The cool thing about teaching writing is that it enables me the enthralling privilege of reading my students’ creations. Sometimes when I am reading a piece that’s so clear, honest, and raw, I feel the author has opened his head right up and invited me in to take a look. My goal is to remain consistently impartial, but at the end of the day I'm only human and some invitations are accepted with interest, others grief for the author’s experience, and on the rare occasion: pure hysterics.
The following selections speak for themselves.
“I have finally meant all of the goals I set at the beginning of the semester. “
“I spotted a train station up head.”
“Uncle Jessie would of never wanted us to mourn his life.”
“I am usually very honest and don’t like to bloat about myself. “
“We lay out on the hood of the car following the shooting stars back in forth with our eyes.”
“I would like to include an antidote about my childhood in my expository essay.”
“I don’t think the reading made since.”
“Toward the end of my research process, my professor suggested that I pare down the length of my essay and focus on improving the quality of the existing text. As I underwent this process, I finally understood, after all these years, the meaning behind the phrase ‘Quality of quantity’.”
“The price of groceries has risen to a hold new level.”
“If you’re feeling bored in your relationship, find ways to splice it up.”
Another semester dwindles to a close, which means this weekend found me cuddled under a blanket on the couch grading papers with a cup of hot tea and Joey and Tao by my side. This is usually my favorite time of the semester as it signifies one of two things: I am happy to move forward and meet my next class of students (feel free to gather your own meaning), or I am filled with a bittersweet appreciation for the amazing group of students I am saying goodbye to.
If you’re not a teacher you may not understand just how deeply each class of students can impact your life – for better or worse. But if you are, you know that when you receive that roster at the start of each semester that you are looking at more than just names on paper; before you are the names of people with faces, and personalities, and pasts, and experiences. Some of the students will keep their distance and although you’ll learn their stories, they’ll do their best to remain nothing more than a name. Others will change your life. Regardless, each of them in their own right will frame your mindset, and yes, your mood, for the next four months.
This semester has been one of my most rewarding. Each of the students on that roster let me see them as more than just a name, and they gave me opportunities to walk into their experiences and really know who they are. Through their stories I was let into so many worlds – several I am familiar with; others I wouldn’t know if it weren’t for their stories. Some of their tales were so joyful they made me want to sing, others, so painful that the tears flowed from my eyes as I read them. (This would be cheesy if it weren’t so darn true.) From them I learned how to snowboard; what it feels like to live with Emetophobia (the fear of vomit); a secret family recipe for cinnamon buns; the experience of a US soldier at boot camp being trained to withstand the effects of a gas chamber; what it’s like to live without vision; what it’s like to be sent to a treatment facility after attempting your own life; what it’s like to grow up on a meat farm, and how to butcher livestock; ways to cope with a parent suffering from debilitating depression; how it feels to win sectionals for your district baseball team; how to endure the death of your father during your senior year of high school; the important life-saving steps a paramedic takes when he arrives at a scene; and how it felt for one student of divorced parents who wrote for pages about the heartbreaking experience of posing for a picture, first with his mother and then with his father, and recognizing that he’d never stand beside both of them in the same space for the rest of his existence.
As I read through the final stack of papers yesterday, I happened upon a note from one of my students. He was a shy student full of bright ideas and a fear of public speaking. He wrote “There’s nothing we as students can give you to repay you for giving us our sense of self.”
It amazed me to read these words, for I feel it is they who assist me in framing mine.
As I sit here this morning and calculate final grades, I am reminded of the awesome, albeit short-lived journey I have gone on with this particular group of students. And I feel gratitude for the roster that was given me in August, for it contained the names of students who made waking up and trekking to campus three mornings each week so happily bearable.
On Saturday morning I awoke in tremendous pain from my braces. Eating was of absolutely no interest to me; however, by noon I knew I’d have to try to get something down so as not to let my new brace face get the best of me. I scoured the cupboards for the softest thing I could find and decided that lunch would consist of egg noodles with butter (no pasta sauce for me, as it stains the bands on the braces). Fifteen minutes later, I ladled steaming hot , overcooked pasta into two bowls --one for me, and one for Marty-- and we sat down to eat.
My first bite was wholly uncomfortable, but by now my appetite had been piqued and I was bound and determined to get at least a few mouthfuls down. Alas, no such fortune. As I chomped down on my second bite, I nearly blasted straight out of my chair and through the roof.
As Marty happily slurped up every saucy forkful, I just sat there –bowl cupped in my hands– willing myself not to cry over my own frustration. “What can I do for you, Sweetie?” Marty asked. I shook my head in dismay and centered my focus toward the window, watching as an orange leaf flittered in the wind… hanging on desperately to the branch from which it hung.
Being a complete foodie at heart, I was less upset by the pain and more upset by my inability to enjoy food. “It’ll get better soon – I promise, Babe,” he said as he stood up and carried his empty bowl off to the sink. As I continued to stare out the window, I heard his footsteps on the stairs and settled back to wallow in my discomfort.
Within seconds Marty returned to the room and was standing before me with a wide smile on his face. He held his arms behind his back and as he sat down beside me, I heard the crinkling of wrapping paper. “This is a little something to take your mind off your mouth,” he said as he took the bowl from my hands and in its place set a large package. I smiled and peeled back the tape. As I lifted the wrapping, bold golden font stood against the solid black box: “Nikon D3100 / AF-S DS Nikkor / 18-55 mm.”
The camera I wanted. The SLR Marty had been telling me about for months.
Tears sprang to my eyes, I threw my arms around him, and I cried.
…How lucky I am.
For the rest of the afternoon, I played with the features on my shiny new camera and spent some time getting to know it as best I could. Joey and Tao were my subjects and they proved to be good sports as I shot photo after photo of them doing nothing in particular, but looking pretty in the process.
As I did so, I learned that there's no better remedy for pain than having the magical opportunity to look at life through a new lens.
On Friday evening, after shoving half the medicine cabinet down my throat to ward off the pain caused by braces, Marty and I got dressed and headed out to meet our friends Eric and Colleen at Scrimshaw, the Desmond Hotel’s 4 diamond restaurant. Although my mouth ached like I just came out of my fourth round in the ring with Mike Tyson, I wasn’t missing out on a complimentary gourmet meal with great friends. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I just said “complimentary”. See, Colleen is the credit manager at the Desmond and every three months she’s responsible for being the weekend manager on duty. Along with the not so pleasant tasks this job entails (catering to unsatisfied guests, dealing with power outages, etc) Colleen enjoys some perks -- one being dining on premises and being welcomed to invite guests to join her free of charge.
With live piano melodies filling the short silences between our chatter, we enjoyed our meal on the house.
Phase 1 - Wine
Phase 2 - Appetite Enhancer
Phase 3 - Assorted Sweet and Savory Breads (not pictured)
Phase 4 - Lobster Ravioli: Fresh Maine lobster meat folded with drawn butter and lobster mousse, encased in fresh parsley and squid ink pasta
Phase 5 - Desmond Salad: Raddichio, romaine, Boston bibb and red leaf lettuce topped with sliced mushrooms, mandarin oranges, sliced almonds, cheddar cheese, dried cranberries, cherry tomatoes, and creamy garlic dressing
Phase 6 - Lemon Sorbet (not pictured)
Phase 7 - Filet Mignon with Raspberry Risotto, Zucchini, and Carrots
Phase 8 - Bread Pudding drizzled with English style custard
Phase 9 - Coffee
Phase 10 - Almond Cookies
Phase 11 - Roses for the well-fed ladies!
Phase 12 occurred when we returned home, laid our heads upon the pillows and fell into a long and deep food-induced coma!
So after months of weighing the pros and cons, I had braces installed yesterday morning. And I don’t use the word install lightly. I was by no means looking forward to wearing braces for twelve months – especially at the ripe age of 29, so I dreaded that aspect of the ordeal, and I knew my low tolerance for pain would have me wringing my fingers during the entire two hour installation. But what I hadn’t considered was how dreadfully uncomfortable they would feel once adhered.
After rising from the dentist chair and looking into the handheld mirror that was shoved before me by the hygienist, I was met with nothing short of a downright scary reflection starring back at me. My lips were swollen and to my absolute horror, I looked like a 15 year old. One would think I would be pleased to appear younger than my years, but when a freshman approaches you in the bookstore on the first day of class and asks what dorm you live in, or when a door-to-door window cleaning salesman comes ringing your bell and asking “Are your mom and dad home?” (true stories) you don’t want to add braces to the equation. There is no way one can appear professional, attractive, or anything other than adolescent while sporting a set.
Once the initial shock wore off, the pain set in. I quickly learned that every teen I had talked to about their braces had boldly lied to my face “Oh, it doesn’t hurt that much” and “You’ll get used to them within hours” rang through my ears as I huddled against the arm of my couch gnawing bite full through throbbing bite full of soggy cereal. Within a matter of seconds I had gone from looking like a 15 year old to looking a 15 month old as I slurped up each bite, dribbling milk down my chin and stopping at intervals to remind myself how to maneuver the substance across my tongue and down my throat.
Last week I found myself sitting in a dentist chair. Jim Croce’s gritty voice rained down from the recessed speaker above...”If I could save time in a bottle…” It was 8am and I was in no mood to hum along. The previous hour had found me leaning against the shower tile breathing in the steam rising from each cascading drop of water; my hand reaching for the regulator, turning it up, and up, and up again until the skin on my chest was blotchy red and the water heater had given me all it had left. Later I stood half clothed beside my open closet as my newest favorite song played its third rotation on repeat and stared at each article of clothing hanging listlessly on its wire, waiting for the right combination to pick me. Alas,I was left with seven minutes to make the eleven minute drive across town to the chair I was now sitting in. There had been no time to brew coffee, which meant I was at the dentist and I was un-caffeinated. Sour combination.
As a drill droned in the adjoining cubicle, I stared off into the tacky 80s artwork that adorned the wall before me…and waited.
A young girl who looked fresh out of dental school walked in clad in Disney scrubs. Good morning… (Pause. Look down at chart.) … uhh… Carrie. How are you today?” she asked in a tone that left much to be desired. Mickey and Minnie must be for compensation’s sake, I thought to myself.
“Are you excited to get your braces put on next week?”
“Yea, uh, not so much,” I responded.
She smiled weakly and began to scan the green and white computer screen beside my chair. I looked on disinterestedly:
Records For: H., CARRIE L.
Excessive crowding / recent crown-tooth 31, sens. in same tooth
Bracket teeth 31 + 18
Metal clinked against metal as the hygienist fiddled around in a drawer in search of the perfect tools for the job. I continued to scan…
Slight overbite / Invisalign candidate, but not recc’d.
Age: 29 yrs, 11 months
My heart leapt to my throat. Age: 29 years?!?!
“Okay, honey, I’m gonna’ sit ya back and put your spacers in. They’ll make room between your molars for the bands we’ll connect the archwire to when your braces are put on.”
The whine of the electric powered chair rang in my ears. I sank lower. My breathing quickened. My left eye twitched. 29!? I screamed inside.
The hygienist’s masked face entered my periphery: “This'll be uncomfortable for a while, but you’ll get used to it.”
Age: 29? How is that possible? I could have sworn I was 28. I’ll be 29 on my next birthday…right…? Thoughts flashed to a disagreement I had gotten into two years prior with a friend who was born three days after me. He said we were 27, I thought we were 28. We did the math. I had been wrong.
I had been wrong before… could I be wrong again??
The hygienist tapped my chin with her long, blue-latexed fingers. My signal to open. I craned my neck and lowered my jaw. She reached for the overhead light, twisted it on its swivel and tugged it into position. It squealed with every jerk. 29!? “29 yrs and 11 mnths.” That means I’ll be 30 in twenty days!?! My pupils contracted. I blinked against the iridescent glow, wondering if I had remembered to floss before leaving home. The heat from the bulb radiated off my forehead and cheeks. The wheels of the hygienist’s stool dragged against the carpet on each rotation as she drew nearer. The stench of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air as she reached over me. I opened wider.
29!?
*****
Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. I counted each foot fall as it came down hard on the rubber conveyor of the treadmill.
Counting things is something I do. As a child, I would count the telephone wires that hung across the road. Sometimes on short rides across town I would pretend I had long stretchy arms; I’d imagine swinging from one wire to the next like a monkey swiftly swaying from branch to branch as we passed beneath. I couldn’t let my feet hit the ground.
Counting things is something I do. I count the fruit in the basket, the remaining rolls of toilet paper in the linen closet, the messages in my inbox. I count cars. I count stars. I count days.
How had I miscounted my own years? I thought as Ipushed down hard against the button on the treadmill. The buzz of the machine grew louder as the incline increased. Thirty-seven.Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four.
*****
“45 mins and 58 seconds” the screen on the treadmill read. How had I miscounted my own years? I slammed my hand hard against the “Stop” button. The buzz slowed to a soft hush and then stopped altogether. I wiped by shirt-sleeve across my face. It came back wet. I reached into the compartments on the machine, grabbed my cell, and stepped off the padded surface. The solid floor beneath me felt like air; I, like a monkey swaying swiftly on the breeze.
As I headed toward the locker room, I swiped the phone’s screen. The illuminating glow read “One missed text from Meggie.” That’s it – Megan! We had grown up together, counted things together: the days until fifth grade graduation, the days until our senior trip, the days until her wedding day, and the days until her son’s due date. She would know better than any dentist’s database. With clammy hands, I texted “Omg… I am freakin’ out. Am I going to be 29 or 30 this November?”
In the locker room, I paced the floor with phone in hand, kindly averting my eyes as a woman in her late 70s brazenly stripped down to her wrinkly skin and strode toward the nearest shower stall. I jumped when the phone sounded its familiar tone. I took a deep breath as I lifted it to read her response…
“29,” it read.
Exhale.
As I stood at the sink washing the sweat from my hands, I wondered why the thought of 30 had upset me so. I guess the brief (albeit erroneous) knowledge that I had lost a year made me feel as though I had been robbed of the most precious thing I have: time. As the warm water poured over my fingers and swished down the drain, I stared up into the mirror and promised myself that I'd do my best to make the most of my 29th year.
Goals for My 29th Year
Take my vitamins every day
Cast off my aversion to running on land
Increase my endurance so that I can run a full loop on the cart trail on my neighborhood golf course with Joey at my side
Participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure
Replace at least six of the eight windows on our second floor
Lose five pounds
Get braces put on and taken off
Go snowshoeing at least twice (snow conditions permitting)
Maintain the motivation to really “do” my hair no less than once per week
Visit Maine or Cape Cod
Hike three mountains
Get an SLR camera
Begin my own business or obtain a job that will enable me to build a career
Pay off at least $4,700 of my student loans
Get back in touch with an old friend
Finish renovating the basement
Visit Marty’s sister in NYC
Try my hand at least one new recipe each month
Capture at least three moments in photographs that make my heart skip a beat
Read one book that I absolutely cannot put down
Grow grass in my backyard that is plush and green and fun to walk on with bare feet
I can’t believe it’s mid-September already. Just the thought of trading flip flops and tanks for boots and coats makes me shiver. As I bear down for autumn, I revel in the summer moments that will inevitably get me through the winter:
August 4
Amish Country - Berlin, OH
August 9
We celebrate Martyn's birthday with dinner out at The Gingerman with his parents, followed by the opening of a mound of gifts. The highlight for me was his new ukulele - I look forward to hours of listening to him play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" as I sing along in my horrific, scratchy voice.
August 15-17, 19-23
We enjoyed hot days on Lake George with Mart's family and climbed Buck Mountain
August 18
We attended Albany's Annual Food Fest at the Empire State Plaza, which could never be complete without crepes, and of course... our Meggie!
August 22
It was off to Willow's Adoption Celebration where we ate lots of great food, hung with the fam, and celebrated how lucky we are to be blessed with this beautiful child in our lives
August 26-29
I hung with my momma on the pond. We relished our last few gorgeous days of summer vacation, talked our hearts out beside the water on the dock Mart built us... and ate Brie cheese, of course!
September 4-6
We spent Labor Day Weekend on Brant Lake where we bundled up to ward off the cold and fit in a hike up First Brother Mountain before the rain fell.
Summer had officially left us.
"Whenever I saw a beautiful flower, what I longed to do was press it to my heart, or eat it all up. It was more difficult with a piece of beautiful scenery, but the feeling was the same...I yearned physically for all that I thought was beautiful, wanted to own it. Hence that painful longing that could never be satisfied, the pining for something I thought unattainable."
We spent five days camping on Saranac last week. The sun was hot, the food and drinks aplenty, and the water, warm. We love being with Joey and witnessing her experience the freedom of camping. She’d awaken with the sun and lay quietly curled beside us in the tent until she’d hear the familiar “zzzzhh...uuuuuhp” of the zipper and zoom outside to greet the wilderness that surrounded us. Her exploration didn’t stop until the sun went down and the warmth of the roaring fire beckoned her near. There was a definite contentedness about her as she curled up on my lap each night and dozed off to the sounds of chatter and laughter among friends.
If only every day was a day camping on Saranac.
Boating down the lock to Middle Saranac
Joe loves adventures
Our site
Upon arriving at the site and unloading the boat, Joey got busy playing with a family of ducks she found sunning themselves on the beach
