tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34082327774067528622024-03-28T09:10:51.701-05:00Schoolblazing~ ~ blazing a trail through new learning in a student-directed environmentAllison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.comBlogger403125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-23808975400420940652024-01-19T21:44:00.010-06:002024-01-27T20:40:04.044-06:00And Meredith<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUscNxeTkhHAWDFItvmzcKw1iUMqMUqlQCX0lc-o2vEnpIT3ohUkUKzDr5jpk2DaWYFrBI-DbhrXpCtFgZlqEOa5fY-aJYP7F6-TKHOlT6yVRE_9-bkYke3TRct07JLPc_LKillF9OD-GZfq0Ew55dZUxTIblFYF90755RMLk6werEwF7fVuG1sqIBUU/s1666/IMG_2749%203.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1666" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUscNxeTkhHAWDFItvmzcKw1iUMqMUqlQCX0lc-o2vEnpIT3ohUkUKzDr5jpk2DaWYFrBI-DbhrXpCtFgZlqEOa5fY-aJYP7F6-TKHOlT6yVRE_9-bkYke3TRct07JLPc_LKillF9OD-GZfq0Ew55dZUxTIblFYF90755RMLk6werEwF7fVuG1sqIBUU/s320/IMG_2749%203.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>When the world shut down in 2020, <a href="https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2020/03/practicing-what-i-preach.html" target="_blank">I used this space to chronicle the months I spent with my aging parents</a>, who'd moved into my basement to isolate from COVID-19. Our time together was an unexpected, tender gift. With life as we knew it on hold, we found our way through days of poems and puzzles, reacquainting--forgiving--each other 40+ years after I'd left home as an angry, stubborn teen.<p></p><p>-------------------</p><p>My parents returned to their care center in the fall of 2020, when school resumed and I could no longer ensure their protection from the virus. Shortly after that, one of my sisters moved in to provide caregiving that allowed our parents to live together despite our mother's increasing dementia. <a href="https://www.desmoinesregister.com/obituaries/dmr125739" target="_blank">My father died in September of 2022.</a> The following March it became clear that our mother Meredith needed to move to the dementia unit. </p><p>Meredith has been at "Journeys" for the past nine months. The caregivers are skilled, cheerful, and well-intentioned. Any concerns we've had (Why wasn't her clock adjusted at DST? Why is she in bed with her shoes on?) say more about us as anxious (guilty?) children than about her quality of care. </p><p>My mother voiced a repeated wish while transitioning into memory care. She wanted to attend Sunday school and church each week. My sister who lives in Ft. Dodge manages this request with fidelity, and we other siblings fill in when needed.<br />-----------</p><p>Last summer, I drove to Ft. Dodge weekly with my accordion in tow. I played old-timey tunes on the patio or in the common room, and residents tapped their toes and sang along. Meredith beamed. She was making a gentle adjustment to her new living space. </p><p>When school began in late August, I slipped back to monthly visits. This worked for a month.</p><p>Then, as life does, mine unraveled: I was needed in New Zealand, where two of my sons live. Within days of my return to the States, <a href="https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2024/01/how-did-we-get-here.html" target="_blank">my mother-in-law, 94,</a> was hospitalized for an infection that ultimately necessitated her move from her beloved farmhouse to an assisted living facility. </p><p>A week later I headed to Utah to welcome a new grandbaby and offer a pair of hungry grandma arms.<br />------------</p><p>The short of it is this: I only visited my mom once between November and January. I excused myself with the sad truth busy children of demented parents lean on: She didn't know I wasn't there.</p><p>It was the third Sunday in Advent that I was again in Ft. Dodge. My sister and I took our mom to Sunday school. Meredith only speaks when the class (usually about five people with an average age of 70) reads in unison short prayers from the study book. Her classmates are generous to our vacant mother: "You pointed this out to me once, Meredith," one says, noting a scripture.</p><p>After class, we moved into the sanctuary for the service where my sister and I sat on either side of our mom. Throughout the service, we held her hands.</p><p>------------</p><p>Three weeks after my advent visit, my sister sent me a text:</p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>In church today there was communion, and Mom didn't remember what that was. I had to whisper instructions to her, like "He's going to give you a little piece of bread to eat." "Drink that juice and put the cup in here." "Now we go back to where we were sitting." She literally had no idea what we were doing. It was surreal and sad. It reminded me of that day Mom forgot what commemorative <span class="il">stamps</span> were. Communion and commemorative <span class="il">stamps</span> are two things I thought would be in her brain forever. </i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Commemorative stamps. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Communion.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">------</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Enough.<br />Be well.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Allison</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-3684057858593108852024-01-09T07:07:00.005-06:002024-01-09T07:34:42.113-06:00How Did We Get Here?<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">The decline of an aging parent settles as soft layers of dust: first a forgotten name, a bothersome wart, a repeated story. Each increment is barely noticed, certainly not demanding commentary. Now and again something rises to the level of an "event”: a misplaced check, a fenderbender, a broken tooth. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="m_-5688794690965705141m_-8944372106566504887gmail-docs-internal-guid-a02defff-7fff-35ea-8d8d-d6a3f28fffd8"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">As my 94-year-old mother-in-law Janet’s primary caregiver for the past several years, I visited her in the evenings, enjoying our shared accordion practice and rounding off the rough edges of her isolated days. She had lived independently a short mile from our house since her husband died in 2010. Our routine was manageable, even pleasant. Until it wasn’t. We were the proverbial frogs swimming in water heating too slowly to be noticed. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Then one day the water was boiling. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">And that day--or more accurately, that month--Janet developed a blistering skin rash that required twice-daily application of ointment to dark crevices that she couldn’t (and I didn’t want to) reach. A</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">n added steroid to her medication list shook loose confusion that had hidden beneath years of an unchanging medication routine she'd managed herself. Her worries, always plentiful, ratcheted up to all-consuming. And then the bloody noses started. Then the UTI. Then a week in the hospital.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">In short, my dear mother-in-law had lived a life of physical and mental stamina well into her 95th year. And now she wasn't. November and December were a blur from hospital to assisted living, back to the hospital, back to assisted living. The experience sucked us into a swirl of measureless days.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">Dan's sister flew in from Tacoma and stayed three weeks, sleeping on the hospital's pull-out bed(ish). His brother from Minneapolis drove down multiple times. Their help--and sanity--cannot be overstated. This work took many hands.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">----------------</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">So. Now we are here.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">This afternoon, Sunday, I arrived at Allen Place an hour before dinner. Walking to Janet's room, I passed the exercise nook, where I met up with Annabelle as she climbed off the Nu-Step. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">Before moving to assisted living two years ago, Annabelle had been our country neighbor for decades, which means she lived within five miles of us. My husband rents two of the family's grain bins and 230 acres of their land. We attended neighborhood corn boils in their shed. When Annabelle's husband passed away last year, he left a life-sized hole in the southeast corner of the county. Two of Annabelle's granddaughters work at my school, and I've taught several of her great-grandchildren, including one currently in my classes. Such are the tendrils of neighbors in rural Iowa.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">During Janet's past six weeks of adjustment--perhaps the most daunting adjustment of her life--Annabelle has been my mother-in-law's guardian and cheerleader. Since I usually visit in the late afternoon, I often sit at the friends' table and get in on suppertime conversation.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">----</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.6667px;">As we walked from the gym area to Annabelle's room (across the hall from Janet's), she gave me her perceptions of the day: Janet seemed more cheerful. She had eaten all of her lunch--although after the meal she'd said "See you tomorrow!" and Annabelle had corrected her, "We'll have supper first!"</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">------</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">When I knocked at Janet's door, she was busy at her ironing board, cutting fabric. Sewing continues to be her most meaningful and calming work. She has been making beanbags of late, but she said she was cutting quilt squares. Small confusion.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">We then practiced accordion. Yesterday she played the right hand on her small instrument through two verses of "Edelweiss," but tonight she chose to sit in her chair and encourage me to "play that section again, four or five more times." Always the music teacher.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">It was then time to head to supper. As usual, Annabelle knocked on Janet's door. Residents take care of each other here. No one is left behind.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">As we've done nearly every evening for weeks, Annabelle (with her cane), Janet (pushing a small wheelchair as a walker), and I headed to the dining room.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">Janet then turned to me. "Allison," she said, "Do you know Annabelle?"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">"Yes," I said. "I do."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Enough.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Be well.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Allison</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-33978799535216751102023-07-04T21:26:00.005-05:002023-07-04T21:26:48.604-05:00Accordion Lesson: Who Cares? <p>When I arrived at Journeys (my mom's Friendship Haven memory-care unit) last Tuesday, my mom was sitting on her bed, reading a picture book.</p><p>The black-out curtains were pulled, and I realized she'd only recently awakened from her after-lunch nap. She was happy to see me and to let me read the book aloud to her. </p><p>---------</p><p>As I warmed into her space, I shared my children's photos and videos of the previous week. I'd hoped she would enjoy Roger (almost 3 months) laughing, but she was unsettled. "Is he laughing or crying?" I tried to assure her he was laughing, but it seemed moving on to the next photo was our best option.</p><p>I suggested we move to the patio. I'd jammed a key on my big accordion last weekend, so I made do with my tiny 12-bass. This little Ballerini is the instrument I first bought on an E-bay auction on New Year's Eve 2000, and which I usually keep in my classroom to play "Happy Birthday" and "For He/She/They's a Jolly Good Fellow" on demand.</p><p>-----</p><p>I am not sure any of the residents or aides that gathered in our shaded spot knew or cared that I was playing on a half-pint version of the Squeezebox I'd brought the week before. Come to think of it, no one has yet to comment on a hard-practiced diminished chord or deft jump from F to E. </p><p>Six years into learning to play the accordion, it seems there is not a lot of difference between a song played well, so-so, or not very well. Listeners do seem to appreciate a familiar melody, but beyond that: Who cares?</p><p>On Tuesday I played: Who cares?</p><p>Enough.</p><p><3 Allison</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ0Jn8vWUL9sMvP7oPbe-mvE7I_bgUnePso6EssUHyxE_ZdCDJJcXafkU6gqojYgJdpwGAxLkarxavMpNgnBe52KoF841HaD352c5xxVfKficm8T-B9PyD46TZ7tJE6NsrL0aBnkW4ecthNpVE1QwE3Yno4WdT0La991XPYM2qWej5seHaaczDhU6FL4/s3088/IMG-0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ0Jn8vWUL9sMvP7oPbe-mvE7I_bgUnePso6EssUHyxE_ZdCDJJcXafkU6gqojYgJdpwGAxLkarxavMpNgnBe52KoF841HaD352c5xxVfKficm8T-B9PyD46TZ7tJE6NsrL0aBnkW4ecthNpVE1QwE3Yno4WdT0La991XPYM2qWej5seHaaczDhU6FL4/s320/IMG-0059.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another good day.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-5796534186700650242023-06-26T10:18:00.006-05:002023-06-27T21:23:54.594-05:00The Wonder of Showing Up<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3TC6N2e8tb4vX2F_osvCeD_tcZCuIH3W3YhFcJYEsFo2WR9o3icB27wbMqEJ9TbHvaSXB5WY-nqPOuFUcJw3ZDL6Tno9Kw_P7N5KBY5c-9Go8zqiTrWsYHAEbDTDILWRIQPteayadsMmmiND8yeTfWeLzL0iaLohfTGSeGf_Yag9kpuMVbPc6d48VZU/s1800/IMG-0037.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3TC6N2e8tb4vX2F_osvCeD_tcZCuIH3W3YhFcJYEsFo2WR9o3icB27wbMqEJ9TbHvaSXB5WY-nqPOuFUcJw3ZDL6Tno9Kw_P7N5KBY5c-9Go8zqiTrWsYHAEbDTDILWRIQPteayadsMmmiND8yeTfWeLzL0iaLohfTGSeGf_Yag9kpuMVbPc6d48VZU/s320/IMG-0037.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I love the adage "80% of success is showing up." I wish the words had come from someone other than Woody Allen, but hey. (This leads me into a fuzzy grey area of text vs. author that I need to sort out in another blog.)<p></p><p>Regardless, I've used this line dozens of times to propel myself and my students forward.</p><p>Show up.</p><p>Come to class.</p><p>Say yes.</p><p>Be there.</p><p>---------</p><p>On Friday I took students to a free all-day Slam poetry workshop hosted by the <a href="https://www.nfsps.com/" target="_blank">NFSPS</a> (National Federation of State Poetry Societies). The organization held its annual convention in Des Moines this year, which was only the second year they've offered the <a href="https://www.nfsps.com/bbpps.html" target="_blank">Slam workshop for teens</a>.</p><p>I had very little idea what we were in for. My student poets had even less of an idea. </p><p>Yet three said they'd show up.</p><p>---------</p><p>The night before the event, two more students asked to come, and our number grew to five.</p><p>Only two of my students had written any form of spoken-word or Slam poetry before climbing into the school Suburban Friday morning. Yet by noon, all five had agreed to participate in the afternoon's Slam competition, with $1000 of prize money at stake, generously provided by the event's sponsors--including <a href="https://www.poetryamp.org/">https://www.poetryamp.org/</a>.</p>Now here's where showing up really paid off.<div>1) The students were given free T-shirts.</div><div>2) They were fed the Subway orders of their choice.</div><div>3) They received personal training from nationally known Slam poets.</div><div>4) And because there were only 9 students in attendance, everyone went home with prize money in their pockets.</div><div><br /></div><div>Three from our group earned $25 each as participants.</div><div>Another took $50 for fourth place.</div><div>Our 2nd-place poet won $250 (which the kids calculated as the equivalent of working 33 hours at <a href="https://www.traveliowa.com/places/louie-s-shaved-ice/8239/" target="_blank">Louie's Shaved Ice</a>).<div><br />Showing up doesn't always come with a financial bonus. But on our way home, the students talked about the fellow poets they'd worked alongside, their "crushes" on the poets who had led the workshops, and their motivation to pursue more Slam opportunities: Priceless.</div><div><br /></div><div>They even talked of hosting their own Southwest Iowa Slam competition. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Can't wait to see who shows up!</div><div><br /></div><div>Enough.</div><div>Be well.</div><div>Write.</div><div><br /></div><div>Allison</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-18748855202210657572023-06-23T06:39:00.001-05:002023-06-23T06:41:30.896-05:00The Pied Piper<p>Oh, we had a lovely afternoon!</p><p>On Tuesday I drove to Ft. Dodge for another visit with my mom. Again, I brought my accordion and set up my music stand on the patio. The day was hot, but the east side of Journeys was well shaded and the breeze was turquoise. </p><p>I invited Eleanor to join us, and after a few songs, our jolly group had multiplied, including two couples whose husbands are memory-care residents but whose wives live in more independent quarters on campus and visit daily. </p><p>I played the armed services medley which always invites conversation on who served in which branch. I played "I've Been Working on the Railroad" which had been a sing-along the previous week, and old-timey favorites like "Tennessee Waltz" and "Brown Eyes." </p><p>Each time I looked up from my music, there were more on the patio. I paused and counted 15 of us: residents, spouses, aides--spanning ages 20-95 and the entire rainbow of mental acuity. </p><p>Between songs, one man said gruffly, "I need your attention! There has been some serious toe-tapping going on here!" He then grinned, pleased with his joke, and several of us (!!) laughed.</p><p>After I'd cased my accordion, a woman in my periphery said, "Thank you." She showed no facial expression, and for a moment I wasn't sure if the voice had come from her hunched stolid form. </p><p>"Did you play the accordion?" I asked, not expecting a reply. But she murmured yes. And when I asked her who taught her, she said she took lessons from a teacher. </p><p>I know that exchange is not riveting, rating about a 1.5 on the small-talk scale. Yet it moved me. This seemingly vacant, immobile woman had reached across the cobwebs of her memory to tap me on the metaphorical shoulder and say: Me too. I played the accordion. </p><p>And then, one of the independent-living wives brought out a stack of plastic cups and a bag of cheese puffs! An aide filled the cups and I passed them about. We crunched in unexpected camaraderie: the food had transformed our spontaneous gathering into a party. </p><p>---------</p><p>In the transitions between songs and snacks, several of us (daughter, aides, wives) asked questions and shared memories to draw everyone in. Topics included shoes worn as children and favorite classes in school. When I asked if anyone in addition to my mom had been a teacher, a sun-dried woman curled in a chair to my right said she had taught P.E. "Did the kids play dodgeball?" I asked. She snorted with delight: of course, she said, it was a favorite. </p><p>---------</p><p>As patio time drew to a close, my mother and I returned to her room. She said again and again what a lovely time she had had--and I agreed completely. We laughed at how our small group had grown into what felt like a crowd. The accordion had served as the Pied Piper's flute. </p><p>This of course inspired us to (re)read <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45818/the-pied-piper-of-hamelin" target="_blank">'The Pied Piper of Hamlin"</a> by Robert Browning together (and which you must immediately [re]read yourself)!</p><p>--------</p><p>I have never had an accurate sense of time. It took me somewhere between 15 minutes and two hours to read the poem to my mother. (The Internet tells me it takes 43 minutes to read it at 300 wpm.)</p><p>But what I want you to know is that my mother sat rapt as I read. She chuckled at the roiling internal rhymes. Her eyes lit up as Browning tugged us toward the Piper's nefarious intentions...then into the opening cavern. </p><p>-----------</p><p>My visits with my mother are healing years of misunderstanding. There is a tragedy in that our healing is coming in my mother's final, addled years. </p><p>We could have done better.</p><p>We should have done better.</p><p>I am ashamed. </p><p>And also grateful for our belated love.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-66054567726548840852023-06-18T22:43:00.001-05:002023-06-19T21:12:43.922-05:00Semantics<p>Wednesday afternoon I pulled up to Journeys, the memory-care unit at Friendship Haven where my 92-year-old mother has been living for the past two months. </p><p>One of my sisters refuses to call it "memory care." She says our mom has no memory left to care for and prefers to use the term "dementia care." </p><p>Semantics. As an English teacher, I love a good word squabble as much as anyone. But I don't think the words are truly the issue here. My sister is expressing the deep anguish she feels at watching our mother lose cognition. Euphemisms intending to soften the difficulty of dementia (and there are many) make her angrier. Any sugarcoating denies the hard but true reality: our mother's agile mind, once her most salient trait, is now more chaff than grain. </p><p>Each of my four siblings and I are experiencing our mother's transition into memory/dementia care differently. I'll let them tell their own stories. </p><p>This is mine, for Wednesday, June 14, 2023.</p><p>I arrived when my mom was napping after lunch. I entered her room, and it took her only a moment to shift from confused annoyance (I had woken her up) to happy recognition. </p><p>I'd brought a bottle of bubbles with me, and Mom was eager to head out for bubble-blowing. But as we readied to leave, she placed a wastebasket on her walker, indicating she (also? instead?) planned to go for a trash walk.</p><p>--------</p><p>I've written about this before, but my mom has been a recycler long before Iowa paid 5 cents per can. Her desire to pick up trash seems to have only accelerated as her memory declines. She delights in spotting a bit of trash as if she'd found an Easter egg!</p><p>---------</p><p>I swear I felt her adrenaline surge as she pushed her walker-wastebasket forward. After a short circle on the immaculate campus, we'd managed to collect a few bits of tinfoil, two or three cigarette butts, and a couple of twigs and leaves that looked a little like trash. My mom accepted my insistence that I be the one to pluck trash spotted far from our path; when she bent for the nearby bits, I held her arm firmly and flung a confetti of prayers to the gods of balance. </p><p>Near the end of our walk, we met a woman who lives in the most independent units of Friendship Haven, the condominiums my parents first moved to nearly 20 years ago, when they were considered to be the vibrant young blood of the community. DeAnn greeted me by name, but I stammered hello as I blurred her identity into a sea of nameless "old people." </p><p>After we'd passed, I said to my mom, "I hate it when someone recognizes me and I can't remember who they are." </p><p>My mom laughed and said, "I've been practicing that for years."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4fcrQfzGEKo0NtV7SAJ1NKSPqHzovWo_5aPDffK5PuhP093jscOqBycdjVi6VSQKLfaO8HF80NbP64aF0tKsz3eGuBa-jFudw3rNRK8GHSVcwnhJUZ-NzxpWotrya0ALfjyb13TD_5nkipODpUA6OQgARHUny9hI0xkINyzTH4WbtL7v_PWI-uRG/s3088/IMG-9879.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4fcrQfzGEKo0NtV7SAJ1NKSPqHzovWo_5aPDffK5PuhP093jscOqBycdjVi6VSQKLfaO8HF80NbP64aF0tKsz3eGuBa-jFudw3rNRK8GHSVcwnhJUZ-NzxpWotrya0ALfjyb13TD_5nkipODpUA6OQgARHUny9hI0xkINyzTH4WbtL7v_PWI-uRG/s320/IMG-9879.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Back at Journeys, we sat in the shade and an aide brought out water. My mother's room-neighbor Eleanor joined us on the patio and I played accordion favorites both women sang along to. After I'd played "Blue Skirt Waltz," Eleanor told us about her husband who had loved dancing. I reminded my mom that her first husband, Chuck, had been a square-dance caller. She beamed: "I haven't thought about that for years!"</p><p>At least in that moment, we cared not for dementia, but for memory.</p><p><br /></p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write. </p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-48018593081850976622023-06-15T21:17:00.006-05:002023-06-15T21:25:11.151-05:00Here and Now<p>An update: </p><p><a href="https://www.desmoinesregister.com/obituaries/dmr125739" target="_blank">My dad</a> died last September. </p><p>We siblings moved our mom into <a href="https://www.friendshiphaven.org/living-options/skilled-nursing-care/journeys-memory-care-building/" target="_blank">memory care</a> a month ago. </p><p>Two of the four <a href="https://ats5.atenterprise.powerschool.com/ats/job_board_form?op=view&JOB_ID=8600035907&REPRESENTATIVE_COMPANY_ID=JA002737&COMPANY_ID=JA002638" target="_blank">English teachers in my school</a> resigned this spring, leaving us (again) with frenetic hopes to find a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJwjMoP4-T8" target="_blank">Red-Green </a>solution to cover our classes in the coming year. </p><p>Let's not talk (for now) about what the Iowa legislature did this past spring to children, teachers, public schools, books, and humanity. </p><p>------------ Life is heavy.</p><p>and yet...</p><p>I ran four miles today. Not everyone would call it "running," but I did it.</p><p>I washed windows while listening to the final chapters of the <i>David Copperfield</i> audiobook after reading <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Demon-Copperhead-Novel-Barbara-Kingsolver-ebook/dp/B09QMHZ53K/ref=sr_1_2?hvadid=642360285507&hvdev=c&hvlocphy=9017776&hvnetw=g&hvqmt=e&hvrand=942564808408651972&hvtargid=kwd-1933879423848&hydadcr=22536_13493247&keywords=demon+copperheads&qid=1686621117&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Demon Copperhead</a>. </i>Ahhhh.</p><p>My youngest grandchild, Roger, had his first swim today. Here he is, held by his mother and enjoyed by his laughing aunt who is visiting North Carolina from Denver. (Yes, I'm babysitting her dog.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6x8BVZwG2VKRSduUf5XAIgAEGO2NdobHEGrMV4OyYza0n5F27j5Ejqvv1uG7GNOhQXaY6CY-KA3j8yu0KhOhDF5g95TG13wIFhI17mgzNvLtKYaQ06V_JsRP7eBS4NGc8eW0KWI243_pi58v_VVeKc5oZTRvKrmU0CS5Tp3nVUIah_U4aQbMikJ6/s2049/IMG-3017.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2049" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6x8BVZwG2VKRSduUf5XAIgAEGO2NdobHEGrMV4OyYza0n5F27j5Ejqvv1uG7GNOhQXaY6CY-KA3j8yu0KhOhDF5g95TG13wIFhI17mgzNvLtKYaQ06V_JsRP7eBS4NGc8eW0KWI243_pi58v_VVeKc5oZTRvKrmU0CS5Tp3nVUIah_U4aQbMikJ6/w300-h400/IMG-3017.JPG" width="300" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6x8BVZwG2VKRSduUf5XAIgAEGO2NdobHEGrMV4OyYza0n5F27j5Ejqvv1uG7GNOhQXaY6CY-KA3j8yu0KhOhDF5g95TG13wIFhI17mgzNvLtKYaQ06V_JsRP7eBS4NGc8eW0KWI243_pi58v_VVeKc5oZTRvKrmU0CS5Tp3nVUIah_U4aQbMikJ6/s2049/IMG-3017.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We have some tough months ahead.<br />Be well.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Write. <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span> </span><span> Allison</span><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6x8BVZwG2VKRSduUf5XAIgAEGO2NdobHEGrMV4OyYza0n5F27j5Ejqvv1uG7GNOhQXaY6CY-KA3j8yu0KhOhDF5g95TG13wIFhI17mgzNvLtKYaQ06V_JsRP7eBS4NGc8eW0KWI243_pi58v_VVeKc5oZTRvKrmU0CS5Tp3nVUIah_U4aQbMikJ6/s2049/IMG-3017.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6x8BVZwG2VKRSduUf5XAIgAEGO2NdobHEGrMV4OyYza0n5F27j5Ejqvv1uG7GNOhQXaY6CY-KA3j8yu0KhOhDF5g95TG13wIFhI17mgzNvLtKYaQ06V_JsRP7eBS4NGc8eW0KWI243_pi58v_VVeKc5oZTRvKrmU0CS5Tp3nVUIah_U4aQbMikJ6/s2049/IMG-3017.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-85381265209974268522022-07-02T21:51:00.002-05:002022-07-02T21:53:40.363-05:00Winning and Losing<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_91ZlDwEzN7_tQzzKLuMVbiXbFzja2ZQLW9f0Fkkwl9pmXeEYCoQ0YoVlEP9rGoHT7pMVM-F-X5Iyw2dQaq9OoMDnklRFP2eQYq-Cz7C1clKhlfrn8w1v6BFnRfFtnaK1Xk-4aTNvaDvnGoAJV76Qdz4z62UxCnA8bG7usfaYqk5F2JQxSWt_6OF/s1125/IMG-4888.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1125" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_91ZlDwEzN7_tQzzKLuMVbiXbFzja2ZQLW9f0Fkkwl9pmXeEYCoQ0YoVlEP9rGoHT7pMVM-F-X5Iyw2dQaq9OoMDnklRFP2eQYq-Cz7C1clKhlfrn8w1v6BFnRfFtnaK1Xk-4aTNvaDvnGoAJV76Qdz4z62UxCnA8bG7usfaYqk5F2JQxSWt_6OF/s320/IMG-4888.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I ran my first 10k in 2002, at the age of 42. It was the Exira Road Run, and I won a ridiculously huge plastic trophy for finishing as the fastest 40+ runner. <p></p><p>Today, 20 years later, I ran the same race for probably my 18th time. I know I skipped in 2005 because at age 45, I'd just had a breast biopsy that had bled profusely three days before the race. The doctor told me to skip the run. On July 6, I was told I had invasive breast cancer. </p><p>So yeah, I missed that year. I probably missed another race or two since then, but the reasons are mundane and therefore haven't lodged in my memory.</p><p>The point is, I run this race every year to prove to myself I can--what? do it? </p><p>Last year I ran well. </p><p>This year, I knew I could not match my 2021 time. So instead, I decided to run not for time, but in celebration of a body that for the most part still does what I ask it to do: it thinks (slowly); it moves (with creaks and groans); it hangs in there. I can't complain. This body has been a good life companion.</p><p>--------</p><p>Like most small-town road races, the Exira Road Run would not be possible if only elite runners participate. The towns could not support a race that brought in only the 10 best runners in the area. They NEED slow runners like me to keep the event profitable. For this reason, I will never apologize for running at a 13:00 pace (which I did one year); if I weren't here paying my $15 entry fee, those speedy cheetahs wouldn't get to run at all. </p><p>Thank me.</p><p>----------</p><p>Today's run started at 7:45 a.m. I had been in Iowa City all week for a class and had "rested my legs" (i.e. avoided training) for four days. Furthermore, I'd signed up for a very hilly race after running only flat trails for the past two months. I vowed to pace myself and listen to my body. The goal was to finish without injury.</p><p>At the one-mile mark, I glanced at my phone and realized I was almost two minutes/mile ahead of my usual pace. I'd just run the fastest mile of my summer--mostly because the other 13 runners had taken off like a pack of gazelles. </p><p>Just then a jaunty red-head (I'd guess age 10) came by on his bicycle. </p><p>"You're losing!" he shouted gleefully.</p><p>"No, I'm WINNING!" I shouted in gleeful response. </p><p>And I was. When an hour (+) later I accepted my gold medal as the first (and only) finisher in the 60+ age category, I wish the little redhead had been there to see me skip up to the awards table. </p><p>Be well.<br />Enough. </p><p>Allison</p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-79042791614932693562022-06-27T22:38:00.042-05:002022-07-09T22:25:27.429-05:00A Dark Day: June 24, 2022<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When COVID hit in 2020, predictability was erased by a swath of the great unknown. I steadied myself by coming to the page--this blog--to focus on the immediate and the mundane. I recorded (mostly for my own sanity) the reality of my days. Doing so gave me purpose in a time that otherwise felt quite purposeles<span style="font-family: inherit;">s. M<span style="font-family: inherit;">y <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 16px;">raison d'être</span>, I told myself,</span> was to </span><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">pa</span>y attention</b>. Notice the experience. Record it.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">----</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was standing at the kitchen counter Friday morning, June 24, 2022, when my phone pinged. I glanced down to see the headline: <i><b>Supreme Court Overturns Roe v. Wade.</b></i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">We all knew this was coming. A draft of the decision was leaked nearly two months before. Yet my reaction surprised me with its visceral force: a gut punch. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">An hour later, after a run, I rested under a cobalt Iowa sky. I felt the breeze tingle against my arms. I sipped ice water. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had hoped immersing myself in these physical sensations would push back the feelings in my head and heart: sorrow and rage. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It hadn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">-------------</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Similar to March 15, 2020, I am unmoored. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The world I've known has shifted with the Dobbs decision. I can vote, I can protest, I can contribute money. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I will, I will, and I will. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But maybe what I can do best is <b>pay attention</b>. And I can commit to words what I see and experience. My perspective as a 62-year-old woman (I was 12 when both Roe v Wade and Title IV became the law of the land), as a mother of six, and as a current teacher of high-school students can be offered (Offred?) here as simply that: one person's view as we enter what I expect will be a(nother) time of uncertainty, fear, and confusion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">------------</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">That is why I'm here blogging again. If I'm wrong, and the Dobbs ruling is only a tiny blip, I will praise every small pot-bellied god. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, I'm betting that our current Supreme Court will continue to hack away at what many of us came of age believing were inalienable rights. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am here to record my observations while <b>paying attention. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am also here to <b>pay attention</b> to my personal reactions and feelings. Consider this not objective journalism, nor an attempt to sort through the layers of politics and religion that brought us here, but instead an open diary--something <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/038549081X/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_search_asin_title?ie=UTF8&psc=1" target="_blank">Offred-esque</a>. I will simply record my experience and observations. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">-------</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Saturday, June 25, 2022, one of the 30-somethings in my life mentioned she had donated $100 to an organization that helped fund women who must now travel out of state for abortions. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">--------</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Later that evening I had dinner on the deck with two more young women within my circle. The Dobbs decision worked its way into our conversation only tangentially. I don't believe we were avoiding the topic so much as finding respite for a few hours. The wide Iowa sky and good food offered a graceful pause. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But within 10 minutes of their departure, I had donated to Planned Parenthood on their behalf. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Be well.<br />Enough.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Allison</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-31592121129608234562021-09-04T22:33:00.000-05:002021-09-04T22:33:25.581-05:00It Could Have Been Otherwise<p>I have long loved Jane Kenyon's poem "Otherwise." <a href="https://poets.org/poem/otherwise" target="_blank">Read it here.</a> </p><p>Kenyon catalogs the simple actions of an ordinary day with sensuous imagery. She stands on "two strong legs," eats a "ripe, flawless peach." At noon lies with her mate, eats dinner "at a table with silver candlesticks." </p><p>Her poem is both a study in the pleasures of the moment and--in the final line--a gut-punch reminder of life's brevity.<br />---------------------</p><p>I thought of Kenyon's poem as I biked home from my mother-in-law's on this perfect September afternoon, reflecting on the chamois soft satisfactions of the day.</p><p>Kathy, my neighbor and dear friend of 37 years, stopped for coffee. We shared video clips of our grandbabies' antics. We commiserated over our farmer-husbands' similarities. We laughed aplenty.</p><p>After an indulgent Saturday nap, I played online Bridge with my dad. It went much better than last week, when his increased confusion dragged the single hand to nearly 90 minutes of struggle. Today we kept the game to 30 minutes. A win.</p><p>I then set my timer to commit to 20 minutes of school work. I clicked "reset" two more times to clock a rock-solid hour of tending to my grade book. I made a notes chart for my freshmen's writing strengths and weaknesses.</p><p>It then took me two minutes to tie my shoes and strap on my helmet. I rode my gravel bike to Dan's mom's house for accordion practice. Two years ago, we practiced with the goal of care-center concerts. The polkas we're now perfecting are for our ears only. </p><p>Tonight Dan and I tidied up a little to drive into town to eat at Rancho Grande. </p><p>We're now easing into the close of day. Dan's dozing in his chair. I'm on the sofa, reflecting on the satisfaction of a most uneventful day. </p><p>It could have been otherwise.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #8b8a8a; font-family: "Gill Sans", "Gill Sans MT", Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 24px;">"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."</span></p><p><span style="color: #8b8a8a; font-family: Gill Sans, Gill Sans MT, Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 24px;">--Annie Dillard </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #8b8a8a; font-family: Gill Sans, Gill Sans MT, Calibri, sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVwD_MFsV08d_B0W05gvAPKRlnvxCOjHLtg3OIGDF1nTqrJgOHv8MFU7GooBH5KBXGUCfs2NHAlUG2pwbiF8KrYU3znkgHp8_cv10k0YCRIv6kEaY8LiivmaPpwa8vFFT8V7SC7NOAmU/s2048/date.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVwD_MFsV08d_B0W05gvAPKRlnvxCOjHLtg3OIGDF1nTqrJgOHv8MFU7GooBH5KBXGUCfs2NHAlUG2pwbiF8KrYU3znkgHp8_cv10k0YCRIv6kEaY8LiivmaPpwa8vFFT8V7SC7NOAmU/s320/date.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucky to get even one snap with Dan. No re-takes with this photo hater.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 24px;"><br /></span></span></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-26162546412168330152021-08-11T21:57:00.003-05:002021-08-11T21:57:48.619-05:00Writing Through COVID-19: One Year Ago TodayA <a href="https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2020/08/day-148-writing-through-covid-19-my.html" target="_blank">year ago</a>, I wrote about the first significant COVID outbreak in Cass County: 12 positive cases in a single day, the highest number since the previous high of four. The uptick included students, which sent the volleyball team into quarantine. The county's total number of cases at the time was 74. <div><br /></div><div>Today, 1522 of our county's 13,091 residents have tested positive. That means at least 11.6% of our population has had the virus. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fifty-five people have died. That's one out of every 238 people in our county. </div><div>--------------------------------- <br /><br /></div><div>Enough of the stats.</div><div><br /></div><div>In talking with a teacher friend yesterday, we agreed this August feels like a repeat of last year without the can-do adrenaline surge. We are faced with the reality that, at least for the foreseeable weeks, our schools will again be destabilized by the unknowns of COVID. </div><div><br /></div><div>The second time around, we know some shortcuts, which is good news! I, for one, will forego the face-shield and nurses' scrubs that I wore for much of the 2020 fall semester. Was it overkill? Yup. But I was trying to establish a level of protection that allowed me to teach with confidence that I was not in the direct line of infection.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year, vaccinated, I will still mask and maintain distance as possible. I'll still wipe down the desks between classes. (I might do this until I retire. I was surprised to see how grubby the desks were when I cleaned them each hour last year. Who wants to sit at a desk that a previous student has snotted on?)</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm awaiting protocols for the sharing of equipment, spacing students, and managing online learners. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm meanwhile considering what parameters to set within my own classroom if my district does not re-assert last year's COVID mitigations. Should I allow vaxed/unvaxed/masked/unmasked students to mingle for group work? Without a school-wide policy, the hour my students spend in my room may be their only "safety-zone" hour of the day, in which case my protective efforts are for naught. </div><div><br /></div><div>(This is the point at which everyone shouts "Gee! I want to teach in Iowa!")<br />----------------------------------</div><div><br /></div><div>When banning mask mandates and vaccine passports, Governor Kim Reynolds has repeatedly said "Iowa stands for freedom, liberty, and personal responsibility." I'm not sure what this means. </div><div><br /></div><div>Does "personal responsibility" apply only to oneself (emphasis on the PERSONAL)? Or does it include one's children? The neighborhood? The community at large? Is Ms. Reynolds asking us to step up and responsibly get our vaccines and wear masks? If so, why doesn't she expressly say it? Instead, her message is clouded. Why do I suspect she is using the phrase "personal responsibility" to mean "do what you please"? </div><div><br /></div><div>Responsibility is easy if you are only responsible for your own single self. As you extend responsibility to loved ones, and then to people you know, and then--even! unthinkable!--to those you DON'T know, the weight of "responsibility" increases.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kim Reynolds, are you asking Iowans to be responsible only to themselves? That seems to be a narrow and dangerous call.</div><div><br /></div><div>Enough.</div><div>Let's look at Wolf: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAgSUWsYNwPG17tsHmGf4kOS-UeLrk1piGkQHjmwuycgfhZF7l51kXD0Y7uhnYACshthJX7oFcWxuoaQWoD46l9VXBFPIWtJUhuwRBkk370LeZY4jx4R7H0GIHanKKPdPyuMG7rvoBNs/s1024/c500c13d-2221-4f0c-82fa-a8523df0c763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAgSUWsYNwPG17tsHmGf4kOS-UeLrk1piGkQHjmwuycgfhZF7l51kXD0Y7uhnYACshthJX7oFcWxuoaQWoD46l9VXBFPIWtJUhuwRBkk370LeZY4jx4R7H0GIHanKKPdPyuMG7rvoBNs/w300-h400/c500c13d-2221-4f0c-82fa-a8523df0c763.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Be well.<div>Write.</div><div><br /></div><div>Allison<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-73554839239411203882021-08-09T22:04:00.000-05:002021-08-09T22:04:05.799-05:00Writing Through COVID-19: Outbreak, School, & Sweet Corn <p>My parents' care center notified us today of their first COVID outbreak in months. After one resident tested positive, all residents and staff were tested. Four additional residents and five staff then tested positive. This tallies 10 current cases in a facility that has logged a total of 159 infections in the 17 months since the pandemic began. </p><p>For the time being, indoor visits and resident activities have been suspended. Families are asked to cancel all non-essential outings with their loved ones. Residents have been asked to stay in their apartments. <br />----------------------</p><p>Three students met me in the Journalism Lab today to work on our final pages of the yearbook. I wore a mask. The students did not. <br />----------------------</p><p>Our local paper ran a story today explaining that our school district will follow the Iowa Department of Public Health guidelines for COVID-control in the coming school year. Of course, the IDPH is hogtied by HF 847, which outlaws school districts' right to set masking guidelines as they see fit. So much for local control.</p><p>Read the document summarizing <a href="https://idph.iowa.gov/Portals/1/userfiles/61/covid19/resources/School%20Update%20Fall%202021.pdf" target="_blank">Iowa's plan for COVID control this fall here</a>. </p><p>Or if you'd rather, scan my favorite lines. My editorializing is in bold:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i>While not required </i><b>(!!!???)</b><i>, vaccination for everyone who is eligible continues to be the most effective way to prevent COVID-19
illness and stop the spread of COVID-19. </i><b><br /></b><br /></li><li><i>HF 847... prohibits a school district from adopting or enforcing a policy that
requires employees, students, or the public to wear a mask while on school property....[M]asks must be optional for
students, teachers, and visitors. </i><b>(Local control was once a pillar of Republican politics.)</b><br /><br /></li><li><i>IDPH is not currently issuing isolation and quarantine orders for COVID-19 positive or COVID-19 exposed individuals. </i><b>(Freedom.)</b><br /><br /></li><li><i>LPH</i> <b>(Local Public Health? This acronym is not identified in the document.)</b> <i>cannot require schools to perform case
investigations or contact tracing.<br /><br /></i></li><li><b>(In case you didn't get it the first time...)</b><i> HF 847, signed by Governor Reynolds on May 20, 2021, prohibits a school district from adopting or enforcing a policy
that requires employees, students, or the public to wear a mask while on school property.<br /><br /></i></li><li><i>Schools should allow students, teachers, other staff members, and visitors who want to voluntarily continue to wear a
cloth face covering for reasons that make sense for their family or individual health condition to do so. </i><b>(Why, thank you.)<br /><br /></b></li><li><i>The CDC issued an Order effective February 1, 2021, imposing a requirement for persons to wear masks while on
public transportation conveyances, and in its Frequently Asked Questions document accompanying the Order the CDC
indicates that “passengers and drivers must wear a mask on school buses, including on buses operated by public and
private school systems, subject to the exclusions and exemptions in the CDC’s Order." </i><b>(Children will be masked on busses, but only on busses.) <br /><br /></b></li><li><i>HF 889, signed by Governor Reynolds on May 20, 2021, prohibits the mandatory disclosure of whether a person has
received a COVID-19 vaccination as a condition for entry onto the premises of a governmental entity. </i><b>(Right. Obfuscation has always been the best policy for building trust.</b></li></ul><b><b><b>-------------------------</b></b></b><p></p><p>Happy notes:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rv6efENhOfoZ3as8W-w0hmYj_iVFSxoA_f8kCuY-JJLsABoBVdqsCcp7Vn4hH8eipXyxIN2mWCFAQC5OrrRg-qsowITKrBKKczbG36XnyYG3wGTt-NcAjUEAZBfBJBlPrnVeJPXPrI0/s1302/IMG_ABC5229CDD2E-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1302" data-original-width="968" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rv6efENhOfoZ3as8W-w0hmYj_iVFSxoA_f8kCuY-JJLsABoBVdqsCcp7Vn4hH8eipXyxIN2mWCFAQC5OrrRg-qsowITKrBKKczbG36XnyYG3wGTt-NcAjUEAZBfBJBlPrnVeJPXPrI0/s320/IMG_ABC5229CDD2E-1.jpeg" width="238" /></a></div><br />On July 16 I posted a photo of the season's first sweet corn to our family group text and declared it the first of 30 days of sweet-corn supper. Palmer's boyfriend asked if we really ate sweet corn for a month straight. <p></p><p>"Yup," she said. </p><p>We really do.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This evening I harvested what I insist will be my last sweet-corn haul of the season. My oldest daughter mowed down her final <a href="https://corn4acause.org/" target="_blank">Corn 4 a Cause</a> rows a few days ago. Harrison's yard plot is looking sketchy. But I was able to gather 30 ears tonight, cooked some from supper and some to bag, then declared my season OVER. It wasn't 30 days, but 25 is close. Yum. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jeRbnR3Vu9CvPuOoZYGdTK9QbZyhJJZeRdhbIoSrQj38eceG1NVCSrUtJ2h86rC2KZVY0F8YdIOBuo24g9teADhzMlFp2mgENqY_B1ROBxAPprHrTPA0KUnJ-5vcDYsKuxQseyOSHCY/s1292/IMG_4DBB5A1EBF07-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="874" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jeRbnR3Vu9CvPuOoZYGdTK9QbZyhJJZeRdhbIoSrQj38eceG1NVCSrUtJ2h86rC2KZVY0F8YdIOBuo24g9teADhzMlFp2mgENqY_B1ROBxAPprHrTPA0KUnJ-5vcDYsKuxQseyOSHCY/s320/IMG_4DBB5A1EBF07-1.jpeg" width="216" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Allison</div></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-81720310582775494992021-08-07T21:50:00.008-05:002021-08-07T22:11:20.087-05:00Writing Through COVID-19: Day 507 - Cancer and Cows<p>I drove to Iowa City Friday for my annual mammogram. It was 16 summers ago that I had a mastectomy after a breast-cancer diagnosis. I was 45. My youngest children were 11 years old. At the time, I hoped to survive 10 years to see them into adulthood.</p><p>Yesterday before my appointment, I was asked to complete a survey about my cancer anxiety levels and offered services of support if my diagnosis was causing me distress. As I clicked through the list, I realized how far my cancer worries have receded. On a scale of 0 to 10, how much worry is cancer causing me? Zero. Ahhh.<br />--------------------</p><p>EVERYONE at University of Iowa Health Care was masked. (One woman in a waiting room had removed her mask and a nurse immediately instructed her to put it back on.) Entrance to the facility was limited, and patients were not admitted without proof of appointments. </p><p>In other words, the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics are aware that the COVID virus is alive and thriving in Iowa. <br />--------------------</p><p>En route to and from Iowa City, I found the rest of the state to be less aware. I was in the thin minority wearing a mask when I stopped to fuel up or grab a snack.</p><p>In March 2020, I felt tense and self-conscious as I entered stores as one of the few masked shoppers.</p><p>In August 2021, I feel resigned. Weary. A little irritated.</p><p>I'm sad that my weeks of unmasked normalcy were so brief.<br />---------------------------</p><p>This evening a colleague texted to ask if I'd be masked on our first day back, Aug. 18. She said she would be. "Here we go again," she texted. </p><p>Indeed. </p><p>But we have an additional layer of concern here in Atlantic. Our district's middle-school building sustained extensive water damage after a roof-top fire 11 days ago. Staff and 330 students have been displaced. The sixth- and seventh-graders will be housed in the alternative-school building. The eighth-grade students will be in our high-school building. This means adding 120 bodies to our building just as the CDC recommends we mask and distance K-12 (while Governor Reynolds has forbidden mask mandates). <br />-----------------------</p><p>Something positive? My grandson Wolf knows the answer to the urgent question: What does the cow say? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RKpl3_hblNI" width="320" youtube-src-id="RKpl3_hblNI"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Mooo.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-43910525546688228842021-08-05T22:53:00.005-05:002021-08-05T23:03:02.328-05:00Writing Through COVID-19: Visiting the Parents<p>I attended an English teachers' workshop on Tuesday. When we planned it in May, the Iowa Council of Teachers of English was excited to host our first face-to-face event in almost two years. COVID was on a steep decline, we were vaxed up and ready to mingle!</p><p>When we met in Cedar Falls Tuesday, the rules had whiplashed. We were indoors. No one knew the vax status of the others in the room. (I think we should wear buttons, "I Like Ike" or "Nixon Now" style. The vax status can proclaim our political alignment and COVID transmissibility simultaneously.) I'd guess that six or eight of the 40 of us were masked. I ate my lunch on the patio where I could feel the breeze.</p><p>----------------------</p><p>On my way home, I went through Ft. Dodge to visit my parents. They have moved into a two-bedroom apartment and one of my sisters is now living with them. It's not ideal. Is any elder-care setting ideal? But I was glad to see the three of them genial, safe, and hungry for sweet corn. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghKn7qERuUHxhuLWujfz2cs6xmg5QDew1C89Vlq027qUvugDct1QsUqe-q_2sUMo1gefh-3atEyKikDtqC0IC52PUNY-uo-90COFbOdP_fYK_R1iBovDhhQ6m5qsxVUgcYkjY8BONKIlc/s2048/IMG_0308.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghKn7qERuUHxhuLWujfz2cs6xmg5QDew1C89Vlq027qUvugDct1QsUqe-q_2sUMo1gefh-3atEyKikDtqC0IC52PUNY-uo-90COFbOdP_fYK_R1iBovDhhQ6m5qsxVUgcYkjY8BONKIlc/w400-h300/IMG_0308.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I brought them a fresh <a href="https://corn4acause.org/" target="_blank">batch from our field</a>, and we enjoyed husking it on their patio. When we finished, I tossed the husks into the plastic tub I'd brought the corn in and said I'd take the husks home to my compost bucket. </p><p>"Let me help you!" my mom chirped. </p><p>I did not need help. The container plus husks weighed perhaps two pounds. But before I could dismiss her offer, she'd hoisted the tub onto her walker's seat and begun pushing it toward the door. </p><p>My initial impulse was to refuse her "help." But by the grace of the pot-bellied gods, I kept my mouth shut, and my mother happily rolled my husk tub on her walker out to my car. </p><p>She walked briskly, hands poised confidently on the walker. As we made our second turn, I wondered if she'd find her way back to her apartment; I flung prayers into the void. </p><p>When we reached my car, I thanked her for her help. I hugged her birdlike bones against my chest. </p><p>It was on the drive home that I started to sort out the poignancy of her helpfulness. My mother has spent her life helping, teaching, giving to others. I understand that age can rob us of our health, our mobility, our memories, our strength. </p><p>But as my mom bustled the corn husks to my car, I saw something else. My parents have fewer and fewer opportunities to feel helpful, <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57673/to-be-of-use" target="_blank">to be of use.</a> <br />------------------</p><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50495/jenny-kissd-me" target="_blank">Time, you thief, who love to get<br /></a></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50495/jenny-kissd-me" target="_blank">Sweets into your list, put that in!</a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-90443155144441892082021-08-04T22:50:00.000-05:002021-08-04T22:50:14.785-05:00Writing through COVID-19: Day 504<p>I took a few months off. </p><p>After blogging through a year of COVID, by March 2021 I had returned my parents to their care center, my students and I had clawed our way through the school year, my dear ones were vaccinated, and the virus was receding in the rearview. It felt like time to wind up the blogging-through-COVID experiment.</p><p>Ahhhh. I stopped wearing a mask. I almost threw my (dozens of) masks away.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwJW1Vih2jhjb8ABVyYgkximEYK5qvdVwkujmV77jRJtmaxNomRedkj1ALZKm1G2bZNp_gegk3qz7AAIiBVLXgbnNyIL2QRTPaPxIAHlmLOywWEGm4Yb3FAlbEE-fCTYfiF4dpw11oSA/s2048/maria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwJW1Vih2jhjb8ABVyYgkximEYK5qvdVwkujmV77jRJtmaxNomRedkj1ALZKm1G2bZNp_gegk3qz7AAIiBVLXgbnNyIL2QRTPaPxIAHlmLOywWEGm4Yb3FAlbEE-fCTYfiF4dpw11oSA/w240-h320/maria.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harrison's fiance Maria's<br />bridal shower </td></tr></tbody></table><br />I ate in restaurants. I attended a bridal shower and a family reunion. I invited friends into my home and returned to theirs. </p><p>I began planning for the coming school year, and how I would hold onto the positive things I'd learned about myself and my students during the COVID challenge while welcoming back the group and partner work that was out-of-bounds last year. </p><p>I visited my children in Utah and Montana. We began counting down the months to 2022 when we hoped New Zealand would be vaccinated and let us come see Wolf (now one, walking, giving kisses, and making lots of word-like bossy sounds). </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0fyLbYzFltzdHmgbiO7_dTazFpW9YnMLLvAO5nKNP2T6bdBRaIBgSmFauh22wcWl4qUX7LuGTV_XPLyb1JW7dncGoufw9fTEK_jTiyoE5wiQE1lE5OvqDaByqY8B3t3AW1Pk5lQgODY/s1029/IMG_DCEDD2C507E2-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="1029" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0fyLbYzFltzdHmgbiO7_dTazFpW9YnMLLvAO5nKNP2T6bdBRaIBgSmFauh22wcWl4qUX7LuGTV_XPLyb1JW7dncGoufw9fTEK_jTiyoE5wiQE1lE5OvqDaByqY8B3t3AW1Pk5lQgODY/s320/IMG_DCEDD2C507E2-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wolf is walking!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Life was easing back to life.</p><p>-------------------------------------</p><p>And then Delta.</p><p>You'd think by the third wave we'd be ready; we'd know what to do to stop the virus in its tracks. But as cautious as I was through the first year of COVID, it took me several days to reluctantly heed the CDC's July 27 advice and return to masking indoors.</p><p>I'd say I'm angry. We would not be HERE again if eligible people had been vaccinated. And many of those refusing the vaccine are the same people who last year let the rest of us carry the brunt of slowing the spread through layers of caution and sacrifice. </p><p>But I'm too tired to be angry. </p><p>I'm mostly sad.</p><p>Last year it had to be like this. <br />This year it doesn't have to be like this.<br />And yet it is.<br />---------------------</p><p>Today I went into the high school to work with students on the yearbook and attend a meeting with two colleagues and a person from the community. As luck would have it, the Southwest Iowa Marching Band was also in the building, preparing to march in the parade that kicks off the Iowa State Fair on Aug. 11. </p><p>This meant 100? 200? (a lot) of unmasked kids (and adults) were in AHS today, blaring on trumpets, laughing and learning, while inhaling clouds of each other's breath. At one point, I turned a corner to face a gauntlet of musicians, lining both sides of the hallway, blasting away. I simply could not walk down that phalanx, even masked. I ducked away and found another route to my room. <br />---------------------</p><p>My room. </p><p>While I only worked with three students today, not all were vaccinated. </p><p>So I wore my mask. </p><p>I do not know which of the people in my colleague/community meeting today were vaccinated, so I wore my mask there as well. </p><p>I might call myself the Lone Masker.<br />----------------------</p><p>My reputation precedes me: my school knows I took COVID precautions seriously last year, so no one raised an eyebrow to see me masked again today. If they grumbled about my Chicken Little behavior behind my back, I didn't hear it. </p><p>And I'm thankful for that. <br />----------------------</p><p>I have more to tell you. <br />I'll write again soon. </p><p>But for now</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-61321908786291574972021-06-07T22:18:00.002-05:002021-06-07T22:25:35.223-05:00The Last Day of School 2021<p>I'm thinking about the <a href="https://www.weather.gov/arx/halloween1991#:~:text=This%20storm%20became%20known%20as,Minnesota%20early%20on%20October%2031st." target="_blank">Halloween blizzard of 1991</a>. I'd been married for seven years. I had three small children and a fourth on the way. The sleet and ice brought down trees and powerlines. We were without electricity for days--which, on a farm with a well, means we were also without water.</p><p>At first, it was a little exciting. Storms rush the adrenaline in the Midwest!</p><p>But days in, food rotted in the warm refrigerator or froze if we set it outside. Our neighbors a mile over had a wood-burning furnace, so the kids and I hunkered there for a time while our bundled farmer Dan thawed the hog waters with a propane blow torch. </p><p>I can still smell sour milk and feel the bone-deep chill. Mostly I remember the waiting--and the waiting--for reprieve. <br />----------------------------</p><p>Why do I remember that ice storm now? </p><p>Because Thursday was the last day of my 2020-21 school year. </p><p>And teaching during the COVID pandemic had the feel of enduring a 9-month ice storm: exhausting in the demand to constantly re-think how to do even the simplest task. </p><p>In an ice storm, the tiniest motions, like flipping a light switch, running a warm bath, or toasting an English muffin are stopped short. We have to stop and think, then search for a flashlight, put on more deodorant and a sweater, eat some crackers. </p><p>Teaching in COVID was the ice storm.</p><p>----------------------------</p><p>Before COVID, my classroom furniture was all sofas and upholstered chairs. The soft seating contributed to my room's identity as a place of welcome and comfort. </p><p>Then, last fall, all cloth surfaces were replaced with laminated desks, spaced six feet apart, all facing the same direction.</p><p>My small-group interactive teaching style was proverbially unplugged. I had to re-think not only the physical aspects of my classroom, but also my teaching philosophy.</p><p>This was hard. I normally incorporate movement and dyad conversations into every lesson. I normally sit side-by-side with my students for writing conferences. I normally prioritize students talking to each other instead of to the teacher at the front of the room. </p><p>This year, I reverted to survival mode. I was cordoned off at from the class (within the Zoom camera's capture zone), and my students were positioned 6-feet apart and facing the same direction. <br />---------------------------------</p><p>In an ice storm, we don't worry about the nutritional balance of meals. We're just happy if we have enough canned tuna and marshmallows to keep everyone fed.</p><p>Same was true for my teaching this year. Were they reading? Writing? I'll call that good enough. </p><p>I cut my lessons to the bone. I minimized homework, understanding that my students' home lives were every bit as disrupted as our school life. <br />---------------------------------</p><p>A blizzard cuts frivolity out of the picture. No one can bicker about which show to watch. Boredom gets a whole new definition. Keeping one's hands warm demands attention. </p><p>I saw this in my COVID classroom. Our routines were COVID-centric: the first student entering the room grabbed the disinfectant bottle and spritzed all the desks. The subsequent students paper-toweled their desks. Multiple wastebaskets allowed students to toss their wipe-towels while still social-distancing.<br />-----------------------------------</p><p>With the fog of COVID worry hovering over all of us, my discipline issues were minimal this year. Maybe no one had the energy to disrupt. Maybe the smaller classes helped. Maybe students saw me (a masked, distanced, 61-year-old teacher) as a vulnerable population and mustered a little sympathy. </p><p>Whatever the reason, I was grateful for a low-drama year in terms of student conflict and agitation. It seemed we were all moving through a fog. This isn't what I wish for us, but a survival mode made us all a little tougher--and for the most part lower maintenance.<br />------------------------------------</p><p>The year is over. <br />It was rough.<br />The toaster didn't work.<br />The toilet didn't flush.<br />The switch did not turn on the light.</p><p>But most of us got through it.</p><p>Still, I am exhausted by a year of adjusting my every natural teacher move to a COVID-compliant substitute. </p><p>Get vaccinated so we can turn the electricity back on.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.<br /></p><p>Allison</p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-46972857035064612332021-05-30T22:31:00.008-05:002021-06-03T15:09:07.077-05:00The Sad Parade<p>The small towns of Elk Horn and Kimballton embrace their Danish roots and host Tivoli Fest on Memorial Day weekend, a celebration that includes a 5k race between the towns' iconic Danish windmill (Elk Horn) and Little Mermaid fountain (Kimballton); aebleskiver feed at the fire station; Viking reenactment, Danish dancing, and--of course--a parade.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgajPrbwQiahmllSk6jqMxit-bIol4qf9il0fvED5tHUl8JKxXt1XsPwrdd8yLdtwYvfjqx0QUYM5HToWOzx2P7hH7mp6EX7IN7TEInZ-0Bp52fjXODcJmgVeVzTfy6moF127lfWgz4DA/s1800/IMG_9303.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgajPrbwQiahmllSk6jqMxit-bIol4qf9il0fvED5tHUl8JKxXt1XsPwrdd8yLdtwYvfjqx0QUYM5HToWOzx2P7hH7mp6EX7IN7TEInZ-0Bp52fjXODcJmgVeVzTfy6moF127lfWgz4DA/s320/IMG_9303.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tivoli Fest 2021: My teaching colleague dancing, <br />my 5k t-shirt, Harrison eating aebleskiver, <br />and Dan watching the ill-fated parade.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />This was the 41st year of Tivoli Fest after last year's event was COVID canceled. I've been attending since I married my Danish Iowa farmer Dan 37 years ago. I ran the 5k for what must have been my 25th time, and I came in first among the six women in my age division by lumbering along a few paces ahead of my fellow sexagenarians. <p></p><p>But it's the parade I want to talk about.</p><p>Dan and I settled our lawn chairs on the hill north of the fire station to watch the antique cars, local service organizations, and family hayracks roll on by. The air was cool, but the sun was warm. I settled into the benign pleasure of a small-town parade. I clapped as the saddle club rode by, then for the Class of '56, and a float announcing a Father's Day breakfast in a neighboring community. <br />----------------------</p><p>Parades are a funny thing if you stop and think about it. Ninety-five percent of us line the streets to watch the other five percent puff their feathers for our entertainment. It's a fine way to spend thirty minutes.</p><p>Usually.</p><p>Yesterday an episode tainted the experience.</p><p>It began with a cluster of children dashing into the street for candy. Yes, this can be expected at a small-town parade. But we also (used to?) expect parents to corral their kids back to the safety of the curb and admonish them for darting too near tractor wheels for Tootsie Rolls. </p><p>Saturday's children within my line of sight were Artful-Dodger spunky, puppylike in their exuberance. But their parents seemed oblivious as the children inched ever closer to the floats and tussled with increasing ferver for each box of Dots. </p><p>And then:</p><p>An eager candy grabber--maybe 6 or 7 years old--en route to a knot of bubblegum, blindsided a toddler and knocked her over. </p><p>What happened next surprised me because it was unexpected and yet, in retrospect, predictable:</p><p>The mother of scooped up her toddler, then turned with Jerry-Springer rage to admonish the older child. She gestured dramatically toward his mother and shrieked that he had "knocked over my baby."</p><p>Yes, this was unpleasant. The unrestrained boy was, yes, at fault. But the cussing mother of the toddler didn't help matters.</p><p>And then:</p><p>The mother of the boy rose up with fury in her eyes. Each woman shouted in defense of her child. Yet neither seemed to consider the role-modeling she was doing for her dear ones in the moment.</p><p>I elbowed my husband to warn him I was primed to jump up and break up a fight (the teacher in me), when, thankfully, the women were drawn back to composure by their families and friends. <br />-------------------------</p><p>This was unsettling on various levels. First, it was simply unpleasant to be accosted by such anger in the midst of a holiday parade. Second, I was dismayed at how willing people were to shreik at each other.</p><p>As I considered it later, I wondered: Were these mothers perhaps energized by the adrenaline rush? Excited by a chance to publicly display anger and threat? Invigorated by asserting their defense of their children to a crowd?</p><p>It's probably a stretch to blame politics or social media for a small, nasty parade scene. But I have seen too many videos of anger-filled tirades (Hmmm...Jan. 6? "Karens" confronting store personnel when asked to wear masks? News commentators shouting over each other without compunction?) to be surprised when incivility slimes its way into our face-to-face interactions. </p><p>I do not know who the people fighting at the parade voted for in the last election, or if they even voted. But I do know that alongside the American and Danish flags that traditionally line the Elk Horn streets, Trump flags are still flying in this deep red county. And all of us have watched the line of acceptable behavior inch closer to what we used to call despicable.</p><p>There is anger bubbling at the surface in small-town Iowa. And it seems we now have tacit permission to let it loose.</p><p>It sort of ruins a parade. </p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-19719802964003528592021-05-21T22:05:00.005-05:002021-05-21T22:29:11.341-05:00Credit for Breathing<p>This afternoon a John Deere mechanic named Brandon came out to the farm to work on Dan's sprayer. He asked if I was still teaching. Dan said I was and asked if he'd had me for a teacher. </p><p>Yes, Brandon said, "She was basically the reason I graduated."</p><p>Brandon (class of 2008) had been my student in sophomore English and Interpersonal Communication, but he relayed a specific memory from Creative Writing: One day during class we had a fire drill, and I'd brought my laptop out to the parking lot. While we waited for the all-clear, I'd asked Brandon to take a look at his grade with me.</p><p>"It was a B- or a C+," Brandon told Dan. "I asked her how I could possibly have that grade when I'd done nothing all semester. She told me she sometimes gave credit for breathing."</p><p>Brandon laughed, then nimbly finished the adjustments to the sprayer.</p><p>-----------------------</p><p>Dan told me the story this evening happily. But I felt a familiar mix of teacherly chagrin, exasperation, and disillusion--mixed with a scoop of reality that reminds me to also be a little proud. </p><p>I didn't remember Brandon's story explicitly, but it rang true as something I might have done. Sometimes my role as a teacher has been to nudge and push and cajole a kid through a semester. Sometimes I've had to hoist the kid onto my shoulders and carry him over the finish line. <br /></p><p>I'm not sure I did right by Brandon, I said. Dan countered, reminding me that Brandon is thriving as a mechanic and remembered my class as a positive force in his life. <br />----------------------</p><p>School has become increasingly automated through online courses and packaged curriculum. This might assure more universal criteria for passing Creative Writing. But it takes away the musician's touch that teaching craves: the crescendo, the fermata, the grace note. </p><p>I'm not sure I taught Brandon anything about creative writing, but I might have taught him to breathe.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-29666639651351699512021-03-20T19:48:00.004-05:002021-03-20T19:54:54.242-05:00Writing Through COVID-19: An Attempt at Some Closure<p>Last Friday I wrote about my <a href="https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2021/03/day-360-writing-through-covid-19.html" target="_blank">second day in quarantine</a>, but I haven't posted since.</p><p>In my past year of blogging through COVID, I've written on 252 of 365 days, which is 70% productivity, or roughly five days a week. <br />----------------------</p><p>But I've spent the past week avoiding this space. My excuses don't hold up because for the past 51 weeks I pushed past those same excuses and simply put my fingers on the keyboard, narrowed my focus to the smallest moments of the day, and wrote. </p><p>Tonight, as I compose what will be the final entry of this year-long writing project, I realize my avoidance of blogging this past week has been the avoidance of closure itself. <br />--------------------------</p><p>I'm not good at goodbyes. </p><p>I shy against the emotion and instead make jokes or redirect. When I think back to dropping my children off at college--quintessential goodbye moments--I see scraps of chaos (scolding 9-year-old twins climbing on their oldest sister's dorm bunk) and forced levity, laughing too loud, executing a quick, perfunctory hug rather than holding the child and risk feeling the full weight of the moment.</p><p>I'm not good at last days of school. I prefer to keep everyone busy right up to the bell, then rush them out the door with overly cheerful "Have a good summer!" and without meeting anyone's eyes. </p><p>I know a teacher who retired at the end of last year and said she missed the goodbyes and proper closure of her career when schools slammed shut on March 15. When I think of my own retirement, I envy that leapfrogging over all the faretheewells. I'd like to slip out quietly, unseen. Ghosting.<br />------------------<br /><br /></p><p>This blogging project gave me a reason to practice what I preach: That writing enriches life. First, while planning to write, you will pay attention to life's small moments: a hand on a puzzle piece, a stumble on a step, the dog's baby tooth on the sidewalk. </p><p>Second, as you sort thoughts on the page, you begin make sense and order of what the day has offered. </p><p>Third, if you share your words with readers, you re-experience your life as people share their encouragement, connections, and response. <br />----------------</p><p>This past week:</p><p>Sunday Adrienne and I taped the second episode of our <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gw4Mtxm5rRk" target="_blank">oral history project</a> with our parents. This week we recorded our mother's childhood memories, capturing her early stories as well as her current state of mental deterioration. </p><p>In the evening, Harrison and Maria facetimed us to announce their engagement--a joyful, welcome call.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibct9poujPBys-nrknG50JP2Wd9bY0pDzeCp5sAL56dDKToTv8vsPhrzyq0S7TffqzANqF5PophEslZ5VCWw8vIA8Lm-aWWjNllDRZp_48MEQt9-z3Ffu1fd2iTE3GqYGS8WogsSsA9g8/s609/Screen+Shot+2021-03-20+at+8.33.04+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="609" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibct9poujPBys-nrknG50JP2Wd9bY0pDzeCp5sAL56dDKToTv8vsPhrzyq0S7TffqzANqF5PophEslZ5VCWw8vIA8Lm-aWWjNllDRZp_48MEQt9-z3Ffu1fd2iTE3GqYGS8WogsSsA9g8/w400-h264/Screen+Shot+2021-03-20+at+8.33.04+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photo on the left was taken moments after Maria <br />said "Yes!" Shot with Waylon taken the next day.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />---------------------</p><p>I spent Monday and Tuesday at home as required by quarantine, reading <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25817493-news-of-the-world" target="_blank">a good book</a>, playing ping-pong, and writing poetry, as I do five days each month with teacher-poets on <a href="http://www.ethicalela.com/category/openwrite/" target="_blank">Ethical ELA</a>. </p><p>Wednesday, having received my second NEG Covid test, I returned to school and was surprised in the warmest way when colleagues greeted me with concern about Dan (he's fine) and relief that I hadn't contracted the virus. I was given pause. Too often take for granted the good people I work with. I must do better. </p><p>After school I received my second dose of the Moderna vaccine.</p><p>Thursday was rough in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCxfT4Gk09s" target="_blank">completion of a show</a> that was already late. Thursday was also great in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through completion of a show that was already late. Sometimes good learning is not pleasant. </p><p>By the end of the day I was chilled and achy, reacting to the previous day's vaccine. I went home and slept hard.</p><p>Friday, I awoke a new woman, rested and symptom-free. I verily skipped through the day. In the evening I began this blog post but couldn't seem to end it.</p><p>Today is Saturday, March 20, 2021. Stuart said <a href="https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2021/03/day-351-writing-through-covid-19-my-son.html" target="_blank">Nali is nearing her end</a>. He plans to put her down on Monday, when both he and Harrison have the day off and can take her to the vet together. </p><p>I will play some Bridge online with my dad tonight. In two weeks I'll be able to visit them face-to-face. I'll take some bubbles along, some Klondike bars, a poem.</p><p>Maybe if I just keep clicking at this keyboard I won't have to say</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EKvxWOJGh5n82Lz_YgXPEeBe-OeKc4F7dUk89M1MxaOh_liLlCacQXaCqmnwkxTCyXY1GDJuoYo3EGCbOPPMYx5fHg_IlouLRUx2CK1LHgryau1RCVyTUEzzkkQB4FeenaiuBGnBQuY/s1024/770bb04e-744f-491f-83fa-384a1b3dda3c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EKvxWOJGh5n82Lz_YgXPEeBe-OeKc4F7dUk89M1MxaOh_liLlCacQXaCqmnwkxTCyXY1GDJuoYo3EGCbOPPMYx5fHg_IlouLRUx2CK1LHgryau1RCVyTUEzzkkQB4FeenaiuBGnBQuY/s320/770bb04e-744f-491f-83fa-384a1b3dda3c.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Wolf Hoegh, 8 mos.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-84641323120219196092021-03-12T20:34:00.008-06:002021-03-12T20:51:50.218-06:00Day #360 Writing Through COVID-19: Quarantine Day #2<p>I'm negative!</p><p>My results came via email this evening. I was surprised at how nervous I felt clicking on the link, then surprised again at the leap in my heart when I saw the word Negative. </p><p>Avoiding COVID is not a matter of strength or moral superiority. A negative test is no reason to be proud of myself, any more than I should be proud that a deer ran in front of a neighbor's car instead of mine. I suppose I could claim my caution contributed to my luck, but in fact, COVID (and Iowa deer) strike even the careful ones. </p><p>I'm mostly just relieved that I'm one step closer to sidestepping the hassles and dangers of a POS result.</p><p>I'll test again on Monday, and provided I see another NEG in my email, I'll return to school on Wednesday. I will also then be cleared for my second Moderna dose. <br />--------------------</p><p>Dan thinks his throat is feeling better. His COVID did not prevent him from beating me in Ping-Pong tonight 21-15. </p><p>His mom Janet received her second vaccine dose today. Our neighbor Kathy, a retired nurse who has been volunteering at our community's vaccine distribution, drove her to town. They arrived early, and the scheduled nurse hadn't arrived yet. So Kathy rolled up her sleeves (as did Janet!) to deliver the injection herself! </p><p>On the drive home, Kathy talked Janet through the possible reactions she might feel. They discussed worries that come with aging and ways to lift low spirits. </p><p>In other words, Kathy stepped up as my mother-in-law's chauffeur, nurse, therapist, and life coach this morning. My gratitude is deep.<br />--------------------</p><p>The news is packed with "one year ago" stories today, as March 12 marks one year for our nation's full alert. On March 13, 2020, my broadcasting students threw together (at my insistence) a video of students talking about the impact the first days of COVID had had on their lives. This was the last day of school for us, although we did not know it when the video was filmed. </p><p>It's almost quaint to watch a year later:</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcJ3RfukHXs">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcJ3RfukHXs</a></p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOgC_FSu8VSjDxB9CkCFzG0v6ZkShTZ-H5dyV_9P9eD7Pk0XYHB97spqzKoNPZODm5LBKNaQDO5RmHSuAJiDfflxIkJ6DFMoL1tlqD4xpx49jkXMcvSSbi9w10R8Pxum-Z1vopX7SSAk/s960/teeth.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOgC_FSu8VSjDxB9CkCFzG0v6ZkShTZ-H5dyV_9P9eD7Pk0XYHB97spqzKoNPZODm5LBKNaQDO5RmHSuAJiDfflxIkJ6DFMoL1tlqD4xpx49jkXMcvSSbi9w10R8Pxum-Z1vopX7SSAk/s320/teeth.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TEETH (and drool on the bib)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-42029943280646281312021-03-11T21:15:00.001-06:002021-03-11T21:23:36.229-06:00Day #359 Writing Through COVID-19: Day #1 in Quarantine<p>I feel fine.</p><p>Dan's throat is a little sore, but he's also fine, using a slightly wider definition of the term.</p><p>Despite our fine-ness, we spent the day obsessing over each minor ache or weary moment as possible COVID confirmation. </p><p>I wish my students would examine complex texts with half the scrutiny Dan and I gave to our every breath and sniffle today. <br />------------</p><p>I spent the morning online scheduling my COVID test, questioning (and then rescheduling) my second vaccination, and making arrangements for my mother-in-law to proceed with her second vaccination dose without me on Friday.</p><p>Let me pause here to tell you about Kathy. She is my country neighbor and dearest friend. Thirty-six years ago I met her at a neighborhood bridal shower (mine!) where Kathy held her shy 4-year-old on her lap while dabbing at her own dripping nose with a tissue. Her authenticity and humor magnetized my affection. Clicking at my keyboard tonight, I realize I have a million words to write about Kathy.</p><p>What I'll say now is that she is a recently retired nurse. She has had both of her vaccination shots. She is in the volunteer team that is vaccinating our community. </p><p>When I called her today to ask her to take Dan's mom in for her second COVID vaccine, I knew her answer before she picked up the phone. Iowa Neighbors.<br /></p><p>--------------------<br />I had long happy phone conversations with Stuart and Palmer today. I ran three slow miles on a trail where I would not contaminate anyone with my potential (?) COVID germs. I used the Hy-Vee curbside grocery pickup service and was giddily impressed. I may never go back to RL shopping!<br />--------------------</p><p>One last thought: Today my students carried on with their learning in my absence. They edited videos, designed yearbook spreads, practiced poster presentations, and dug into the background reporting for news stories. Part of me wishes they'd missed me more, that they couldn't function without me. That would make me feel needed! But most of me is super proud that they are independent, capable, and eager to produce even in my absence. </p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXaLlC0TOzKpJmmgEBILPMn4mFb7vz_1dT8lmTpcjsRuMGCjOwV-Lwr1C5UFPHOzm0iGLOtnjjh6O0CBwQKsmUW2bS7pc8_955O8eiwyz5GAdU0YCLu5k_jGhkG7AfeIOpm9lmfHIcdQ/s1600/eb7d6b92-7499-4ddc-8ba3-27b8c066d7f3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXaLlC0TOzKpJmmgEBILPMn4mFb7vz_1dT8lmTpcjsRuMGCjOwV-Lwr1C5UFPHOzm0iGLOtnjjh6O0CBwQKsmUW2bS7pc8_955O8eiwyz5GAdU0YCLu5k_jGhkG7AfeIOpm9lmfHIcdQ/s320/eb7d6b92-7499-4ddc-8ba3-27b8c066d7f3.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My heart.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-38112550542670613472021-03-10T21:46:00.002-06:002021-03-10T21:46:46.454-06:00Day #358 Writing Through COVID-19: Dan Tests Positive<p>Yup.</p><p>I was on the final mile of my COVID marathon. I could see the finish line.</p><p>Then someone (my husband) stuck his big old farm boot out and tripped me. <br />------------------------</p><p>Dan's fine. Just an odd-feeling sore throat.</p><p>I'll stay home for the next two days. I'll also get a COVID test. </p><p>I'll keep you posted.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-43434368569463766482021-03-06T21:10:00.008-06:002021-03-08T21:49:22.962-06:00Day #354 Writing Through COVID-19: Sun, Vaccine, Obituaries (and Wolf is standing!)<p>What a beautiful day on Eagle Avenue! I ran three miles on the gravel with a 2-mph SE wind and a perfect 50-degree temperature. </p><p>After lunch, it warmed up to 63. I sat in the sun <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Vanishing-Half-Novel-Brit-Bennett/dp/0525536299/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1WSUNFSFZ877I&dchild=1&keywords=vanishing+half+by+britt+bennett&qid=1615086822&sprefix=vanishing+%2Caps%2C190&sr=8-1" target="_blank">reading for an hour.</a> </p><p>I don't want to think that my happiness is weather-dependent, but I must say I felt a lift in my spirits. I smiled all day--until Dan beat me 2-1 in Ping-Pong tonight.<br />-------------------------</p><p>Our county's public health system was not able to schedule enough eligible people for its upcoming Monday vaccine distribution, so they opened up a back door to "non-eligible" folks willing to fill up the empty slots. Two of those will be my daughter who lives in Des Moines (and works in Cass County) and my husband Dan.</p><p>This is happy news for my family, but I can't help but think the vaccine roll-out favors those with internet access, connections, and wherewithal to track down vaccine opportunities. </p><p>No one wants the vaccines to go unused. And I know eligible people who for various reasons are declining the vaccine. (A 74-year-old friend of ours says he wants to wait for the one-dose Johnson & Johnson version. His diabetic wife is allergic to eggs and fears she won't tolerate COVID vaccination.) </p><p>So while I am glad that two more of my loved ones will be COVID protected, I am concerned that many in my community are missing out on or refusing the vaccine.<br />-------------------------</p><p>A few days ago, my sister Adrienne suggested I write our parents' obituaries. She explained that doing it now will be less difficult than when stung by grief. We'll only need to make small edits when needed. </p><p>This is a good idea. But I can't begin to outline my parents' lives' trajectories, accomplishments, and milestones, let alone know what to prioritize. This circled me back to an idea I thought of months ago when I took part in an Oklahoma State oral-history project.</p><p>Oral-history projects record conversations with people who have lived through a range of experiences. My reliance on Zoom during the past year of COVID has given me the skills to do this! </p><p>So tomorrow at 1 p.m., Adrienne and I will log onto Zoom with our parents to record our dad talking about the early years of his life. The plan is that over the next several weeks we will visit with both parents about their lives and record the videos for posterity. </p><p>Their stories, in their voices, will chronicle their lives for their grandchildren and beyond (and help me write their obituaries).</p><p>When I called my dad today to explain the project (sans the obituary dimension), I asked him if he was willing to talk about his childhood tomorrow. </p><p>"Oh my, yes!" he said. I heard sunshine in his voice.</p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsNAhcnSs1sosOzZ7n3DCisLNd3ttUIDFxLmXJqhg1ZlSjIxLCgBKE3k80o-LhyGsIzGdwrcKKpsRX9GrHaVtcmpT1C7RFTRAsneS9ffsuyaJsg4q1c1DSL6Okikt8YBf6-YDaW448h0/s1879/IMG_E65A18173C17-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1879" data-original-width="1242" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsNAhcnSs1sosOzZ7n3DCisLNd3ttUIDFxLmXJqhg1ZlSjIxLCgBKE3k80o-LhyGsIzGdwrcKKpsRX9GrHaVtcmpT1C7RFTRAsneS9ffsuyaJsg4q1c1DSL6Okikt8YBf6-YDaW448h0/w265-h400/IMG_E65A18173C17-1.jpeg" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screenshot from a video of Wolf pulling<br /> himself up to standing. <3</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-48342252400838840572021-03-04T21:20:00.001-06:002021-03-04T21:29:09.685-06:00Day #352 Writing Through COVID-19: Fitness<p>The thermometer hit 60 today, and I was there for it.</p><p>After school, I headed to the rock-quarry trail and logged my first two outdoor running miles of 2021 at a don't-write-home-about-it 11:25 pace. Neither the distance nor speed warrants notice. But the fact that I ran at all after a day of teaching and before Emma's cycling class deserves a can-do cheer.<br />----------------------</p><p>At 61, I am not yet in the grave. But for each day my body cooperates to give me 30 minutes of running or a good sweat on a bicycle, I am thankful.</p><p>Tonight, when I beat Dan in Ping-Pong 21-19, I marveled not so much at my win as at our sexagenarian coordination, eyesight, and balance!</p><p>Fitness was once in my life a given, then a choice, and now a gift. </p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ukvQcioL5fJryGMnaQzDhyphenhyphenwjEDYMOvPXd6-iNAjZoBKSgKASWyJvOEIX39P05Rs-b7yfcZFG66e8MVwb9Euugo46nuW49PKfzTmbcsRIVfC0jC8X5ICfuH4dI_oFrzMyoPxSeyY7bW4/s1024/3a74e276-0bec-40c4-bf6c-25b20339aef9.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ukvQcioL5fJryGMnaQzDhyphenhyphenwjEDYMOvPXd6-iNAjZoBKSgKASWyJvOEIX39P05Rs-b7yfcZFG66e8MVwb9Euugo46nuW49PKfzTmbcsRIVfC0jC8X5ICfuH4dI_oFrzMyoPxSeyY7bW4/w300-h400/3a74e276-0bec-40c4-bf6c-25b20339aef9.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This boy! My heart!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408232777406752862.post-11249816031557185762021-03-03T21:27:00.003-06:002021-04-29T15:34:29.575-05:00Day #351 Writing Through COVID-19: My Son and His Dog<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5rnkvtpNOumSKY2Mkqc-H-UPwWsri-aazu-tb2uMBSFkO-AyKhMvqtN0mX2uP6Hm3TWjL6AenGNZ0Dr0cnhblFaUS3roQL50sEluLmY7eIgJ93-OvdmNIRJa4wX72W3Jkc1LVe4F-Ztg/s2048/Nali+favorite.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5rnkvtpNOumSKY2Mkqc-H-UPwWsri-aazu-tb2uMBSFkO-AyKhMvqtN0mX2uP6Hm3TWjL6AenGNZ0Dr0cnhblFaUS3roQL50sEluLmY7eIgJ93-OvdmNIRJa4wX72W3Jkc1LVe4F-Ztg/w400-h266/Nali+favorite.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nali and Stuart, heading west<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>My youngest son Stu, 26, headed west four years ago. He's worked temp jobs to support his trout fishing and mountain biking, bear hunting and rock climbing. He moves around a lot to maximize opportunities to bow hunt elk, mule deer, whitetail, pheasant, bear. He writes about his outdoor pursuits at<a href="https://threebrothersoutdoors.com/" target="_blank"> Iowa Slam</a>. (A slam, he's gently explained to his non-hunting mother, is achieved when a hunter bags every hunt-able animal in a particular area).<p></p><p>Stu currently shares a single room in an AirBNB in Utah with his twin while they're working the ski season at Sundance.<br />-------------------------</p><p>While out west, Stu has holed up in various (shall I say?) holes. He's lived in basements and trailers and, for extended periods of time, in tents and out of his car. </p><p>With him for the past five years has been Nali, a black lab named after Mt. Denali, the highest peak in North America, which hovered above Stu the summer he worked in Alaska as a fishing guide. <br />------------------------</p><p>My son is what my husband and I call "a thinking kid." This label is both an attribute and a burden. Stu thinks hard about his decisions, his actions, and his words, which can be a heavy load. </p><p>He structures his time to prioritize a balance of physical health, mental health, service to others, financial responsibility, and of course hunting. Recently, when he lost a decent-paying job he had (reasonably) enjoyed, he reminded me that his entire identity was not lodged in his job; many aspects of his life were going well.<br />-------------------------</p><p>I've spent too many paragraphs introducing Stuart because I'm resisting this next part.</p><p>One of the things Stuart prioritizes each day is his work with his Nali. She is an amazing hunting dog, trained to serve as Stu's right-hand she-dog on his countless expeditions. More than that, she has been his constant companion during his time out west. <br /></p><p>Recently Nali has been sick. She's been lethargic. Blood in her urine. Seizures. The vets ran tests, prescribed medications. Stu adjusted her diet. </p><p>I think you know where this is going.</p><p>It isn't a kidney infection or a UTI. It isn't the dog version of epilepsy. </p><p>The mass revealed near her spine in ultrasound was biopsied and confirmed to be advanced cancer. <br />-------------------------</p><p>Our family has loved many dogs. This means we have also known profound sadness. </p><p>These next weeks will be hard for us. </p><p>Enough.<br />Be well.<br />Write.</p><p>Allison</p>Allison Berryhillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08654804388072427876noreply@blogger.com2