a poem called "September"

I memorized this when I was a kid, and I've had it in my head all month:

The goldenrod is yellow,
     The corn is turning brown.
The trees in apple orchards
     With fruit are bending down.

Well, the goldenrod is past yellow, the branches are almost breaking, and here's the corn all dry and crinkly:

Here's the rest of the poem, by Helen Jackson:

    The gentian's bluest fringes
        Are curling in the sun;
    In dusty pods the milkweed
        Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
        In every meadow nook;
    And asters by the brook-side
        Make asters in the brook,

    From dewy lanes at morning
        The grapes' sweet odors rise;
    At noon the roads all flutter
        With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens
        September days are here,
    With summer's best of weather,
        And autumn's best of cheer.

    But none of all this beauty
        Which floods the earth and air
    Is unto me the secret
        Which makes September fair.

    'T is a thing which I remember;
        To name it thrills me yet:
    One day of one September
        I never can forget.

Hullo, Autumn

I just spent a very pleasant weekend here:

Also, Autumn has arrived.  Mom and Peter and I just heard the first flock of geese heading south overhead, so it must be so.

Snoopy

Today the students are trickling back into the room from art.  I am staring at my computer screen, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with gusto:

"For the Lord GOD om-NI-potent reeeeign-eth!   Ha-le-LU-jah!  Ha-le-LU-jah!"

Through a haze I see students standing still and looking at me.  Suddenly I realize I am singing audibly.  I stop midway into a particularly hearty "HAH-le-lu-jah," mouth open.

Lasts of summer

Sleepy calves

New bales

Top o' the morning

Literally speaking, that is.

Social studies test question:  Explain the process for amending the United States Constitution.

Student response [and if you know this student, it makes perfect sense]:

1st get ink and a fether.  2nd start writing on it.  Finally submit it to the ligislature.

Literally speaking, that is.  (And this from the student who loves National Treasure.)

And an exchange from vocabulary class:

Mrs D:   What does modesty mean?
Student:  Being full of yourself?
Mrs. D:  Actually, no -- it's the opposite.
Student:  Oh, so -- being empty of yourself?

Incidentally, this is the view from the room all these things happen in.  Pleasant, I think.

used book sales!

findings:

And not just books either:  Some piano music, appropriately autumnal, with nostalgic titles:

1. To a wild rose

2. Will o' the wisp

3. At an old trysting place

4. In autumn

5. From an Indian lodge

6. To a waterlily

7. From Uncle Remus

8. A deserted farm

9. By a meadow brook

10. Told at sunset

And in anticipation:  Irving Berlin's "White Christmas"

This is a jazzy arrangement and my jazz skills are wanting.  When I ran through it on the piano, Mom asked me what piece I was trying to play.  White Christmas, I told her (peevishly).  "Oh.  It didn't sound like it at all."  (Thanks, Mom.)

Brussels sprouts and lunch intrigues

My lunches are an ongoing curiosity to my fifth-graders:  tubs of European-style maple yogurt with bananas and walnuts, homemade apple cake mush, baggies of organic spinach and green peppers.  They cannot figure out why I can't just bring a sandwich in a Ziploc.  ("Mrs. Eckstrom, are you vegetarian?")  Usually the first question of the morning, "What did you bring for lunch today, Mrs. Eckstrom?"

Today at the lunch table I was eating this:

"Mrs. Eckstrom, what is THAT?"

"These are leftover Brussels sprouts from last night with spinach and sunflower seeds and balsamic vinegar and olive oil."

"Oh.  What do they taste like?"

"Well, like green beans, I guess.  But sour -- because of the vinegar.  I don't think you'd like it."

"Ooh!  I like sour things!  Can I try one?"

I wish I had a photo of her face.  She mouthed the Brussels for about twenty seconds while the other students watched with glee.  Then the remains came back out into her napkin.

"EWWWW!  That is grooooss.  That does not taste like green beans."

Needless to say her spectators were delighted.

Blobfish

Recently voted the world's ugliest animal:

(Ever feel like this when you look in the mirror some mornings?)

From the CNN article on the topic (thanks, Mom):

With the grandiloquence befitting such an occasion, Simon Watt, the British biologist, television personality and "president for life" of the Ugly Animal Preservation Society, made the long-anticipated announcement Thursday night.

"The votes have been counted and verified," said Watt. "The mascot for the Ugly Animal Preservation Society is ... the blobfish!

Good to know there is a society to take care of such matters.

Other contestants:

Proboscis Monkey

Elephant Seal:

(For the full article, click here.)

Nine Eleven

This morning one of my students came up and said to me, "It's nine-eleven."

"You're right!  I'd forgotten that."  I asked him, "Do you remember what you were doing when nine-eleven happened?"

He said quickly, "Oh, I wasn't born yet.  But I've heard people talk about it."

(Suddenly I felt old.)



I was ten when nine-eleven happened.  I was sitting at the table in the living room, filling out problems in my orange health workbook.  I can't remember how Mom or Dad heard about it, but all of a sudden they were talking excitedly to each other.  They explained to us what was going on, but I mostly noticed how strangely animated they were.  I could tell by how they were talking to each other that whatever had happened was big.

We tinkered with our TV (which we never watch) and got it set up so we could look at clips of crashing towers replay and replay and replay all afternoon.

I had been planning to fly out to D.C. and visit my aunt and uncle in another two weeks.  I remember my mom talking to my aunt on the phone in the days that followed.  (We canceled the trip.)

Now, a dozen years later, I tell my students and little brother what nine-eleven was like.  To them, it is part of history.

Imperfect it may be, yet I am grateful for this country and its people.

Being Touristy: Part II

Yesterday I taught my students about these:

The Magna Carta

The U.S. Constitution

The U.S. Bill of Rights

I've seen each of these.  When I did, they weren't all that interesting.  I was usually more intrigued by the food in the cafe.

But I know why they were worth seeing - not for my sake, but for my kids'.  Now, when my students ask questions like -- "Is the real thing still around?" or "What kind of paper did they use?" -- I can say, "Yes -- and this is what it looks like..."

This is why it is worth it to "go see the real thing" (i.e., be a tourist - in England, Mongolia, Nebraska, wherever).

In January, I wrote about the same thing (being touristy) after an evensong at Christ Church in Oxford:

During the service I thought about all the people who had sung the same words in the same building for hundreds of years.  I always wondered if "standing in the same place as such-and-such was x years ago" was  really as special as tourists say.  Actually, it was -- but not because it was ancient or traditional.  It was because the words I was singing to God were true, and I believed them, and other people whom I don't even know had also sung them to the same God and believed them.  (Wow.)

That was worth it for my sake.  Now I have another reason:  My kids.  Being touristy (in the right way) holds promise for good, not just for me, but for all my students and students-to-be.

Riddles

A couple days ago I dug up an old poem to show a professor.  (I am doing a poetry study this fall.)  It is more of a riddle than a poem, actually.  I wrote it in imitation of a different riddle, which starts like this:

A Martian Sends a Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings --

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch in the hand.

[That's books it's talking about, in case you couldn't guess.]

Mine is more down to earth (literally).  Anyway:

Old Dog Explains to New

Dust.  Some they put on

their cheeks, with small brushes, but some

they push into small piles with large brushes

on the floor.  And some they make the big monster,

who always wears the leash,

lick off the tiles.  And still some

they keep in small jars and

dump on their food.

Do not bring it in from outside.  Also do not add

water.  No wet dust down here (Bad Dog),

but the Small Loud One may

put it on squares with still other brushes.

That is the No-No Bad Dog.  Do not

put your face by it, or be spanked.

They put everything small in there, to send

outside for the green man to take away in big bags,

and then bring the things back in small bags and boxes.

This has always happened.

Stay Off.  That is the Floor that Moves.

When they get on it, you will not go Out.

When they get on it, the Out is

wet, or colder, or sometimes hotter.

No no no no.  Bad bad.  Never do That

unless Out.  Cat may in the box of Her dust but you

must not.  Now they will put you Out

for not waiting till you were Out.

cleft shadow

I thought this was funny: