thirty two.

Saturday marked the turning of an era, or at least the reaching of an annual milestone, in my boyfriend's life. Twenty six years previous, his mother, bless her soul, had borne him into this world, no doubt hoping for a well-behaved easygoing son: the kind who seems a blessing and a delight every single moment.

Twenty six years later, it is no small matter to celebrate his continued existence, particularly given his propensity for semi-harrowing adventure and fondness for that which can be made to explode. And so, celebrate we did!

One of his favorite foods (quite possibly his most favorite in the whole entire world) is blueberries. Coincidentally, blueberry season in this region of the continent tends to begin in mid to late June and extend a good way into July. (Head up to New York if you want to find blueberries in August.)

Be not surprised, therefore, dear readers, to hear that I spent a good chunk of time last week researching and calling farms which purported to host pick your own blueberries. Eventually, I settled on "Fred + III," a family-owned and interestingly named patch located in Pemberton, New Jersey. When I called Fred on Friday afternoon, he assured me that his blueberries were in season and ready for picking, despite the catastrophic thunder storm which had swept through our region the day before.

So, plans were made: to depart early on Saturday morning, to bring along some other Molecular Bio-type friends, to take our largest empty tupperware containers, to pick fabulous lovely sweet blueberries. Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful; as soon as the friends arrived, we were off on our adventure, heading east toward the excitement which awaited us.

We found Fred's place easily enough; he turned out to be quite a sweet and helpful old codger. Despite never having picked their own fruit before, our friends took to it fairly quickly. The bushes were so hung with berries that two of us could work down the same row and barely seem to make a dent: Fred has an abundant crop this year! Before long, we had each filled a can, then another, each holding four pounds.

By the time we called it quits, dustier and slightly browner than when we arrived, the four of us had picked thirteen cans worth of berries. At $1.25 per pound, significantly less than any fresh fruit available in the city, how could we not take advantage of this opportunity?

Our friends took home their share, leaving us with the thirty two (yes, 32) pounds of blueberries we bought from Fred that morning. All of Saturday afternoon was spent sorting and preserving these delicacies. Our freezer and fridge were feeling quite hospitable, and I haven't gone many hours without eating blueberries since waking up on Saturday morning.

Thirty two pounds worth of blueberries should provide an abundance of blueberry-enhanced dishes: muffins, pie, cobbler, jam, coffee cake, smoothies, just to name a few. We want to try some more exotic recipes: cold blueberry soup amongst them.

Mostly, though, those thirty two pounds hold out the simple promise of a sweet blue winter. If you come to visit, you might just get a warm muffin...

Out My Window

I'm sitting at my desk drinking a "made from scratch" blueberry oj coconut rum smoothie, greatly appreciative for the cool breeze created by a fan set on high. My computer sits in front of the pile of books I'll be teaching from this week; lesson plans, assessment sheets, and an abundant supply of colored markers spill across the remainder of the black faux wood.

My desk is tucked into a corner of our front room: the left corner, where I sit now, backs up against one of our street-side windows. As I sat down to write this evening, intending to blog about this or that story from my life, I thought of a prompt I once heard from a friend: to write about what one sees out one's window everyday. Over the past year, as I've transitioned from place to place to yet another place, I've often reflected on the events, people, and images framed by my windows.

Now, as I once again settle in, with no intentions to leave on the near horizon, I catch myself contemplating this window - and what I see through its screen (for it's far too muggy to keep our windows closed).

We live on a quiet street, Buckingham Place, a home for royalty if one slips an extra vowel. Tucked between 44th and 45th, one-way traffic only, it's all of one block long. The kind of street that you likely only know exists if you live here, or know someone who lives here, or just like to walk around West Philly and discover all the hidden streets. The kind of street that doesn't cater to emergency vehicles or public transportation or any kind of acceleration.

There is a tree directly out my window and electrical lines strung with sneakers. One of these days, I'll probably have something very important to procrastinate: those shoes must eventually be counted (or perhaps photographed). Through the branches and leaves, the other side of the street looms, every house the same as ours - and yet, not. Built identical, the buildings are now old and each much proud of its own particular character. Each has a front porch; this is the kind of street where people sit on their porches, have parties on their porches, keep strange statues on their porches, even philosophize on their porches. I don't know most of my neighbors, but I am acquainted with the homeless man who does know all of them, and who often sleeps on one or another porch.

My boyfriend calls it a hippie street - and then tells me that I fit in perfectly. Something about my flowing skirts and eccentric jewelry: we live on a street where drummers and landscapers and writers all seem to sip from the fount of creativity. Some nights there enters through my window a cool breeze, a twist of melody, the murmur of lives lived.

Through my window, I glimpse my life.

OMM!

Compliments of a rising first grader in one of my classes today, my new favorite exclamation: "Oh my mother!"

Now, I tend to find it humorous when four and five year olds exclaim, "Oh my goodness!" (even more so if it doesn't fit the context...). But "Oh my mother!"? I must admit that, despite the fact that my younger friends tease me about being "old," my twenty four and a half years of existence had never blessed me with this lovely phrasing.

So, here's the context:

We read two books in the first week's lesson for the rising first grade class: Morris the Moose (the virtues of which I clearly outlined in a previous post!) and We're Going on a Bear Hunt. The former book gives my students a chance to practice reading on their own, with support from whatever adult is attending the class with them. The latter, however, I have the pleasure of reading aloud to the group, and then, right at the end of the class time, acting out.

This week's dramatization was grand: eleven bear hunters and I marched around the room, swishing through tall grass, stumbling through a dark and gloomy forest, and tiptoeing into a scary cave! Of course, once we found the bear in his cave, we hightailed it back home - and under the covers - and declared our bear hunt over. Admittedly, some of my more, shall we say, excitable young gentlemen wanted to continue "hunting," but I sent them home instead.

Even before we began the dramatization however, a very small - and usually shy - young lady made my day! It was during my first reading of the story, which I may have dramatized a bit myself. The bear hunting family had swished through the tall grass, squished to the other side of the oozy mud, and even splashed across a river. But then, they happened upon a "swirling, whirling snowstorm". And, as one of my students had so wisely pointed out earlier, they weren't wearing coats: "The baby is even in her jammies!"

At this point, from the front row, totally out of the blue, a small voice exclaimed, "Oh my mother!"

And I tried not to giggle too much as I shivered my way through the howling wind and swirling snow.

Not once, but...

thrice!

That's right: this is the third new post on my blog this evening.

It's high time this writing hiatus comes to an end, and what better way to commence a new period of public reflection than by sharing stories from my new classrooms.

So, to those of you who've waited out this silent period with me, thanks for sticking around.

And no, despite my boyfriend's fears, the sky doesn't appear to be falling tonight. Do be expecting me to blog more frequently again, though.

Silly Morris!

One of the books I teach in my class for entering first graders is Morris the Moose, by B. Wiseman. It's a fun beginning reader story about a moose (named Morris) who meets a cow and thinks she's a moose. As Morris points out throughout the story, she has "four legs and a tail and things on her head" so she is obviously a moose. The cow spends a few pages trying to convince Morris otherwise. Eventually they seek the help of first a deer and then a horse, neither of which are any help, as they both just think that everyone else is the same kind of animal as themselves. I'll leave you in suspense as to how they eventually resolve Morris' "moose-take" - you'll have to read it for yourselves!

After reading it aloud to my class the first time, then having my students practice reading themselves, with support from their parents, one of the questions I asked was this: "If you were the cow, what would you have said to make Morris believe that you weren't a moose?"

Some of their answers were fairly straightforward, things I would have thought of myself:

"I would tell him that the things on my head are different from the things on his head!"

"He should look at the cow's body and see that they're not the same."

"They should look at the feet. The cow has different feet than Morris."

My favorite response, though, was a bit more direct:

"The cow should just tell Morris to be HONEST!"

Said with just that much emphasis.

Yeah, I think that might take care of the matter!

So many books... so little time.

I used to have a t-shirt with the title phrase on it. A gift from someone who knew me well in my adolescence. For as long as I can remember, I've loved reading. To find me without a book, especially during my elementary and middle school daily bus riding career, would have a ridiculously improbable expectation. There were points, perhaps around 5th and 6th grade, when I had to have at least two books in my backpack at all times -- because I would read, on average, about a book a day. Then I started to discover thicker books, with pages numbering in the upper hundreds: those might sometimes take a few days. Suffice it to say, my love for reading was instilled - and nurtured - from a very young age.

Given this fact, it should not surprise you that I am absolutely positively thrilled about my summer job!

What is this amazing assignment, you might ask?

Well, let me tell you about it :)

About a month ago, I was hired by the Institute of Reading Development to teach - wait for it! - summer reading enrichment classes. I've spent most of the last month studying curriculum, reading fantastic pieces of juvenile literature, and preparing to teach. Most of it was "distance training," which involved a lot of individualized study and long conference calls.

Training ended a week ago, though, and the first term of the summer program started on Saturday. I had my first set of classes yesterday at the University of Delaware. First graders in the morning, then fourth & fifth graders in the early afternoon, and middle schoolers for my last group. I came home exhausted, but I had a great time. [And though some of you might think I'm crazy, I still hold that my favorite age group to work with is that slightly reluctant middle school range.]

One day, three (out of eight that I will teach) levels taught, one long check-in with my supervisor, and one phone call to a frustrated parent into the term, I am still absolutely thrilled about this job. I mean, how couldn't I be?

I'm back in a classroom, which I'm realizing more and more is exactly where I belong. I'm teaching reading, which is something I personally love. I get to work through great books - Fellowship of the Ring, Banner in the Sky, Henry Huggins, Cricket in Times Square, The Stories Julian Tells, Where the Wild Things Are, just to name a few - with kids who really identify with the characters and connect with the story. I really like my supervisor, and I've got a great curriculum to work from. I'll be teaching across a variety of levels - my eleven classes range from preschoolers all the way up to adult professionals. I'm adding some new skills - reading level assessment and speed reading techniques - to my repertoire. And, starting tomorrow, I get to spend half of every week (for the next five) in Mechanicsburg, teaching classes only a few miles away from my alma mater.

Speaking of Mechanicsburg, I'm headed that way tomorrow. Seven (large) boxes of books and other materials are packed and sitting by my apartment door, waiting to be loaded into my car tomorrow morning. My lesson plans and teaching materials are piled up on my desk, about to slide into my backpack. My books are studied, notes written, and I'm excited about meeting a brand new set of students and parents.

[For any of you that might be interested: these are reading enrichment classes, and enrollment is still open. Visit http://readingprograms.org/ and type in your home zip code to learn more. And if you're in the Mechanicsburg/Grantham/Harrisburg area, know that I'd love to see you [my adult class has lots of empty space] or your child(ren) in one of my classes!]

I'm getting paid to teach reading. I've pinched myself, but I keep waking up and finding this to still be true. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm absolutely excited about this :)