This weekend has been lovely. I've read, run, written, and rested.
On Saturday my sister took our parents to my dad's childhood farm, where his sister Edith's ashes were spread. He was able to traverse his childhood home with his electric wheelchair.
When Adrienne asked him if the day had met his expectations, he said, "Oh my, yes, yes."
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My friend and fellow English teacher Lauren and I met (phoned) yesterday as co-chairs of the Iowa Council of Teachers of English Publications Committee. It's our job to help English teachers to engage in the craft they teach: writing.
At the beginning of the COVID lockdown, we had a number of teachers heading to the page to reflect on the virus's upheaval of their lives. The uncertainty and disruption of routines released adrenaline. And our days were suddenly open and empty. Writing poured out.
But as COVID went on--and on, and on--we grew numb. Days mushed together--or were lost altogether. Our lives hit near stand-still ennui. Was anything even worth writing about?
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Research shows that teachers who write are more attuned to the struggles of their student-writers. They are more likely to provide authentic, supportive feedback because they understand that above all the English-teacher-y stuff like subject-verb agreement and semicolons, writers need to be heard if they are to continue to see value in expressing their thought via writing.
So Lauren and I discussed ways to bring our teacher community back to writing.
As teachers ourselves, we're keenly aware that teachers don't need one more "have-to" on their plates.
Still, we know both calm and an energy surge can come from working one's thoughts into words, sentences, even (treacherous!) stanzas or quasi-paragraphs.
With this in mind, we've invited Iowa's English teachers to write Haikus (come on, just 17 syllables!) that focus on a moment of joy. If any of you reading (English teacher or not!) would like to participate, here's the link:
https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeiCfYPbXwuie42fHucmWGA6M7Zn0SuLfLV1TQFtTRCpnKEIA/viewform
This is a low-stakes invitation to pause, think about joy, play with words in 17 syllables, and perhaps lift up fellow teachers a bit. Please try it!
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This afternoon Dan and I road-tripped 20 miles west to the Farmall Land museum in Avoca, an amazing collection of restored tractors. We've visited the museum several times with our kids when they were young. Dan stops in on his own once a year or so.
But the owners have decided to close up and auction off their hundreds of tractors. Today was one of the last days the museum will be open. I decided to join Dan on his final visit to the place.
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When we walked past the opening display of Cub Cadets, Dan pointed to an early version and said it was the model he drove on his trapline: back in the '70s, a mower served as a 4-wheeler. He said he ran the machine out of oil and ruined the engine. I insisted he stand next to it for a photo.
As we moved through the museum, he commented on various models: the first tractor he bought (used) himself. The model he was driving when he got too far to the right and took the bridge guard off. The first tractor his dad bought new. The model his grandfather bought in the 1920s, right before the Great Depression, when he lost the farm--which ultimately led to his suicide when Dan's dad was 19.
At each tractor and memory, I took a photo. Each time Dan, masked, looks like he always does in photos: like he wishes this was over already.
But I'm glad I went with him today, to take the photos, and mostly to hear the stories.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
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| A couple more shots of Dan by "his" tractors. |
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