Silver Wings -- short story

Silver Wings

Silver wings shining in the sunlight…

“It’s a great opportunity.”

“But it’s so far away.”

“Just for two years.  I’ll be back.”

“Will you?”

            They were sitting on the deck of the local microbrewery. She took a long sip of her summer ale draft, staring directly at him, not even blinking.

“Of course. How long do you think an American can actually stay in South Korea?”

“Why would an American want to go there at all?”

            With that she gathered her bag, took a final sip of beer, kissed him on the cheek.

“I’ll call you later.”

Roaring engines headed somewhere in flight…

            “So why did you call?”

            “I felt like things got left a little weird.”

            “Ha!  Really?”

            “Look, we’ve been together for a long time.  But it isn’t like we’re planning on getting married. This teaching thing is something I want to try before getting married anyway.  So I really don’t get the big deal.”

            “You’re right.  No big deal.  You should do it.”

            He clicked on the red End Call button and picked the platinum diamond ring up between his fingers and rolled it around.

They’re taking you away leaving me lonely…

            Trying to explain this to his older sister was torture. She had helped him choose the ring just last week.

            “I just don’t get it.  Why didn’t you just ask her?”

            “I wanted to.  But she was so sure, so excited. And then, well, she told me it is something to do before getting married.  Just felt I didn’t have the right.”

            “The right?”

            “To take that away.”

            “Listen – she’s an idiot to choose fuckin’ South Korea over you.  And she’s over thirty, for God’s sake.  Time to stop living the fantasy life and see what’s in front of her.”

            “She likes what she does. She wants to expand…”

            “Stop defending her already.  I don’t get it. You need to man up and set her straight.  That should help her ‘expand’.”

            The server brought their food to the table.  He changed the subject.

Silver wings slowly fading out of sight.

            The ring feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket as they have their last dinner together.  She is leaving tomorrow.  She’s animated and slurping plenty of wine but not eating much.  She is anticipatory.  He is nervous and defeated all at once. When they kiss goodnight at her door, he tries hard to make the words come but they seem to have permanently lost their way to his mouth.

“Don’t leave me,” I cry

Don’t take that airplane ride…

That night he had a dream – several dreams, in fact.  In nearly every one of them a movie scene played out.  He runs to the airport with the ring and doesn’t even need to beg her to stay.  She knows the minute he arrives, and runs to his arms. This repeats itself over and over.  Each time he wakes slowly and comes to the desperate realization that it isn’t real.  Finally, he has a terrible dream where she’s kidnapped by North Korea and tortured, and needs him to be her savior. Wasn’t that a 30 Rock episode?  Anyway, the nightmare leaves him permanently awake. He gets up and shuffles around the apartment.  In a drawer he finds a card she gave him for his last birthday.  The cover is muted gold, bronze, and silver with geese in flight.  Not exactly the most romantic image he realized. Inside was different, however.  There she had signed it: “I will always only want you and only you.”

He stared at the words for a long time. Had that changed?  And if so, when?  She hadn’t said that to him for a long time.  It was a little endearment she had used over and over.  It marked their relationship.  “You and only you…”

            The words written in purple ink and the dreams gave him a new resolve.  Tomorrow he would try again.

But you locked me out of your mind

Left me standing here behind…

            Her flight should be leaving about now.  He’s on the airport grounds, in the cell lot, staring at the ring.  He had come there thinking he’d run into the airport and stop her, sweep her off her feet, like in the dream. Yet he sits, knowing he’s missed his chance, kicking himself for not manning up like my sister told him to do.  He

peers out the window, thinking somehow he’ll see her plane, see her waving goodbye out the window.  He jumps sky high when his phone rings.

            “There has been a slight delay, so I thought I’d give you a quick call because I don’t know when we will be able to talk again.  How are you?”

            She’s contrite, he notices, has a little give in her voice. He decides to use it to his advantage.

            “Truth?”

            “Truth.”

            “Torn up. Not sure what to do with myself. Missing you already. Wanting you to stay.”

            Silence

            He decides it’s time.  He’ll make the leap. Then run into the airport and find her.  It feels right for the first time.  But she breaks the silence before he has a chance.

            “Well, guess there isn’t much else to say.  I’m going to get going.”

            “Or you could stay and we could get married…”

            “What?”

            “You could stay…”  He hears noise, obviously a loudspeaker, in the background.  Yet, he can sense her hesitation.  Maybe sis was right.  This is the moment. She will see what is real. 

            “Hey, they’re calling my flight. I’m so nervous! I’ve gotta run. Are you going to be alright?”

            “Uh, yes.  I’ll be fine.  I’ll be just fine.”

Silver wings slowly fading out of sight.

#

Lyrics to "Silver Wings" copyright Merle Haggard

Merle and Jewel sing “Silver Wings”

The E-mail Teachers Despise

I received one yesterday.

It reads something like this:  "Reggie will be out of school all next week. Be sure he has his work today before he leaves your class."

GGGRRRRRR.

Now, if you are not a teacher you may be thinking, What's the big deal? What are teachers going to complain about now??? Well, I have a few very important "deals" to share and yes, I have a complaint loud and clear.  Before I do my venting, let me clarify that this has been a growing issue with me over the years.  My disgust with this e-mail can no longer be contained.  I really do let out a scream when I see one.

The Number One Reason I Despise This E-mail
It suggests that I, Reggie's teacher, am totally irrelevant to his education.  All I have to do is "provide the work" and wallah! Reggie can magically do it, without any prior instruction or guidance.  I am particularly grinded by the fact that very often this directive comes from other educators who I feel should know better.  After all, they of all people should understand our importance to the education of the children in our building -- right?  Why this persistent support of "sending work home" as if what we do in the classroom doesn't matter?  I can understand when parents ask -- they think they are doing a good thing keeping up with their child's education.  But in reality, it is a slap in the face to the teacher who works hard to help his or her child gain mastery.

The Number Two Reason I Despise This E-mail
It makes the assumption that education is a straight line and that every teacher has lessons planned weeks in advance, in perfect pacing and sequence, and knows exactly what will be taught next week when Reggie goes on a cruise or to a funeral or Disney World because it's the off season.  There is no understanding that teachers teach DAILY.  We are constantly adjusting our plans to make them work for the children because, surprise! we do care if they learn.  Teaching is not an exact science, as some would have you believe. It is an art.  Ask an artist what he are painting next week, or a songwriter what song she will write.  They will be hard-pressed to tell you.  Same goes for a teacher.  I have a slight idea of where we are headed, but sometimes even up until a half an hour before the kids walk through the door I am still fine-tuning the lesson and preparing last minute handouts. This is the life and reality of a teacher.  The e-mail indicates otherwise.

The Number Three Reason I Despise This E-mail
Even if I do provide work, the kid never does it.  And in this case, it is truly never.  Kids who are routinely taken out of school for said vacations and other dalliances of import soon learn that all they have to say is, "I didn't understand it."  OF COURSE you didn't understand it.  That's why I am here!  That's my job. What I am paid to do.  Degreed, tested, and licensed to be sure you understand it.  Sorry kid, it wasn't my stupid idea to hand you something you haven't been taught.  I've had to do it because the E-MAIL directed me to.  If I fail to provide you the work, I can be called unprofessional or worse.  I can be marked down on my evaluation for not communicating with your family.   So I purposely gave you work you cannot do, and now you are behind because Carnival had a family discount. I will do my level best to get you caught up now, two weeks later.

Let me share one of my early experiences with the e-mail to shed a little additional light on how I came to feel the way I do.

In my first year teaching I had a student I'll call Willie.  During the first open house before school even started, Willie's mom announced to me that he would talk all through my class -- which he did -- with her blessing.  From his constant conversation, I learned that he was treated pretty much like an adult in the family, although he was just a sixth-grader.

Well, later that school year his mom decided to marry her boyfriend, and needed Willie to give her away.  This involved taking a cruise -- couldn't just have the wedding locally even though it was in the middle of the school year.  I dutifully gave Willie all his work to do on the wedding cruise for a week.  Naturally, I saw none of it when he returned.  Soon afterward, his mother blasted me on the telephone about not giving him credit for all the work he did while away.  She said she spent hours with him in their cabin getting the work done.  I had to inform her he never turned it in. When I asked him about it, he said he had lost it.  I never heard from mom again, and a few months later I heard she was already getting divorced.

I was not surprised.

My final word on this: if the kid has to be out of school for something important, then train the child to do what it takes to catch up when he or she returns. Do not put the teacher through the gyrations of putting together work that isn't even going to be done, just to make it look good.  This teaches absolutely nothing about responsibility and actually trains the kid not to care about the work.  It will really save everyone a lot of aggravation, and will acknowledge the fact that teachers actually perform a service in the classroom -- one that can only be accessed by being there.

I Have Observed I'm Ready to Start Blogging Again

Looks like I'm back from my blogging hiatus.  School has begun in earnest and tons of time and energy is going in that direction. Yet, I felt the need to check in here.

This year I am teaching purely 7th grade. This is a big change -- the last time I taught one grade level was the 2009-10 school year.  I have intensive readers and I have got to say, I am loving it.  

In the classroom we have been spending a lot of time setting up our reader and writer's notebooks.  The writer's notebooks are decorated and covered with contact paper. The students have taken complete ownership, from my observation.

And that is what this blog is about -- observation.  This summer I taught myself to slow down and pay attention, and I'm glad to say that I am remembering what I learned this summer and am continuing to apply it.

My return to writing started today when I was driving to a yoga class. I began to make mental notes on things I observed, and then wrote them down as soon as I got to my destination.

Driving to Yoga Class Labor Day 2014

The town is quiet

A dusty white pony dips his head to graze at the fence by the side of the road

Dry palm fronds sway slightly as they lean over in the late summer heat

"God bless the broken road" plays on country radio

Royal palm tree trunks create shadow stripes along MacGregor Boulevard

I miss my turn-off to my usual parking lot

The road I'm on has a farmers stand with a sign that says "Georgia Peaches"

I realize I have found a better place to park

A shady spot

The mid-morning air hangs heavy

Now some gentle movements

For balance, clarity,

And even deeper awareness

*

This is the kind of thing I started training my students to do last Friday.

I started by asking them to make observations of the classroom, and then observation of themselves. We then proceeded into a listening observation. Each time they were expected to write specific things about what they saw and heard. The listening exercise included me playing my Tibetan singing bowl. One class got into an extended conversation afterward about lucid dreams and deja vu, all brought to mind by the sound of the bowl. It so happened that by 7th period my principal was in observing my class, and she loved it, too.

Then we moved to the poem "Observer" by Naomi Shahib Nye. This poem is about observing the world. 

I watch how others things travel
to get an idea how I might move.
A cloud sweeps by silently,
gathering other clouds.
A doodlebug curls in his effort to get there.
A horse snorts before stepping forward.
A caterpillar inches across the kitchen floor.
When I carry him outside on a leaf,
I imagine someone doing that to me.
Would I scream?

In the heart of the day
nothing moves.
No one is going anywhere
or coming back.
The blue glass on the table
lets light pass through.
Something shines
but nothing moves.
I watch that too.

We picked it apart a bit as we sat in our gathering place for the lesson, and then I sent them back to their seats to think about creatures and things from nature they have observed-- how a pet snake moves, what a butterfly does, how a tree moves in the wind. During fifth period we had some tech support people come in to fix up something on the smart board. I told the students to observe them and make some notes about what they were doing. 

I think the word for how I've been operating is "emergent."  

Finally, we got to the Marty Stuart song, "Observations of a Crow."  

We listened to the song and followed along with the lyrics. Miracle upon miracle, I did not have one complaint about it being "country."  In fact, my one student, who can do a mean moonwalk, was nearly dancing along as he sang.  We talked about all the things the crow was observing, and that in his dialogue the crow made up some words. They then had to write from the perspective of the creature or a thing--what does that creature or thing observe about the human world? What does it see as it goes through its day?  They were advised to write in first person to make this come alive.

It was a relaxing and easy lesson, and got them writing and collecting ideas in their Writers Notebooks.  The students aren't writing as specifically as they need to, but we have a beginning, a foundation to get us started.  We'll see what emerges from here.

The Sounds of Silence at Shiloh

I fell in love with Herman Melville's poem "Shiloh: A Requiem" the second year I was teaching American literature.  I remember a wonderful discussion with my students about how the sounds created in the poem -- the repetition of f's and sh -- caused the poem to sound like one big "hush."  It was only because of the poem that I wanted to visit the Shiloh Battlefield, which lies between Memphis and Nashville.  I am not ordinarily one for visiting Civil War sites, but this one had my attention.  More than 23,000 soldiers were killed in a very short battle here in April 1862. 

This past year I discovered a story in the 8th grade textbook written by Ray Bradbury called, "The Drummer Boy of Shiloh."  

The story is short and quite intense, and includes the detail of the peach tree blossoms falling such that they looked like snow.  The peach trees were no longer present at the site, but the area was designated.  The story intensified my interest.

While there we learned about the Hornets Nest -- a battle in the woods where the bullets were so loud they sounded like hornets.  And the Bloody Pond, where both sides came to clean their wounds and quest their thirst.  The grounds are beautiful, but the loss of life on this battlefield is beyond the imagination.

Being at Shiloh is like one big hush.  The best I have to offer are pictures and Melville's beautiful words, which I read out loud on the church property while we were there.

Shiloh: A Requiem

by Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

the forest-field of Shiloh --

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

Through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh --

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

of dying foeman mingled there --

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve --

Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.

17,000 Books and a Bunch of Goats

I was not even aware of Carl Sandburg's home being in North Carolina until it was suggested as a destination for our day together with my cousin Doreen and her husband David.  The home is on a huge property in Flat Rock, North Carolina, tucked within the hills and simply stunning in its beauty.  

We arrived at "Connemara" around 2 p.m. and had to walk a mighty steep hill to get to the large white house, which overlooked a large pond.

Pondside

View from below

View from the house

One of the most interesting facts about this home, and the thing that makes it so fascinating, is that shortly after Sandburg died in 1967, his wife and daughters sold it to the United States as a historic site, taking only their personal effects with them.  Inside the home are the 17,000 books he owned, his record collection, and every stitch of furniture.  Below is a photo from his wife's office with the calendar still set at July 1967, the month he died.  His guitar is pictured below that, with a bust of a young Abraham Lincoln.  Sandberg did not just write poetry, but is known for his several volume biography of Lincoln, as well as fiction writing.

As the story goes, Sandburg and his wife lived in Michigan. But in the 1940's, they decided to move somewhere else because his wife Paula was deep into raising goats, and she wanted an environment more conducive to her goat-raising and breeding activities.  Carl could work anywhere, so they picked up and moved, taking every one of the 17,000 books with them.

The picture below is Sandberg's writing room. He propped his typewriter on an orange crate because he said, "If Grant could run his campaign from an orange crate, I can write about it on one."  His advise to writer, which we heard him say on an introductory video is "Just put one word down after another.  It is when you try to do two or three at a time that it gets difficult."

His wife's bedroom.  Doreen reflected in the mirror

Pathway to the goat barn

The house itself has a wonderful layout, and the grounds include gardens, a caretakers house, and several out buildings and barns.  There are many hiking trails which are definitely used, as we saw many people on the trails, even on a hot and sticky Carolina day.

Sandburg had a rock outcropping he often sat on to write.  That was probably my favorite place. 

 "It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness; to sit on a rock in the forest and ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time -- the stuff of life."

Doreen giving perspective to the outcropping

An inspiring day

Music City Means MUSIC

Last year we did the tourist attractions. This year, it was about live music. Our trip to Nashville was sensational.  I got to see some incredible mandolin playing, and it has fortified me to go back home and work even harder on learning the instrument. Here are some pictures from our various musical events.

Tuesday night was the Grand Ole Opry.  We had floor seats this time, and the show was as enjoyable as ever.

The Henningsens

Bobby Osbourne

Jim Lauderdale

We also saw Maggie Rose, John Conlee, Mandy Barnett, Cadillac Three, and Mark Wills.

Here we are outside the Opry with guitars, no strings attached!

Me with the acoustic

Jim with the electric

Next up was the Bluegrass Thursday Night at the Ryman Auditorium. This was a bucket list item -- to see a show there.  I was particularly taken with Jesse McReynolds, an 85-year-old mandolin player whose fingers flew on the keys.  His sense of humor was hilarious.  What a treasure he is to the world of music!  I liked the headliner as well, the Sons of Leicester, a Flatt and Scruggs style band made up of some of the best in the business.  Mandolin player Ricky Scaggs was in attendance, and sat a few rows ahead of us.  We didn't fawn over him like many were doing, and did not take his picture.

Jesse McReynolds

Sons of Leicester

And finally, the highlight of the week.  When we heard that Marty Stuart and his band would be performing at the Frist Center on Friday the 25th for just the admission price to the museum, we planned our entire trip around being there. It was a beautiful evening for an outdoor concert.  We met a wonderful couple from Hot Springs, Arkansas -- Susan and Tom -- and spent a lot of time talking to them before the concert.  (She is a first grade teacher, he a writer.)  We got to briefly meet Marty after the show, get his autograph, and shake his hand.  A memorable night in Nashville!

Before the show

Marty's mandolin

The lovely Connie Smith

Marty Stuart

Kenny, Marty, Paul

Marty's fabulous mandolin solo...

...went on and on....

...captivating the crowd

The irony of a train going by while singing about that very thing. Marty had to stop and take a moment.

All in all, our trip to Nashville is one that we will never forget.  

Stories and Dreams: The Promised Land

Stories and Dreams: The Promised Land

The dogs on main street howl,

'cause they understand,

If I could take one moment into my hands

Mister, I ain't a boy, no, I'm a man,

And I believe in a promised land.

                                                              --Bruce Springsteen

Today I wind up the Stories and Dreams trilogy with reflections on "The Promised Land."  The words above are from a song with that title, and Elvis Presley had an album of the same title.  This idea of a Promised Land is certainly part of the mythology of American music -- a place where all is perfect, where what is important rules, where we are all One.  For some Memphis is the Promised Land.  For others, Nashville or Chicago or New York or LA.  Anyone who dreams lives to find the Promised Land in some way, shape, or form.

We visited the Rock and Soul Museum in Memphis that gave a detailed history of what we had already experienced in Mississippi -- how the hard work of the cotton fields and difficult employment led to the blues, and the blues were carried up Highway 61 to Memphis and came alive on Beale Street.  This museum made a clear connection between blues, country, and gospel, and how they built into the forms of rock and roll and soul music.

Near the end of the tour, there were plaques which made note of special events in the world or rock and roll and popular music in general. These included items such as Elton John singing at Princess Diana's funeral, and the Kanye West/Taylor Swift debacle.  However, there was one event I don't believe I knew about, and it involved Bruce Springsteen in 1975.

Elvis statue, Beale Street

This was the year of Bruce, and he made the cover of Time and Newsweek magazines the same week.  While touring in Memphis, he decided he wanted to meet Elvis Presley.  So he scaled the wall at Graceland and went right up to the door and knocked.  Presley was not home, and Springsteen was escorted off the grounds.  From what I understand, Springsteen never did meet Elvis.

For Bruce, the Promised Land had not come with the hit album or the magazine covers. There was still more to seek, and more to find.  Reading about this, I found this quote from Springsteen, a reflection on the event he spoke from the stage at a concert years later:

The passing of the King of Rock

"Later on, I used to wonder what I would have said if I had knocked on the door and if Elvis had come to the door. Because it really wasn't Elvis I was goin' to see, but it was like he came along and whispered some dream in everybody's ear and somehow we all dreamed it. And maybe that's why we're here tonight, I don't know. I remember later when a friend of mine called to tell me that he'd died. It was so hard to understand how somebody whose music came in and took away so many people's loneliness and gave so many people a reason and a sense of all the possibilities of living could have in the end died so tragically. And I guess when you're alone, you ain't nothin' but alone."




What Bruce seems to be saying is that we have a dream together, but each of us has to get there alone.  I am struck by the headline above: "Lonely Life Ends."  How is it that dreams we share, stories we live, the promised land we aspire to, makes us end up feeling so lonely and alone?  

I don't know that I have the answer.  Because there is something even more intense in Memphis that reflects this very same concept. And that is the Lorraine Motel, and what happened there.

Now the site of a Civil Rights Museum

You might say this is where the dream ended.  Visiting the various museums, studios, and Graceland, I couldn't help but notice it was primarily white people visiting these sites.  But when I got to the Lorraine Motel, it was primarily black people.  It helps me to realize that we still have a long way to go before we reach that Promised Land together.  That as intertwined as our stories and dreams are, they can still be miles apart.

This brings me to the story of music related to the night Martin Luther King was assassinated.  I first heard this story at the Rock and Soul Museum, as they had an excellent exhibit regarding that tumultuous time in Memphis.

As the story goes, Ben Branch was playing his saxophone on Mulberry Street, near the Lorraine Motel.  Dr. King came out on the balcony and asked Branch to play "Precious Lord."  It was shortly after that, King was assassinated.

Ben Branch's saxophone

According to the sign at the actual site of the shooting, King's request of the gospel standard were the last words he spoke.

Where Martin Luther King died

On the wall near the doorway to the museum across the street were the words from King's speech the day before he died (see below).  It seems to point to a man who knew he didn't have long.  A man who had a dream and had inspired thousands, if not millions, to follow that dream to the Promised Land.  Yet, he knew it wasn't for him.  He, too, was alone in this regard.  For even as King dreamed his dream for all humankind, he knew that the truth of "take this moment into my hand" is a personal thing.  The Promised Land is fleeting.  It is only here in a moment -- a moment of music, a moment of connection, a moment of knowing. It is a place deep within us all. A place that ideally we will get to together, yet our aloneness often makes it difficult. A place we have to keep believing in or perish. A place where our dreams and stories reside, carrying us forward, ever seeking The Promised Land.