#EveryDayinMay - Roadtripping Dreams

It started with a poem. Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy. This poem is the inspiration for my last assignment of the semester. Write a Journey poem - a poem that tells the story of your life; where do you want to go, what do you want to do, and how will you do it?

While brainstorming for this poem, I got a little carried away with ideas for a giant roadtrip across these here United States of America. This turned into the decision that I wouldn't be able to see everything I wanted to see if I made the suggested brief entry into every state. So I started at Bing maps to see how I could turn it into two trips, one to the west and one to the east. I showed The Husband what I was up to, and his face lit up Christmas tree style. I'm not kidding when I say this man would sell everything we have and head off into the great unknown, you guys.

Then I found Roadtrippers.com, which allowed me to enter in each National Forest or landmark I want to visit, and save the trip. Of course, this turned into the realization that what I really need is several trips, not simply two big ones. Now I'm on the hunt to create four trips. I'm sure this will devolve into several more trips. Because, why not?

I made it to City of Rocks, Idaho before becoming hopelessly overwhelmed.

Here is the original image I found that shows the quickest route across the United States:

Now, if you are the type of person that just wants the ability to cross "See The Lower 48" off your bucket list, this might be the trip for you. But if you're a wayward wanderer, an adventurer, a consumer of grand experiences, you might be looking for something else. Something molded around vast starry nights, snow capped mountain peaks, and waking beneath an endless forest canopy.

I know I am.

I mean, how do I zip through Colorado without seeing the Canyons of the Ancients, or ignore Mt. St. Helens in Washington? There is far, far too much to see in one giant circle around the states. Add to this the fact that The Husband and I want time to hop out of the car and do a little hiking at several points along the way, and well -- you see the problem. It's easy to get lost just in the planning.

For now, I'm enjoying the idea. It's a glimmer of good things to come, adventures on the horizon. It's a promise waiting in the not-too-distant future.

And a fantastic distraction from that Journey poem, which still politely waits to be written in my journal. Perhaps I should get back to that now.

Where would your road trip dreams take you? Share in the comments - I'd love to create a map of destinations provided by readers!

Slice of Life Tuesday: The Secret Life of Names

Perhaps one of the things that makes the Appalacian Trail so appealing to me (beyond the thought of a challenging pilgrimage that takes me months away from my comfort zone) is the ritual of the trail name. You see, most everyone that hikes the 2100 or so miles of the AT in one season is given a trail name. I assume this began and survives because of the camaraderie that exists between adventures that spend 4-6 months climbing, crawling, freezing, sweating, and generally surviving their way through the wilderness together.

Last week I spoke of The Ranch, the yearly site of rejuvenation for my family. We are in the midst of preparations for this year's trip: making lists, organizing supplies, and packing everything we'll need for our short sojourn into our own wilderness. The Ranch has a happy familiarity to anyone that is lucky enough to visit. We have our inside jokes, learned tricks for easier tubing, and yes, in our family, everyone gets a ranch name.

Some people pick their own name; my cousin delightedly calls himself The River Goat, while others, like my oldest son, Dozer, gain their names through behavior: Dozer has a tendency to just bulldoze his way right through any bramble and briar that gets in his way, choosing not to steer his way to safety. But however your name comes to you, there is no happier sound than the raucous cheer from the river as everyone sees you coming around the bend and yells out your name. Ranch names are a silly and free-spirited key to the inner circle.

I love the togetherness felt at the river, and although I know the tight knit bonds that come from thru-hikers on the AT exist on a very different level, I believe we share some close similarities. In a few years my husband and I will step foot onto the AT for the first time, earning new names to add to our belt along with new stories to share the next time we fall into our tubes at the ranch.

Until then, I'll wear my ranch name proudly as I wade into the ice cold waters of the Michigan Boardman River.

Because She Is My Person

When I was very small, she pulled me in close and we snuggled and sang and told stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight. She taught me to swim, gave me my first Cabbage Patch dolls, and showed me how to use a curling iron. She bought me my first pair of "big-girl" shoes and my first bikini. With her, I learned how to sign, listened to stories of teaching children, and found the meaning of compassion. Each visit was more significant than the last, as each year I became a little more aware of just how special my Aunt Billie was.

As a teenager, our family moved overseas and a number of years went by before I saw my aunt again. When I finally made it back to her home, I was greeted once again with bearhugs and happy tears. We stayed up until the birds began singing their morning song, announcing the arrival of the sun. I shared the story of my life, stories no one else could be trusted with. It didn't matter that time had slipped by; she was still my person. She always will be.

Her children became like my own niece and nephews, and as my family grew our visits became louder and messier and filled with silliness. This is happiness to the utmost degree, family sleeping on couches and floors, cramming into too-small cars and giggling into the starlit hours while sharing stories and pictures and memories. I watched her pull my own children in close and snuggle and sing and tell stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight and I smiled because I knew she loved them every bit as fiercely as she loved me.

Eventually their traditional family vacation grew to include us, and we now spend two weeks each July on a road trip that takes us from Texas to Michigan and back, with a few pit stops along the way. We spend all year anticipating summer vacation, if only for this reason. Nearly a week of the trip is dedicated to The Ranch, where we spend our days tubing down a river with a cold beverage in hand and nothing but blue sky and warm sun to occupy our time. When the sun slips beyond our view and the the nights grow cold, we slip on jackets and jeans and surround the campfire. Everything about this trip is Aunt Billie; from the chili we all clamor for to the "shhhh!" that we can hear through the night when our laughter becomes too loud. Aunt Billie is in the river, too -- she taught my boys how to navigate the ice cold waters when they were little, and she's my favorite person to hitch a ride with as we slowly rock our way back to camp. The ranch is Aunt Billie. Without one, there is no reason for the other.

This year Aunt Billie won't be at the river. This year Aunt Billie has exchanged her tube for a hospital bed, her cold beverage for an IV bag, and instead of gathering by the campfire with family each night, she will spend her evenings in Bed 1 under the careful eye of the hospital staff at Good Samaritan. This year Aunt Billie has an auto-immune disorder that the doctors haven't quite figured out yet, and it is a thief that has launched a sneak attack on our family, robbing us of a precious resource we scarcely have enough of as it is: time.

This year Aunt Billie has demanded that we go to the ranch without her, not sit at her bedside and look pitiful. But I don't know how to slip down the river without hearing her laughter ringing through the trees or sit by the fire without her giving us the look and telling us it's time for bed -- even though I'm nearly 40 years old! Without her, a part of the ranch has been severed away. Because she is my person, and she always will be.

Aunt Billie, Uncle Craig, and a motley crew of kids that love them both!

Summer Slipping By

The past few weeks have been too full and too frenzied to summarize here, but I'll try with a list:

• Road trips, especially with 5 children, are loud and lovely
• It is possible to lose weight and feel better on vacation -- I have proof!
• The scritchscratching in the back of my head about what I "should" be doing is very loud when I am trying to relax.
• I love the just-before-dawn hours, the purple hazy grey hours, driving down the road, 5 kids asleep, chitter-chatter-laughing with The Husband as we go.
• Momster is still Momster.  I doubt now that she will ever change her eating habits, and it makes me very sad.
• Everyone should enjoy food from a farmer's market.  There is nothing else like it.
• There is still not much better than a tube to float on, a cold drink to keep you warm, and a spring-fed river to replenish your soul.
• It is possible for a 13 year old boy to break a 35 year old woman's heart.  Dos has decided to go live with his father.

There is much more, and the memories are like fish swimming about in my head, and maybe -- if I can get out the words about Dos, about my tiny boy -- my little monkey -- my rope climber, face licker, raspberry giver, misdiagnosed originally, hug squeezing little Aspie that will be sleeping somewhere else in a couple of weeks ...

Well, if I can get all those words out, maybe I will find something more to say.

Napping, Day 3

Today was a lazy day. While everyone played at the park, I stole a moment for myself to read, which ended in a cozy nap. So today's poem is about a nap, inspired by the rain poem in The Important Book.

Mentor text: The Important Book by Margaret Wise Brown
The important thing about rain is
that it is wet.
It falls out of the sky,
and it sounds like rain,
and it makes things shiny,
and it does not taste like anything,
and is the color of air.

But the important thing about rain
is that it is wet.

My poem:
The important thing about a nap is
that it is quiet.
It creeps up like a mouse,
and sounds like a mother's lullaby,
and it holds you like a warm hug,
and tastes like sea-salt air under the sun,
and is colored with dreams, big and small.

But the important thing about a nap
is that it is quiet.

Mentor text: House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

This was actually an older SI teaching demo from North Star. Since I decided to use mentor texts AFTER leaving for vacation, I've had to get creative!

I think this will be fun for my kids; there's a lot of opportunity for interesting descriptions here.

So, I give you Grandmama's House:

Northwood homes have personality.
An A-frame with windows like a chapel,
or a fat and lazy dog with his slow wagging tail
that thrums against a seasonal porch
as you walk down the flower lined steet.
Some have gardens with plump green tomatoes,
others are tall and skinny white skeletons,
paint peeling away with age.

But Grandmama's house,
Grandmama's house like rich toffee,
like hot maple syrup drizzled over sweet pancakes
all comfort and peace because she's filled it with love
wrapped her arms around you with hand-stitched quilts,
and steaming pastries, homemade cocoa
sipped from a collection of flower speckled china.

Grandmama's house
bubbles over with her laugh,
like the Fourth of July --
all jazz and warmth and brilliance.
And you can't help but snuggle deep
into Grandmama's home
embraced by the familiar creak of floorboards,
the pillows like marshmallows beneath your head,
the kitchen, where something scrumptious is
always just moments from your taste buds.

The pastries, the quilts, and Grandmama's laughter like the Fourth of July.

Poem from the Road & Mentor Texts

It occurred to me that I didn't explain the inspiration for yesterday's Poem from the Road.  I've decided to multi-task, since the new school year is pressing in fast.  So each poem I write is modeled after a mentor text I can use in class.

This strategy is two-fold: one, it gives me a no-fail way to come up with something to write each day (huzzah!) and two, I gain some experience playing with the text, which will (hopefully) help me model it with a little more effectively.

Grandpa Mogk's Farm was actually inspired by a teaching demo during Summer Institute.  One of the fellows used a sentence from To Kill a Mockingbird to show us how to use mentor texts to share great writing with our students and help them integrate these same skills into their own writing.

Hopefully, after this experiment, I'll have several good examples to share with my own students.  In the future, I'll try to remember to put a short blurb about the mentor text with the poem for the day

Grandpa Mogk's Farm (Day 2)

Grandpa Mogk's farm meant family.
It was Damon's silhouette running,
stick-sword in hand,
across a mile of hay bales;
Devin's giddy backstroke
through a pool of golden grain;
Steven, Ryan, and Daegan
climbing a towering pyramid of hay,
fists pumping in triumph,
adventure conquered.

It was octogenarians gathered,
swapping stories on the lawn;
children hop-skip-galloping around them
or bouncing along on Buttercup's back,
dancing into their own memories.
Rustling stalks of corn stretched out,
an emerald lake rocking with
the rhythm of the wind,
and horses whinnying a welcome
upon your approach.

Grandpa Mogk's farm was Frisbees flying
as we ran, laughed, tackled each other
to snatch them from the air,
a sparkling audience of bobbing kites high above us.
Sunshine warming our faces,
breeze across our shoulders offering comfort,
clouds lazy-sailing across a blue-blue sky.
It was Welcome! and Uff da! and Nice ta meetcha!
A place where the word "stranger"
was defined by the possibility of new friendships.

It was chocolate raining on strawberries and pretzels,
stuffing and turkey and warm wheat rolls,
soft lemon cake melting on your tongue.
Fireflies twinkling like Christmas,
the boom and the bang of pyrotechnics,
tiny shadows bounding through the dark,
calling, "Ghost in the graveyard!"

But most of all,
Grandpa Mogk's farm was laughter.

Poems on the Road, Day One

While driving last night I was thinking about a teaching demo on poetry at Summer Institute. We talked about the book Locomotion and looked at a list poem from the book to create our own list poems. In the book, the main character writes a poem that describes himself.

And that's how today's poem came about.

One big white van,
pushing forward.
Seven adventurers;
three grown boys,
two little darlings,
one gum-chewing navigator
and her Monster-swigging captain.
Some sleeping, some snacking,
all eager
for sunrise,
and fourteen hours
to slip by
quickly.

Road Trip 2010 Begins

The truth is, I'm a highly anxious, easily stressed lady.  Granted, if you see me out in public, you'd probably never notice this.  Throw me into chaos at work, and I can quickly come up with solutions.  If you aren't looking closely, you might label me as patient, diplomatic, clam.  Hence the chameleon.

Fling a whopper at me when I'm just around my closest family, most trusted friends, and you get a whole different monster.  Literally.

For the past few days, we've been busily preparing for our big yearly road trip across America.  This involves a ridiculous amount of strategy, given the fact that we have to take all our camping equipment with us up to the northern most part of Michigan -- and when I say "us" I'm talking about myself, The Husband, Uno, Dos, the two Littles, and Uno's best friend Dos #2.  Whew.

Since I don't like to stop at fast food places along the way, this trip also requires that I spring into Ultra Mom mode, and bake, make, mix, and organize snacks and meals and such for our journey.  So besides everything else we're bringing, we now need a huge cooler and a box for all the other food items.

Yipes.

Then there is my nonstop fear that we're going to have some terrible malady besiege us and drain every last dollar we have.

I won't even go into all the other worries and concerns I have before we set out.

All these worries, concerns, and craziness can easily result in what I lovingly call, "Ultimate Freak Out of Doom."

Trust me.  I've done it many times.  Temper tantrums, tears, you name it, I've done.

It's really rather embarrassing.

Luckily, last year something changed this.  For the first time ever (and dude, this is a serious accomplishment), I was able to plan, prepare for, and set off on our trip -- without a nervous breakdown!

This year, we've added three more kids and two more stops along the way.  I'm beginning to wonder if I have a desire to torture myself.

But, once again, I've been able to hunt and gather the necessities, get everyone rounded up, and in about 15 minutes, we'll be out the door.

The secret ingredient to my success?

The Husband.

He calms my fears, eases the tension, sets me back up on my feet when I topple over in a tizzy.

Granted, just thirty minutes ago I was standing in the driveway as he was zipping around loading things into the van, barking orders and looking a bit like a timebomb.  It just took a few words, and hand on his shoulder, and he visibly relaxed.  Things got packed, a little less stressed.

So off we go, Iowa bound (for starters).  I am so fortunate to spend the next 17 days surrounded by laughter, silliness, and definitely some good road trippin' karaoke.  But definitely, no ultimate freak outs. And that's a nice thing.