Interludes
Iowa Teachers Write The Iowa Public Radio Pieces
Edited by James S. Davis
© 2009 Iowa Writing Project Interlude Introduction Established in 1978, the Iowa Writing Project affiliated with the University of Northern Iowa’s Department of English and Center for Continuing Education in 1997. It relocated to the UNI campus in 2003, where it offers professional growth experiences in teaching writing and in writing to learn for teachers of elementary, middle and high school and college. As part of their learning experience, teachers write. IWP founding Director Jim Davis presents a sample of their work.
For more information see the IWP website at www.uni.edu/continuinged/iwp/ or contact Jim Davis at: 117 Baker Hall, UNI Cedar Falls, IA 50614-0502 Phone: 319-273-3842
Layout and Design by Scott Romine From the Iowa Writing Project Contents Prologue...... by James S. Davis...... 1 Out of the Mouths of Babes ...... by Sylvia Steffen ...... 2 The Tightrope ...... by Sandy Moore ...... 2 Knee Hug ...... by Richard Hanzelka...... 2 Young Love ...... by Barb Henry ...... 3 Two Miles ...... by Jean Conover ...... 3 Duck Blind ...... by Christie Vilsack ...... 4 Lounge Talk ...... by Rod Cameron ...... 5 The Button ...... by Barry Halden ...... 6 Twice ...... by Christine Jensen ...... 6 Shifting Sands ...... by Cleo Martin ...... 7 These are the Lines that Try Men’s Souls ...... by Jim Mead ...... 8 Saturday Night at the Moose ...... by Nick George ...... 9 A Call ...... by Ardith Jenkins ...... 10 August Curtains in an Old Couple’s Bedroom ...... by Marvel Torkelson ...... 10 Mother Knows Best ...... by Jim Mead ...... 11 Walking the Farm ...... by Anne Weir ...... 12 Generator ...... by Jim Bates ...... 13 Contagion (It’s about time) ...... by Jim Bates ...... 13 Ode to William Stafford ...... by Jim Bates ...... 13 Dave ...... by Ginny V. Wildman ...... 14 An Angel Strikes as Eve Leads Adam to Sin ...... by Jim Brimeyer ...... 15 Etiquette for the First Year – A Guide for the Novice ..... by Kate Riepe ...... 16 Story Problem ...... by Peg Finders ...... 17 Morning Ritual ...... by Barbara Turnwall ...... 17 Cycle ...... by Marilyn Nelson ...... 18 down by the river ...... by Connie Saunders ...... 19 Untitled ...... by Connie Saunders...... 19 The Mud in Me ...... by Al Borszich ...... 20 Daughters ...... by Kristin Allen ...... 21 Reservoir ...... by Barb Brenneman ...... 21 Who Knows...... by Maureen Eckland...... 22 How Rude!...... by Sharon Gray...... 22 Present Tense...... by James Burke...... 23 November 14 – My Son...... by Brad Weidenaar...... 24 Mrs. Harms...... by Nancy Pinkston...... 24 Kindergarten Teacher...... by Mary Beth Vansteenburg.... 25 Miss Perception...... by Jim Bates...... 26 A Rainy Day...... by Gayle Sheetz...... 27 Tuesday Morning 3:00 a.m...... by Susan Young...... 27 In Search of Shallow Waters...... by Jayne R. Vondrak...... 27 The Buckeye...... by Nancy Kaiser...... 28 Into the Window of Grace...... by Karen Herber...... 29 Redwoods...... by Ann Weir...... 30 How long does this have to be?...... by Pete Muir...... 30 Redshirting...... by Rita Hughes...... 31 Midnight...... by Katie Seiberling...... 31 Family History...... by Fran Ford...... 31 Don’t Forget...... by Jeremy Hoffman...... 32 Bald Eagle...... by Bill Lyons...... 32 Why I Prefer Children’s Literature...... by Chad McClanahan...... 33 Companion Poems...... by Bill Broz and Jim Bates...... 34 It is an ugly war. It is a strange war...... by Rex Muston...... 35 Ode to Joe...... by Jim Young...... 36 His Eyes...... by Karen DeMello...... 36 Response – When There are No Words...... by Pat Kraus...... 36 I’ll Have a Burrito...... by Susie Bentley...... 37 The Fifty Year Old Scar...... by Kathy Meyer...... 38 Urge...... by Lisa Kritchman...... 38 The Exchange...... by Lisa Kritchman...... 38 Bookend...... by Lisa Kritchman...... 38 Who Am I Saving?...... by Gail Murphy...... 39 Where I’m From...... by Ashley Jorgenson...... 40 Prologue On Good Friday in 2007, I appeared on a noon talk show with KUNI’s Greg Shanley to share some information about the Iowa Writing Project, talk about the teaching of writing, and perhaps read some teacher writing. The reading did not happen because so many calls came in during the program, including some from people who had participated in IWP during the early years. The interest in and concern about writing in our schools was clear, though not all positive or optimistic.
Nearly a year later, Iowa’s public radio stations, while aligning and consolidating services, established a new “Talk at 12:00” program. The format included a three minute break at 12:30, and Greg asked if I would like to record some writing by IWP teacher participants to be aired occasionally during that time. The opportunity to draw attention to the quality of Iowa teachers and their work was too good to pass up, so I selected a first set of pieces to record for a trial run. Soon teacher writing could be heard at 12:30 every other day, and the need to record additional pieces surfaced every couple of months.
I had assured Greg that I had an ample supply of teacher writing; he could not imagine the boxes of summer insti- tute publications in the IWP storeroom, each compiled with participant awareness of some potential, though not promised, exposure beyond the institute group. I, of course, had underestimated the challenge of selecting and preparing pieces to record. At first I could go to pieces I remembered from particular institutes or from readings at the annual fall conferences we held until the mid-1990s, peer response to those pieces still remarkably vivid. A few IWP instructors offered recommendations. Still, selecting pieces which could reach a radio audience in 2.5 minutes of actual reading time was demanding, as was preparing to read them effectively. (I admit to reliving DJ experiences which helped pay for undergraduate school in the 1960s!) That the call to record usually came a day or two before KUNI needed the new pieces further complicated my tasks, and too often limited introductions to “Iowa teachers often write about…” Of course, fine pieces on parenting, teaching moments, love, loss, and those places and experiences we identify as Iowan, really speak for themselves, as writing must.
Digging into archives of institute publications was a joy, but could be a consuming one. More time would pass than I could afford while I pondered how to represent the span of IWP from 1978 to the present, the scope of IWP as a statewide phenomenon, and the range of teacher writing produced under IWP influence – the varied types, the diverse topics, the amazing substance and tone achieved by so many writers from so many places representing so many roles. At times I was able to take a longer piece and cut it to fit the time frame; more often I confronted equally fine pieces and expediency demanded I choose the ones which would already fit. In effect, anyone whose piece found its way to the airwaves might justly feel commended; not having that experience should in no way be deemed a slight. The opportunity to air IWP teacher writing this way lasted about a year; the supply of exemplary work could have carried us much longer, and is replenished annually in IWP institutes and workshops.
Iowa teachers, at least the 9000 involved in more than three decades of the Iowa Writing Project, write and write well. Doing so helps them understand what they ask of young writers and how to nurture them, despite having too many classes, too many preparations, and too many students in the increasingly scrutinized and pressured place we call school. Calls requesting copies of pieces aired by KUNI, and the compliments expressed to teacher writ- ers as well as to me, suggest that part of their public appreciates their work. May this publication increase that audience and thereby foster support for the crucial work of teaching and learning in and beyond our schools.
– James S. Davis, Director Iowa Writing Project - 2009 Out of the Mouths of Babes
Lisa meandered out of her bedroom. I put down my coffee mug as I saw her making her way across the living room. My instinct had been correct. She headed straight toward my lap.
Now it is no easy task for a twelve year old who is five foot two to curl up small enough to fit on a lap, even when the lap is my more than ample sized one!
“Morning, Mom,” she whispered as she snuggled her blond head under my chin.
“Oh, Lisa,” I moaned. “Why do you still insist on sitting on my lap?”
“When I’m on your lap, Mom, I’m not me. I’m part of you!” Her reply came without a moment’s hesitation.
I thought about that. She curled tighter. “Lisa,” I said, “what a beautiful thought! Why don’t you go write it down?”
“Oh, Mom,” she shouted as she shot to her feet. “When is your silly class going to end anyhow?”
What could I say? Some questions are just better left unanswered.
– Sylvia Steffen Fort Dodge Institute - 1981
The Tightrope Knee Hug
Love is easy work. I got a knee hug this morning The open heart. I was just standing there The sheltered mind. Shaving It’s not hard to give / take love. When our fourth in a row A gentle, rattling snore in the night Daughter in my ear. Close. Shuffled into the bathroom We spoon-fit together. On sleeper-clad feet Yes. Put her four year old arms Love is the easy part. Around my knee and Hugged~ Friendship is hard work. Silently~ Unspoken hurts. Just for a moment. Snapped looks. It’s hard to be friends together. We didn’t say a word A hiss of biting words under breath she just under pain. Prickly. Hugged We word-sting each other. Then shuffled off to Careful. The Disney Channel and her Friendship is the hard part. Pre-school routine.
We quiver on a balance I kept of pain and delight. Shaving But my legs weren’t stiff – Sandy Moore Anymore. Mt. Pleasant Institute - 1980 – Richard Hanzelka St. Ambrose University Bettendorf Institute - 1995
- Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Young Love
Young love. Remember it?
That charge of electricity that comes with his slightest touch.
That feeling of wonderment that someone so special thinks you’re special too.
Looking for Two Miles any excuse to be near him: After supper to touch him, We leave the dishes in the sink to punch him, Leash the dog, to caress him. And walk to the highway and back. Two miles. Knowing that Knee Hug your are a part We fret over of something Loose gravel and passing cars I got a knee hug this morning bigger than Which drench us in dust. I was just standing there you. We hash over Shaving Who thinks what, and why. When our fourth in a row Seeing my daughter Daughter with her boyfriend The one who is fifteen Shuffled into the bathroom brings it all back. Speaks little. She has an athlete’s swagger, On sleeper-clad feet And I’m A boyfriend, and all the answers. Put her four year old arms a little envious But our eyes meet above Around my knee and of young love. Her sister’s bent head, and she smiles. Hugged~ Silently~ – Barb Henry At nineteen, Just for a moment. Lisbon Community Schools The sister doubts what she once knew. Iowa City Institute - 1990 Her talking is like the sand underfoot— We didn’t say a word Roughing up our minds she just With gritty questions. Hugged Then shuffled off to The me of forty-three The Disney Channel and her Has to hustle to keep even. Pre-school routine. I wedge in a breathy truth or two In case they care to listen I kept Shaving But mostly I savor But my legs weren’t stiff Two-miles of time Anymore. While I can.
– Richard Hanzelka – Jean Conover St. Ambrose University Maple Valley High School Bettendorf Institute - 1995 Sioux City Institute - 1992
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - Duck Blind
“Coffee?” My father asked.
I shook my head.
I wanted some. I was cold. He’d never offered before, always said it would stunt my growth. But I’d never been duck hunting before, either. This must be a privilege that goes with the occasion. I had passed it up. Maybe later.
I tried not to look cold. I didn’t want him to know my toes ached. I wanted him to think I was tough.
Duck hunting demanded silence. I was glad. I wouldn’t know what to say. I didn’t know the questions to ask about guns. I could just hear myself saying, “Gee, the decoys are pretty,” and he’d never ask me again if I asked, “How long?”
He stood intent, his familiar profile watching the bleak grey sky. The barrel of his 12-gauge rested on the crude window sill. His brown canvas coat blended well with the scraps of lumber and old barn siding he’d fash- ioned haphazardly into this hunter’s hideout. His brimmed Stetson had been temporarily replaced by Crane’s Hardware’s best with bill and flaps.
He stirred and motioned me to the opening. I heard them before I saw their perfect formation. They wailed syncopated stanzas of the blues—the sax players of the sky.
I was glad they were too far away. I didn’t want the shots to interrupt this moment. The death didn’t bother me. I had seen the limp green heads and stroked their warm flecked feathers. I’d watched the cleaning and marveled at the corn filled craws, and yet, this first time I didn’t want to see the leader falter and fall.
I was content to share the solitude with my father, proud to be asked to come along.
– Christie Vilsack Mt. Pleasant Junior High SIWP Mount Pleasant Institute - 1979
- Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Lounge Talk
“He smells like gasoline,” the Spanish teacher was saying. “When he leaves the room, that odor stays,” she continued. “His fingers leave black, greasy smears on my desks,” added the history teacher. “He comes in wearing that damn, filthy sweatshirt, unzips it so his t-shirt shows just enough so I’ll be sure to read ‘Go to hell, world, I’m a senior’ printed across the front. Then he sprawls across his desk and sleeps the rest of the period.” “Does he take off his John Deere cap?” asks the Spanish teacher, still gasping from the memory of gasoline smelling up her room. “No, thank God, who knows what kind of smudge that would leave on something.” He blinked hard and shook his head. “I dunno how a kid can stand to be so dirty.” “And stupid.” The remark boomed from the corner of the lounge where the math teacher had been sitting, smoking a cigar. “He can’t understand enough in my class to even fake it. One day I handed out a simple work sheet, would take only ten minutes to do. He comes in the next day and says he lost it. You believe!” “Was it on trapezoids?” I asked. “How’d you know?” “Just guessed. Some of the kids were checking over them in class.” I didn’t mention the ‘lost one’ had been handed in with a spelling quiz done on the back. Maybe I shouldn’t let them use ‘scrap paper’ anymore. “He doesn’t do much in my class either, but he’ll pass since history grades are based mostly on tests. He does just enough to make it.” “He’ll fail Spanish, for sure. You know he carries that big notebook. What the heck does he have in it anyway? He must do work in someone’s class.” No one seemed to realize, “It’s mostly poetry,” I volunteered. “Poetry! What, some scummy graffiti?” The math teacher spoke sharply, then picked a thread of tobacco from his lips. “No.” “Some copied stuff?” “No, I don’t think so.” “He do it for your class?” inquired the Spanish teacher in a where-were-you-the-night-of … voice. “No. But I read one once—he asked me to.” “Any good?” “Yes.” “What was it called?” “No me importa? About school.” The math teacher got up and said he thought lunch had been very good that day. The history teacher began reading Sports Afield. The Spanish teacher shook her head as if I had explained something to her.
– Rod Cameron Abraham Lincoln High School - Council Bluffs Carson Institute - 1982
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - Twice
January 1, 1977 a little airport The Button Youngstown, Ohio freezing cold The faded patterns on the wall were all baggage checked That Grandma seemed to see through faded eyes amplified anonymous voices As nervous fingers played with buttons on rattle arrival and departure times Her house dress. Grandpa, once the rugged farmer You and I at the boarding gate Following the sterner disciplines under greenish fluorescent lights Of rural duties, gently moved to her Crowds all around us To place her hands upon her lap again, whispering good wishes But not before a metal button fell, You walk me to the security desk Catching the lamp light as it spun and rolled and slip me a twenty Behind the sofa. Grandma did not notice. (as if I were still in college) Grandpa found the button and placed it in A hug and a kiss The sewing box with others that my aunt and there you stand Would get to sometime after laundry day. You look At dinnertime he held her fragile hands so much smaller To wipe them with his handkerchief. I watched to me now And thought of years before when Grandma made Lingering, I Me wash my hands before she would allow then turn and walk to the plane Me to indulge in sugar cookies only Good-bye, Dad She could make. Now calloused hands played mother To those now playing child. Grandpa showed March 14, 1977 A kindness I had never seen him use A country church Before. I had expected the impatience Brooklyn, Iowa He curtly would display when Queen or Nell fresh-cut spring flowers Refused the bit at plowing time, or when pungent odor A cow would not stand still to milk. But Grandpa refrains of “Fairest Lord Jesus” Smiled and spoke as softly as his rugged Your family Voice allowed. It was his turn to offer gathers outside Love and gentleness to one who had in brilliant March sun Succumbed to seven decades spent in rural wind whipping past our ears Living and the raising of eight children. noisy in the leafless trees We walk to a fence behind the church I would prefer to think of them as they overlooking a dark brown field Had been in younger years; but yesterday Your sister opens the cardboard box I saw my wife, her thoughts on other things, It is Playing with a button on her dress. so much smaller than I had imagined it would be – Barry Halden She gently removes the plastic bag Burlington Community High School And empties it Mt. Pleasant Institute - 1979 With arms extended Ashes explode in the wind and disappear Good-by, Dad
– Christine Jensen West Branch High School Iowa City Institute - 1981
- Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Shifting Sands
Within the past eight months, my mother and three of my aunts died. I haven’t fully recovered from the pain—the repeated trips down church aisles and then to the little cemetery near my home town, the hushed conversations, the somber music, the reiterated and not very helpful “she lived a good long life.”
But I’m not ready to write about all of that. I need some time, distance.
What I want to write about is the startling recognition that my parents and their numerous brothers and sisters are all gone. I am now a part of “the older generation.” Even as I write that phrase it feels strange, like wear- ing somebody else’s shoes. Shoes that don’t really hurt my feet but cause periodic discomfort, a feeling that something is vaguely wrong.
….My niece’s daughter, Sara, two, is full of energy and laughter and love. She comes to “Aunt Teo’s” house with open arms, tells stories about animals and people in the books she “reads,” races to serve us all popcorn three kernels at a time, seems intrigued when I write “Sara” and “Daddy” and “Mommy” for her, tries it herself. I wonder. Can I ever be as important to her as my aunts were to me? Pearl…Clara…Mabel…Emma…Ethel… Mildred…Iva Hester…Lois…Ruth…Iva Eunice…Gladys…each in her own way a part of me, as were my parents and my uncles, from my first memories of them to their separate deaths. A part of me still.
….One of my cousins wrote recently that her sister, Eloise, was seriously ill in a hospital. In Bev’s letter: “I had to write to you about this, Cleo, because I’m so lost without your mother—my dear Aunt Grace—to talk to.” Were my responses to Bev and Eloise as loving and helpful as my mother’s always had been? I felt strangely adolescent as I tried.
….My two brothers and my sister are parents of adult children, the nephews and nieces who have enabled me to be- come a great aunt. My siblings and I haven’t talked about our recent role, “the older generation,” nor have we written to one another about it. Maybe they share my sense of strangeness—the pain and joy of the then and the now.
– Cleo Martin University of Iowa Iowa City Institute - 1989
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - These are the Lines that Try Men’s Souls
“Mr. Mead, I see on the seating chart you have me sitting next to Brian. Perhaps you’d better move me, as we tend to talk too much when we’re seated together.”
In my wildest dreams I hear conversations like this, but never in the classroom. In fact, I suspect that I’ll teach the rest of my life and never hear:
“This book was terrific! Steinbeck was a genius. Do you have any more novels by him? I was going to party this weekend, but I’d rather read a good book.”
“Don’t forget to count me tardy, Mr. Mead. I know it was close, but I really wasn’t in the door when the bell rang.”
“You’re probably wondering why my paper is late. I just didn’t get it done. It was a choice between doing your assign- ment and watching MTV, and MTV won out.”
“Would you please explain the symbolism in Frost’s ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’? There must be more to it than I’m getting.”
“Will you please be quiet? Mr. Mead’s trying to say something.”
“Have a good weekend, Mr. Mead, and don’t worry about my paper. Get it back to me whenever you get the time. I know you have a life outside of teaching.”
“Commas and periods always go inside quotation marks. I get it—what a good rule. I’ll never forget it.”
If I teach another fifteen years I doubt I’ll once hear any of those. However, I can predict some things I will hear, and how I’ll respond to them, if only in my head:
“This book is dumb!” Look kid, if you hit your head with a book and hear a hollow sound, don’t assume it’s the book that is hollow.
“Are we going to do anything interesting today?” No, no. I’ve planned a mind-numbing lesson that should put you all to sleep in thirty seconds.
“Does spelling count?” Certainly not. You don’t think I’d count off for spelling just because this is a spelling test, do you?
“How come we have to do this? Mr. George’s class didn’t have to.” You have to do it because if you don’t I’ll pout.
“Do I have to sit in this seat all semester?” Not at all. Sit on the floor, hang from the lights. Bring a hammock to class. Why on earth would I care where you sit?
“I was gone last week. Did I miss anything?” Miss anything? No, no. We just sat around wondering when you’d be back. Some of the class wanted to go on, but I said we’d just wait.”
“Are we just going to read and discuss and write in this class?” Absolutely not. Don’t ever think that. Next week we’re going to sculpt in clay and then I though we’d learn some African folk dances. This is a literature class, why in pluperfect hell would we read and write?
“I didn’t copy his test. Why do you say I copied his test?” Because he last answer was ‘I don’t know,’ and your last answer was ‘Me neither.’
- Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs How come she got a better grade than me? We both wrote pretty much the same thing.” She got a better grade because I like her better.
“Sorry my paper’s not done, but my grandmother died last night.” Yes. And this makes the third grandmother this semester. I’m concerned that a few more late papers will make you an orphan.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” Well, that’s an interesting question. I’m betting you can, but you’ve fooled me before on simpler tasks.
Even if I hear such things week after week and year after year, it really doesn’t get me down. All it takes is a “See ya, Mr. Mead, have a good weekend,” to get me up the next day. And I hear that, or something similar, often enough to have kept me in this business for twenty-one years, which I think is more of a reflection on the kids I teach than it is on my staying power. Still, sometimes a small sigh escapes when I hear:
“Do we have to read this book? I hear it sucks,” and I want to say, and you, kid, are the best argument I’ve seen lately for birth control. But I don’t because I know some day that kid will say, “See ya, Mr. Mead, have a good weekend,” and all will be well.
– Jim Mead Linn Mar High School - Marion Cedar Rapids Institute - 1991
Saturday Night at the Moose
The smoke-stained, dimly lighted, pale room will never come to life. The moose Without a body says it all. Motionless Eyes glazed perched above empty metal folding chairs wondering what became of his other half (probably in another hall on the wall in another county directly east of here). Imagine the other half suspended over an arch. People pass under the carcass of the decapitated beast waiting, groping, for fun. Saturday night at the moose.
– Nick George Linn Mar High School - Marion Iowa City Institute - 1981
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - A Call
“I haven’t had the chance to say I love him.” My husband’s voice broke as he hung up the phone. The message: “Dad had a severe stroke and might not live through the night.
We sat and he talked:
Dad had taught him all he knows about trees and wood.
Dad took him fishing and had the patience to teach him the sport.
Dad painted—he had helped more than the other boys.
Dad was proud of his ability.
Dad really wants to see us more often.
Dad knows we love him.
Why don’t people express love verbally?
The happy ending came. The would-be stroke was a reaction to combined medicines. Dad is an alert eighty-two year old, fully recovered from the ordeal. My husband frequently says, “I love you, Dad.”
I wish I had had that second chance!
(“Writing … is a voyage of discovery.” - Miller)
– Ardith Jenkins Fort Dodge Institute - 1981
August Curtains in an Old Couple’s Bedroom
The gentle south wind teases snowy white curtains Until they become softly pregnant And then release their cool fullness On our warm, expectant flesh.
New life is borne on a caressing breath, Captured by the undulating gauze And is set free without pain or cry— A gentle birth to cool our limbs.
We lie, not stirring, watching, hoping as The white gauze curtains billow to full bloom And a sweet child of the south wind comes To us whose seed no longer bears fruit.
– Marvel Torkelson Mount Pleasant Institute - 1980
10 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Mother Knows Best
She was a pleasant looking woman, matronly, well-dressed, with an attractive smile and an earnest eye. We were seated across the table from each other on Parent-Teachers’ Conference Day, discussing her son’s progress in my writ- ing class. I had on my conference-day expression, she was wearing her concerned-parent mask. We were playing our roles beautifully; nodding our heads, arching our eyebrows knowingly, and clucking sympathetically. The conference had centered on her concern that schools were not “getting back to the basics,” which meant, of course, the teaching of grammar. The conference was moving to conclusion when she leaned across the table, rested her chin in her hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and asked:
“Do you diaphragm?”
“Uh, well…”
Because we diaphragmed when I was in high school, and I found it very helpful.”
“Um, actually, no, we don’t dia, uh, phragm. I was never good at it myself, and uh, never have felt qualified, really, to teach, uh, It.”
“That’s a shame. Still, I imagine you have other methods, don’t you?”
My brain was saying, “Laugh, Mead, and you’re washed up. Bite your tongue, you fool.” The devil in me wanted to say, “Look, lady, if you had diaphragmed when you were in high school we wouldn’t be here now.” Discretion won the day.
“Yes, I have other methods. And thank you so much for coming today.”
“And thank you.”
“Yes, you’re welcome.”
Listen, you don’t stay in this business for twenty-two years by saying what you want to say.
– Jim Mead Linn Mar High School - Marion Mt. Vernon Institute - 1988
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 11 Walking the Farm
The sun is finally down behind the trees so their black silhouettes stand out sharply against the fading orange, fall light. I’m still full and pleasantly tired. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated your coming along on my walk this afternoon. Everyone was so full and drowsy after eating, and the conversations had gotten quieter. I didn’t think anyone would miss your being gone. Still there was some football to watch, and you could have stayed behind to chat a bit more. But I am glad you let me take your hand and pull you out into the late afternoon sunshine to walk the farm with me. I suppose I should have told you to find older shoes. I worried as we crossed the creek and you had to step from rock to rock then almost jump the tractor ruts that lead on up to the barn. They’ve gotten so deep. I worry Mom will “stick” the tractor sometime this winter when she is moving bales. She’ll cope; I’ll just worry. Was the pond further out than you imagined? I felt compelled to take you there because I’ve always liked to walk or ride out there. I noticed you smiling (laughing?) as I told you when my girlfriend Carmen and I decided to go skinny dipping. Okay, okay, so we never got it done. But how were we to know the mud along the edge would be so deep and the tadpoles so thick? Once we got almost completely stuck wading in, skinny dipping didn’t seem like the best idea anymore. If we had gotten out to the middle of the pond it would have been clean and cool from the underground spring and free of tadpoles, but we still would have had to get out sometime, right? I noticed you’re still adept at climbing a fence. (I wouldn’t have let you catch on the barbed wire). We could have walked back the way we came, but I really wanted to take you back to that grove of cedars on the east property line where the deer lie in the winter. It’s so quiet back there, almost secret. Maybe someday I’ll find another antler back there before the mice get to it. I know the weeds were kind of high in places, the Buck weed tangled, but as long as we stayed on the deer trails it wasn’t too bad was it? I’m sorry you caught your sleeve on the raspberry bramble, sorrier still it poked a hole in my thumb when I unhooked you. And thanks…. “Kiss it and make it feel better” still works. Pretty good looking bunch of Herefords, huh? The cattle were so skittish today, maybe because we were strangers. Maybe they were just spooky because of the coyotes that occasionally run on the east end. I’ve heard them on and off the last month. You’ll have to remind me to tell Mom about the section of fence we saw that cow and her calf trample in their effort to get away from us. If all the fences on the place were in as good of shape as what Mom and I worked on in July those two wouldn’t have gotten through, but it’s an old farm, and Mom can’t give every section immediate attention. I feel bad that I don’t or can’t help more these days, but Mom knows my choices have taken me away from much of the farm work. When the mud is very deep, or the heat and humidity both range around 100 degrees, or when it’s ten below zero and the bales still need to be hauled out to the cattle, I’m grateful I’m not the farmer. Still, today as I walk the fields and pastures, I’m drawn back. I somehow think you understand. I hope the hike down off the bluff to the creek didn’t bother your knee. If you had told me that it did, I would have confessed that mind was aching a little too. I wish I’d thought to take along a jug of coffee. When we got down to the big flat rocks above the little waterfall, we could have sat and sipped, and you could have told me how different or similar the creeks were that you used to walk. Or maybe we should have crossed the creek and walked through what’s left of Catalpa grove. I played pioneer woman there many times, dragging old limbs together to make “log houses.” The big, old white barn we passed was where my brother and our cousins used to play. Maybe I should have led you through the barn. We could have climbed the ladder, the sturdiest one, to the hay loft where my one cousin with allergies sneezed her way through the dust motes and promised not to tell, so we all could play Tarzan on hay ropes as thick as our arms. Aunt Helen would have had a fit that Cousin Patty lost her socks down a grain chute when we left the ropes to play in the grain room. You didn’t complain that I kept you out so long, that second servings of dessert were probably served while we walked. The final trek up the hill to the house was so rocky and eroded I noticed we both stumbled. Still I’m glad I had you along.
– Anne Weir Mount Pleasant
12 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Generator Contagion (It’s about time.)
Armed with reams of Project plans, I gave them time to write… I marched back to my classroom, confident that I could They get them to write sat and talked and stared and write and sharpened sharp pencils and write… and then talked some more. After all, I brought in plenty But I was determined Of paperandpencilandpens not to give in. And story starters and lists I wanted them to use this time of things to write about to write… and my own thesaurus even some classical music Aggravated, to huddle up against and get I walked back to the table cozily-composed. by the window And there was lots of room to write and started writing in my room in my journal. with its four computers lap desks After awhile, carpet on the floor their silence bothered me, tables by the windows to stare out and I looked up to see to prewritely daydream. that everyone was writing… And so they wrote now. that first day. They were MOTIVATED! – Jim Bates But the next time Marion this didn’t work… The writing had stalled, and they just sat there whining away their time. Ode to William Stafford
– Jim Bates I am not a wanderer Marion Who writes and strolls Through unknown destinations… Across fields of white paper. Note: I wrote this poem after going back to the classroom Instead, I put it off. following Level I and wrestling with generating writing. I AM I learned the way to generate writing was not so much the grand procrastinator about providing ways to start but more about what hap- who sleeps pened to their writing (response) once they had written. and eats and reads and views and goes on long walks just to AVOID the words… But when the time is right, I write. And sometimes (even when I’m not ready) ideas come, and the words take over.
– Jim Bates Marion
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 13 Dave
The past two years my husband had Dave on his little league baseball team. Dave is short, fat, and athletically untal- ented. He played baseball for the first time as a member of our team. I don’t believe he had even played catch before joining our pre-season practices. He threw the ball in the general direction of his partner, but when it was thrown back to him, he put his arms in front of his face and ducked.
In little league, everyone plays, so we knew we had to put him in somewhere and tried to determine the best place to “hide him” each game. He usually played right field. He would position himself as far away from the game as pos- sible…way in the corner. We would hardly have been able to see him except for his size. There he would swat but- terflies, turn around and watch other games in progress, or just stand with his arms limp at his sides. If a ball was ever hit in his direction, the infield would do their best to cover it. If it was hit out, we just knew runs would score because it took forever for Dave to field the ball and throw it toward his cut-off man.
Dave’s entire family always attended the ballgames. I think it was their summer entertainment. Dave’s skinny, little dad was a city trash collector and came from work to the games. His mom was a big woman, obviously in charge, and a housewife. There were a variety of fat little, dirty, barefoot, younger siblings. They always brought a blanket and lots of snacks and drinks. The younger ones played in the dirt, ate, drank, fought, and climbed all over each other for the duration of the game. The parents generally ignored them except to shout an occasional scolding like, “Get your butt over here!” or “Stop that or I’ll take off my belt!” Last year his mom was pregnant, again.
Dave always arrived just as the game was beginning. He would come up behind my husband, tug on his shirt and say, “Coach, I’m here!” Since he was at the bottom of the line-up, his name could easily be erased if he failed to show, which is what we always secretly hoped for…but he always showed, even the evening he came especially late because his mom had had a baby that afternoon. I half expected her to be there with the newborn and the rest of the brood. She missed only two games and was there with all of them less than a week later.
The uniform had an almost magical effect on Dave. Normally dressed, he was shabby and unkempt looking. Wearing his uniform, he looked just like all the rest of the guys – he was neat and tidy and “uniform.” He played better when he was in uniform. He looked proud and acted like a part of a team. He expected more of himself. He didn’t want to let the rest of the “team” down. We joked that, if a team played us and didn’t have their shirts tucked in, they couldn’t possibly beat us. Looking good made us good.
One Friday game, my husband was out of town and had asked a friend to coach for him. My husband had the line-up and positions to be played for each player for each inning completed and I delivered it to the friend before the game. We were ahead 8-0 in the fifth inning (we play six innings). Dave asked the substitute coach if he could play in the infield. He put him at second base. I knew this substitution was dangerous but was a little nervous to point it out to our friend, who knew a whole lot more than I did about baseball. Never-the-less, I diplomatically reminded him that Dave had never, ever, played the infield. I somehow felt that I would be responsible if the other team had a rally and I had not warned him. He said, “Thanks” and left him there. I sweated out three outs. Fortunately the ball never went anywhere near second base and neither did a runner.
Near the end of Dave’s second season with us he began to have some shining moments in his sports career. In one of his final games he got a hit, made it to first base, got all the way around the bases, and scored! He caught a fly ball in the outfield! In the last game he played with us, he hit two doubles and threw two people out playing third base. The crowd who had followed this team for two years, was wild. He played two seasons of baseball in one game.
I see him out there on game nights, playing for another team. He’s gotten chubbier. His family is bigger, but they are all there watching him. I have fond memories of a kid who had unconditional, complete support from his family and who stuck with something that he was not good at until he had some real success. What a thrill that must have been for him.
– Ginny V. Wildman Solon
14 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs An Angel Strikes As Eve Leads Adam to Sin
Our beautiful granddaughter Mariah is the best behaved and most reverent, prayerful, patient, intelligent, coopera- tive angel ever born. When Mariah visits Papa and “Gammaw,” she always accompanies us to Sunday Mass at St. Anthony Church, our place of worship and place of my wife’s employment as a third grade teacher. Like EVERY other Sunday in church, Mariah had acted perfectly. She calmly sat through the one hour, ten minute liturgy with her hands folded prayerfully and her halo shining brightly above her silky, light brown hair—at least when we filled her cheeks with “cheeos,” “sheez,” “amul kackers,” and milk. Then, like every other Sunday, at the designated Communion time, Kay carried our Mariah to the front of Church to receive the Eucharist. I followed closely as I proudly admired my beautiful angel and her equally beautiful “gammaw.” As usual, Mariah gazed from side to side as we went up the middle aisle. She smiled at friends of ours who shook their fingers in a “baby wave,” and she laid her head gently on her “gammaw’s” shoulder. Oh what a cherub! After receiving Communion, Kay, carrying Mariah, and I returned to our seats about three-fourths of the way to the rear of the church. Then for some reason, Kay leaned over and hissed, “Let’s go. We can beat the crowd and get on the road to Cedar Falls. Plus, Mariah is getting a little impatient.” I couldn’t believe my ears. My wife, like Eve with the apple, was teasing me into sin. As much as my spirit begged me to stay, my flesh became weak, so I rose from my con- templative, prayerful, pious position on my knees and quietly responded to Kay’s wicked plan. No one would notice. As the pastor cleaned his chalice, I lifted Mariah into my arms to tiptoe from the church. Kay grabbed Mariah’s sippy cup, books, snacks, and diaper bag. We tiptoed ever so quietly and gently toward the back doors of the church. As if struck by a bolt of lightning from heaven, our gentle, quiet angel Mariah spit out her “binky” and screamed. “Bye Bye, Yeesus! Bye Bye, Yeesus!” – not once but at least forty times. Every eye in the church, including our pastor’s, turned to stare at this holy family in exodus. Feeling naked and embarrassed like Adam in the Garden, I picked up the pace. Suddenly the thirty-foot walk out of church felt like a twenty-mile walk up-hill against a Sea of Galilee typhoon. I could feel Kay turn twelve sheets of red. Every student in third grade happened to attend the liturgy that week. Plus, Kay’s principal, Mr. Burke, sat in the third last row. He must have witnessed Kay trying to execute this evil plan and recognized that I was simply an accomplice to the crime, not the perpetrator. The first epistle that Sunday – Psalm 8, Verse 2 – read: “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings has thou ordained strength.” Out of the mouth of our babe came a strength we had never heard before or since. How embarrassing! When we reached the ambulatory, Mariah gave us her usual tender, angelic smile after her heartfelt prayer of exit. I love Mariah’s “gammaw” dearly. I just hope she never again succumbs to such devilish temptations and leads us, members of the holy innocents, into such embarrassing iniquity. Deus in coeli, ora pro nobis.
– Jim Brimeyer NICC Peosta Institute - 2006
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 15 Etiquette for the First Year A Guide for the Novice
“I’m just a nitwit let loose among children.” Sylvia Ashton-Warner
As soon as I was accepted into the School of Education, I was given a great deal of advice. My professors, former teachers, parents, students, all seemed driven to bestow upon me the key to being a master teacher. Upon graduation more guidance, wisdom, warnings, challenges, ritualistic initiations, and Voodoo curses were heaved at me as I sent out my resumes. With all of this advice in hand I felt confident that I was prepared to meet any challenge.
Unfortunately, the wise sages were not all-knowing. Experience became my mentor, and I began to relate to Liz Man- drell’s idea of a “trial by error in the halls of ignorance.” Now that I have completed my first years of teaching, I find myself ready to impart my great wisdom upon those who have chosen to enter into the educational field. I do not profess to have any startling insight into the pedagogical maelstrom of the educational world. However, I believe that through my own foibles and misfortunes, I can serve as a sort of Emily Post for my peers as they enter “The First Year.”
1. Meet the custodians first. Anyone who has a set of keys larger than yours is the person to know. Bake them cakes, buy them beer, anything to befriend a custodian.
2. Meet the secretaries second. Their powers are both mysterious and bountiful. Ask about the photos on the sec- retary’s desk. Memorize names of children, grandchildren, and (if applicable) any ailment of the aforementioned employee.
3. Watch out for power struggles. As a novice teacher you may be recruited in a battle of wills within your building…STAY OUT. Don’t be swindled by experienced teachers offering seemingly sweet intentions and help with lesson plans. Many a young teacher has been used as a pawn in an endless war over an ancient grudge con- cerning a stapler.
4. Steal good staplers.
5. Befriend anyone who seems to understand the quirks of your copier. Any nuance, pet names, favorite brand of cleaner should be known by you.
6. Treat your address and phone number as if it were a matter of national security. Your students will hunt for you in a twisted version of “hide and seek” where their prey has no prior knowledge that the game even exists. This game will also occur in grocery stores, the movies, shopping complexes (especially during the purchase of any potentially embarrassing personal item), and at any and all Dairy Queens.
7. In the inevitability of the mistakes you will make, take the following motto: “I’m new!”
8. Do not eat anything from the cafeteria that has an evasive name like “Chef’s Choice.” Demand that the meat can be rightfully identified as a member of the animal kingdom.
9. Locate each and every toilet in the building.
10. Listen. Listen to students. Listen to parents and colleagues. Listen to administrators, family members, professors, people on the street, grocery clerks, and Voodoo priests. You never know when you may get some good advice.
– Kate Riepe Hempstead High School Dubuque Institute - 2002
16 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Story Problem
If one boy and one girl are giggling in the back of a seventh-grade classroom, and it’s late May with a malfunctioning thermostat that refuses to tell the air conditioning the room is approaching 80 degrees at 2:14 before an early dismissal at 2:37 for some pep rally, How many problems do you have? Morning Ritual
In the back of my class, Angie sits Sitting at the breakfast table huddled over her desk, squeezing her pen. Chuckling over “Peanuts” and “Calvin and Hobbes,” The ink does not flow easily across her paper. You drink your warm, black coffee from a large white mug and Stevie stretches forward and leans in. Eat a small bowl of rhubarb sauce I made just for you. Their heads meet and I wonder “Do you have a problem?” I hesitate. I don’t ask. It’s 8:30 exactly. Time to call your “sweetie.” It looks like a spring romance. She’ll be waiting by the phone, It looks like trouble. Soon asking if you can come right over. They whisper. Whispers turn to laughter. Grabbing the newspaper, you toddle off. Do they have a problem? I don’t ask. I worry. Will laughter turn to chaos? Today, will you make some vegetable soup, Mrs. Evans is next door. Or help her knead bread, “Did you have a problem?” She’ll ask. Or wind balls of tan yarn, Do I have a PROBLEM? Or clean out her overstuffed closets? She’ll ask. No matter. Do I have a problem, I wonder? You’ll laugh and chat while I turn back to Rachel who has been waiting, humming – perhaps dancing – to waiting for my signature so Sousa, Strauss or Lawrence Welk. she can go to the library. Angie lets out a little scream. How can 86 years be so young? I mean a tiny, little animal yelp that Mrs. Evans couldn’t – Barbara Turnwall possibly hear. I look up Northwestern College and Angie’s pen begins to glide. Sioux City Institute - 1992 Stevie leans back, head down, his pen racing across the page. The bell rings. Stevie grimaces. Angie hesitates at her desk, lingering over her prose. No problem.
– Peg Finders Bettendorf Institute - 1995 Peg Finders taught in Oskaloosa and at The University of Iowa.
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 17 Cycle
Sort, load, wash, rinse, spin, dry, fold – Begin again –
Cars pull up to homes and out spill cardboard boxes, milk carton carriers crammed With records, laundry bags of overstocked and waiting, grease encrusted popcorn Poppers, Mr. Coffee, stereo equipment, hiking boots, tennis rackets, book bags –
Sort, load, wash, rinse, spin, dry, fold – Begin again –
Cool, quietly running, chaste refrigerators neatly arranged with broiled chicken breasts, thinly sliced diet bread, cans of chunk tuna in spring water suddenly become gorged with Coors, a half-eaten Wendy’s hamburger, three slices of left- over pizza, dripping sticky-red watermelons, and three gallon jugs of milk.
Sort, load, wash, rinse, spin, dry, fold – Begin again –
The stereo, KSUI, the shower, the hairdryer, the T.V., the doorbell, all the lights on the lower level and half of those on the second floor – all run simultaneously – as well as the telephone which rings at 8, at 9, at 11, and worst of all – at midnight – and never for me.
Sort, load, wash, rinse, spin, dry, fold – Begin again –
Cars come and go, gas tanks are filled up again and yet again before the week is up, meals are fixed, eaten, dishes and glasses fill the counters, dishwashers are empty, and soon so are the cupboards.
Summer has returned and so have the children.
– Marilyn Nelson Lin-Mar High School - Marion Iowa City Institute - 1981
18 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs down by the river what was that boy’s name who sat next to me in ‘73 down by the river hot sun beating down on us listening to Neil Diamond sing his song about Suzanne (takes you down to the place by Steve & I sit in our the river…) office together, back to talking about life, liberty and the back across the pursuit of sex room not touching. and how a college Dueling computers Education his IBM; my APPLE should teach us how to live and not Neil Diamond in the just how to make a living background soft kids downstairs playing summer breeze Nintendo blowing through his brown (?) hair Watching videos is he making a living and who knows doing what else did he learn how to live Somehow it’s so does he wonder comfortable what was that comforting. girl’s name who sat next to me in ‘73 I thought I’d be down alone by Lonely at 35 the No Marriage river No Home Just a drab apartment – Connie Saunders No one there at Sioux City Institute - 1992 the end of day. Solitary footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Here I am. There you are. 35 and married together 2 kids; 2 cars in the garage the mortgage, dental bills
No. I’m not lonely. No regrets. Just want to be alone. Not forever. Just occasionally.
– Connie Saunders Sioux City Institute - 1992
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 19 The Mud in Me
Impressed upon me at an early age, I thought, it would create. Some squares I piled The need to leave a mark was never lost. Along with dented balls, and skinny ropes As children often did, we filled our play I strung almost to breaking point. When all, With outcomes necessary to our time. Arranged to grand proportions carefully Delighted, we observed that marks occurred Was formed, I stood and looked approvingly. In many places just outside our door. I walked to where the birds still busily We saw the cat with kittens, the shaded ground Were building, thought and weighed what I had done Beneath tall trees. The weeded garden stood – Against their meagerness. I washed my hands. A prime example of our best used time. Much satisfied I felt; it was complete. But as a youth of only five or six, I’d left a mark, though some thought differently. I watched the swallows. They could build those nests None too soon had I concluded work Of mud. When springtime showers ended, out When rain, as it will often do, returned They came; as feathered darts they flew, aimed To hurry me toward the house. I ran, At fresh, small puddles. Always one Yet, cast my eyes behind, uncertainly, And then another skimmed the surface, just And saw my structure shrink as nearer to To dip that tiny head and beak into The safety of the house I came. Inside That mud, just barely interrupting flight, I watched. The drops grew into sheets, obscured To stow their cache against some shaded board, The ground. It wasn’t long, that rain, but it Or tuck their beaks within some darkened spot, Was quick. The puddles into lakes they grew. Concealed from eyes that proved too curious. Where once I was, no track, no mark remained. And endlessly it went as bit by bit The swallows built and built. Preordained it was. – Al Borszich Their nests appeared where nothing was before. Fort Dodge Institute - 1981 We watched, the cat and I. He had his thoughts As crouched beside my foot he stared, and I Motivation: Sometimes, in reflecting back upon class- Had mine. If they use mud, why can’t I? room situations, I have felt really satisfied with what I I walked to where the mud seemed fine and picked wanted my students to learn. But then they handed in A fistful, shaped it to design what best, their papers.
20 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Daughters
I am born of many women. Drawn from the deep rich well of their joy, their sorrow, their love, their pain. Child of their experience, offspring of their memories.
Grandmother Johnson With dark eyes and tiny feet Who died old-aged still seated on her long black hair Immigrant from the North Gifter of the family’s history.
Ellie, Ella, Alice The girl with three names Who loved and left beautiful things Eloped at 31 and died at 49 Survived by a husband who never remarried. Reservoir Dorothy The English leaven in my Swedish loaf Air stirs the dry Wife of a mill man ground as an Strength of a nurturing spouse afterthought Whose twinkling eyes once saw the queen. heat shimmers blur the horizon parching colors to white. Norma Jolly and bitter, expansive and repressed Wind stiffens Sacrificed college for a husband and five kids bringing a rumor as And always looked back wisps of vapor gather and The mourner, mourning the son who died. clouds build to cover to the edges And Marabel the land waits. Who loved the boys and made them cry A prairie transplant from Pennsylvania hills First drops fall Settled in but never quite took root heavy in a Mother to more than just her four. sudden quiet beginning solitary paths over I am born of many women the droughted earth then And all are midwives of my soul connect and collect A woman born of many soaking and pooling in Daughter of the tree. reflective communities.
– Kristin Allen Replete Orange City the land waits now Kent State, Ohio 1993 for random seeds to touch and grow sending up green shoots to reach for the light.
– Barb Brenneman Kalona Institute - 1994
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 21 How Rude!
Cancer interrupts Your conversations with life.
Who Knows? It’s highly annoying As it breaks the rhythm of your being. Alzheimer’s. It gives a whole new meaning It takes you aside To the idea that I’m becoming my mother. To watch others living.
I wonder aloud what it must be like to be inside her skin You lose step in the march She, who once knew everything, As it preoccupies your life with the physical. Now doesn’t even know my name. Does she know her own? Cancer embarrasses you As emotions pour out of your mouth, My children chide me. My reality is not hers, they say Tears parallel your loss of control and worse, Who’s to say which is better. You hear the pity in voices around you. Can I know that she’s not happy now? You don’t know, my son insists. You agonize as you see its reflection, terror in the eyes of those who love you. When I wonder aloud what will happen to me Who will care You become a small child again, dependent He slyly seeks to reassure my fears. on others, their wisdom, medicine and machines. Don’t worry about it, Mom, he laughs You won’t know. You put out its fire But continue to smell the smoldering ash – knowing it’s there. I know he’s right, But I’m not reassured Cancer is a “Wait and See” game I won’t know. I have no aptitude for.
– Maureen Ekeland I want the luxury of idle moments West Des Moines Institute - 2000 where growth of the soul… life, happens.
I want release from memorizing moments I might not get another chance to experience.
It has become my teacher. The teacher I hate and have learned the most from.
– Sharon Gray West Des Moines Institute - 2000
22 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Present Tense
“Dad, does Jesus poop?” It wasn’t just the combination of the Divine and Poop that threw me, but the present tense of my son’s question.
“Well, Nathaniel, there is no biblical evidence that I know of indicating that the Messiah did NOT poop when He was here on earth, so I think it’s safe to say that He did.
But it’s almost certain that He was potty trained by the time He was your age. Whether He still does NOW I don’t really know.”
“Does Grandma know?”
“Well, yes, I guess Grandma would know that now that she is up there with Jesus.”
“Why?”
“Why is Grandma with Jesus now?”
“No, why did He tell her about poop?”
“I guess He just wanted to get it out of the way so they could do other stuff in Heaven.”
“What other stuff?”
“Well, eat cotton candy for breakfast and stay up all night watching Power Ranger cartoons and stuff like that.”
“Dad, if you eat cotton candy for breakfast, your head will explode off. You told me.”
“Yea, but that’s just for almost-three-year-old boys who don’t listen to their fathers. There are no exploding heads in Heaven.”
“Mom will like it there.”
“Yea. Wanna go for a bike ride on the trail?”
“Okay.”
– James Burke Cedar Rapids Institute - June 2004
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 23 Mrs. Harms
Mrs. Harms was a hard, demanding, drill sergeant of a ninth grade English teacher,
who scared us daily, tested us weekly, and smiled, maybe, monthly.
She read to us, in her no-nonsense-you’d-better-pay-attention voice, from “The Man without a Country.” November 14 My Son Just when Philip Opperman was really wishing In the dark of the morning he had kept his mouth shut, when the bed is electric with the warmth of my skin, the principal walked in quietly, my breath soured by the night, whispered in her ear, he slips in next to me – and left. his hands ice, his feet coals – and snuggles in to ask questions. In her no-nonsense way, Has he been a Jacob with these Mrs. Harms, in her best voice, tussling all night, only told us that Coach Gourley had died, to come, touched, to me? Or do these come from that excused herself politely, somewhere even less known – walked out of the room, that dark matter cleaned in and left us alone. the carwash of waking? He smiles wanly and asks, She returned “How much does the house to our puzzled silence, weigh? Where are people wiped away a tear that had escaped her, before they are born? Does God live in outer space? and resumed her no-nonsense reading, How do babies breathe becoming again, in their mommys’ tummies? the Mrs. Harms we knew. Where do all the colors go in the leaves after But, not completely. fall is over?” What am I to say to such? – Nancy Pinkston Would an answer long University of Northern Iowa Institute - 2006 and tedious from a sleep thickened brain do much good to a six year old? We, my son and I, lay, head on our arms, looking at the white ceiling in the coming light and I, I am pretty sure God has felt this way on occasion.
– Brad Weidenaar Marshalltown 24 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Kindergarten Teacher
I am a kindergarten teacher …. I am proud to go where only a select few have gone before. I am an educator, A coach, A nurse, A referee, A friend, A hostess, A grandma, A peacemaker, A cheerleader, I am a kindergarten teacher …. I have a compassionate heart capable of motherly love, and hands nimble enough to tie 551 shoe laces a day. I can skillfully manage continuous chaos and teach at the same time. I have a wacky sense of humor, eyes that recognize the wonders of the world, and arms big enough to hug two dozen children at one time.
I am a kindergarten teacher …. I know what I do matters in the lives of my students, I know I am irreplaceable in the eyes of my students, I know my work is more important than a doctor, or lawyer, or the President.
I am a kindergarten teacher ….
– Mary Beth Vansteenburg Dubuque Institute - 2005
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 25 Miss Perception
The male ego is an amazingly simple beast. It needs to be fed a daily ration of reassurance from day one until it gives up the ghost, and even then I’m sure it still seeks nourishment somewhere. Younger egos don’t consider age issues like older ones, but they eventually feel the pressure. On my part, this need for reassurance has led to several misperceptions. Yesterday I stopped at Barnes and Noble to look for a book for my sister. This sent me to the Personal Growth section where I figured I would find a book about Yoga or healthy desserts, or diets that help one lose 30 pounds in a day. There were other people around, both men and women, but there happened to be a young woman standing there perusing the same collection of Fix-it-yourself literature that I was seeking. After standing there just a short while, she spoke. To me! “What do you think about a fancy cooking book?” I glanced over at her and she smiled. Was this woman talking to me? “Sounds good to me,” I responded and then went back to looking for a book for my sister, but not seeing anything too clearly anymore. “Should I get Sexy French Pastries or The Joy of Chocolate?” she asked. “Huh?” I sheepishly asked. “The Joy of Chocolate sounds great.” I couldn’t believe that she really was talking to me. To me! It was when I turned once more to look at her again that things suddenly became clear. In her other hand, hidden under her long, blond hair, peeked her cell phone. She wasn’t talking to me. We made eye contact, then she gave me a dirty look and whispered to her cellmate, “I’ll call you back; I think some old guy is trying to hit on me.” I disappeared quickly, dragging my ego behind me like a deflated balloon. This morning my ego and I stopped in a Panera’s for a friendly cup of coffee. I enjoy sitting there to read and respond to the papers that come in the day before. After awhile, I looked up from one paper to see an intriguing, dark-haired woman standing outside of the window; she was pointing at me, smiling, and mouthing something to me. I smiled back, gave her an innocent, perplexed look, and a small, inoffensive wave. Did I know her? She pointed again and mouthed something else to me. Yes. Ego inflating wishfully, I did something really stupid. I got up and walked to the window to see what she wanted. When I got there, I quickly realized what was really happening. Standing near her, out of my line of sight stood her boss. He held a bucket and two squeegees and was explaining what windows needed to be cleaned. I did an immediate about-face, tripping over my ego as I scurried back to my coffee. Disasters always occur in threes, and so do ego deflations. When I reached the UNI campus, I was still laughing inwardly at my Panera stupidity. I would be more wary from now on. As I reached the main doors into the KAB, a youthful woman, probably a college student, was standing there waiting for me. Again, I thought, “Do I know her? Must be a former student, maybe just a friendly co-ed who needs directions…” And then it hit me. She was standing there holding the door open for me. I had reached that age when young girls were helping me through doors! I accepted it graciously. But I think my ego got caught in the threshold; it is now being used as a doormat.
– Jim Bates Marion University of Northern Iowa Institute - 2006
26 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs A Rainy Day
A rainy day – a good day to write, so let the words flow.
An idea ripples through me and I respond, a trickle at first, then running faster and faster ‘til it forms a current of thought.
A splash of distraction and I am swept away in a new direction, trying to resist the undertow yet In Search of Shallow Waters lacking the On a disappointing summer strength. afternoon we run downhill through field where a lane Finally a calm pool cuts the corn to the creek at the end of my journey, which divides the one hundred and I can look back sixty acres and we kick off and appreciate the experience. shoes to cool our feet in mud along water’s edge – Gayle Sheetz where we dip the mason jar Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 2004 for minnows and tadpoles waiting in shadows of cottonwoods and cattails.
Tuesday Morning 3:00 a.m. With our half jar of clouded water between Tonight I wrote the we sit on bridge planks most eloquent poem to swing our feet over over and over in my the stream widening beneath mind I tried to rehearse and watch silt settle the words in the glass and silently So that tomorrow I wish the turmoil in our small stirred worlds would sink could capture them with like sediment in pond water. this pen. By moonlight – Jayne R. Vondrak I liberate the words Sioux City Institute - 1992 that threaten to keep me awake and I return to bed. Finally sleep came and bulldozed the images from my mind. All I am left with is this – the remembrance of the poem that never was.
– Susan Young Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 27 The Buckeye
The day after my dad died, I was sitting in his easy chair and noticed his lucky buckeye on the table next to the chair. My first thought was to pick up that buckeye and claim it as mine. But logic crept into my brain and told me that everything in the house belonged to Mother. Everything! So I casually asked my mom if there was anything of Dad’s that I could have as a keepsake. I quickly added that it didn’t have to be anything large…. “Just something to put in my purse to remember him by.” Mom assured me that she was sure that we could find something. We got distracted by something or someone at that moment so the “little something” was not found then.
After the funeral, when most people had returned to their homes, I stayed a few days with Mom. She remembered our short conversation about the keepsake. My mom is very sentimental so I knew she would come back to this topic without being pushed. “Now, Nancy, I know you have something in mind that you want, what is it?”
My mom could always see right through me.
So I asked her how many buckeyes Dad had.
I knew how many he had. He had one. It was his lucky charm. He carried it in his pocket all the time. He rubbed it and squeezed it as he talked. He had this one for many years and his thumb and finger prints were worn into it. And I wanted it!
She told me that Dad only had one. “Oh,” she said, “Is that what you want? Of course you can have it.” And she gave it to me.
I always thought she probably was so relieved that I didn’t ask for the deed to the farm, she gladly gave me the buckeye.
Dad has been gone nearly fifteen years and I still carry the buckeye in my purse. It went with me when I wrote my comps for my masters degree – and it worked.
– Nancy Kaiser Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994
28 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Into the Window of Grace
“Mommy, what are you doing?” “Reading.” I continued to look at the words on my page. “No, you’re not. There’s no words coming out of your mouth,” was the skeptical response as Grace looked at me from underneath her frowning blonde eyebrows. At this moment I first glimpsed the inner workings of my three-year-old’s mind and her notions of reading. About the same time, I began to read articles in professional magazines about the acquisition of reading skills, learning new terminology like “decoding” and “phoneme,” and accessed new information on comprehension strategies. A friend and colleague was just finishing a master’s degree in reading and I was hooked. My curiosity remained strong, and I have entertained many questions on this subject. How are reading and writing dependent on each other? How do our surroundings and personalities influence how we learn this life skill, and how we, or even if we, value it? The minute I heard the title of Anna Quindlen’s How Reading Changed My Life, I con- nected. At times I could have replaced the verb “changed” with “saved.” A line from the movie Matilda, inspired by Roald Dahl’s novel, summed it all up for me. Dahl says of Matilda, as she began to read, “She had learned something comforting … that we are not alone.” Lois Lowry, another children’s author, recalls her feelings as reading came together for her. First letters have names. Followed by the sounds of the letters coming together to make words. Then words make sentences. I can still remember my amazement in the fall of my first grade year as the letters, sounds, words, and sentences came together. When it happened, it was effortless. Like riding a bike, all of a sudden I was able to balance, and suddenly words came to life. As I watch Grace, now five years old and about to embark on her school journey, write letters, copy words, and identify names in print, I wonder if she is on the verge of the same feelings of wonderment that I experienced in Sr. Margorie’s first grade class so long ago. Grace, the youngest of my four kids, has certain hopes for herself in relation to the three “big kids” in our family and what they are able to do. She is eager to read mainly because her older siblings can, and frequently are engaged in reading all around her. However, none of them have the passion for reading I did and still do. I’ll never forget when, in the middle of a conversation about something unrelated, Grace piped up and an- nounced she could say a word and tell what letter the word began with by the sound that first letter made. My heart caught in my throat. And then I remembered … “First letters have names. Followed by the sounds of the letters coming together to make words. Then words make sentences.” She is on the verge of words coming to life. Last night after listening to a chapter of Little House in the Big Woods, Grace began to cry and told me she didn’t think she’d ever be able to put all the sounds together to read words in a book by herself. I reassured her that we would work on it a little at a time, adding that she was already a reader and writer the day she could form her name using the five letters necessary to spell G-R-A-C-E. She seemed satisfied with my answer. Most of this frustration, the source of her tears, is the desire to “be big” like her brothers and sister. Actually, “to be big” was the only thing she requested on last year’s Christmas list. While I am in no hurry for my baby with the navy gray eyes, straw-colored hair, and ever-stretching knobby arms and legs to “be big,” I am anxious for her to discover the power of the written word and the joy that reading has brought her mother throughout life.
– Karen Herber Dubuque Institute - June 2005
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 29 How long does this have to be?
I don’t know. How long does it need to be? Puzzled expressions appear. No, they say, How long do you want it to be? I clench my teeth, sigh and take a gentle breath. How can my message overcome tradition? Redwoods This is your story, your poem, Twenty-first century hikers your essay. waterproofed and designed by experts Tell it to yourself until you think it is done. to comfort the foot, to fit the trail, Make the reader in you happy, scuff softly and the reader in me on 2000 year old sequoia needles. will most likely be content. Quiet… The old question as quiet as a Yurok? isn’t going to be answered here. as quiet as a bear? Two pages, Gentle giants tower over me fifteen-hundred words, Two-hundred fifty feet of no longer pass these lips. straight Perhaps some will turn in ten lines, tall ten wonderful lines which dignity. they will claim by saying, Wise old men with ruddy coats Yes, I wrote this. Can I read it to you? or strapping youth Others can’t write fast enough. in a world’s chronology? Stay out of their way as From the dizzying dome the pencil chases thoughts across the paper, sunlight spills through tiny needles and turning away from the edge at the last moment, dapples leather leaf ferns as high as my head. balancing on line after blue line, In shades of chartreuse writing from bell to bell; they quiver in moldering dirt. some of them outside writers too. My toe kicks the sagey moss They have stories to tell. and a pencil of brown slips and slithers across my path. Perhaps with time I breathe easy as the tiny tail disappears the old refrain will be replaced into tumbled rocks and gray lichens. with a new litany. Breaking afternoon quiet, Will you read this and tell me what you think? the raucous caw of a Stellers Jay, Certainly. Its cerulean blue flashes in front of me to sit on the trailhead sign. Can I submit this for publication? The trail had doubled back on itself. If you wish. Back at the beginning, I pause. Do I have time to do another draft? I think so. God whispered today Easier questions to answer, And I was listening. asked with a different urgency.
– Anne Weir – Pete Muir Cedar Rapids Institute - 2004 Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994
30 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Redshirting
While reading the article “To Whom It May Concern: An Open Letter to Keith’s Teacher” by Gerald Mackey, his use of the term “redshirting” jumped out at me. The article makes reference to allowing students with learning dis- abilities the extra time they need to master a skill to prevent their sense of failure. The term “redshirting” most commonly refers to a college football player who has been injured and needs a year off to recuperate before being able to play again. It still allows him four years of eligibility. During his redshirting year, the player can eat at the training table, lift weights, work out with the team, and scrimmage with them, but he cannot suit, travel, or play in a game during that year or he loses his redshirt status. To apply this idea to Writer’s Workshop, a student could be redshirted who has been injured by failure in past writing experiences and needs some time off to recuperate before being able to finish a writing project. The redshirt- ing time period could be one activity, one day, one week, one month, one quarter, etc. He would still be eligible to participate in any writing project when the redshirting time period is over. During this redshirting time, the student can “waggle,” look out the window, web, play with the paper and pencil, read, talk to other writers, maybe even make a rough draft, but he is not allowed or obligated to revise and edit the final draft for publishing. Redshirting can certainly take away the pressure of publish or perish. Perhaps by relieving that pressure, their desire to join the team in training will increase – just maybe. Mackey used this idea in reference to students with learning disabilities. Aren’t there students in our classes who aren’t labeled L.D., but, in truth, have a writing learning disability? Would redshirting work? – Rita Hughes Ottumwa 1992 Midnight Family History Right before sleep hits, I roll over on my side and ask, “What’s your favorite part of you?” Forget the past. He narrows his eyebrows and asks, “What?” It’s over – “You know,” I say. “What’s your best feature?” Done. “That’s embarrassing,” he replies, beginning to roll back over. Why recount old misery? “How bout I try?” “I love your hair. It’s so soft. It reminds me of the blankie I used Wide eyed to sleep with when I was little. I don’t know if you know this or not, I listened to hushed conversations but sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I stroke About Grandpa’s brother, Wilson your hair just like I used to do with my blankie.” For whom brief success “I love your eyes. They’re so brown. I love how they dart back Unleashed bold revelry. and forth between each of mine when I’m trying to tell you some- In anger thing. It’s like you’re really with me, following every word.” He shot his lady friend. “I love your whiskers. Every so often, the light will hit you just Then pleading innocence – right, and I’ll see a red one. It makes me wonder what other kinds of Temporarily insane – genetic secrets you hold.” Was sentenced to spend his life “I love your skin. Whether I’m touching yours, or you’re touch- Confined. ing mine, my favorite times in life are when we’re connected – skin to skin.” In childhood I thought “I love your lips. They share laughter, keep secrets, and give It served him right. love.” Waste no sympathy on him. “I love your feet. Especially that big freckle on that one, right three. But mostly I love that they’re firmly planted on the ground, and I ponder now, in retrospect. they hold you up – secure and solid in everything you do.” The tragedy, it seems to me, “Still embarrassed?” I ask. Was Dolly, his wife of all those years. “Nah,” he says and envelops me in his arms. Her prison was as real as his. “Oh, and your arms. Did I mention that I love your arms?” – Fran Ford – Katie Seiberling Grimes School, Burlington West Des Moines Institute - 2008 SIWP Mt. Pleasant Institute - 1979
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 31 Bald Eagle
As I tied the canoe on the top of the van And alternately puffed to inflate a rubber raft To take another angle on peacefulness and calm, No one else on the lake this last hour, Just rain and sun and mirror-like water, It was then, as I puffed, Don’t Forget… that I saw leave the high trees near the beaver dam Start the laundry, take out the trash on the far south side of McKenzie Lake Wash the car, stop to get cash The bald eagle Pete Muir had said to look for I watched, stunned, as it moved its wings slowly, Clean the cat’s litter, let out the dog powerfully, the furthest thing from “flap,” Feed the animals, make time to jog much closer to a symphony conductor leading an orchestra through a full, majestic piece of music. Change the linens, flip the mattress Then, as magnificent as the pauses between notes, Pick up the kids, take them to practice the eagle glided, rising or falling as he chose, then moving, then gliding, slowly, Go to the doctor’s, mow the grass like a flower opening in the morning sun. A dentist appointment, stop to get gas He circled the lake, steering clear of my shore, then angled slowly down, all calculated, Send out the bills, clean the kids’ closet to dip his talons into the lake Balance the checkbook, make the deposit and snatch a fish. Then back to the nest. Drop off the movies, check you voicemail No camera could have caught the silence of the Stop to get groceries, hamburger’s on sale still lake after rain, the sun just breaking through, my position as unwary observer preoccupied A birthday, a wedding, a graduation card with puffing almost to hyperventilation, Donations to Goodwill, fertilize the yard nor my awe, my admiration for this majestic bird, now etched in my memory Pharmacy, haircut, recycling bin of McKenzie Lake, Wisconsin. Oil change, rebate, stamp, and send in – Bill Lyons At work, a meeting, addressing the trendline Ottumwa Institute - 1992 Turn in reports, approaching the deadline
Document progress, prepare presentation Reschedule conference, set up consultation
Modern day jugglers, though no colorful balls Thoughts spin in our heads, a cognitive waltz
We’ll quit this circus, and all will crash down How’d we end up as jugglers when we started as clowns?
– Jeremy Hoffman Dubuque Institute - 2005
32 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Why I Prefer Children’s Literature
I’ve always been something of a bookworm. I find it very difficult to check books out of a library and then simply give them back in two weeks. For some oddball reason, I feel the need to own every book I’ve ever enjoyed reading. In my opinion there are few things better in life than staying up late reading a good book until your eyelids can no longer remain open. Some people may indulge themselves with chocolate or Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, but I’ll take a good book any day. I often read several books at once. Sometimes I read one chapter in a fantasy novel and then switch to a Newberry Award book and read a chapter or two in it. Sometimes I’ll put down one book in the middle and read another entire book before going back to the first book. I guess you could say that I read according to my mood. I was almost ten years ago that I was reading two very different books at the same time. One book was The Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell and the other was The Regulators by Richard Bachman (the alter ego of Stephen King). I finished both books at about the same time and was left with two very differ- ent feelings inside. One book was so real and distinct and hauntingly sad, whereas the other book was empty and senseless, and in my opinion, a complete waste of time. I remember holding the two books in both of my hands and thinking how The Island of the Blue Dolphins was one of the best books I’ve ever read and how The Regulators was nothing but crap. If you’re a “constant reader” of Stephen King, you may be offended by me calling The Regulators a piece of crap, or you may strongly agree. I’ve read more than a dozen of Mr. King’s books. A few of them, like The Shining, The Stand, The Green Mile, and Skeleton Crew, were very good books within their genre. Other books like Insomnia, Dolores Claiborne, and Bag of Bones were merely OK, if not somewhat forgettable. Stephen King is certainly one of the most successful publishers of adult novels. He used to be one of my favorite authors, but I was so turned off by The Regulators that I have all but stopped reading adult books because of it. I used to love reading books by The New York Times bestselling authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, John Grisham, James Patterson, and Robin Cook, but after a while the characters and events seemed to start running together in my mind. Many characters seemed to be the same, only with different names, and the events that happened became predictable. I’ve always had a good memory of books I’ve read and the things that happen in them. I distinctly re- member Taran and his friends Gurgi, Fflewddur Fflam, and Princess Eilonwy from the Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. I remember George and Lennie and telling about the rabbits from Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. And who could forget Piggy, poor dead Piggy, from Lord of the Flies by William Golding? Not only do I remember these characters after reading about them 15 – 20 years ago, but I still think about them occasionally. When I think back to The Regulators, I can’t remember one character’s name or what happened in the story. All I remember is that it was incredibly long, and I was so mad after reading it that I shifted my reading from adult books to children’s and adolescent books. Since my conversion, I’ve read a vast number of good books. A few of my favorites have been My Side of the Mountain, Horrible Harry and the Ant Invasion, Frindle, Where the Red Fern Grows, Horton Hears a Who, Stargirl, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and the seven books in the Harry Potter series. I believe that these books have more heart, better themes, truly memorable characters, and are exceedingly more enjoy- able to read than any adult fiction book currently on the New York Times top ten book list. If you’ve never read The Island of the Blue Dolphins, or haven’t read it for many years, I encourage you to find a copy of it to read. Then compare it to the last “popular adult” book you read. You may be surprised with what you find.
– Chad McClanahan Mount Pleasant Institute - 2008
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 33 Bates chastises Broz for over-generalized attack on high school coaches:
Companion Poems
Jim Bates of Marion High School and Bill Broz of the University of Northern Iowa wrote these poems and the concluding narrative during an Iowa Writing Project summer institute in June 2006. Both writers have been classroom English teachers for 35 years and have been participants together in several IWP summer institutes. For many years Bates coached football and wrestling. During his 25 years of public school teaching Broz religiously avoided all extra duty assignments.
Coach Bates By BB Ex-Coach Bates By JB
Say it ain’t so, Jim. It ain’t so, Bill.
Say that no part The memories of takedowns and reversals Of the master English teacher trap blocking and linebacker blitzes Academic colleague mentor still linger like a favorite old tune Really has anything to do with that I catch myself whistling Takedowns or reversals, on long walks alone. Trap blocks or linebacker blitzes. My downtime refuge is now Java Creek Café, Say your downtime refuge a good cup of hazelnut coffee Was the school library squeezed between English Journal Reading the New Yorker and and Golf Magazine. English Journal, Not in the coaches’ office But I’ll tell you this: With the swimsuit issue of It was always about love, Sports Illustrated. of poets and writers… words creating brilliant images and dreams Tell me that it was always us, and about wrestlers and receivers, too, The poets and playwrights you loved; perfect passes, Never really those Bob – Busters – and Butches crucial pins… Whose real first names were always Most of all, it was always about connecting with the kid COACH! on or off the field.
To this poetry exchange, Bates added the following narrative that showed Broz he should not have been so flip about the subject in the first place.
When I was hired as an English teacher, I had no extra-curricular assignments, a fact that seems almost unfathomable today, but my district was looking for someone to teach sophomores to write. I was glad to do it. After a couple of years, I was offered the position of wrestling coach, along with my classroom assignment, of course. The next year, a coaching position opened up in football. This was a great opportunity; I love football. And so my career as English teacher who also happened to coach football and wrestling was a reality. What I soon discovered was that some of my colleagues looked at me differently; a few actually stopped talking to me. It was as if I had gone over to the Darkside. Over the years, as I have worked with other teachers in the Iowa Writing Project, I seldom mentioned that I also coached, at least I wouldn’t bring it up at first. Maybe on the last day of the institute I would let it slip that I also coached wrestling and football. I remained silent, not because I was ashamed of being called Coach because, actually, I was very proud of that fact, but, sadly, that title of Coach often put up a wall between me and other classroom teachers who didn’t coach. – Bill Broz and Jim Bates University of Northern Iowa Institute - 2006
34 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs It is an ugly war. It is a strange war.
The first days of battle the enemy emerged from shadows with the first conclusive blood draw, hurried efforts and red-eyed nurses. As our little boy was airlifted by chopper to the front, new allies dressed in white planned counterattacks listing Connor’s name under a room number, ordering more tests, assessing, and establishing protocols.
It is an ugly war. It is a strange war.
Gut punched by reality, we settle in to a surrealistic cocoon the first days, hearing clear explanations and statistics that only blur routines, spoken by knowing voices cutting through a fog across a table in a well lit room. We lock on patterns in the carpet, the sound of the IV tower the light from upper floors spilling through the blinds, the curve of his lashes as he sleeps, residual noises from the nursing station.
It is an ugly war. It is a strange war.
Statistic s, phone calls, spinal taps, leg cramps, prayer chains, stuffed animals, transfusions, Santa, side effects, Connor’s smile, steroids, fevers, chemotherapy, vomit, numbers, an empty house, popcorn, toys, needles, Connor’s tears, hair on the pillow case, fireworks, going to, coming home, parking ramps, birthday cake, dying, laughing, wheelchairs, chest ports, traffic, snowstorms, Play Doe, hospital cots, hurrying, waiting.
It is an ugly war. It is a strange war.
We stay focused, we pray, we welcome baby brother Cameron, we forget the lawn, we trade off bedside, we put bills in a pile, we cry, we learn, we become tender, we become calloused, we stay married, we forget days, we remember nights, we blur the ears, we bend, we break.
– Rex Muston Mount Pleasant Mount Pleasant Institute - 2008
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 35 Ode to Joe His Eyes
A haven for relics Everyone notices chrome tables and chairs his brother’s eyes, white vinyl ouch, pink cushions giggling, cozy gold swivel chairs sea-blue. teal sofa, nestled in the window They laugh, they caper, they tease, funky lamps of flea market flair like children splashing through the surf timely spikes on the wall clock on a summery, classic pastels, pink and turquoise sun-washed contrasting walls, berry red and lime green day. tin ceiling panels, remnants of the past. But I notice Mannequin ladies adorn the top shelf his eyes, fashionable scarves and purses clear and observant, wild floral patterns grass-green and earth-blown sixtiesish black and white TV blended with one watery stroke Old school desk by a painter who loves springtime, Unique focal points that quiet, sacred season that always precedes Walls are gallery spaces summer. local artists’ creations displayed newsy bulletin board featured – Karen DeMello trendy gatherings of music and art West Des Moines Institute - 2008
Tables hold stories and conversations productive computer time, Response – stimulating job interview location When There are No Words first date setting, future love sparked engaging games for kids who tag along Do not mistake my tears for pity. stodgy old coffee club mold broken cosmopolitan spaces I am moved, but not by the sadness Coffees and teas, lattes and mochas you’ve shared. Tantalizing flavors Bottled sodas and smoothies I am overwhelmed; but Tasty cakes, muffins, and cookies not by the marrow Delicious treats made by local bakers you’ve touched.
Cup of Joe, a Cedar Falls spot We’re changed; but Loyal patrons not because I’ve assumed Pleasing visitors a sympathetic role – Welcoming sidewalk Homey coffee culture I simply understand better who you are. – Jim Young Cedar Falls My tears celebrate; UNI Institute - 2008 the sheer survival; I weep with pride at the human capacity to continue.
– Pat Kraus West Des Moines Institute - 2008 36 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs I’ll Have a Burrito
I am at the Taco Bell drive through last week with my mom. I circle around and take a moment to look at the menu. There are various things I would like to eat, but of course I pick my standard. Two soft shell beef tacos and a large Diet Pepsi. I begin to pull forward and my mom yells at me to stop. “I need to look at the menu more closely, I don’t have my glasses!”
I lean back and she leans over, her eyes squinting at the blue and green letters. “Ok, I know what I want.” We pull forward and stop.
“Welcome to Taco Bell, can I take your order?” a tired seventeen year old mumbles through the speaker.
“Yeah, I will have a Number 7 and a Diet Pepsi” I say glancing to my mom. She leans forward and says, “Um, I’ll have a burrito”.
I look at my mom with wide eyes and bust out laughing. Asking for a burrito at Taco Bell is like going to 31 Flavors and asking for an ice cream. Going to the book store and asking for a book. Going to subway and asking for a sandwich.
“What?!” my mom says whispering loudly. It dawned on me that my mom has no clue how vague she is. I then realized that my mom has been like this my entire life. I remember being lost in the grocery store as a kid and yelling for her. “Mom, where are you?” “I am right here, honey”.
Mom, if I knew where you were; I wouldn’t be asking where you are.
I remember getting a package in the mail from Pottery Barn after my husband and I were married. It had a wrought iron twisty thing it it – no card, no billing information. A few days later, my mom calls “Don’t you just love what I sent you?” she exclaimed.
“Yeah Mom, it’s great! I didn’t know it was from you! What is it?”
She didn’t talk to me for two days.
I regain my composure and listened to the annoyed voice on the other end of the speaker. “Ok, what kind of burrito, Mamm.”
As if to say “Duh,” my mom says, “Beans, but with no cheese please.” She looks at me and rolls her eyes – intending, how could that kid be so stupid??
We drive around and pay for the food, and I take a long sip of my Pepsi. The bubbles burn my throat. I love it.
My mom rustles through the bag and discovers her order. “Where are my cinnamon and sugar twists?”
“Mom, you never ordered them.”
“Well I am just sure I did, I bet that kid forgot to put them in the bag.”
“Probably” I say to my mom laughing. We circle around again.
– Susie Bentley Ankeny West Des Moines Institute - 2008
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 37 The Fifty Year Old Scar
There is story and glory in an old scar from childhood. But… before the scar there was the scab, thick and black and ugly, itchy and prickly when ripe and ready for picking, a tough protective curtain for the new pink scar in waiting. But… before the scar and before the scab there was the band aide, the band aide that never wanted to stay on the bend of the knee, the skin colored (if you are a pale peachy shade) band aide with a postage stamp pad of gauze meant to soak up only so much blood before a red river seeps from the edges to eventually course down the leg, the band aide with adhesive strips and the tiny pin point holes so the, feeling lucky to be unbuttered, skin in the disaster zone can breathe. But… before the scar and the scab and before the band aide there was the hurt, the bloody, throbbing, take your breath away, pain that sends one wailing and limping home for first aide from a no nonsense, “you’re going to live,” mother. But… before the scar and the scab and before the band aide and the hurt, and before the no-nonsense mother with gentle hands washing and swabbing broken skin free of dirt and gravel and before the orange smelly medicine that’s painted on skin with wide strokes of pain, before all the tears… there was a glorious summer day. There was me, my bike and an unexplored gravel road with its promise of freedom and adventure. – Kathy Meyer The Exchange West Des Moines Institute - 2008
He thought he’d be the one too nervous on the big day. He didn’t want a show.
She was the one who started crying as soon as the piano pounded Urge “here comes…” Bookend Conversation revolves She had to pause around what people a long time I thought Have before she could voice you were evading Done. her vow. my questions.
Rather than Then she dropped his ring. What kind of father how they’ve evolved refuses to before The wood floor give advice? after tinkled with laughter without as the ring rolled. I finally pressured you in spite of enough All That. Through her tears to open the curtain. she saw Where does that his smile and eyes “I raised you urge beam at her to make come from? the whole time. your own decisions.”
– Lisa Kritchman – Lisa Kritchman – Lisa Kritchman West Des Moines Institute - 2008 West Des Moines Institute - 2008 West Des Moines Institute - 2008 38 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs Who Am I Saving?
People often ask, I wanted to save the teen-aged boy “Don’t you miss nursing?” whose blood streamed from around I say what I think I should: the jagged post “Of course. I just needed a change.” that impaled him.
But I really don’t – I wanted to save the new mother miss it that is. whose baby cried in the father’s arms while all of her I could blame it on THEM. body shut down. THEM who made me calculate medical dosages. THEM who wanted me to learn the intricate machinery I wanted to save the middle-aged man of an IABP who would rather endure the certain pain of or the differences between a right and a left BBB resuscitation over and over again or the algorithm of 3rd degree heart block than the uncertainty of death. or CVA or diabetic coma I wanted to save the teen-aged girl who took a fatal overdose But it wasn’t really them, before realizing she didn’t was it? really want to die.
I could blame it on ME. But I didn’t. ME who couldn’t seem to memorize all the symptoms of And I can’t. hyperglycemia ME who couldn’t quite find the on-off switches of every I can’t find the depths of their stories new machine And I can’t find the people ME who didn’t remember the right who need to hear these stories. algebraic formula for the right drip rate for the right I can’t get the facts right. weight of the right I can’t get the memories right. patient. I can’t get the words right.
But it wasn’t my own inadequacies either, So I quit. was it? But I’m wondering, I believe I could blame it on my own “misintentions.” Who am I saving now?
I thought I wanted to “save” people – Gail Murphy But they needed to be saved by others who Cedar Falls knew the machines and UNI Institute - 2008 knew the math and knew the anatomy. Others who knew the right decision at the right time.
What I really wanted to “save” all along was their lives: their faces their emotions their stories.
Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 39 Where I’m From
I am from the oak toy box resembling a lion cage, Hand-crafted by my dad to hold our childhood treasures. From blue Dawn dish soap perched beside the kitchen sink From the clean smell of bed sheets dried on the clothesline by the summer breeze.
I am from Thanksgiving Day, hanging Christmas lights with Dad as the aroma of cinnamon rolls create sticky fingers on shopping day newspaper ads From the crowded table at Grandmas, sharing the piano bench with Mom From filling our tummies with stuffing, cranberry jell-o, and raspberry ginger-ale.
I am from the petunias planted by the rock at the end of the drive From the drooping brown petals Mom let me weed out on my own From the fresh cut smell of grass carpeted under my toes On a cool summer night chasing golf balls across the highway for Dad
I am from baseball in the empty lot behind Ken and Annette’s From fishing off the front steps with Dana From wadded up wrapping paper thrown in the ceiling fan From brown eyes, thick hair, and neat handwriting
I am from the Henrichs’ and the Hoodjers’ From the Millers’ and the Detras’ From handy-men and stay-at-home Moms From bowling leagues and shopping trips
I am from birthday parties with grandparents From sharing the frosting off candles with my brothers From long fingers and poor vision From twins who skip a generation I am from the power of prayer From the back pew at church every Sunday From Mary in the live nativity from Christmas Eve service, softly singing Silent Night by candlelight
I am from Covenant Medical Center, Allison, and Germany From the house close to Casey’s on Pfaltzgraff Street From homemade mac and cheese and grape juice from a can From toast dusted with cinnamon and sugar cut into four triangular pieces.
I am from trips to Minnesota From the zoo and Metro-Dome and red roof Inn From the Monster at the end of this Book And the True Story of the Three Little Pigs
I am from a home built strong by my dad Built on a foundation of simplicity and faith I am from a wooden toy box, a piano bench, and a church pew All solid and strong Like branches from the sturdy family tree to which I belong.
– Ashley Jorgensen Cedar Falls UNI Institute - 2008 40 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs