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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.
The altar flowers were purple and gold, a nod to LSU where my parents met.

This weekend my family and I celebrated the life of my mother, Dot Gibson. The funeral service was held at the church where I was baptized, where my parents were married, where my mother’s ashes are placed next to my father’s in the columbarium, St. James Episcopal Church in Jackson, MS.

The musical prelude was sung by my brother. He is a musician, and the song he sang was an original one he wrote about our parents. We were blessed to be raised by loving parents. They supported Hunter’s aspirations to be a performer, even when it didn’t seem like a practical vocation. In more recent years, Hunter has been performing at senior living places. My parents found their independent living apartment because Hunter had played there many times, and he felt it was a safe place for them.

Music has always been an integral part of my family’s life. Mom taught piano lessons and studied piano, receiving her masters and performing with the Chaminade Club of Jackson. She was on the founding board for the Music Forum of Jackson. Her legacy lives on in my brother.

Here are the words to his song, followed by a link to it on YouTube.

Reason That I Am

When I was just a boy,
time went by in such a hurry.

Carefree days and tender nights,
growing up without a worry.

Mother, Father, reasons for the man I am.

Don’t let go of the memory.
Let it guide you to the truth.
Don’t let go of the memories
of the ones who tried to pave the way for you.

Even through the troubled years,
love was always there to guide me.
Not afraid to chase a dream.
Knowing that you’d be there beside me.

Mother, Father,
you’re the reason that I am.

Don’t let go of the memory.
Let it guide you to the truth.
Don’t let go of the memories
of the ones who paved the way for you.
The ones who never strayed from you.
The ones who let you be just you.

By Hunter Gibson, all rights reserved

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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.

The old adage “Build it and they will come” has certainly worked for me this year. Instead of planting milkweed outside in my butterfly garden, I planted two varieties in pots. This was due to a discovery that milkweed is poisonous to dogs. And our dog loves to romp in the butterfly garden.

In the spring, I found monarch caterpillars on the swamp milkweed. A few weeks ago I found two tiny ones on the tropical milkweed. Because of all the predators (lizards, birds, etc.), I decided to put the two babies in an enclosure. What I thought was two became 6 very healthy caterpillars munching away on both varieties. I was hoping I could keep them fed for the growth period.

Healthy monarch caterpillars

All six made chrysalises. Four of them had moved appropriately to the top, but one made its chrysalis on a stem and another on the side of the cup holding the demolished milkweed.

Over the past two days they all emerged, two on one day and the other four the next.

Beautiful monarch!

I feel a sense of accomplishment that I successfully raised 6 new monarchs to fly free into the world.

Four new monarchs ready to fly free!

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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.

Have you seen Matilda, the Musical? I’ll take any excuse to see a musical. Our local performing arts league, IPAL, does a musical every summer with kids under the age of 18. I am always impressed with the skills of these young people and their directors. Matilda was no exception.

Last summer I took Leo to Beauty and the Beast. We weren’t sure how he would like it, but he sat in his seat mesmerized for the whole play. We took a picture with Gaston.

Leo, age 5, with Gaston from Beauty and the Beast (IPAL, 2024)

This year Leo is 6, which means he’s all grown up and knows about musicals.

Sister Stella is four. So it was a long shot to try to take her to the show. My daughter decided to go with us because two kids are harder than one.

Stella was not as mesmerized as Leo. She asked a lot of questions.

“Why is Miss Trunchbull a boy?!”

I explained the beauty of theater is that boys can be girls and girls can be boys.

Stella also had a little trouble suspending belief.

“Her father is so mean!”

“He’s just pretending, remember?”

Leo and Stella both enjoyed the time called “Intermission” when they could get treats.

While Stella lost her patience about a half hour before the play was over, “Is it over yet?”, she can’t wait to go to another musical.

Stella with Miss (or Mr?) Trunchbull.
Intermission snacks!

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Sam William

Twelve days ago, this beautiful boy came into my world. Wrapped in the stitches I crocheted for him, he sleeps. While he sleeps, I breathe his newness and want to hold onto that feeling that all is well with the world.

Six days ago my mother, Sam’s great grandmother, died. She slipped out of this world that had been her home into a new one, where we will all be someday. I like to think it’s a better place, a warm welcoming embrace.

I got a phone call message from my aunt, Alabel. She was once married to my mother’s brother, and she has remained a part of our family. Her message said, “I have been so privileged to be a part of your family. I’m glad your mother is now free and happy and seeing Johnny (my father)…I hear you have a new grandchild. That’s how it works, the saints are leaving and the saints are coming.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

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

I am spending some time in New Orleans with my daughters and grandchildren. Soon a new grandson will be here. But in the meantime, I took a walk in the neighborhood. A city walk is different from my small hometown walk, so I took some pictures to set the scene. (Don’t forget to add 80+ temps and 60% humidity to your imagination.)

We took grandson Thomas to City Park and walked around the gardens.

Thomas, 5, looks for turtles in the pond.
Turtles, turtles…all around…
City Park stone bridge

My One Little Word for 2025 is Still. Even in the midst of city traffic and busyness, a moment of stillness can be found.

City Park Haiku

Turtles sun-basking
While heat rises from old stone
Bridges to stillness


Margaret Simon, draft

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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.

This past weekend was the Open Write at Ethical ELA. I am trying to write a poem every day, but it sure helps to have a good prompt. On Sunday, Tammi Belko led us to write in response to the question “What is normal?” You can see her full prompt here.

I was spending the morning with two of my grandchildren. As I sat with my tablet and notebook pondering her prompt, my grands Leo and Stella were drawing. Leo, age 6, has always loved drawing. Now he is old enough to add words to his drawings. Stella, his sister age 4, is following in his footsteps. Her drawings tell stories.

Super Dino-Force by Leo
“The monster was walking in the forest. In the ocean, the whale was splashing.” By Stella

Kid-Time Normal

All they need
is a marker
and paper—
Imagination soars…
Dinosaurs
with super powers,
Bad guys
with two robot arms,
Magical crystal charms…
Transformed
Transfixed
Time stops
on paper.

Margaret Simon, draft

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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.

Waiting
for rain to stop
for lightning to pass
for time to walk

Waiting
for hen to return
for eggs to incubate
for ducklings to hatch

Waiting
for minnows to squirm
for ripples to fade
for wings to fly

Waiting
for water to break
for labor to start
for birth of a new grandson

Waiting
for swelling to abate
for injury to heal
for movement to return

Waiting
for her body to give up
for heaven to open
for another angel

My mother has been living with Alzheimer’s. Now she is dying. My siblings and I have told her she can give up the fight. She received her last rights. It’s a waiting game now. Her 89th birthday is tomorrow.

The Longest Day is a fundraising event for the Alzheimer’s Association. I am once again raising funds in honor of Mom’s birthday. The link to donate is here.

http://act.alz.org/goto/Dotgibson

My sorority ADK has made beautiful purple beaded bracelets. If you donate, I will send you a bracelet. There is little I can do to change my mother’s condition, but I can help the charge for more research and help for others.

Waiting…

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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.

Blogging in this space has led to many friendships over the years. Over the weekend I noticed that one of my online blogger-teacher-poet friends was in New Orleans for a National Writing Project conference. I am in New Orleans babysitting my middle grandson Thomas, so I reached out to Kim Douillard, and we met for lunch. I promised Thomas a visit to the aquarium after lunch, so he was cooperative. Kim and I visited like old friends. Her husband Geoff was with her, and he made the comment, “For two people who have never met, you seem so comfortable.” That’s the magic of meeting face-to-face someone you have been writing with for years.

Me and Kim Douillard of “Thinking Through My Lens” at a restaurant in New Orleans. Matching shirts were serendipitous.

Writing with others, even if it’s over screens, can be a powerful connector. If I read your words and you read mine, we get to know each other on a level that may be as deep as taking a long walk together.

Yesterday I dropped Thomas off at day camp and had some time to myself. I decided to take my notebook and current book of poetry, “The Stafford Challenge 2024-25 Anthology” to City Park for a Poem Picnic as suggested by Georgia Heard in her June newsletter. Today I am sharing the resulting poem. If you take a poem picnic, let me know. I’d love to read what you wrote.

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Once again, Georgia Heard’s newsletter delivers a wealth of prompts for writing. On Sundays I tutor a young writer. She is such a delight. This week she was eating cherries from her own cherry tree. I knew we had to include this in her poem, so I turned to Georgia’s poem “What the Trees Know.”

When writing poetry from the heart, you must turn to what you know. Amoret knows cherry trees. As I wrote beside her, I wrote about cypress trees. What tree would you write about?

I am pleased to share Amoret’s poem today. Her writing fills me with poetic-teacher joy. She has few inhibitions about putting words to paper and was happy for me to share her poem.

What Does the Cherry Tree Know?

A cherry tree knows how
To dance in the wind freely
And joyfully. The cherry tree knows
How to drink from its
Roots. To us, how it drinks
May seem fast, but to the tree
It’s like a walk in the 
Park. The cherry tree
Gets showered by a hose
Rarely, but mostly the
Rain. When we say “Oh no,
It’s a-raining!” cherries are 
Showering and drinking.

By Amoret, 9 years old

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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.

This month I am following Georgia Heard’s calendar of prompts for small poems. I am posting daily on Instagram. But this poem response “A List of Last Times” was a little long for that platform.

As the end of the school year and my retirement approaches, I am experiencing many lasts. Some are easy to let go off, some are harder.

Last List for Closing Out the School Year

Complete SLT “student learning target”
Last essays:
read,
evaluate,
give feedback.

Last lesson plans:
standard noted
opening
student work
closing
Submit for review.

Last Field Trip forms:
list students
collect money
get check from the office.

Last hallway walk
(How many steps have I taken on this hall?)
my own safe space
books, books, books
student voices echo
a full nest empty (fledglings flown.)

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

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