52 Years Ago This Week

I remember those days as one long grey fog.  I remember being aware, at the time, that I'd be remembering those moments forever.

I was walking up the stairs to 8th period math, distracted by the level of chatter in the stairwell. Something was afoot... no one was smiling... there was something about someone being shot... and it wasn't until we were seated and the bell had rung that the assistant principal's announcement came over the loud speaker above the blackboard:  Our President had been shot.

She told us to bow our heads and pray for him and our country.  I didn't know any Hebrew words to put to my thoughts, and I wasn't sure that G-d would be listening to my words if they came from my heart and not the prayer book, and then it was time to pretend to learn math.

We didn't get very far in the book that day; school was let out early.  I remember G'ma picking us up, my cousin and my neighbor and I somber but clearly delighted that school had been cancelled for the next day or two... until G'ma totally lost it and shouted at us with a new tone in her voice: "Great!  Maybe they should kill him again tomorrow!"

Grown-ups had never been that shaken before.  We shut our mouths and rode home in silence.

The next mornings were cloudy and cold and dreary.  There was nothing to watch on television except Walter Cronkite and the casket in the Rotunda of the Capitol and the lines of mourners and then the caissons and the little boy saluting and it was all so very sad and so very public and I didn't know what to make of it.

Our family wasn't big on showing emotion.  You dealt with your sorrows internally, unless you decided to lash out in anger.  Anger we understood.  Compassion was another story, entirely.  This week seemed to call for love and closeness and a drawing together, but my family wasn't big on public displays of affection, either.

Big hugs ended with a potch in tuches, a gentle smack on the rump, a reminder that getting comfortable might not be the smartest path to follow.  Or maybe it meant something else, or maybe it meant nothing at all.  I only know that relaxing into sorrow or delight was not something with which we had much practice.  And there we were, business and school closed down, our news sources filled with death and loss and Cold War worries, each of us in our own private silo, together but alone.

I don't think the sun came out until things returned to normal.  And here I am, 63 years old but still an 11 year old girl standing alone, out on the driveway, bouncing a ball and wondering how to think about a world which could make me feel so lost.

I was right.  I will be remembering those moments forever.

Hamlet at The Rogue

"If I had paid off-Broadway prices in New York to see this, I would not have been disappointed."

Thus spake Scarlet as we strolled down the alley to the free, patrolled, parking lot.  We'd spent 2 hours and 40 minutes with the dysfunctional Danish royal family, seated comfortably in the first tier, right on the edge, near the exit door. I was relaxed and comfortable right up until who-killed-which-and-why took hold of my brain.  I needed to know, I worried about consequences, I was a little teary at the end.

I've never been as entranced with the plot as I was at this performance. I saw Dame Judith Anderson act the role in 1971 at Cornell.  I've seen Mel Gibson and Laurence Olivier on film.  I've read it, at least twice, for a class.  Until this weekend, it bored me.

The Rogue Theater, this little place in this little town in Scarlet's words, brought the ambiguity and the conflict into as much clarity as the words themselves allow.  It's a complicated tale of revenge and madness and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, which we saw the week before, was of absolutely no help at all.  We laughed at Tom Stoppard's verbiage, but  I'd be hard pressed to tell you the story.

In Hamlet, though, I had no trouble at all.  Starting as it ends, with men at arms, the sentries drew me in and, before I knew it, I was going with the flow. All those phrases I knew but never could place were popping out of the actors' mouths with fluency, as if they spoke that way in the grocery store, too. I was following along, not just with the action, but with the words, themselves.

I don't think I am that much smarter now; I think The Rogue took the play to another level.

The costumes, the simple tapestry which, along with 2 thrones and Ophelia's flowers was the entire set design, the tenderness with which both the content and the performers were treated by the production, made it a magical afternoon.

No, it's not New York.  It doesn't have to be.

Dilated and Numbed Pupils

The drops went in easily.

The results are long lasting.

It's been 7 hours and I still can't put in my contact lens.  Bright lights are shooting through my wide open eyeballs and searing themselves on my brain.

Typing with my eyes closed has some merit...... if I were still in 6th grade and learning the skill.

For now, though, I will beg your indulgence and take the day off.

I'll be back on Monday... with normal size pupils

I Can't Help Myself!

I've tried, denizens.  I've really tried.  I must admit that I've failed.

I tried to make sense out of Ted Cruz's suggestion that we only allow Christian refugees across our borders.  I couldn't.

I tried to think about credit cards issued by airlines which will no longer allow everyday purchases to accrue points toward flights.  A brief foray into the mental machinations which allow me to feel justified buying not-really-necessary items by consigning the purchase to FlapJilly's Flight Fund Miles went just that far before ending with a thud.

There are rants about step-parenting and kids' basketball games which rattle around but get no traction.  There's the chip technology in everyone's credit cards when there is barely a merchant with the relevant software to use it... and I can't get worked up about it.  Not one little bit.

This is what I am thinking about:

 Running and Yelping (after finding her LOUD button) and Conquering the World.

I hope it gives you as much pleasure as it gives to me.

Basketball is a much better sport than football. I am prepared to argue the point.

It is easier to understand. There are only 5 players on the court at any time, and they usually have their names on their jerseys. It's easier to follow the ball when it's not blocked from view by 2500 pounds of padded flesh. The players' faces are unobscured by face guards and helmets; their grimaces and their grins are part and parcel of my enjoyment. 

The game frowns upon undue bodily contact; players don't suffer two concussions in six weeks (cf. Anu Solomon, UofA quarterback). There is bumping and shoving and pushing, but no one is diving into your chest, driving you to the ground, preventing you from making a play. Defense is played with the feet, not the hands or the shoulders or the head. I don't have to worry about brain stem contusions while watching young men play a game.

 
I grew up with the Knicks, moved on to the Bulls, took second in TBG's office pool with Jim Valvano's Wolfpack and have never looked back.  The pro game is uninteresting until the playoffs, and only marginally (to me) even then.  I like talking about Steph Curry with Mr. 10, but I can't name another player on his team.  

I follow the college game more closely.  DePaul... Arizona... I've enjoyed it most when I've had a home team. There are few big stars in the college game; there are great teams and coaches and rivalries, though.  It's the team game that appeals to me, and I see more of that in the college arena.

As I type, Coach K is letting his players suffer the slings and arrows of a double digit deficit, not calling a time out, giving Kentucky all the room it needs to spread its wings and fly.  Georgetown is on in ten minutes, and Kansas/Michigan State tips off after the Blue Devils /Wildcats contest.

I love this time of year.

What I Can Do

jean jullien on Twitter.com

The world is going to hell in a hand basket, and I'm feeling quite powerless.

Kids are being blown up at concert halls and small restaurants and I can change my profile picture on Facebook and repost meaningful cartoons but I cannot make a real and important difference.

TBG is finally able to recognize that watching the news in a relentless loop helps no one, least of all, himself.  We both share a certain sense of guilt, a need to watch and show our solidarity and not ignore it and go on with our lives but after PTSD visited last week, in all her damaging glory, we've concluded that the 24-hour news cycle will just have to go on without us.

And so, with Mary, my Yogi, leading the way, forty or so humans of all ages took a Meditative Hike this morning.

The "real" hike, the one with elevation and some rock scrambling, was cancelled.  It doesn't rain that often in the desert Southwest, but when it does, surfaces become slick and hikes are deferred to drier times.

I joined that hike three years ago, and walked to the first check point with Miss Cindy.  With two poles and a friend-who's-also-a-doctor insuring my safety, it was still both terrifying and exhausting.  I never felt that I was in control.

The scenery was beautiful, but I was hardly able to enjoy it.

This time, 

these boots were made for walking.

I strode up these steps with attitude.

I did not use the handrail.

I put each foot down, carefully, slowly, heel - ball- toe, meditatively moving my self onward and upward.  Holding my hands in anjali mudra was too difficult, so I satisfied myself by joining my pointers and thumbs on each hand, splaying the other fingers out to catch the light.....

the light reflecting from all the others making the same journey.

The stones were broad and well secured.

The rain had left puddles in the crevices.

Some tiers took two steps; some were manageable with one long stride.

I was conscious of my entire self moving along, 

rather than concentrating on the individual pieces. 

Those pieces were moving in synchrony without my help.

The waterfall was our reward.

It is a naturally occurring precipice which the resort enhanced to increase the water flow.

By directing the water toward holding tanks, creating a series of burbling ponds along the way,

they can water the golf courses in a xeriscape friendly way.

Loews Ventana Canyon Resort has received all sorts of ecological kudos over the year.

They take their stewardship of the land very seriously.

There are interpretive signs nestled in quiet places.

I stood and read and looked around and imagined the immense forces of the Basin and Range times.

Living on a collapsed volcano top brings tectonic forces home in an up close and personal way.

There was a babbling brook along the path

as we paused to watch the sunlight glisten on the leaves.

 The leaves turn on their sides when it's very hot, saving moisture and preserving themselves for better times ahead.

Bag It!, a not-for profit seeking to ease the fear of a new cancer diagnosis by providing information and folders and charts to help patients and families keep track of medications and appointments and doctors and verbiage.... with a canvas bag in which to carry it all, is all about living the life.

Sometimes that means turning things on their side for a while, until the world manages to right itself once more.  Until that happens, there are always hugs.... from friends and from the trees around us.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

Our little corner of the world held peace and promise this morning.

The Uuuvvvvvvvv

Out With the Old, In With the New

"When the repair bill exceeds the value of the car, the decision is a no-brainer."

Thus spake TBG, and I could not disagree.  Having heard nothing from Volkswagon of America (which is, admittedly, dealing with far larger problems than one falling apart GTI in Tucson), I took matters into my own hands.

I asked my husband what I should do.

He's the car guy, the one who keeps up on trends and developments and as he was questioning me about my requirements we paused at the same moment, saying the same word.  Tesla!

I don't need a $70,000 automobile, but Tesla Motors is bringing out a $30,000 model which would suit my needs quite nicely.  A quick foray on the internet sent me to live chat with Tesla.... which burst my bubble by telling me that there would be information available in March, 2016 about a release in Spring of 2017.

The Schnozz wasn't going to make it to Tuesday; I needed a new plan.

Reliability, safety, visibility, cargo carrying capability topped my list.  Honda came to both our minds.  At one point, our family owned 5 Honda products.  They always worked.  We changed the oil and replaced worn tires and belts and pads but we never had a technological problem.  Never.  After the past few months with VW, that sounded very appealing.

I took myself to Carmax, met a lovely man from Chicago who agreed that Steph Curry is amazing but Michael Jordan was in a league of his own, and Chicago in the 80's and 90's with the Bears and the Bulls was sports heaven.  Unfortunately, the conversation didn't result in a purchase.  The Hondas they had did not meet my needs.... and I was leery about buying a used car, anyway.

I have my own troubles; I'm not looking to take on anyone else's right now.

So, I drove homeward, only to stop at the Honda dealership at the end of the Auto Mall Parkway loop.  The Schnozz was clean and vacuumed and devoid of debris.  I parked him in front, was directed to a sales rep, and began to shop for a new car.

She sat me in a CR-V.... and then looked at me..... looked at the size comparison... and wondered if I needed all this car?  Had I thought of the HR-V?

It's a new model, which is always an iffy proposition, but it's built on the Fit frame with Civic and Accord parts, so there's nothing particularly worrisome in that regard.  The research I did on-line had only good things to say about it.  The only complaint was the lack of bells-and-whistles-safety-stuff... and I didn't want any of that, anyhow.

We drove out to the highway.  We parallel parked in a parking lot.  We made left turns and right turns and accelerated and braked and I just kept smiling.  I liked the color and the price and the trade in value and I made plans to return the next day and buy a new car.

Then I went home and had a serious case of buyer's remorse.  Even though the automatic, continuously variable transmission, gets better gas mileage than the same vehicle equipped with a manual transmission, I felt a bit guilty about giving up the stick shift.  It feels as if those of us who drive them are a rapidly disappearing breed; I feel disloyal to my clan.  

I had a mini-meltdown, feeling I'd crossed the line into my Uncle Abby's old Buicks..... big, soft, comfy and gooshy but no kind of driving fun at all.  But it's a lot easier to drive when you're not constantly shifting.  I worried that I would be a less attentive driver when the car did more of the driving for me, but, I found that, on the test drive, I was much more aware of many more cars around me.  I like sitting up high.

G'ma knew we were thinking about having a baby when we sold the MG and bought a 4 door Civic 33 years ago.  I could feel her smiling from heaven, nodding and reminding me that I am not as young as I used to be.

Actually, she's right.  Driving doesn't have to be a contact sport between the vehicle and the driver. Guiding this behemoth down the road is a much more elegant pursuit.  If I still lived in Marin County, if I were still hiking Mt. Tam three days a week, I'd never get behind the wheel of such a high profile vehicle.  This is not the car to drive on Panoramic Highway, twisting its way up to the top of the mountain, with a cliff on one side and steep drop offs on the other.

But here in Tucson, where the roads are straight and flat and go on forever, comfort is proving to be very seductive.

The whole process took two and a half hours, and I have to go back this week to have the metal door guards installed.  Caitlin and I will sit down with Joe, the go-to-tech guy who promises that he will explain Bluetooth and the menu and anything else that confuses me.

For now, I'm enjoying seeing the world form way up high.


P.S.  Are you wondering what her name is?  We were stumped for a while.  I didn't like Orca or Shamu; big is not the characteristic I want to enshrine.  Then Big Cuter and I were talking as he was looking at the HR-V on his laptop and he expressed surprise that I was buying an SUV.

I gasped, TBG comforted me by calling it an Urban Utility Vehicle.... a UUUVvvv.... The Uvula!

It's a good thing when a swollen body part connected to the worst experience of my life can be transformed into a silly name for a brand new car.

The UUUvvvv (pronounced You've) is here to stay. At least that's the plan; I bought the extended warranty.  85,000 miles here we come!

Too Much....

It's just too much.  I owned a car whose repair bills exceeded its value which made replacing it a no brainer and that was fine except I had to do it right now and there are GRIN projects and Burrow essays and Stroll and Roll and Cornell and ......

I took a deep breath and laughed at myself.  I am here to complain about it.  Beautiful, athletic, young mothers dying at home, surrounded by family and friends who are now bereft and clinging to one another... even if some need a bit of alone time.  They, too, are here to complain about it, but they watched her die and could do nothing to stop the process and now they are here and she is not.

Survivor's Guilt.... out of which grew GRandparentsINresidence ..... because Christina-Taylor won't have the chance to make the world a better place, I can try to do it in her honor... in her memory.... just because we had so much fun and I want everyone else to share the joy.

I'm laughing, again.

PTSD, the gift that keeps on giving, has been biting the butts of our on-line Survivor's Group with just these kinds of brain tornadoes.  Around and around and around and there's barely an exit ramp... I can be happy because she'd want me to be happy and then I surround myself with little kids and I'm joyful and which came first?

I don't know and I don't care.  I medicate with their love, and they learn with me and it's making everyone, including the teacher, very happy.

Christina-Taylor's involvement in the events of January 8th provided my introduction to this school, these administrators and faculty and staff... these women and men who smile and tease and tie shoes and listen carefully and marvel at the progress their charges have made.

Does it matter that I'm doing it because it mitigates the sadness, or that the hugs feel good, or, because, as her Dad reminds us, Christina would not want us to be sad, or because I feel a responsibility - not a guilty sense of duty, but a responsibility - to finish the work she and I were starting that Saturday morning?

I've always taken kids along to do good deeds; just ask the Cuters' friends. Doing the same with Christina-Taylor and her mom would have been no different.   We'd have found something worthwhile and meaningful and hypoallergenic (I had already vetoed Animal Control and the Humane Society) and we'd have made a difference.  I'm doing it without my wingman, now, but I'm doing it.

So, when days like the past few pile up and I feel like it's more than much too much, I'm learning to sit back, take a few deep breaths, and remember that I am, in fact, here to complain about it.
*****
For those of you hoping to find a second installment of Ashleigh in CarLand, consider this the preface.  I did the whole thing myself.  It's exhausting... nothing else is accomplished... and I run on fumes.  I'll have the weekend to regroup and Monday will bring your further tales from the automotive front.

Car Trouble

First it was just routine maintenance.

Then it was two tires, an alignment, and brakes..... about $1000 out of pocket.

Two tail lights went out, at different times, and neither could be replaced by the owner.  They required special tools and devices available only at the VW dealership.

Then it was $1700 to repair the sunroof, which refused to close.  They had to order the parts, which took a while.  Then they kept the car for several days, removing the roof assembly and installing a new rim.

I drove the car on the highway, and the noise from the air rushing over the roof was loud enough to drown out Mara Liasson on NPR. I was worried about bringing The Schnozz in for a noise complaint; I was prepared to be told that no one else could hear it.  Unfortunately for me, the news was even worse.  Not only could they hear it, loud and clear as the service rep described it, but they kept hearing it after three test drives.

The technician decided that the rubber gasket around the glass sunroof was creased, probably as the damaged sunroof made its way back and forth on the track.  He thinks that replacing the gasket will make the car almost like new.

Almost like new?!??!  What happened to fixing it right?  The most surprising thing about owning this VW has been the excellent build quality; it had nary a squeak or a squawk or a whistle.  Now, if I pay them an additional $247 to replace the gasket, the noise will mostly be gone.

That's just not good enough for me.

I've been driving with a noise under the hood every time I start the car for several months now.  They told me it was a fan, it wouldn't bother anything, and if I could live with the noise I did not have to repair it.  Now, I wonder if that advice was correct.

Did I mention that the car was in because the battery light flashed on as the noise annoyed me on the highway?  That light was not my brand new battery's fault.  It was the air conditioning compressor's fan belt which had torn to smithereens when the bearings in the compressor itself wore out. That caused the alternator to refuse to recharge the battery.  The belt and the compressor, which had to be ordered, cost me $993.

No one knows - at least according to the service rep - why this happened.  It is not an ordinary event. The fact that it happened two weeks after I had the car in for the sunroof repair; the service rep thinks it's an interesting coincidence but I'm beginning to wonder.

My wonder began to change to despair and then outrage when the service rep went on to say that both the timing belt and the water pump will need to be replaced in the next month or two.  How he knows the timing on their failures is a mystery to me and to him, as well.  He's just reporting what the technician tells him.  Should those things fail, the car will stop dead on the side of the road.

If these things wear out on a regular basis, why aren't they in the owner's manual for routine replacement?  It seems like a dangerous situation; had I not had these other problems I'd have been stranded when they broke.

The timing belt and the water pump will cost about $1300.

Including the routine oil changes and various fluid fill-ups and minor adjustments recommended by the company, I'm closing in on $6000 in repairs this calendar year alone.  The car is worth about $6500, according to Kelly Blue Book.

I'm contacting VW's North American representatives to talk about this. It seems to me that if the sunroof broke they should be able to replace it to its original, non-problematic, status.  Mostly gone... almost perfect....they don't work for me, especially after spending $2000 on repairs.  If the timing belt and the water pump are going to die within the next 6 weeks, shouldn't they have been on the check me, please list at the 60,000 mile check up?  Why do these things arise two or three weeks after my service appointments?

Inquisitive car owners want to know.

*****
I tried to copy this post to VW's contact page, but I was only allowed 999 characters.  I sent it to them via email, telling them how I'd love to tell my readers that I was thrilled with their response.  As of bedtime last night, I've heard nothing.

Tune in tomorrow for the every exciting adventures of Ashleigh in CarLand.

Ben Carson and the Media

Behind that mild facade there lurks a nerdy twelve year old boy.

"They are mean to me.  They are not mean to anyone else.  They are just mean to me."

It's true that Donald Trump is a bully, but he's mean to everyone.  Ben Carson is whining about the media's close scrutiny of the words he wrote in his biography, carping that no other candidate has ever been so closely parsed.

It's one thing that he doesn't know the name of the faction we're supporting in the Kurdish hinterlands.  It's another that he doesn't think Richard Nixon might have something to say about the media and its intrusion into his reality.

What about those pictures of Bill Clinton in his teeny tiny jogging shorts? Buzzfeed ran this picture with a caption describing Clinton's white thighs.

Does Mrs. Clinton enjoy having her hair and makeup analysed?  Did the Ford kids like having their escapades recorded in graphic detail?
As President Obama pointed out, the American media is a much gentler opponent than Vladimir Putin.

But it doesn't really matter, does it?  The people who will vote for him will believe his cries about disparate treatment regardless of the facts.  The people who won't vote for him will shrug their shoulders and sigh.  This conversation is being had for the benefit of those in the middle, those who haven't made up their minds.  The right answer is as obvious to me as it is to Candy Carson, even if the rights we know will never meet.  We don't need to be convinced.

And so the conversation about the moderators of the debates and the treatment of the candidates and the refusals to participate and who's in and who's out and on and on and on and meanwhile the world is going to hell in a handbasket.  I don't want a President who relies on his generals and his Secretary of Defense to answer his questions; just look at what Bush Senior has to say about the advice his son received from Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney to see where that got us.

I'm loving the fact that a man of color is running for President and his race is not an issue.  I wonder if he's thanked Mr. Obama for taking the heat on that one.  And while he's talking to The Man, perhaps he can apologize for implying that the media was soft on him.  Perhaps the reason that there were no obfuscations or fabrications or embellishments or out right lies reported after his books were perused by media savants was because there were no obfuscations or fabrications or embellishments or out right lies Mr. Obama's books.

I fear the candidate doth protest too much.

The Canary in the Coal Mine, or, Big Cuter and the NFL

There were several non-negotiable items in my son's Pantheon of Perfection. Among them was the sanctity of Sunday Football.  Unless there was a wedding or a funeral, Sundays were spent devouring the NFL.  His Perfect Girlfriend was welcome to watch with him, and he would be happy to explain anything and everything.  She could share the space while reading or crocheting, as he watched me do for decades.  She could go out and have her own version of a fabulous day; he wouldn't mind at all.  All he wanted was to be allowed to watch his games in peace.

That's why his photo on Facebook was so surprising.  He hiked, with friends, up Twin Peaks.  He posted a photo of the city which he took himself.... out in nature....  with nary a television in sight. His team, the 49'ers, was playing a locally televised game and he was not only not watching it, he didn't care that he wasn't watching it.

"Until there's a total change in the administration of the team, I am choosing not to care."

He watched the last part of the last quarter, but only because he and TBG were on the phone and my husband, who still chooses to care, couldn't find the game on Red Zone. (If you don't understand, don't worry.  It's not important.... on any level.)  Big Cuter was willing to share updates, but, for the first time in my memory, he was more interested in talking about life than about football when Sunday rolled around.

His disillusionment is based on more than the team's current dismal performance.  He began to question the nature of the sport itself when Chris Borland, a rising star on the 49'ers, quit the game after one season. He cited the risk to his brain, declaring that thinking was more important than playing.  My boy has a close relationship with his brilliantly functioning brain (I'm his mother, I get to brag) and this young man's decision resonated with him in a way that I'd not seen before.

Throughout his childhood, I told him that I did not sleep on a basketball for 9 months for him to destroy his body while playing professional football.  I've always felt that he resented that, on some level.  Recently, I've begun to hope that he sees, once again, how right I was.

And now, with all weekend to talk about it, Greg Hardy's domestic violence conviction  and subsequent overturn on appeal (when the complainant did not show up at the appeal hearing.. and we can speculate about that all night long.... from personal experience, facing the assailant is terrifying... and who knows what was said or threatened or feared..  and why should she have to be there once the case is adjudicated?) is on the big screen for all to watch as his Dallas Cowboys play in the national, Sunday Night Football game.

There are second chances and there is sharing a locker room with a man who beat a woman... even if the words on the indictment weren't enough for you and you needed the photographic evidence to realize what your new teammate had done... and all the talking heads were agreeing with themselves, saying that since the NFL's punishment was stymied by an arbitrator, the team's owner, Jerry Jones, should do the right thing and fire his sorry ass.... or some variation on that theme.

My former-NFL-fanatic son is "making a conscious choice to avoid everything Cowboy's" which is why he had other plans for the Sunday night game.

The NFL should be very worried.

The Writing Center

I needed the kindergarten love.

Ms Levine told me to come on down.

So, I set the alarm for much-too-early and arrived in time to give stickers to kids on the playground.

A fourth grader served as my minion, helping me search out those kids who were alone.

We extracted smiles, some larger than others, and then it was time to get smarter.

Matt is a modern day, English as a Second Language YouTube savant.

The kids were mesmerized.... silent.... absorbed.... imitating....

learning the days of the week and reviewing their morning routine.

Brush brush brush your teeth...

comb comb comb your hair....

with an acoustic guitar and a reedy voice he had these digital natives entranced.

Once breakfast was finished and cleaned up, the scholars went right to their learning centers.

The interactive computer activities were much less attractive than the table full of library books for this little one. She was quite proud of the softness of her shirt; we discussed the concept of nap with great seriousness. We agreed that a soft and silky nap is quite wonderful.

I was assigned to assist at the Writing Center.

The scholars brought their journals and their letter charts.

The crayons and the sharpened pencils were in the purple tub.

 Sentences were required.

The sentences needed correct spelling and punctuation.

Pictures were to be drawn in the box at the top.

The pictures needed detail. 

The humans needed arms and legs and necks and bodies and hair and hands and facial features.

It's an exercise in expanding on the possible, in learning to do more, in knowing you can do better. 

 I love to watch it happen.

Creativity came in the most unexpected ways.

I am in Colorado, he wrote.

Yes, he insisted, he was finished with his picture.

All the detail necessary was provided.

He was in the snow.

Once I laughed, he got to work on what was happening beneath the flakes.

He's funny, but there's no snarkiness in someone that young.... and that makes me happy.

Some just refused to write a complete sentence.

On the other hand, he took his time sounding out the entire word.

He was willing to erase and start again when I pointed out a missing syllable.

He did it all himself, using the chart only once.

His b's and a's all faced the right way.

It felt churlish to complain.

And then there were the girls.

The pink one was going to the mall.

Her pencil followed her mouth as she sounded out the words, then she moved on to the illustration.

Body parts flowed effortlessly from her crayon.

Her colleague refused to have a thought.

She stared at me with those big brown eyes, expecting me to answer my own question.

She picked the wrong grown up for that trick to work.

Once she figured that out, she, too, decided to go shopping.

I'm not sure what the first line says, although the author was quite clear as she enunciated each letter.

It may be words of her own, but I have no doubt they are spelled perfectly.

The purple lady on the end is me.

Some details are more special than others.