Coffee and Accidents

I was reading the news this morning and noticed a headline:

"Reaching for coffee cup leads to three car accident." 

The woman who caused this accident didn't wake up that morning and say to herself "I won't reach for the coffee this morning." If you bring coffee in your car, you will reach for it.

Coffee is different from phones, however. Phones are not usually brought into our cars just for texting, or searching the web. Coffee, on the other hand, is usually brought into the car to be drunk.

Unfortunately, this woman reaching for coffee could have been me. Many mornings I grab my lunch bag, my work bag, my workout bag, and my purse, and balance the coffee in my hand, with the four bags dangling from my forearms.

I narrowly escape the retaining walls that brush on my side as I try to get into the car. Three bags go in the back, but my purse and my coffee stay with me and ride in the prime front seat alongside the me.

"If I ever get distracted, before the car veers, I will just drop my coffee. I'd rather spill coffee than get into an accident," I think. But I know that's not true.

I have juggled this morning circus event for many years. I have grown to understand that the brain doesn't think logically to drop the coffee if there is a problem. My brain sends the message to my arm, then my hand, then my fingers, to hold onto the coffee. And my eyes follow.

The woman who reached for her coffee cup has probably had a similar self-conversation before leaving home. She probably simply took her eyes off of the road, looked for the coffee, leaned over, and the wheel of the car went with her. There could have been a thousand scenarios that might have unfolded in reaching for that coffee. Thankfully no one was hurt, but this was a reminder to me to slow down, juggle less, and leave the coffee behind.

A metaphor for my life/work balance.

Afternoon Arrival

I walk in the basement.

            Silence.

I shut the door softly.

            Stillness.

I take off my too-loud boots.

            Soundless.

I slip up the stairs to the kitchen. 

            Snoring.

I open my computer.

           Snoring.

           Snoring.

I begin to slice.

New Neighbors

I love the cycles of a neighborhood.

When we moved on to our street with the houses standing side by side, there were babies to the left of us, and babies across the street. We had one as well. Every other house on our street held a baby in its rooms. 

Our backyard neighbors were an elderly couple whose family visited often. We called each other regularly to say how we noticed the backyard visitors, the sprinkler was on, and...how was everything, anyway?

Now the babies are grown. Some are married, some are living at home. Most are independent. Our backyard neighbor became a widow, then moved to a nursing home. The backyard is so quiet. The clothesline stands empty, with lines dangling, calling for clothing.

A new family, and a new baby, entered the rooms of the house across the street. I know the house well. My children played in those rooms. We have been to dinner in the dining room, and roasted marshmallows in the back yard together. I babysat siblings while a new baby was born to the neighbors and friends who had lived there before.

I was given the honored tour of the home by this young family. The dad carried the new baby in his arms as we walked. Like each of us who moves into a new space, the couple talked about how "one day we might put a window here...," and "I'd really like to redo the bathroom..." 

The house is their home now, and holds for them the future and dreams of their time there. New memories will be created, though the old ones will always remain, and be added to, as the neighborhood cycles through again.

Writing with the lens of a Kindergartner

All week, I have been writing with a personal lens: mother, wife, neighbor. I have so enjoyed meandering through those slices of my life.

Today I have been writing with a Kindergartner's lens as I prepare demonstration texts for them. They are in a persuasive unit, so they need a problem that they can identify with. Something they can persuade their friends to care about.

I want to capture the thinking of this age, while making the language and length attainable for them. I want my Kindergartners to "read" alongside me and say "I get it! I can write like that!"

What is something that rings true for this age? Something that needs to improve in their world? Something that is worth petitioning for? Yet, I need to also think, what is something that is authentic coming from me?

Sounds so easy, and yet it is so difficult.

I decide on safety when walking to school.

I have a go:

• Round 1: Sentences are too long. Language is too sophisticated. 
• Round 2: Language is more attainable, but sentences are still too long. 
• Round 3: Just right. 

Not only do I try out this work with this lens, but I experience targeted revision.

Our students are doing challenging work. I continue to learn how important it is to take on this challenge myself, and experience it. In doing so, I become a better teacher, and writer.

What would you write?

Neighborhood Tea

Yesterday afternoon, in the throes of a snow storm, a neighbor texted to see if a few of us would like to walk over for tea and banana bread.

One neighbor texted back, "Does that mean I have to shower?"

"Just put on some deodorant and we'll sit you at the edge of the room," the hostess replied.

In years past, our kids shared first day of school photos, and rode bikes down the street with streamers waving from the handle bars.

"Becca, does your mom know you're here?" I would say to my neighbor's daughter when she wandered over to our back yard at 5 years old.

"No, but it's ok with her if I'm here." I knew that was always true (though I did call to let her mom know).

We have grilled tofu and hamburgers at graduation parties and Memorial Day barbecues, celebrated Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings, and attended each others' parents' funerals. We hear updates and news, and wave while driving by.

Although none of us are dear friends to whom we turn with deep worries and concerns, these are tried and true companions who have walked alongside each other over the years.

As I looked around at those gathered in my neighbor's living room, I saw faces that have grown lines, and waists that have grown inches. Some brought slippers to wear while drinking coffee or tea together. I wore my mismatched socks.

There is something about simply living life alongside each other, and sharing history. New, and intimate, friends are necessary, but so are companions with whom we share a life story.

BJs, TJs, and PJs

BJs

Large carts, large quantities, large amounts of money.

Soaps, toothbrushes, socks, and meats.

Snow coming.

What more could you need?




TJs*

Small red basket, small handles.

Spinach yogurt dip, himalayan pink salt crystals, rosemary raisin crackers.

Snow starts.

What else?



PJs

Make meatballs, roast butternut squash, freeze meat.

Big flakes, big snow.

What more could you want?


PJs, snow-watching, dinner, bed.


*Trader Joe's 

Abby's Coffee

Beginning with a single mug, a single coffee cone, and a single coffee filter, my daughter Abby creates a simple workspace to make her pour over coffee.

She puts the filter in the coffee cone, and balances it all on top of a mug that doesn't quite fit.

Without measuring, she scoops coffee into the paper filter. Grounds splay around the cup.

She pours the water into the cone, takes a spoon, and stirs the grounds. The water flows over the top and dribbles down the side of the mug. A puddle grows at the base of the mug, slowly reaching out from the once simple workspace.

"Good morn!" she says when she sees me. Her dark brown hair is tousled in a pony tail, and she is wearing a tailored black V-neck sweater and sleeping shorts - half dressed for work. "Do you care if I watch House Hunters?" Without waiting for a response, she flicks on an HGTV show that has been DVRed, and fast forwards it. "This one's a bit boring, but I love Italy." She has either seen this show before, or is resuming watching it.

After the water runs through the coffee grounds, she adds more, spilling over the top again. She stirs the mush in the cone with a spoon, and puts the messy spoon on the counter, adding to the growing watery brown pond on the counter.

Though the water has not moved all the way through the filter, she moves the cone off of the mug, across the kitchen floor, and into the sink. There is now a stream that connects the pond on the counter to the sink.

The black coffee meets the rim of the mug. It is ready to push over the edge again. Abby adds almond milk, then quickly brings her mouth down to the top of the mug and slurps in a futile attempt to keep the coffee from spilling even more.

"Mmmm," she mumbles. She picks up the mug, spills more, and turns to the TV.

When she is done, she grabs a sponge and swishes it across the counter, leaving streaks of brown detritus.

She turns off the TV, pulls her hair back, and leaves to fully dress for the day.

"Love you! Have a great day!" she yells from the basement, just before the door slams.

Tomorrow will bring another similar morning. But in a month the puddles and the mess will no longer be there. They will have flowed to Arlington, where she will begin new rituals and routines without me even knowing what they are.