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The Right Clothes Could Improve Your Memory

06 Friday Apr 2012

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 I often can’t remember where I’ve put something or even why I’ve gone into a room and yet I could tell you what I’d be wearing to work today, if I wasn’t retired. It’s the same thing I’d worn for years on the last day of school before the kids went home for spring break. I was their well-educated, sophisticated teacher, after all.

 Years ago, the majority of our school staff could be seen sporting this svelte form of attire. One fellow teacher actually had the exact same sweater! But before you judge, I want you to consider a few facts.  The elongated holiday sweater, with all of its designs and embellishments, complimented one’s body.  Okay, okay…so it didn’t flatter anyone’s figure but it did a pretty good job of just covering stuff up.(In its defense, this poor thing had hung in my closet, “growing”, for years before I realized it and put it in a drawer.) Deciding what to wear that Friday before Easter was never a problem, once the pink rabbit sweater came into my life. And there was something quite festive about walking around the classroom, all day, in a sweater that made such a bold statement. Even if that statement was…”The teacher dresses funny.” 

I was thrilled when I went to a  local high school campus, last December, and saw many of the students dressed in colorful holiday sweaters. I thought I’d found a  kinder, gentler, student body until I was informed it was Ugly Sweater Day. Adolescents…what do they know anyway?

 Researchers recognize that, as a general rule, we remember those emotionally charged events better than the dull, boring ones. I can attest to the fact that those days in a classroom, before a holiday…with all those classroom festivities… are pretty unforgettable. There is also some research to suggest that memories are more easily retained when they are accompanied with vivid, visual images. So I’m thinking that holiday celebration days, from my classroom, will be a part of my memory for a long time. Although the sweaters might be ugly…the memories are sweet.

 

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Lessons Learned From the “Little People”

15 Thursday Mar 2012

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It happened every year on St. Patrick’s Day.  I’d swing open the door of my  classroom to 30 eagerly awaiting kindergarteners and prepare to deliver the unsettling news. Our classroom was a mess. Somehow, blocks and toys had been left all over the floor, paints had been tipped over, and tiny little green footprints covered the countertops and whiteboards!  The children would always be horrified…delightfully horrified.

There was never any argument about the clean-up. Everyone was anxious  to help, confident that under the next pile of blocks or in the next cupboard, they would find the leprechaun responsible for the mess. It had to be a leprechaun, didn’t it? Although an actual mischievous sprite of Irish folklore was never caught, several were seen running past the door or escaping over the playground fence. It would be well into April before the sightings stopped.

I suspicioned that when I left kindergarten for third grade , I’d miss the naive charm of a five-year old.  Although most third graders no longer believed in leprechauns or other fascinating creatures, they delighted in other things. One of those things was the magic of nature. A lizard zipping across the pavement would bring squeals of excitement from most eight-year olds. I was always reminding my students that a paper cup and a handful of grass was not the natural habitat for ladybugs but there were times when their wide eyes, brimming with tears, would force me to concede…”How about releasing them after you show  mom and dad?”  Their enhancement with nature was undeniable and it didn’t stop with living things.

We were lucky enough to have a large, six-foot window in our classroom that looked out on a grassy area and several trees. Not the students that passed by the window or even the workers that climbed ladders, in front of our window to the roof, caused as much of a distraction as the changing weather.  Every time it started to rain, there would be a rumble in the classroom, a couple of my most impulsive students escaping from their seats to get a closer look. The first time it happened, I headed to the window with full intentions of closing the blinds.  But, I stopped.

Wasn’t curiosity the very thing that teachers hoped to encourage? I believed it played as important of a role, in the education of a child, as learning facts. And isn’t a certain portion of  adult success (that is a long-term goal of educators, after all) measured by personal happiness? It always seemed to me that happiness had more to do with being awed by life and the things around you than it did with wealth or fame.

But most of all, I had promised myself, as a young college student, that I would always be a champion of childhood.  Closing the blinds, at that moment, would be communicating that enjoying the sights and sounds of the rain was far less important than our lessons. But the rain wouldn’t last forever and their attention spans were short. The mystery of the rain would pass and we would be able to get back to the joys of multiplication. But for now, for this short moment in time, we needed to delight in what was in front of us. And so we did.

I learned numerous lessons, from my students, over the course of my teaching career. I always knew childhood was a magical time but they reminded me, year after year, that keeping life magical had a lot to do with knowing when to let your imagination run wild and remembering to view everyday events as celebrations. And those, thank goodness, are lessons I don’t have to let go of as I age.

Rosary High School’s RED and GOLD… It’s Much Ado About Teamwork

06 Tuesday Mar 2012

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Mathematically, it just doesn’t add up.  Take a group of about six hundred high school girls, give them the task of creating two school-wide competing musicals that include all the basic elements of theater, without the benefits of an extended timeline or a generous budget and then anticipate a delightfully creative, energetic production evidenced by sold-out performances. It may not “add up” but that is exactly what happens every year, at Rosary High School.

Rosary High School is a Catholic High School for girls located in Fullerton, California. It’s a high school, like many others, populated with students of diverse interests and skills. It isn’t made up of students who have all decided to pursue a  profession in theater or the arts.  But once a year, for six weeks, they work together like they were auditioning for the TV show Smash!

Red and Gold is their honored, forty-two year tradition. Its goal is to “unify the school community and profoundly deepen school spirit, loyalty, and pride.” The students are divided into two teams (the Red and Gold Teams) which are led by student producers and captains. These teams must then work to create a script that coordinates with the year’s theme as well as produce dance/musical numbers, create costumes, track the budget and create publicity ,and build props and scenery.   And don’t assume that those girls can’t wield power tools!  The local boys Catholic high school, Servite, provides some technical support as the Black Team, but the girls don’t ever forget who is in charge.  The White Team (a neutral team made up of ASB members and representatives of the junior and senior class) helps with the logistics and announces the winner at the end of the last performance. The performances truly have to be witnessed to be believed.

Watch the girls at the  Red and Gold kick-off rally and the 2012 theme is announced.

http://rosaryhs.org/apps/video/watch.jsp?v=26166

 I remember the first time that I sat in the audience for a Red and Gold Production. The energy in the theater was unmistakable and when the girls hit the stage, their obvious dedication and talent overwhelming. It is rare within the intimidating high school experience that the opportunity is provided for students to take a risk and try something they have never done before with the support of friends and peers.  It is true that this kind of achievement would never be possible if it weren’t for a school administration/staff that supports the idea and champion the girls along the way, and the parents, who are the girls’ biggest fans. But it is a testament to the girls, themselves, and the power of teamwork. Collaborating to achieve a common goal while celebrating individual strengths… priceless life skills best learned by experiencing them first hand. Kudos to Rosary High School, and its staff, for recognizing that fact. And praise to those Rosary girls who go above and beyond to make Red and Gold such a magical event.

“Where the Sidewalk Ends” is this year’s Red and Gold theme. The performance opens on Friday night, March 9, with additional performances on Saturday, March 10, at the Servite Theater, in Anaheim.

Red and Gold Program 2011

My Four Star Style Resolution

01 Sunday Jan 2012

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I have had “live in 4 star style” as a New Year’s Resolution for as long as I have been writing resolutions. The expression obviously comes from the rating system of restaurants and hotels that existed in the years I first started contemplating resolutions. In the 1970s, grade point averages peaked at 4.0 and so did rating systems. But my resolution has nothing to do with living a sumptuous life. In the same way that a quaint, unassuming bed and breakfast might qualify for a top rating because of its uniqueness, quality of service, or the fact that it is situated on a breathtaking ocean bluff, I attempt to live my life in my own personal 4 star style.

For me, that means being true to myself and my sense of celebration of life through relationships and an attitude of appreciation.  It means things like keeping a gratitude journal, hiding love notes in my husband’s gym bag, adding a personal greeting to that birthday card (not just my signature), and not waiting for a special occasion to use the “good” dishes.  It’s about being a little more patient, being a little more forgiving. 

In classic goal setting terms, this is a ridiculous resolution. It gets points for being a goal that is under my control but how do I make it specific and measurable?  I don’t even want to.  How do I know when I’ve been successful? I know. There is a certain element of spontaneity that this resolution requires and yet there has to be planning to make it successful. It’s an oxymoron, of some type. Sometimes I lead with my head and sometimes my heart. Even without specific timelines or markers to meet, there are days and times when I know that I have failed miserably.  I know when I’ve been too tired or too focused, on myself, to put in the extra effort. I know when I’m just being lazy. But I also recognize when the extra effort turns an ordinary day into something special.  Each day really is a new beginning and I like that.

And so I enter 2012 with my absurdly undefined and basically outdated (I know I should update to 5 Star Style) resolution. But it is my “old tradition” and it makes a year of 365 or 366 days full of possibilities…. possibilities for celebration.

Do You Remember Taffy…that Infamous Welshman?

17 Monday Oct 2011

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My neighbor is in the process of putting together a costume for her five-year old daughter. Kindergarteners from the local elementary school will be participating in a Halloween parade, this year, dressed as characters from nursery rhymes. Little Bo Peep… Little Miss Muffet… The Queen of Hearts… All require dramatic costuming and provide the opportunity for props… desirable options for a parade of this sort. We can’t help but chuckle at the thought of a classroom full of elaborately costumed five-year olds.

Years ago, in preparation for a teaching career, I was enrolled in a children’s literature class. I had loved the nursery rhymes, as a child, so I was excited when it came time to discuss them, in class. Instead of focusing on the colorful characters or the meter of the verses, we examined their content for violent themes, learning that many of the well-known nursery rhymes were never really intended for children. I found that fact interesting but I would have rather discussed why these rhymes still have so much appeal. Understanding that nursery rhymes were cartoons, of sorts, with their roots in the political and social undertones of the day, explained why they were often politically incorrect. But did anybody have any insight into how children explained the “plots” to themselves? I should have asked but it was the 70s…we were focusing on social injustices.

Rereading all of these nursery rhymes, in my college class, made me curious. Did I have a favorite one, as a child? Did it have a violent theme? Did I ever question the stories depicted in those rhymes? My mother didn’t even hesitate when I asked her about my favorite nursery rhyme.  My unchallenged favorite?   Taffy was a Welshman

TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN

Taffy was a Welshman. Taffy was a thief;

Taffy came to my house and stole a side of beef;

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed;

I picked up a marrow bone and hit him on the head.

Mama Lisa's World @ mamalisa.com (from National Nursery Book/publication date unknown)

Sort of a bizarre choice for a girly-girl who disliked confrontation. But I recognized it, as soon as my mom said the title, and I immediately could recite those four verses from memory. I would later learn that there are numerous verses and versions of this nursery rhyme. But the gist of the rhyme is clear from these four lines and they were the ones that made me laugh.

It could be argued that this is a rhyme with anti-Welsh lyrics. It was popular in England, in the 1800s, at a time when it was thought neighbors from Wales were stealing from the English. But there is also another theory that says the rhyme has its origins in Celtic Mythology. Taffy was derived from Amaethon, the God of Welsh Agriculture, well-known for stealing wild life from the God of the Otherworld. How did I handle this politically incorrect verse? Politically what? I just assumed Welshman was Taffy’s family name.

How did I handle the violent actions in the rhyme? I was somewhat of a shy child and I didn’t handle my frustrations by whacking others. Sometimes I saw my classmates do it but I never remember thinking that was funny. Reading about someone being hit on the head, with a bone, was very funny to me. Perhaps because I knew it was just a made up story. Maybe because table manners were important in our house and it struck me as hilarious that someone would take a meat bone, from their dinner plate, and sprint across the street with it.  It really didn’t need explanation, for me. I knew that characters in books and poems often did things that I couldn’t or shouldn’t do.

I came away, from that class, with the opinion that educators/parents need to be aware of what their children are reading as well as paying attention to their interpretations and reactions. No person, with a conscience, purposely endorses violence or encourages prejudice so we need to make sure that we don’t do it inadvertently Once we’ve done that, we might be able to just sit back and enjoy the rhyming verses, the charming illustrations, and in many cases, the humor of it all.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlBvbVbGDLY

It’s Autumn on Balboa Island

02 Sunday Oct 2011

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One of the most delightful things about being retired is the ability to make a simple event, like eating lunch, into an excursion. My husband and I recently made a lunchtime journey to Balboa Island, a picturesque island nestled between Newport Peninsula and the city of Newport Beach. It’s a southern California location just about fifteen minutes from our home.

This bridge and the ferry are the only ways of entering Balboa Island.

As you can imagine, this charming place is a hot spot in the summer. The ferries that trek between the island and the peninsula are typically packed with cars, bicyclists, and pedestrians, all anxious to get onto the island or to the peninsula where The Balboa Fun Zone awaits. Yachts, sailboats, and  kayaks busily navigate the waters surrounding the island. Bicyclists, roller-bladers, and folks, just out for walk, fill the sidewalk, which runs the perimeter of the island, at the water’s edge. Marine Avenue, the island’s aptly named main street, is lined with small boutiques, coffee shops, and restaurants as well as a post office, fire department, and grocery store…all the necessities for those who call Balboa Island home. Despite all of the activity, being on this quaint island is peaceful and relaxing and provides, at least temporarily, an escape from the everyday routines of the real world.

But we weren’t having lunch on a summer day. Summer had been dismissed and a stroll around the island reminded us of that fact. A fall day on the island is a stark contrast to a typical summer day. The activity level has definitely dropped as the weather has cooled and the vacationers have gone home.

Sailing class enrollment is down.

A lone sailboat in the bay

A ride on the ferry minus the cars.

A somber Balboa Fun Zone typically bustling with activity.

The change of seasons provides a break from the challenging parking conditions and the crowded sidewalks as well as furnishing the residents with new decorating opportunities.

Pumpkins on a pier!

Battened down umbrellas and a pumpkin centerpiece add to this picturesque setting.

Fall means displaying your team spirit!

Flags fly year-round on the island. A beautiful sight even against the overcast skies.

We ended our visit with a walk down Marine Avenue.  Traffic remains on the only street on and off of the island as the local visitors continue to enjoy the island throughout the year. But we didn’t see a single person, that day, enjoying a frozen banana or a Balboa Bar. Final proof that summer is behind us.

No crowds at the candy store today.

There are even some available spaces to park your bicycle.

We hated to leave!

Our sentiments exactly...regardless of the season!

The Miraculous Make-Over of the Little House

23 Friday Sep 2011

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I fought back the tears as I signed my name on the line marked SELLER. I fought back the tears as I pressed my inky thumb in the Notary’s document book and I fought back the tears when I handed over the envelope at the Fed-Ex counter but once back in the seclusion of my own home…I gave up the fight.

Many years ago, my mother said, “Promise me you’ll do something with the little house after I’m gone.” She was referring to her childhood home, a small house that sat on the gentle slopes of the Oquirrah Mountains in Utah. Built in the 1920s, my grandparents were its first and only owners and my mother had lived there until she left for college. The house might have been diminutive but it was always loved and well-tended. My grandmother sewed the curtains that hung in its windows and cared for the billowy hydrangea that flourished on the side of the house. I never knew my grandmother but I saw her handiwork every time my mother pulled out one of her tablecloths or quilts. I was well aware of her love for family and the elementary school children she taught. My grandfather and I, on the other hand, were great buddies. He taught me to whistle before I could talk and bought me  pink corduroy overalls after watching me attempt to crawl in a dress. He called me his little giant interpreting my persistence as strength instead of what I suspect it really was… stubbornness. I loved him with all of my young heart. My mother’s sentimental attachment to this tiny house made it difficult for her to let it go even though being an absentee landlord, after my grandfather had passed away, had never been easy. As the little house aged, it needed more and more attention and I was well aware that it had become a concern for her.

The little house in the 1920s.

As parents age and roles reverse, providing support can be a challenge, but it can also provide opportunities. Opportunities that give you a chance to repay a bit of the love and support that has been demonstrated towards you, over the years. My mother had been a parent, a friend… an encourager all of my life. I knew that I would do everything I could to fulfill her request to take care of her childhood home.  So, after her death, my husband and I headed to Utah, to determine what our first steps would be in carrying out her wishes.

A dear family friend, Ken, had been acting as a rental agent and general handyman for the little house for many years. He was more than willing to help us make a list of initial repairs and actually complete some of the work himself. The process would take time as we would have to proceed in baby steps…we were both working and money would be a consideration… but it was a start. Nothing I could do would ever fill the emptiness that I felt after losing my mother but the thought of working on the little house, the house that had been the setting of so many of her cherished childhood memories, brought me immense joy. As we flew home to California, after that initial visit, I was encouraged and filled with anticipation.

Upon returning home, we resumed our jobs and routines and I continued to be energized with each little step we took towards our goal. One day, I returned from work to a message from the insurance company informing me that there had been a fire in the little house. The external damage was minimal but the interior structural damage was significant. The cost of rebuilding would exceed the little house’s value so it could not be rebuilt. The insurance company would cover the cost of demolition and removal of materials.  They would be in touch as to our next steps.

My father had passed away when my mother was in her forties. She was such a young widow and she used to say to me, “If we can live without your father…we can live without any thing.” I knew this house was just a possession, just a thing. I diligently tried to hear her voice and have that familiar message give me solace.  Logic and reason couldn’t change anything…my heart was broken. The next few weeks were a blur filled with numerous bits of information from both the insurance company and the fire department. Thank God, we were between renters, so we didn’t have the concern for human safety. The arson investigators determined there was no foul play so signing papers appeared to be all that was needed to close our case. End of story…or so it would seem.

Another phone message, about two weeks later, changed everything and redirected the fate of the little house. A contractor had been found that would build a new home for the insured amount. Pushing my surprise and confusion aside, I focused on preparing for a meeting where, I was assured, all the details would be discussed. Greg searched the internet for tips on working with a contractor and I prepared by gathering old pictures of the little house. I suspected that the interior of the new house might be different from the original design. After all, we didn’t need to build another coal shoot, but I hoped that the exterior could somewhat resemble that original design. It fit the neighborhood and I was still dealing with the sentimental issues.

Our contractor couldn’t have been more willing to try to make my visions a reality. Sketches of the exterior of the house and  blueprints went back and forth, in the mail, until we both were satisfied, and then the work began. The demolition of the little house was hard to contemplate so I chose to focus on the construction instead. It began in late fall and Ken sent pictures, regularly, as promised.

We did need a new foundation. No rebar had been used in the original.

There was a little snow evident on the neighbor's roof but framing had definitely started.

Work was going on inside, at this point. Brrrr!

A new little house had been born!

Seeing this sweet little house,completed, was overwhelming. It was no longer the house my mother had grown up in but it sat in the same spot, in the same neighborhood, in the same town. I wanted to put in a front yard and then my project would be complete. The little house would be ready to sell…ready to really belong to a family, again.

Greg, Ken, and I worked, that fall, putting in a sprinkler system and a lawn but I could still feel myself stalling for time. Could we hold onto the house for a year?  I hoped that if we could spend just a few days, in the little house, during each of the seasons, I’d be content.  Utah is a beautiful state and we enjoyed the variety and the splendor of each season…except winter. Utah had one of its harshest winters on record, that year, and we decided not to chance the drive. We returned in late spring the following year. I knew that our days, enjoying this little house and its surroundings, were numbered. I had accomplished all that I had set out to do and I knew that letting go of the little house didn’t mean I had to let go of any memories. They would go home with me, and stay with me, forever.

One morning, as I looked out of the window at the grey clouds and the listened to the soft rain, I commented on our accomplishments. We had done all we had set out to do. It was all like a dream come true…a sort of little miracle. My only regret? I’d missed seeing the little house in snow.  And then it happened… the rain got heavier, the sky got darker…and it started to snow. Just a light dusting at first but then heavier and heavier until snow softly blanketed the lawn. The folks in Utah probably didn’t even count it as snow, but as far as I was concerned, it was the winter I’d missed. If I had any question that I’d made the right choice to let go, to move on… I had my answer.

It started as rain and turned into snow,

dusting the lawn with a touch of winter in spring.

The little house was only on the market for about 4 months before it sold. It was what we wanted but I still cried.

My mother was a master at knowing when to lead with her head and when to lead with her heart. I always wished I had more confidence when it came to making that choice. There were numerous times during this journey when my head told me I should reconsider. Instead, I listened to my heart. I will be forever grateful that I did for it allowed me to fulfill a very special promise.

Mrs. S

03 Saturday Sep 2011

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Every year at this time, as the kids go back to school, I can’t help but reflect on my own years as a student and then as an elementary classroom teacher. This year, my third grade teacher, Mrs. S, has been in my thoughts not only for who she was but for the part she played in developing my beliefs about the role of a teacher.

Third grade could have been a difficult year for me. We were an Air Force family and we had recently moved from Ramstein, Germany back to the states. I had been in an elementary school, on the base in Europe, where a new student was somewhat of a regular occurrence. That was not the case in the public school in Forestville, Maryland. I was a bit shy and Mrs. S. made sure that the transition was as painless as possible. It’s ironic I actually don’t remember much about her except that she had grayish blonde hair, was pregnant, and put her arm around my shoulders…often.

Many years later, during one of those reflecting back discussions with my mom, the topic of school and my third grade year came up. I was shocked to find out that my mom and dad initially had reservations about Mrs. S. I can’t remember exactly what my parents’ concerns were but it had something to do with her academic goals for the year or her professionalism. But my mother was very clear about the reason that they kept me in the class. “You needed a safe, loving environment. We had just upset your little world with a big move and it was most important to us that you went to school each day feeling happy and secure. Mrs. S did that for you.”

My college days, that were spent preparing for a teaching career, were filled with courses and lessons on learning theories, best teaching practices, and the gentle nature of the young child’s psyche. Those topics were repeatedly addressed over the course of my teaching career. But as the years progressed, we talked  more and more about test scores and the importance of students being able to compete in a global economy. Ahhh…that global economy. I have read several articles, over the years, that say there is a  characteristic among American entrepreneurs that makes them unique. That characteristic is their willingness to fail and then try again. Our culture does not really view failure as failing unless one gives up trying.

If one of our strengths, as a nation, comes from our people who are not afraid of failure, then we need to start when students are young, encouraging them to be all that they can be, to take risks knowing they have the safety net of caring teachers for support. It goes without saying that we need to have classrooms that provide students with academic opportunities but we also need to provide some emotional support as well. Adults, in our schools, need to “put their arms around the shoulders” of their students whether it’s in protecting them from bullies, encouraging them to believe in themselves, or just giving support during life’s scary times.

I sincerely hope that as our nation struggles to improve an educational system, that seems to be failing so many, we don’t underestimate the value of demonstrating tenderness. I had a teacher who exhibited compassion towards me, over 40 years ago, and I never forgot it. It made a difference then. It can make a difference now.

How Should I Explain the Demise of the Hummingbird?

23 Tuesday Aug 2011

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Years of research and an untold amount of money has been spent, over the decades, to explain the extinction of the dinosaurs. Was it a volcano?  Meteor?  Extreme climate change? It would have been so helpful if one of those cave-dudes, who once rode a dinosaur to his job at the rock quarry, would have taken the time to record the reason for the end of the reign of those magnificent monsters. He could have, so easily, enlightened us and saved us all these years of expensive, inconclusive research.

My husband and I have a hummingbird feeder on the patio outside of our bedroom. We love to wake up in the morning and watch the hummingbirds buzz around the feeder madly defending what they consider to be their own.  My husband has assumed the responsibility of cleaning and filling  the feeder. One morning, as he was standing on the patio, enjoying the cool quiet of the morning, one of our hummers buzzed the side of his head, then zipped around for just a second, to meet him face to face. My husband was mesmerized. And that’s when he realized that the hummingbird feeder was empty. Was this little feathered creature reminding him he had neglected his responsibility? Who knows… but it appears that was the case as it now happens whenever that feeder is empty.

Several weeks ago as I was having lunch with friends, I shared the hummingbird story. I guess I thought our close encounter with the hummingbird represented a special, unique experience. Not the case. Every single person there had a similar tale to communicate. They shared stories of hummingbirds buzzing kitchen windows,  hovering around people swimming in pools and pestering gardeners pruning bushes. Our experience was anything but unique.

Then it dawned on me! Either natural selection will provide the humans of the future with a brave, in-your-face hummingbird who bangs his long beak into sliding glass doors and windows and pecks human heads as a reminder that its dinner time. Or these beautiful little creatures will totally lose their ability to recognize a real flower and identify real nectar having relied on the store-bought hummingbird feeder, for so long. As I see it, it’s just a matter of time, even if it is a millennium, before the hummingbird is extinct. That means it’s only a matter of time before children dress as hummingbirds for Halloween, can pronounce every species of hummingbird regardless of the number of syllables, and a movie is created about a park inhabited by genetically recreated hummingbirds that run fly amuck.

I’d like to do the thoughtful thing for those future generations and save them the agony of all that extensive research. But, my dilemma is in deciding which story to choose to leave as the explanation. I think a hole in the ozone story might be an appropriate explanation. It’s dramatic and has all the pieces necessary for a future full length feature film.  The meteor theory might be plausible again. Who knows how much damage might really have occurred by meteors, by then. Or maybe I should go with the truth and explain they died from a type of amore. They were simply loved to death. It would be a charming legacy and not a bad way to go.

Now, It’s Your Turn! (part 3 of 3)

06 Saturday Aug 2011

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I guess that I am a bit of a hypocrite. I stood in front of a classroom of children for years and said, “Of course, you can write poetry.” I’m in the midst of writing a post encouraging you to write poetry, but asked if I write poems, I’d answer with an empathic….NO.  When I think about verse, I think of classical poetry even though I enjoy and appreciate many of its other forms.

Poetry is powerful. It has the ability to inspire, console, enrage, or entertain.  What I am encouraging you to do is to try your hand at writing poetry for the purpose of personalizing a special event. My skills are limited to an ability to identify words that rhyme and a competence in using the thesaurus. My poetry is typically silly but it can still entertain. I believe that if you are a poet, you have a unique gift. I also believe that, even if you think you have no specific poetry writing skills, the desire to create something unique and meaningful will be your strongest asset.

Let your creativity flow as you follow these guidelines.

Choose the subject that you would like to write about. What special event are you hoping to celebrate?   wedding? birth of a child? graduation?

Poetry 101 would stress the importance of identifying line lengths, line breaks, rhythm, etc. I take the easy way out and choose a well-known poem or verse that is easily recognized.  I use it as a template and just substitute my own words. (Of course, you can’t legally publish a poem written this way but I assume that you are doing this for personal use only.)

Identify the specific events/ thoughts that you want to include in your poem. Keep them in sequential order. A poem on an upcoming wedding might include a stanza on how the couple met. A poem on the birth of a child might include how mom and dad chose the baby’s name.

Start to write down your thoughts as they come into  your head. (I like to go back and edit after I have the basic form but you may wish to do a little editing as you go.)

Rhyme is a great poetic device. I strongly recommend that you use it. Arrange your lines (sentences) so that basic words fall at the end of a line.  For example, instead of writing… Today is your graduation… try –   Your graduation day is here. Both sentences have the same number of word parts or syllables but rhyming with “here” will be a lot easier than rhyming with “graduation.”

Choose interesting words. Rely on a thesaurus. It doesn’t matter if it’s hardback or synonym.com

Your poem will most likely be on a specific subject. Try not to over use the common words associated with that subject. Don’t over use “graduation”. Try substituting related words or made-up phrases like “cap and gown day”. Get creative.

Save the most heart-felt message for the end of your poem.  Don’t be afraid to show your emotions. Sincerity is very powerful.

Edit your poem. Read it out loud. You’ll be able to hear the rhythm of your lines and determine if the words you have chosen really match what you want to express. Sometimes it helps to put your writing aside and come back to it.

When it comes time to share your poem, identify how you want it presented. Are you comfortable reading it out loud in front of others? It’s a great way to control your rhythm and put emphasis on the words and phrases that are most important to you. Perhaps you are most comfortable writing out your poem and presenting it privately.

Remember that a gift that comes from the heart can never be the wrong color or size. Your poem will be a unique and loving gift.