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Archive for the ‘Slice of Life’ Category

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Wikimedia Commons Black-bellied whistling duck

If you have read my blog through the years, you may already know that we raise wood ducks. Actually, we have a wood duck house that has a Ring doorbell camera inside. In February and March of this year we watched a mother wood duck dutifully attend to a dozen eggs and successfully hatch 8 of them. We missed actually witnessing Jump Day because it was a school day. I even missed watching the little ducklings climbing out on my phone video because I was out at recess.

In the past we have had two clutches, one in March and another in May or June. But this year the duck house remained empty for weeks after the first mother left with her eight little ducklings. We waited.

Once again we have a tenant duck, but not a wood duck. It’s a Mexican squealer or black-bellied whistling duck. At first we were disappointed, but as the weeks have gone back, this weird orange-billed duck has won over our hearts. We’ve had to learn about this breed.

The first thing we noticed in the description were the not-so-favorable adjectives, words like “boisterous” and “gaudy”.

Fun Facts about Black-Bellied Whistling Ducks

  • Known as tree ducks because they hang out in trees.
  • “Sexual dimorphism”: both male and female look alike.
  • They form lifelong pair bonds. Both male and female tend to the hatchlings.
  • There are plenty of them, low-conservation concern.

Egg incubation is 25-30 days. I marked that the first night of sitting was on May 5th, so we should see hatching in the next week or so. The babies are colored like bumblebees, yellow and black feathering. Whether wood ducks or whistlers, our nest box continues to entertain us.

Inside the nest box, the whistling duck is taller than a wood duck and can look out the window.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

On Sunday morning, I noticed the chrysalis on my back porch that I had nurtured was turning black. This could be a good sign or a bad sign. I found the swallowtail caterpillar in my friend’s garden when she was offering me two dill plants for my student’s butterfly garden project. I took the cactus it was hanging out on as well as some dill for feeding it.

When the little puffed up caterpillar made its chrysalis, he did it on the dill. Yikes, I knew the dill would die eventually because it was just in water. What actually happened was the dill stem bent down. No! The chrysalis must stay in the position it was made in.

Swallowtail chrysalis usually takes on the color of its environment. It can be green or brown.

I found a stick in my yard, placed it next to the dill stem with the chrysalis and tied then together with dental floss. I wasn’t sure it would work. This chrysalis traveled home in my car and sat on my back porch for another week. Until Sunday.

There he was, like a miracle, fully formed and on the just right day before the school week started again. I was able to take him to school, show him off to students in the hallway and with the gentle help of Avalyn, we released him into the wild.

My friend Mary who originally gave me the caterpillar is out of town tending to her brother Carlos. I named the butterfly Carlos and now he is roaming free somewhere in Coteau. We hope our newly planted butterfly garden nurtures him, but as with all wild things, we will never know.

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This month, National Poetry Month 2023, I’ve been following the prompts on Ethical ELA, a virtual treasure of inspiration. But I keep writing about the same thing over and over. My father, my mother, my own role as a grandparent. I think when we write condensed lines, we push our deepest thoughts up to the surface. I’m trying to let that part of me flow where it wants (or needs) to flow. This week I’ve written two of these kinds of poems to #VerseLove. Prompts can be found here.

If you want to be a poet, I highly recommend joining in with #VerseLove. Just like the hashtag says, it’s all about love. Each day that I write, I feel wrapped in the arms of other writers, tenderly cared for. Putting your writing out there into the world is hard and intimidating. Finding a caring community is rare and special. Like the community of writers at Two Writing Teachers, the teachers at Ethical ELA have become my friends. I am grateful to all the writers there, especially the ones who seek out my writing amongst many and comment like wind beneath my wings.

Photo and poem by Margaret Simon.

I am saving my poems in a Google slide show which allows me to save each slide as an image and share it here. Above is a photo of my father and my granddaughter Stella in the summer of 2021.

Today’s Ethical ELA prompt was given by Jessica, a self-identifying cinquain.

I am a Grandmother

Altered
state of being
fertility startled
by faces of me reflected
in you.

Margaret Simon, draft
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

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I am following #VerseLove at Ethical ELA. A few days ago the prompt was taken from a poem by Clint Smith (linked here). Spending time back in my home town of Jackson, MS always brings up memories. When I was 15, I spent my summer volunteering at a church sponsored camp for underprivileged children who were referred by their teachers as struggling readers. The experience launched me into a lifetime career of teaching. Do you remember why you became a teacher? or whatever your chosen career? Why do we make these choices in life? How do we know it’s the right choice? I’ve always known teaching was right for me.

Something You Should Know
after Clint Smith

I became a teacher the summer I turned 15,
volunteering for “Operation Life Enrichment”
Ole’!

We gathered the underprivileged children
from the dregs of Jackson Public Schools–
children struggling to read and know things
like zoo animals and swimming pools and reciting
the ABC song.

Their skin was the color of cafe ole,
smooth caffeine
that entered my veins in their hugs,
their fingers in my soft blonde hair.

I learned how to cradle their heads,
singing to them
the lyrical language
of picture books.

I knew then
as I know now
my passion, my calling, my purpose
is teaching.

Margaret Simon, draft
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

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A little over a year ago, my grandson Leo, who was not quite 3 at the time, had a conversation with my daughter. He was sleepy and seemed to be recalling a dream about being bitten by a monster.

“He was sleeping,” recalled Leo.

“And he woke up and bit you?” Maggie inquired.

“Yeah, and it was bleedin’,” Leo said. Then he smiled and said, “You love bleedin?”

“Do I love bleedin’?” Maggie asked in a soothing voice.

“That’s rearry scary! And you might cry, too.”

The words “You love bleedin'” have remained since in our unofficial book of family lore.

Yesterday I had to go have a yearly blood test. Not my favorite thing, but I made it through, and the nurse was as nice as could be, but on the way to school, I thought about the Ethical ELA prompt. Stacey Joy had a wonderful post with links to beautiful words she encouraged us to try. I abandoned that part of the prompt and focused on creating a haiku sonnet in my notes app. Sometimes you just have to say what you want to say. And bleedin’ was on my brain.

Bleeding on the Page

I worry I can’t
do what other poets do
bleeding with deep love.

I gave blood today
opening my elbow for
piercing, dark red flow.

A tiny bruise dot
reminds me I’m human–
Blood tells a story.

Hemmingway says write,
it’s easy, open your veins
Bleed the words that flow.

So here I am sharing
my bloodsong with you.

Margaret Simon, #verselove 2023
Today’s post is part of the ongoing Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge at
Two Writing Teachers.
The Progressive Poem is with Buffy Silverman today.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Thirty days of writing every day. Has it all been good? When my students ask me that question, I try to find something specific to say. “Look at this imagery you included. I can see a picture in my mind.”

Yesterday, my new little first grader was writing a poem to This Photo. He kept wanting to use words like pretty and nice, and I pushed him to specific description. “Why is it pretty? What is nice about it?”

What is good? The Lord looked at all creation and called it “Good.” Why?

Today my Enneathought begged the question “What is good?”

EnneaThought® for the Day

Type Four EnneaThought®

Today, see if you can do the opposite of your ordinary personality pattern. Acknowledge the many ways in which your life and relationships are good. See what happens.

The Enneagram Institute

Here’s my draft-list of good relationships:

  1. Forty years figuring it out every day with my life partner.
  2. Three daughters who welcome me into their lives.
  3. Stella yells, “I see Mamere!” on FaceTime.
  4. Friends texting photos of spring flowers.
  5. My principal has my back when a parent complains.
  6. My brother is caring for our mother every day.
  7. Charlie, my 15 year-old dog, still licks my toes.
  8. A. wants a hug at the end of every day.
  9. My mother-in-law is a wise advisor.
  10. My writing groups fill me with inspiration as they challenge me to be better.

What is your list of good relationships? How do we recognize and nurture what is already good in our lives?

A thank you note I made for the leader of last weekend’s Women’s Retreat.

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Rainbow Promise

On wooded trails,
under the wild strawberry
a fresh fern unfurls,
new leaves replace old
heartshapes of gold,
a forest in rebirth.

Margaret Simon, draft
Rainbow collage collection, Lake Fausse Pointe trail photo by Margaret Simon

On a recent yoga Women’s Wellness Retreat, I collected things as I walked a forest trail. The instructor suggested collecting a rainbow. My collection includes an unripe blackberry, a piece of dead wood, a fiddlehead fern, a few wildflowers and leaves. When we stopped for a short break, I arranged them into something that pleased me and took this photo. I left most of it in the forest where I found it. I kept the heart-shaped leaf, fern fiddlehead, and the purple wildflower to press and tape into my notebook. We poets are pretty good at assigning symbolism to things. If this collage arrangement speaks to you in some way, write a small poem in the comments. Be sure to support other writers with comments as well.

I am planning a National Poetry Month project, but This Photo Wants to be a Poem will continue to be part of it. Consider adding this practice to your own NPM project. Follow my blog to get updates in your inbox. If you teach, you can use this prompt with students. Please share students’ poems as well.

I will also be posting links each day to the Kidlit Progressive Poem. I’m excited for April, my favorite month of the year.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Most days I take the slow, country road route from one school to the other rather than getting on the mad highway. I pass the underpass round-about that has been in some stage of construction all year long. Drive beyond the road where I need to turn because due to said construction, it’s been blocked. Make a u-turn and swing by the corner gas station (sometimes I stop for a Subway salad), and turn right into a grove of trees that transports me to a peaceful country road.

Yesterday there was no one on the road, no one following me, so I stopped at each icon to take a picture. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly and enjoy the slow ride.

The white cows have been birthing babies. I’ve watched as their herd has grown, how the mothers all tend to the little ones, and how they cluster together like kids out at recess.

The old red barn stands a little crooked, but someone cuts the grass. I secretly wish they would let the wild flowers grow. She seems lonely and old, yet independent and wise. I look her way and smile, resisting the urge to give her a name and throw my hand out of the window and wave.

The horses run and frolic in the fresh spring air. They are frisky and shy, moving quickly away from my presence.

Take a right at the white church. Saint’s truck has been there for weeks doing repairs. I honk and wave to him. He recognizes my car. I hear his familiar laugh as I drive away. This old church is our safe spot for our school’s evacuation. We’ve never had to walk here along the fields of sugarcane, but they will be ready for us if there ever is a need. Praying there is never a need.

Today as I drive this road again, I will be mourning the loss of another school shooting, saying to God “Why?”

My life is a blessing. All lives are precious and should be adored. Prayers help me, the supplicator, but until there is real change, gun control action, my prayers will be futile. When will this madness ever end?

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

“Some days are like that…even in Australia” were the wise words of the mother to Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst. It’s good advice. This mother empathizes and reassures Alexander that life will go on and tomorrow will be better.

This message in my inbox this morning:

Type Four EnneaThought®

What would happen if you stopped trying to understand yourself today? Would your world fall apart? 

This morning is a new day, and I’m not feeling as sad or overwhelmed. I won’t chew on my heartstrings all day today. I have children to teach. This is what I am telling myself anyway.

Grief is a weird thing. We all have it in our backpacks that we carry through our lives. Sometimes, it stays back there, weighing little to nothing. You think you’ll be fine. Hey, look what I am carrying with little or no effort. Aren’t I the strong one?

Then someone hugs you, touches your shoulder, gives you that look of empathy, and you crumble. Yesterday our choir master was back at church after a few months away. His mother had been diagnosed with end stage cancer and after she died, his father willed himself to follow her. They had been married over 70 years. This is not my story to tell, but it may give some context for why my own grief hit me hard yesterday. I was overjoyed to see him, but as soon as I hugged him, the tears welled up.

I wanted to understand these feelings. It was Sunday and all the while I did my Sunday chores, yard work, laundry, and so on, I wanted to understand and the more I tried to understand, the more I cried.

Today is a new day. I am breathing. I have a plate full of things to do. I will be OK.

Without even knowing what was going on with me, my friend texted me this affirmation:

I offered my best self today.
It doesn’t matter if I did everything perfectly.
The day is now past and I will let it be.
I am looking forward to the morning.
I have the power to make tomorrow a great day.
I will feed my strength with sleep.
Tomorrow I will grow further.

Source unknown

Today is a new day, a new week, and I don’t have to understand myself.

My hand gathering strength from a tree, Women’s Wellness Retreat, Lake Fausse Pointe

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Yesterday was Jump Day for our first clutch of wood ducks this year. We had a good mother and only one. Sometimes two will take a box and you can end up with 2 dozen eggs, but not this year. One mother, one clutch, one dozen. She sat for 32 days. I was so relieved they didn’t hatch during this past week’s cold front. They waited for warmth to return. Only 8 of the 12 eggs hatched. This ratio is typical, we’ve learned.

I wanted to watch the jump, but it was a school day. I kept checking the Ring camera and the mother was calmly cuddling her chicks. At 10:15 I went outside to plan a butterfly garden with my student. Then I packed up and left that school for my next school. Yep, that was when they jumped.

My mother-in-law came to our house for the big event with a book and binoculars. She texted me that 8 ducklings had jumped. Four eggs were left in the box. Enjoy the video from inside the nest box. There always seems to be one that has trouble figuring it all out. We cheer for this little guy.

New Chicks

Gentle peeps echo.

Jumping onto mother hen,

New chicks jitterbug.

Like petals on a pinwheel

fluffy down spins together. 

Wood Duck Diary Tanka, Margaret Simon, all rights reserved.

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