and crowded enough to throw out at Chicago's Union Station yesterday. It wasn't even close to chaos, though when that woman cut to the front of the line I felt it move closer to the verge. The cost of any fare, however, is

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-56932009549657245342009-06-09T23:56:00.003-05:002009-06-10T00:39:13.712-05:00

My father was a union man, an art school dropout who spent 40 years making the parts that make machines that make glass bottles. How's that for a niche? He worked with his father and his uncles in a shop that is now closed that belonged to a company that no longer exists. How's that for an American story? He earned a wage that provided plenty and a pension, though a paltry one. He still has

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-43092410337980536562009-06-06T21:11:00.003-05:002009-06-07T00:02:31.235-05:00

It's a few minutes past as I navigate a sidewalk shoved off-kilter by tree roots; I look up when I hear a band. The intersection ahead is yet empty--I've made it, technically, despite a poor choice at that last crossroads. I look up and I look ahead. A float concocted out of a pick-up truck and good intentions passes as the percussion grows louder; I reach the corner as rows of grey polos and

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-39749796463836409952009-06-04T21:51:00.001-05:002009-06-05T07:15:13.744-05:00

This is 12, as I remember. Not exactly, but the gist. This afternoon I stand at the counter, giggling-- some of us don't outgrow it-- at the pair of girls flitting through the clearance racks. One of them, mine, cares nothing for clothes or whether they match or whether they're clean. But give her an array of chunky plastic bracelets or sparkling cut glass pendants or, today, long summer scarves

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-68107717484049216602009-06-02T21:54:00.006-05:002009-06-02T22:21:41.244-05:00

1.   Who orders this?2.  Does Will Smith know?

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-11541038952792129902009-06-01T22:28:00.001-05:002009-06-01T22:31:16.326-05:00

Lonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10482260346934502237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-44930877219615320862009-06-01T18:45:00.002-05:002009-06-02T00:47:00.097-05:00

Commencement concludes and the graduates spill out. Family portraits line the sidewalk, convened by cell phone and tip-toed scans of the crowd. As I make my last-chance circuit, I'm glad to recognize sister, mother, not-exactly-stepdad around my now-former student with an aunt behind the lens. We do-si-do, snap pictures and pose, and I reach for the mother's hand.  She nods through my

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37334153.post-57660596707461967302009-05-30T08:39:00.002-05:002009-05-30T09:38:00.110-05:00

The house is quiet, finally.  I choose to believe they're finally asleep. They being the half-dozen 12 and 13 year-old girls who are under my roof, still. I don't hear the TV or the video camera or the desktop; I'm taking the silence at its face. Because at four a.m. they were steadfastly awake and even a caffeinated sugar high runs out eventually-- doesn't it? But better-far-to be

Allisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12328866192396821721noreply@blogger.com0