Thursday

30 March 2017

— hyacinths pushing up along the fence.

Good Morning All,

Thanks for hanging in there for my tenth graders’ introduction to poetry.  I should have mentioned that either despite or because I love Stopping by Woods so much, I used it as a kind of sacrificial sheep. The Catcher in the Rye, still my favorite novel, served the same purpose when we got into how narrative works. But, okay, they could handle it, they are both sturdy! 

I hope I didn’t give the impression I was trying to wring every drop of possible meaning from the poem, but only to suggest poetry works on more than one level and is open to multiple readings.

Anyway, no poetry lectures today, other than to mention that today’s poem The Guitarist Tunes Up is among my hundred favorites.

The kids and I have been having a most loverly time, though the time passes like those transitional scenes in old movies where the minute-hand on a large clock revolves every three seconds.

I seem to recall mentioning sometime ago that while moving to our new house we came upon a treasure chest of old Super 8 millimeter home movies Britta’s mother and Britta herself had made. 

Last night Holly’s friend Ryan, a computer trouble shooter at the hospital where Holly works two days a week, hooked up her computer to our big flat screen tv and we watched a dozen of them. (I should point out that Ryan very gracefully/graciously assisted us even though it meant an entire hour of other people’s kin flicks!)

Some amazing footage! Britta’s and my wedding; spring Easter-egg hunts around our old garden; family gatherings at out summer house, uncles and aunts and brothers;  my niece and nephew building sand dams with Johs and Holly; university friends swimming in the same lake; same university friends down in Pennsylvania; Britta in bellbottoms, walking with the kids along a Cape Cod beach; my dad carving the turkey and my mom beaming in her all-time favorite pink dress; Johs—circa age ten--in a black suit and bow tie out in the backyard directing an orchestra of sparrows and robins, while Holly, age eight, pirouettes around him in a pink tutu. 

Talk about tears and laughter! 

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron