Kelly Benny and Danny 
March 14, 2005
Author Archives: sara holbrook
March 14, 2005
‘Ginia
‘Ginia is my daughter Kelly’s son Benny’s word for where he lives…Virginia. Young kids always seem to provide the family with an entire new lexicon for communication. For a few weeks in her second summer my daughter Katie’s daughter Stephie pronounced bathing suit, “baby suit.” Now, everytime we go to the gym, we all make sure we have our baby suits. Her mother once substituted the word “decided” for “excited.” Now, when we all go swimming in our baby suits we get very decided. Benny not only renamed Virgina, he also, as the first born grandchild, got the job of naming me…granananananana, now abbreviated to Granana. I don’t think of this as baby talk, more like family talk. In the community of our family, these words are clearly defined. Octavio Paz says that community does not create language, but rather language creates community. This talk is part of what holds us together.
Saturday night Benny and I were making up a story before bed. I picked up a stuffed frog who became the protagonist, hopping from rock to rock in the swamp. Every once in a while I would pause allowing Benny to fill in the blanks, thereby directing the story. I began, “Once upon a time there was a green frog and he lived . . .”
“In the swamp!” Benny offered. And so on.
Turned out as the story developed that the frog had everything he needed in that slimy swamp except a best friend. Finally, he met up with another frog who had the same too long legs in the back and too short legs in the front, perfect dimensions for a best friend. Only one problem, the frog spoke a different language. So, our protagonist (we didn’t name him, who needs a name in a swamp when you have no friends?) counted to three in spanish (thank you Sesame Street and Dora) and that made the prospective friend, Pedro, so happy, he confessed that not only did he speak Spanish, he also spoke English and they hopped off and were friends ever after.
Books and reading are important — goes without saying. But I hope that stories do not go the way of poetry, where if we don’t find one in a book, we somehow think that our stories are less important. Stories, the ones we experience and the ones we make up, uno, dos, tres, expanding the family lexicon while drawing us together.
March 12, 2005
Canfield, OH
Canfield is about as close to Pennsylvania as you can get without entering. First I visited Woodside Elementary which has a very cool principal, Tony Russo — I could tell he was a special guy right away. He sat through both of my assemblies, very welcome but unusual behavior for a principal! I wonder if those kids know how lucky they are to have a principal that involved in their day-to-day activities? The kids were full of giggles and had just the right attitude for poetry. I could tell that right off too. Turned out that they had been up to their necks in proficiency tests all week and my visit was their treat for a job well done. How about that for making me feel special? Had I known in advance, I would have brought a cake or something to really make it a party.
After the school visit I met with 80 teachers at a local IRA meeting hosted by incoming president Gerry Coates. I know that many kids have no idea that their teachers have lives outside of school and think that they in fact sleep in their bottom desk drawers. But, teachers do have free time (however limited by school responsibilities) and many of them occasionally spend a few of these free hours learning. I gave a little talk at their meeting after which some went home with miniature daffodils as door prizes. I went to bed dreaming yellow dreams, of blossoms and sunshine announcing the arrival of spring.
But Spring seemed like a far-away dream indeed when I woke up to three inches of fluffy snow this morning. Oh, well. When the time is right, I expect Spring will finally show her true colors.
March 9, 2005
On the beach with my daughters.
March 9, 2005
My latest title.
March 8, 2005
Carthage TX
March 8, 2005
Today I visited the Bulldogs at Carthage Jr. High in Carthage TX. The kids there were so cool and had great questions about writing and poetry. I think this is because they had all read some of my poems before I got there and many had written their own poetry. Even though everybody (and I mean EVERYBODY) had to choose of one my poems and write an essay in response, they didn’t act mad at me for being the root cause of their homework hand cramps, for which I was VERY grateful. Mrs. Johnson took me to lunch at a homey little restaurant called the Texas Tea Room that had homecooked food. I think if I stayed in Carthage very long I would gain weight for sure.
Basically, I worry about gaining weight all the time. I don’t know if this is pressure from TV or magazines or just some sort of bad habit I picked up early in life and decided to drag into my adult life like I didn’t have enough other stuff to worry about. Please note, while this worry makes me do illogical things like wash brownies down with diet soda, it does not make me eat less. Go figure.
To one of the girls who came up to show me poems at the end of the writing workshop, you know who you are: Sweetie, you have been on my mind all day. Please, if there is anything else you want to discuss about your poem, write to me. Or if you don’t write to me, talk to some other grown up. Some worries are no joking matter and too big to drag around by yourself into adulthood.
March 7, 2005
On the road again
March 7, 2005
Today was a race around travel day that took me from Cleveland to Cincinnati to Shreveport, LA and then Carthage, TX. The man next to me on the airplane from Cleveland to Cincinnati was quiet while we were in the air, looking out the window. Then as we taxied to the gate, he blurted out that he had been in Cleveland to visit his sister who has cancer. He was older, had grey hair and was wearing one of those padded plaid shirts that you see more often working outdoors than on airplanes. I asked how she was doing and he said,”not so good.” I said I was sorry. What else was there to say? He was obviously in pain and he just wanted to get it off his chest. I wonder what it is that invites people to spill out their inner feelings into the darkness of an airplane to a total stranger? Maybe it’s that there is a freedom in talking to strangers because they won’t remind you of what you said the next day. You can just say it and let it be.
In Carthage, TX, I had dinner with Lynda Johnson who took me to a restaurant that specialized in catfish. I ate two new food items – marinated green tomatoes (yum) and something called boiled water corn bread, made from pouring boiling water onto corn meal, shaping the gook into balls and frying it. It was kind of crusty hard, but very tasty. Then Lynda dropped me off at a little bed and breakfast cottage to spend the night. It was charming, cozy, plaid bedspread with comfy chairs, painted mostly bright white. Only problem, one other occupant had checked in ahead of me – a wasp the size of a sparrow. I thought about attacking it with a rolled up magazine or hair spray, but since it wasn’t bothering me, I didn’t bother it. We got along okay just ignoring one another.
March 6, 2005
First Post
I am so excited to be setting up this blog. Already I wish I had done this years (and hundreds of schools) ago. This is the place where I can keep notes about all my poetry travels and hopefully, some of the students I meet can post their reflections. Writing about events make them more real to me.
So, welcome to my blog and thanks in advance for your responses.
Sara
