I just sewed an eye back into a prom dress. (I hope we are clear on the fact that I am referring to a strangely-shaped little metal gizmo, half of the device known as "hook-and-eye", and not to an organ of vision.) It's been quite a while since I engaged in an activity of this kind, and it took only a matter of seconds for me to conclude that my right hand has lost its cunning, and my left is, if anything, worse.
I found myself muttering, "My mother could have done this with no trouble." * She could have, too. She would not have dropped the thing twice and had to hunt for it, and it would not have skittered maliciously away from the thread with which she was endeavoring to ensnare it. She could, in fact, have sewn the whole dress, and her sewing machine would not have broken down, the way sewing machines do-- in a tangle of bobbin thread-- when they see me coming.
There was a time when I actually thought her dressmaking ability would come to me, eventually. I purchased a sewing machine (now stored in a closet; see above) and had visions of being able to make things with interfacing, and lapels. Ha. That ability puckishly descended only to my oldest sister, a Manhattan-based immunologist who will not need to do her own sewing unless every tailor in New York is wiped out by some form of fashion warfare.
Of course, I don't actually need to do much sewing, either, except in moments like these when wardrobe malfunction looms unexpectedly. But while I was sewing the eye on, and wondering whether my thumbs have always been this large and klutzy or whether this is what really came with age, I also wondered how I would have managed had I lived in a time and place that did require me to do all my own sewing. Thinking back to those children's books set on the frontier, I pondered. Would I have learned, out of necessity? Could I have knitted mittens and scarves, and whipped up dresses and sunbonnets by candlelight? Or would my family have been dressed in a way that caused Ma Ingalls to click her tongue and become yet more smug in her conviction of the superiority of ethnic Scots?
I must say that the Little House series, along with Caddie Woodlawn, had far more appeal in the days when I identified wholeheartedly with Laura and Caddie; reading these same books as an adult, and a mother, I had a tendency to shudder. I am confident that I could have cooked over an open fire, and being less of a clean freak than Caroline would probably have made things easier for me. I might even have been able to endure being housebound during interminable blizzards, living on an ever-dwindling supply of potatoes, and not gone stark raving mad--although I would not want to make book on that one.
But I am afraid I would have spent an inordinate amount of time urging my hoydenish daughters to be more careful of their clothes. ("WHY on EARTH would you fill your POCKET with STONES? You think I don't have enough to keep me busy? Look, YOU cut that pig up and make headcheese; your days of playing with the blown-up bladder are OVER, missy!")
No wonder people were thrilled when that massive Sears, Roebuck catalog put in an appearance. Mass-produced clothes! Woo-hoo!
*You may suspect that I was muttering other things, mostly unprintable. You would be wrong, but perhaps only because under the circumstances "Darn it!" seemed quite appropriate. Yes. I do like puns.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Monday, July 18, 2011
Looking Up: The fox went out on a misty morn
Looking Up: The fox went out on a misty morn: "We lost a chicken yesterday. These five Rhode Island Reds came here with the mission of eating the snails that have invaded our garden the ..."
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sports: a conundrum
Today was one of those incomparably lovely days, when the temperature soars, skies are sunny, and to top it all off there is absolutely nothing on the calendar for those golden hours after dinner.
Which is a really good thing, as it gave me the chance to make complicated arrangements for dealing with tomorrow, when:
I need to drive to the airport. (approximately 60 miles from home base)
Imelda has her first softball game. (seven miles)
Joan has her first soccer game. (fifteen miles, completely different direction)
Veronica has Little League practice. (three miles, but yet another direction)
All between the hours of 4: 15 and 6:00.
There is no public transportation in our town.
None of the girls is old enough to drive.
Jane-Clare is no help, as her after-school job kicks in around 4:30.
This, clearly, has all the makings of one of those word problems (fox-goose-sack of corn-small boat-river) the habitual solving of which supposedly will head off dementia, though possibly at the expense of bringing on an alternate mental disorder.
Our original plan, which I suppose I ought to describe more accurately as a forlorn hope, was that Joan could catch a ride with her BFF, whose mother and I have formed a friendship, over the past 15 years, originating in the coincidence that we have three pairs of same-age daughters.
No dice.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," BFF's mom explained.
See, the fact that our daughters are the same age has its downside, too. Turns out Imelda's opposite number also has a softball game; not the same game, of course; that would be too easy.
So now we had the added wrinkle of providing transportation not only for Joan, but also for her BFF.
That was solved, is that is the right word, by bringing Duthac into the picture. He agreed to drop both girls off, immediately prior to his heading off for work; someone else would have to pick them up after the game, but that seemed quite do-able.
OK. So. Imelda's game is at home; she will be there, needing only to be retrieved later. My husband is willing and able to take care of that aspect.
It was only over dinner that we learned about the third sports-related event. Veronica's coach called and recited, "We have a practice tom--" at which point I burst into laughter.
Poor man. No doubt his statement seemed entirely reasonable from his perspective.
"Yes, I hope we don't have much trouble with the weather," he said, putting the best possible spin on my reaction.
OMG, the weather! Now, if Joan and BFF are dropped off, well and good, but what if there is a thunderstorm and the game is called and there is no shelter available?
Here's what we have:
Dad is going to Imelda's game, and quite possibly driving hell-for-leather to pick up Joan after hers;
Duthac is dropping off Joan and BFF;
unrelated nice family, enlisted via frantic telephone communication, is driving Veronica;
Mom is picking up her sister at the airport and heading to the mall and a nice quiet dinner at P. F. Chang's (please don't give me away).
And yet another mom (bless her heart) will transport Joan and BFF to the home of one of them in the event of an electrical storm.
Do we have all bases covered (to borrow a metaphor)?
You know, I wonder about that fox-goose-corn thing. I mean... aren't foxes omnivores? And they're reputed to be quite smart. So... look, if he figures out that the goose just isn't coming his way, wouldn't that sack of corn start looking pretty darn good as an alternative?
I'd also like to know whether Shirley Jackson and her family ever located that missing blanket.*
But I think we are all pretty clear on that whole it-takes-village thing, n'est-ce-pas?
*see Life Among the Savages
Which is a really good thing, as it gave me the chance to make complicated arrangements for dealing with tomorrow, when:
I need to drive to the airport. (approximately 60 miles from home base)
Imelda has her first softball game. (seven miles)
Joan has her first soccer game. (fifteen miles, completely different direction)
Veronica has Little League practice. (three miles, but yet another direction)
All between the hours of 4: 15 and 6:00.
There is no public transportation in our town.
None of the girls is old enough to drive.
Jane-Clare is no help, as her after-school job kicks in around 4:30.
This, clearly, has all the makings of one of those word problems (fox-goose-sack of corn-small boat-river) the habitual solving of which supposedly will head off dementia, though possibly at the expense of bringing on an alternate mental disorder.
Our original plan, which I suppose I ought to describe more accurately as a forlorn hope, was that Joan could catch a ride with her BFF, whose mother and I have formed a friendship, over the past 15 years, originating in the coincidence that we have three pairs of same-age daughters.
No dice.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," BFF's mom explained.
See, the fact that our daughters are the same age has its downside, too. Turns out Imelda's opposite number also has a softball game; not the same game, of course; that would be too easy.
So now we had the added wrinkle of providing transportation not only for Joan, but also for her BFF.
That was solved, is that is the right word, by bringing Duthac into the picture. He agreed to drop both girls off, immediately prior to his heading off for work; someone else would have to pick them up after the game, but that seemed quite do-able.
OK. So. Imelda's game is at home; she will be there, needing only to be retrieved later. My husband is willing and able to take care of that aspect.
It was only over dinner that we learned about the third sports-related event. Veronica's coach called and recited, "We have a practice tom--" at which point I burst into laughter.
Poor man. No doubt his statement seemed entirely reasonable from his perspective.
"Yes, I hope we don't have much trouble with the weather," he said, putting the best possible spin on my reaction.
OMG, the weather! Now, if Joan and BFF are dropped off, well and good, but what if there is a thunderstorm and the game is called and there is no shelter available?
Here's what we have:
Dad is going to Imelda's game, and quite possibly driving hell-for-leather to pick up Joan after hers;
Duthac is dropping off Joan and BFF;
unrelated nice family, enlisted via frantic telephone communication, is driving Veronica;
Mom is picking up her sister at the airport and heading to the mall and a nice quiet dinner at P. F. Chang's (please don't give me away).
And yet another mom (bless her heart) will transport Joan and BFF to the home of one of them in the event of an electrical storm.
Do we have all bases covered (to borrow a metaphor)?
You know, I wonder about that fox-goose-corn thing. I mean... aren't foxes omnivores? And they're reputed to be quite smart. So... look, if he figures out that the goose just isn't coming his way, wouldn't that sack of corn start looking pretty darn good as an alternative?
I'd also like to know whether Shirley Jackson and her family ever located that missing blanket.*
But I think we are all pretty clear on that whole it-takes-village thing, n'est-ce-pas?
*see Life Among the Savages
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Am I a WHAT?
Jean Kerr once related how a polite young man at a cocktail party ruined her day, or at least what remained of it, by asking how she had voted in an election far predating her arrival at the age of 21. The voting age has, of course, changed since then, and to date nobody has yet wanted to know whether I voted for Johnson, or even Nixon.
The other evening, though, a very nice young lady had me similarly choking on my tonsils with the simple question, "Are you a nun?"
Please understand that I have the greatest admiration for nuns. According to something I read just recently, the term is properly applied only to those who are cloistered, so I have to assume that this delightful girl hadn't read the same publication. She appeared to be quite sane, so I am sure both of us realized we were standing in a regular parish church, with nary a grille in sight. I have the greatest admiration for sisters, too. I would never suggest that it's an insult, of any kind, to be mistaken for one.
But I have to wonder.
I know many consecrated religious wear wedding bands, being Brides of Christ and all (although I would wonder whether those bands are ever Claddagh rings: just asking), but do they wear diamond solitaires, too? I mean, wouldn't that be a strain on the collective finances, after a while?
Something tells me I shouldn't be bothered by this. Undoubtedly it is a compliment, and one I don't deserve....
Foil highlights! C'mon! I ask you... foil highlights! Would a nun have foil highlights, with or without a wimple?
In fact, imagine what a huge compliment it is to be mistaken for someone so holy that she has consecrated her entire life to God and spends most of the day in prayer, rather than just ducking in late to prayer group after running errands and meeting with an editor and....
Running clothes! I assure you, I was wearing a running suit. And cross-trainers. OK, there's nothing to say a nun, or at least a sister, couldn't wear that; but would she wear it to church? Nah, that's left for slackers like me.
Isn't it astonishing that anybody could look at somebody as worldly and distracted as I am and come up with anything approaching the image of a dedicated religious? Wow, how off-base can you get? I am humbled beyond belief.
But that's the last time I leave the house without lipstick.
The other evening, though, a very nice young lady had me similarly choking on my tonsils with the simple question, "Are you a nun?"
Please understand that I have the greatest admiration for nuns. According to something I read just recently, the term is properly applied only to those who are cloistered, so I have to assume that this delightful girl hadn't read the same publication. She appeared to be quite sane, so I am sure both of us realized we were standing in a regular parish church, with nary a grille in sight. I have the greatest admiration for sisters, too. I would never suggest that it's an insult, of any kind, to be mistaken for one.
But I have to wonder.
I know many consecrated religious wear wedding bands, being Brides of Christ and all (although I would wonder whether those bands are ever Claddagh rings: just asking), but do they wear diamond solitaires, too? I mean, wouldn't that be a strain on the collective finances, after a while?
Something tells me I shouldn't be bothered by this. Undoubtedly it is a compliment, and one I don't deserve....
Foil highlights! C'mon! I ask you... foil highlights! Would a nun have foil highlights, with or without a wimple?
In fact, imagine what a huge compliment it is to be mistaken for someone so holy that she has consecrated her entire life to God and spends most of the day in prayer, rather than just ducking in late to prayer group after running errands and meeting with an editor and....
Running clothes! I assure you, I was wearing a running suit. And cross-trainers. OK, there's nothing to say a nun, or at least a sister, couldn't wear that; but would she wear it to church? Nah, that's left for slackers like me.
Isn't it astonishing that anybody could look at somebody as worldly and distracted as I am and come up with anything approaching the image of a dedicated religious? Wow, how off-base can you get? I am humbled beyond belief.
But that's the last time I leave the house without lipstick.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Poetry Out Loud, part III: quiet on the set
OK. Poetry Out Loud: The State Competition.
I need a different font for that; more options, please? Gothic?
Because this was big.
Out of more than 1700 New York State students who signed on for Poetry Out Loud in the first place, our own Imelda was one of just 15 competing for the state title and the chance to go on to Nationals.
There were two students from the Professional Performing Arts School in New York City.
One of whom was introduced thus: "Marquis has appeared as Young Simba in 'The Lion King', on Broadway, and will shortly be appearing as Young Siward and young MacDuff in Macbeth..."
Fortunately there was not a mic close enough to catch Mom's automatic "Oh, my God."
Dad's comment: "Ringers. They've brought in ringers."
Did I mention that there were just fifteen of them?
Each and every recitation was stellar.
This in spite of the fact that the studio door (the competition was staged at a radio station studio) wasn't locked, and we could all too clearly hear people coming and going, not to mention the loud camera shutter much in evidence during the first round.
We were fortunate to be there at all, I having turned left when I should have turned right en route to picking up my husband from a meeting, after dropping Imelda, Jane-Clare, Joan, and two of their friends off at the wrong building half an hour after I had intended to drop them off at the right building. The right building, you understand, was across the street from the wrong one.... Listen, the wrong building had the radio station's name prominently displayed on it. Only later did it become obvious that the studio was across the street.
The whole thing started half an hour late, luckily for us. We slipped into seats toward the back bare minutes after having fed the parking meter, and moved to join the rest of our party only during the break between the first two rounds.
Having to narrow those initial fifteen down to five (as a result of the first two rounds) and then to a runner-up and a winner (third round) was a job I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Some displayed an impressive range, shifting from the humorous to the serious. Young Simba was even bilingual (Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert"). One young man who forgot to remove his jacket for his first trip to the stage and had a comb prominently poking out of his back pocket on his second smiled absently at the audience and then launched into such a display of romanticism (Etheridge Knight's "No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night," Byron's "She Walks in Beauty"), that if he is not surrounded on a regular basis by wistful females I am very surprised. There was a young lady, another freshman, who shifted admirably from Marvell ("The Fair Singer") to Donne ("The Sun Rising"), to Frost ("Mending Wall"), and who, Imelda commented, had been "so nice" while Melly fretted over whether her parents would show up at all.
"They'll make it. There are still ten minutes," the other girl said, comfortingly.
The winner was a young man who provided a bio worthy in itself of recitation, and went on to distinguish himself, round by round, with interpretations of Eliot ("La Figlia che Piano"), Donne ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"), and Longfellow ("A Psalm of Life").
Melly still has not had her chance to recite "Death, Be Not Proud", which we tell her means she has to participate again next year. Of course, next year her orthopedist may give her the all-clear for playing basketball, and then who knows? Anyway, she went to States, her first time out, and she'll be on the DVD distributed to all of the high schools which sent students to Albany for this. Even, come to think of it, the Professional Performing Arts School.
I need a different font for that; more options, please? Gothic?
Because this was big.
Out of more than 1700 New York State students who signed on for Poetry Out Loud in the first place, our own Imelda was one of just 15 competing for the state title and the chance to go on to Nationals.
There were two students from the Professional Performing Arts School in New York City.
One of whom was introduced thus: "Marquis has appeared as Young Simba in 'The Lion King', on Broadway, and will shortly be appearing as Young Siward and young MacDuff in Macbeth..."
Fortunately there was not a mic close enough to catch Mom's automatic "Oh, my God."
Dad's comment: "Ringers. They've brought in ringers."
Did I mention that there were just fifteen of them?
Each and every recitation was stellar.
This in spite of the fact that the studio door (the competition was staged at a radio station studio) wasn't locked, and we could all too clearly hear people coming and going, not to mention the loud camera shutter much in evidence during the first round.
We were fortunate to be there at all, I having turned left when I should have turned right en route to picking up my husband from a meeting, after dropping Imelda, Jane-Clare, Joan, and two of their friends off at the wrong building half an hour after I had intended to drop them off at the right building. The right building, you understand, was across the street from the wrong one.... Listen, the wrong building had the radio station's name prominently displayed on it. Only later did it become obvious that the studio was across the street.
The whole thing started half an hour late, luckily for us. We slipped into seats toward the back bare minutes after having fed the parking meter, and moved to join the rest of our party only during the break between the first two rounds.
Having to narrow those initial fifteen down to five (as a result of the first two rounds) and then to a runner-up and a winner (third round) was a job I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Some displayed an impressive range, shifting from the humorous to the serious. Young Simba was even bilingual (Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert"). One young man who forgot to remove his jacket for his first trip to the stage and had a comb prominently poking out of his back pocket on his second smiled absently at the audience and then launched into such a display of romanticism (Etheridge Knight's "No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night," Byron's "She Walks in Beauty"), that if he is not surrounded on a regular basis by wistful females I am very surprised. There was a young lady, another freshman, who shifted admirably from Marvell ("The Fair Singer") to Donne ("The Sun Rising"), to Frost ("Mending Wall"), and who, Imelda commented, had been "so nice" while Melly fretted over whether her parents would show up at all.
"They'll make it. There are still ten minutes," the other girl said, comfortingly.
The winner was a young man who provided a bio worthy in itself of recitation, and went on to distinguish himself, round by round, with interpretations of Eliot ("La Figlia che Piano"), Donne ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"), and Longfellow ("A Psalm of Life").
Melly still has not had her chance to recite "Death, Be Not Proud", which we tell her means she has to participate again next year. Of course, next year her orthopedist may give her the all-clear for playing basketball, and then who knows? Anyway, she went to States, her first time out, and she'll be on the DVD distributed to all of the high schools which sent students to Albany for this. Even, come to think of it, the Professional Performing Arts School.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Mark Twain and I are just like THAT
Five days a week, in the late morning, I have a class of eighth-graders. That's right: just before lunch.
Those of you who also have such classes, or are parents of eighth-graders, have already reacted to that.
The rest of you will just have to try to follow along, drawing on your own memories of being 13.
Yes, at 11:45 they are hungry, and restless, and full of ideas.
Last week, they were all involved in a Social Studies project of the kind I particularly like, which involved each of them researching a particular person prominent in late 19th or early 20th century American history and then impersonating the research subject, wearing a costume and answering questions and so on.
Oh, I do love this stuff!
Even though some of them drag their feet just a bit.
Responding to a general appeal from their history teacher I brought in outfits and props for a number of students.
Possibly the most reluctant was Joseph Pulitzer, who told me repeatedly how much he hated the suit I'd provided for him.
"I hate that tux!"
"Um, it's a suit, not a tux. I could bring in a tux if you want."*
"I don't think so. I hate that suit."
Well, okay then.
Far more agreeable were the girls (Jane Addams, Lucretia Mott), who apparently found it far less onerous to be obliged to dress in antiquated styles. And they also tended to be far readier to explain their characters.
But I must admit a fondness for Mark Twain... well, yes, the writer, but also his impersonator, who said he'd read "Tom Sawyer" some time ago, and asked to take out library copies of "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn" because "they're more colorful" than the copies I'd brought from home for him to use.
Literally, more colorful. As in, having brighter covers, with pictures. (The editions I have are bound in dark green.)
"I think they'll attract more attention," he said savvily.
Once he had the books signed out in his name, though, he had second thoughts.
"Wait a minute... maybe I don't want to attract attention. If people come over to my table, they'll ask me questions."
Isn't that the general idea?
"Well, yeah, but I don't want to answer questions."
Why not?
"What if they ask questions I can't answer?"
OK, let's practice. What is your real name?
"Samuel Langhorne Clemens."
When were you born?
"1835. In Missouri."
And you are famous for....
"Writing books."
How many books have you written?
"A lot."
Which one is your favorite of all those books you've written?...
"__________________________???"
'Joan of Arc'. Remember that. Twain always said 'Joan of Arc' was his favorite. See? You'll do fine.
Naturally I had to quiz Mr. Twain when I encountered him later in the auditorium.
What's your favorite book again?
" 'Tom Sawyer'."
'Joan of Arc'! Remember?
"Ohhh.... I thought you meant me, which of the books here is my favorite. And I really liked 'Tom Sawyer.' I read it when I was little. In fact, it's probably the last book I read."
So you liked it so much you figured, 'This is the best book I will ever encounter; I'd better stop now while I'm ahead'?
"Pretty much."
How can you NOT love this stuff?
*Yeah, I know it is actually a dinner jacket. TMI. Forcryinoutloud.
Those of you who also have such classes, or are parents of eighth-graders, have already reacted to that.
The rest of you will just have to try to follow along, drawing on your own memories of being 13.
Yes, at 11:45 they are hungry, and restless, and full of ideas.
Last week, they were all involved in a Social Studies project of the kind I particularly like, which involved each of them researching a particular person prominent in late 19th or early 20th century American history and then impersonating the research subject, wearing a costume and answering questions and so on.
Oh, I do love this stuff!
Even though some of them drag their feet just a bit.
Responding to a general appeal from their history teacher I brought in outfits and props for a number of students.
Possibly the most reluctant was Joseph Pulitzer, who told me repeatedly how much he hated the suit I'd provided for him.
"I hate that tux!"
"Um, it's a suit, not a tux. I could bring in a tux if you want."*
"I don't think so. I hate that suit."
Well, okay then.
Far more agreeable were the girls (Jane Addams, Lucretia Mott), who apparently found it far less onerous to be obliged to dress in antiquated styles. And they also tended to be far readier to explain their characters.
But I must admit a fondness for Mark Twain... well, yes, the writer, but also his impersonator, who said he'd read "Tom Sawyer" some time ago, and asked to take out library copies of "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn" because "they're more colorful" than the copies I'd brought from home for him to use.
Literally, more colorful. As in, having brighter covers, with pictures. (The editions I have are bound in dark green.)
"I think they'll attract more attention," he said savvily.
Once he had the books signed out in his name, though, he had second thoughts.
"Wait a minute... maybe I don't want to attract attention. If people come over to my table, they'll ask me questions."
Isn't that the general idea?
"Well, yeah, but I don't want to answer questions."
Why not?
"What if they ask questions I can't answer?"
OK, let's practice. What is your real name?
"Samuel Langhorne Clemens."
When were you born?
"1835. In Missouri."
And you are famous for....
"Writing books."
How many books have you written?
"A lot."
Which one is your favorite of all those books you've written?...
"__________________________???"
'Joan of Arc'. Remember that. Twain always said 'Joan of Arc' was his favorite. See? You'll do fine.
Naturally I had to quiz Mr. Twain when I encountered him later in the auditorium.
What's your favorite book again?
" 'Tom Sawyer'."
'Joan of Arc'! Remember?
"Ohhh.... I thought you meant me, which of the books here is my favorite. And I really liked 'Tom Sawyer.' I read it when I was little. In fact, it's probably the last book I read."
So you liked it so much you figured, 'This is the best book I will ever encounter; I'd better stop now while I'm ahead'?
"Pretty much."
How can you NOT love this stuff?
*Yeah, I know it is actually a dinner jacket. TMI. Forcryinoutloud.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Poetry Out Loud, part II: Melly goes to Albany (twice)
When last we saw Imelda, she was reciting "The Harp Song of the Dane Women" in the living room.* ("That's the poem she does that reminds me most of Anne Shirley," younger sister Joan commented thoughtfully.)
She went on to the state competition, though, with the two poems she'd recited in her school competition: "Richard Cory" and "Golden Retrievals," a poem which I must confess I had never heard of before but which seems to be turning into Melly's signature piece, she being an optimistic and energetic dog-lover.
She had three others in her repertoire; uncertain of which she should pick as a tie-breaker, "should one be needed", she enlisted the help of her English teacher, who had gotten her into th--provided her with this wonderful opportunity in the first place. Another English teacher graciously agreed to help out, and based on their advice and the majority opinion of a class of older students, Melly settled on "Death Be Not Proud."
She didn't get to recite that one.
As far as we knew, Poetry Out Loud was over for us for the year when we left the New York State Museum on the evening of February 3. Two winners had been announced, and neither of them was Imelda. (The regional competition was originally set for February 1 but had to be rescheduled due to inclement weather, which will come as a surprise only to anyone who has never lived in Upstate New York.)
Now, it turns out, she is going on to the state competition, also in Albany, on March 5.
If we were surprised, she was bewildered.
"Why?"
Nobody seems to know for sure. Her teacher phoned me, having received an email (and this to a school email account, while school was in recess for winter break):
"In reviewing the results... your student qualified to compete in the NYS finals...."
So we've been speculating. Somebody added points up incorrectly? (I certainly can sympathize with this; it's a pretty complicated scoring system, and involves, well, math.) They were supposed to pick three finalists, not two, and she came in third? So far, we don't know, and therefore can't tell her.*** But it's back to Albany on March 5.
And Jane-Clare, who had promised Imelda a fruit bouquet if she won, showed, or placed in the regional competition, now has to make good on that. Personally I'd be holding out for one with hand-dipped strawberries, but Imelda isn't all that fond of chocolate. Go figure.
And Imelda, who hates to shop, has to decide yet again what to wear. (Last time it was a shirt-dress Jane-Clare and I picked out for her while she was doing something else, boots identical but for the color to the ones Jane-Clare purchased for herself and asked Imelda's opinion about, and a little silk scarf I haggled over in Chinatown last August. Unless Jane-Clare objects, it'll probably be the same outfit again. Just a guess.)
She doesn't have to give any thought to which poems she'll recite, as the rules require she do the same three in the same order.
This is good, especially as she wound up with just a week and a half in which to prepare.
I got to thinking. Had Imelda not transferred from one small local school to another ** this past August, she wouldn't have gone to Albany for Poetry Out Loud even once, let alone twice. Her former school didn't participate. This means that she has the opportunity, rare for a younger member of a large family, to be a trailblazer. Her older siblings Bertille, Duthac, Matthias and Jane-Clare have received awards for creative writing; Peter and Duthac, for drama.
But not for reciting poetry.
It's certainly been a year for reflecting on how things develop, or don't.
Hmmm.
A person could probably get a poem out of that... let alone a blog.
*Well, okay, if you have been following the blog then technically you saw her last locating my buzzing cell phone for me, but this is all about Poetry Out Loud.
**names of both available upon request
***It's now official: they added up wrong, and she actually came in second. Apparently they should have a CPA looking over the score sheets.
She went on to the state competition, though, with the two poems she'd recited in her school competition: "Richard Cory" and "Golden Retrievals," a poem which I must confess I had never heard of before but which seems to be turning into Melly's signature piece, she being an optimistic and energetic dog-lover.
She had three others in her repertoire; uncertain of which she should pick as a tie-breaker, "should one be needed", she enlisted the help of her English teacher, who had gotten her into th--provided her with this wonderful opportunity in the first place. Another English teacher graciously agreed to help out, and based on their advice and the majority opinion of a class of older students, Melly settled on "Death Be Not Proud."
She didn't get to recite that one.
As far as we knew, Poetry Out Loud was over for us for the year when we left the New York State Museum on the evening of February 3. Two winners had been announced, and neither of them was Imelda. (The regional competition was originally set for February 1 but had to be rescheduled due to inclement weather, which will come as a surprise only to anyone who has never lived in Upstate New York.)
Now, it turns out, she is going on to the state competition, also in Albany, on March 5.
If we were surprised, she was bewildered.
"Why?"
Nobody seems to know for sure. Her teacher phoned me, having received an email (and this to a school email account, while school was in recess for winter break):
"In reviewing the results... your student qualified to compete in the NYS finals...."
So we've been speculating. Somebody added points up incorrectly? (I certainly can sympathize with this; it's a pretty complicated scoring system, and involves, well, math.) They were supposed to pick three finalists, not two, and she came in third? So far, we don't know, and therefore can't tell her.*** But it's back to Albany on March 5.
And Jane-Clare, who had promised Imelda a fruit bouquet if she won, showed, or placed in the regional competition, now has to make good on that. Personally I'd be holding out for one with hand-dipped strawberries, but Imelda isn't all that fond of chocolate. Go figure.
And Imelda, who hates to shop, has to decide yet again what to wear. (Last time it was a shirt-dress Jane-Clare and I picked out for her while she was doing something else, boots identical but for the color to the ones Jane-Clare purchased for herself and asked Imelda's opinion about, and a little silk scarf I haggled over in Chinatown last August. Unless Jane-Clare objects, it'll probably be the same outfit again. Just a guess.)
She doesn't have to give any thought to which poems she'll recite, as the rules require she do the same three in the same order.
This is good, especially as she wound up with just a week and a half in which to prepare.
I got to thinking. Had Imelda not transferred from one small local school to another ** this past August, she wouldn't have gone to Albany for Poetry Out Loud even once, let alone twice. Her former school didn't participate. This means that she has the opportunity, rare for a younger member of a large family, to be a trailblazer. Her older siblings Bertille, Duthac, Matthias and Jane-Clare have received awards for creative writing; Peter and Duthac, for drama.
But not for reciting poetry.
It's certainly been a year for reflecting on how things develop, or don't.
Hmmm.
A person could probably get a poem out of that... let alone a blog.
*Well, okay, if you have been following the blog then technically you saw her last locating my buzzing cell phone for me, but this is all about Poetry Out Loud.
**names of both available upon request
***It's now official: they added up wrong, and she actually came in second. Apparently they should have a CPA looking over the score sheets.
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