Big Voice

Along the way
Saying yes to some.
Saying no to others.
Effort on what is essential.

Honor the sense of adventure, responsiveness,
Improvisation, opportunism, experimentation, alertness,
The possible contagion of topics.

Rich, tacit understanding
Intuitions about form, language, dialogue, voice.
The dazzling particularity of individual performance.

Toward invention, toward generation,
The infinity of connections and associations,
Of excess, of fullness, of having a lot to say.

Tip the balance.
Develop hope for the future.
Be daring.
Have a big voice.

The Gray Hair

You stand in front of the mirror, wrestling your curls into submission with the flat iron. He is next to you, bare-chested, brushing his teeth, spitting into the sink, humming a happy tune. You chatter back and forth about what lies ahead in your respective days. He talks about compliance meetings and projects. You talk about the bittersweet last week of school. Your eyes meet in the mirror and your shiver a little. His chocolate eyes have always made you weak in the most wonderful of ways. He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle, like fans brushing away the past year.

You remember the bottomless nights when he would utter, “I don’t want to live anymore.” The lips you love to kiss are the lips that broke your heart in ways so profound that words like broken, crushed, devastated can’t contain this pain. New words need to be invented to describe such an acute shattering.

You remember the white paper stretched across the doctor’s table as you sat holding his hand time and time again, medication after medication, tear after tear, slippery on your faces. You remember his kissing lips telling you to please lock up the medications so he wouldn’t swallow them all. You pushed aside all of your shoes and plunked down a brand new safe in the corner of your closet. It was heavy, cold. You kept the combination to the safe to yourself, hating that you had to keep a secret in a life that has always been shared.

You remember carefully putting out daily doses all in a little pile by the sink. You remember how his pants became loose, like dress up clothes on his gaunt frame. Food and sleep were unwelcome in his black ocean.

Then you remember the day he said, “I’m starting to feel okay.” You remember sessions with the counselor when he began to return to himself and your heart began to heal.

At the mirror he smiles and kisses your cheek. Your eyes drift down to the coils of black hair on his chest. One rogue gray hair stands at attention in the middle of all the other black ones. You look at your own face and see new lines around your eyes. In a moment of clarity, you understand that you are growing old and that he has chosen to live, to grow old with you.

What Is Real?

Today at the Northern California Writing Project summer institute we answered the question "What does authentic mean to you?"  My friend, Katie, who is faster than I am when we ride bikes together and consequently must pay, wrote a beautiful list of authenticity in her own life.  It was compelling and inspired me to begin my own.  I hope to add to it as I discover more authenticity.

Authentic is...

the feel of Terry's cheek stubble as he kisses me goodbye in the morning

my yellow gingham baby pillow, torn and ratty from years of love

Tiffany

my nephew Landon running and squealing when we are close enough to see the park

my Gramma's diaries

my niece, Brittany, asking to have a sleepover at my house

the playful twinkle in Terry's eyes when he's about to engage in mischief

being brave enough to ask for help and then accept it.

my mom cooking sweetmilks Saturday mornings

Terry washing out the puke bowl when I couldn't make it to the bathroom

pedaling by my dad's headstone, fighting the lump in my throat

Chris

I leave you with a snippet of conversation from the lovely book, "The Velveteen Rabbit":

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all..."

Go Ride Your Bike Up A Tree

I am sick.  That's right.  It's the first week of summer vacation and I'm sick.  Just as my poison oak started to admit defeat, a gooey sinus infection came in and delivered a swift kick to the face.

I've always maintained that when I'm under the weather, my body is trying to tell me to ease up a little.  Fine, I've eased up.  It's been almost two weeks since I've been on my bike or sweated out the pain in spin class.  I am literally itching to get out and enjoy this beautiful summer weather.

It does not help at all that my new saddle, Black Beauty, has arrived.  Don't mock me for naming my saddle.  I have a rule that I have to at least be on a first name basis with anything that spends that much time down there.  So, I named her Black Beauty.  Just look at her black rivets and sleek black leather.  She will be a fine addition to The Rocket.  She will be a fine addition indeed.

Since I am holed up as the chief financial supporter of Kleenex, my step-dad sent me this.  This guy does things I could never imagine.  Seriously, who thinks I think I'll ride my bike up a tree?  Amazing.  Enjoy.

Elvis Has Left The Building

After 31 years of teaching, my mom turned in her yard duty whistle in exchange for a well deserved retirement.  My step-dad invited her closest friends to join her in celebrating her devotion to children.  The house was brimming with long time friends, parents of former students, family, and Elvis.  You heard me: Elvis.  Some random Elvis impersonator, at best an acquaintance of my mom's, was mistakenly invited by another guest.  (Social Skill Note:  It's only okay to invite people to a party if you are the actual person throwing the party.)  Thankfully, Elvis did not sing.

As I coast into 70ish days of summer vacation, my mom steps into doing whatever she wants for the rest of her life.  No more early morning yard duty.  No more parent teacher conferences.  No more lesson plans.  No more staff meetings.  No more worrying about budget cuts.  No more calling me and talking about the funny/outrageous/heartwarming thing that happened in her classroom that day.

Sure, I can still call her and tell her about the goings on in my classroom, but I will miss the reciprocity.  My mother dreamed of being a teacher since childhood and so did I.  We have shared this beautiful profession my entire adult life and it's a bittersweet feeling knowing that come August, only one of us will be sharpening pencils and writing out a new set of desk nametags.  I now live in a world where I teach and my mother taught and it's kind of a lonely place.  Elvis has only just left the building and I already wish she'd come back.

Six Bucks

Tomorrow is the last day of school.  Each year it is bittersweet.  Saying goodbye to my kiddos and many of their parents is tough, but, oh, how I love, love, love summer followed by a fresh start every fall.

The last day of school is also tough for my little ones.  They, too, love summer, but don't want to leave our daily life together behind.  There are tears.  There are tight hugs around my legs and lots of tender I love you's.  And there are gifts.

I have received many lovely gifts throughout the years.  Bookmarks, photos, cards, bells, books, bike stuff, and much more.  It is the little things that mean the most to me.

Today one of my lovely families gave me flowers, a gift card to our brand new Trader Joes, and six dollars.  You heard me, six dollars.  I was a little confused by the last part and I'm sure she could tell because I do not possess a poker face.  At all.  So I her what the six dollars was for.  She smiled sweetly and said that since she is six, she wanted to give me six dollars of her own allowance.  I know she does chores to earn her allowance and I understood what a generous gift she'd given.  I was touched.  Later we agreed that she should think of something I could buy for the classroom with her money.

I can say with absolute sincerity that I love each of my students and I'm proud of all the ways they've grown.  Even the tough kids.  Maybe especially the tough kids.  Tomorrow I know my inept poker face will reveal my true feelings.  And that's exactly what I want.

Itching & Festering: Prom Q & A

A few weeks ago my friend Abby and I decided we should host an adult prom.  It's just what it sounds like: a prom for adults.  I'll give you a minute to let it digest.  You have questions.  I have answers.

Q: So you hosted an adult prom Saturday night?  Why on earth would you do that?

A: Why not?  What better way to spend a Saturday night?  And you thought you'd never pull that old prom dress out again.  Wrong, my friend.

Q: Did anyone else come?

A: Surprisingly, yes.  There were about 20 people all dressed up, including 1 mind-blowing plaid tuxedo.

Q: Did everyone dress up?

A: Do you really have to ask?  I can describe my prom dress in two words: zebra print.  Awesome.

Q: Are there pictures?

A: Of course.  We had a real prom photographer.  I'll post pictures when I get them.

Q: What did you do at the prom?

A: We had dinner at Red Robin, dancing in my backyard, and gave out crowns to the king and queen.  The highlight for me was when Thriller came up on the playlist and one girl busted out the full Thriller dance routine.

Q: What was the most surprising part of prom?

A: Well the Thriller dance was pretty fantastic, but not as surprising as waking up two days later itching and festering.  I get that this happens after prom often, but this was not that kind of itching and festering.

Q: What other kind of post-prom itching and festering is there?

A: Poison oak.  Itchy, scratchy, festering, blistering poison oak.  On my face, neck, hands, legs,  arms, stomach, and backside areas.

Q: Um, this is getting uncomfortable...

A: You're telling me!  I'm allergic to poison oak.  I've spent the past few days in a Benadryl fog.  Not to mention the fact that I'm a glistening homage to hydrocortisone.

Q: Seriously, this is getting weird.  Can we go back to talking about prom?

A: You bet.  Today, as a clinic nurse was giving me a super fun shot in my tush-tush, she asked "Where did you get poison oak anyway?" I pulled my pants up and replied "Prom".

Q: Um, I have to go and do something else now.

A: Funny, that's exactly what the nurse said.

Book Lovers

After school is one of my favorite times of the day.  I reflect on the happenings of the day and prepare for tomorrow.  At the end of the day I'm usually accompanied by a handful of my students from after school care.  They help sharpen pencils, organize books, clean the boards, and do any other job that garners special teacher time.

As my mom prepares to retire this year, she is passing on many of her materials to me.  This past week, I carted an overflowing box of her old books to my room and called on my little after school helpers to put them in the correct book tubs.

One of my little boys stood next to a tower of books.  He fingered each one with care and would often exclaim "Oh, Mrs. McCauley, I remember when you read us this one.  I love this book!"  As beloved stories passed through his hands, he recounted the precise time of year I'd read it to the class and something he remembered from the story.  If a book was new to him, he would stop what he was doing, plop down on the carpet, and a read a few pages.  About half an hour into this process, he asked "Mrs. McCauley, have you read all of the books in our class library?"  I smiled.  "No, not all, but I've read most of them.  I read many of them when I was little like you."  He sighed "I love reading."  I smiled "I know you do.  I do, too."

Part of creating closure to the year is helping my students understand that when they move to second grade the current kindergardeners will be first graders.  So during the last week of school we write letters to the new first graders and prepare the classroom for them.  Today each student cleaned out their book box and placed easy readers in the boxes for next year.  As they put the books in their boxes, I heard things like "Oh, I loved this book!"  and "Mrs. McCauley, I remember when this book seemed really big and hard, but it's so easy now!"  I smiled pleased that we had a moment together to reflect on how they'd grown as learners.

I've got a stack of books waiting for me this summer.  I can't wait to sit back and dive in.  And as I do, I will smile knowing that my little book lovers are probably doing the same.

Getting Greasy. Getting Sick. Getting Chased.

Dear friends & family,

With increasing temperatures and daylight stretching long into the evenings, May was a great month to be a cyclist.  More accurately, it was a great month to be someone trying hard to become a cyclist.

.252 miles this month: Redding and the surrounding areas are splendid this time of year.  Shasta Dam holds a lake of sapphire water.  Millville Plains is bursting with wildflowers.  Whitmore's deep green pine trees fill the air with the smell of my childhood spent on a mountain in Oregon.  Mt. Shasta is tipped with white snow against a cloudless blue sky.  I live in a breathtaking place and The Rocket and I saw it in all it's splendor this month.

.1 Rookie Mistake: You know that saying "Hindsight is 20/20"?  Well, friends, I'm seeing clearly now.  One weekend in May, I set out to ride 65 miles in the Anderson Park Century ride.  I didn't have anyone to ride with, but I was surrounded by other cyclists, so I set off at seven in the morning.  I was riding along just fine.  In fact I'd even made a friend and we were having a great time riding up the never-ending Wildcat Road.  The heat rose up from the asphalt in waves and I drank routinely from my water bottle full of endurance drink.  I hadn't tried this drink before.  I know.  I know.  Even rookie cyclists know you never, ever try a new drink on a long ride.  As I pedaled up toward Shingletown, my stomach felt like it was being wrung out like a dishtowel.  My stomach cramped so fiercely that I gave serious pause to lying down on the side of the road and letting the buzzards pick at me.  And you know I hate birds.  When the thought of buzzards feasting on my innards began to sound better than riding my bike, I pulled over and made the Rescue Call of Shame.  My step-dad jumped in his van and I turned around to meet him.

.1 Cowdog: As I coasted downhill, fighting back the rowdy uprising in my stomach, I came across three cowboys mounted on horses and one energetic cowdog.  The cowboy entourage was taking up the entire width of the road.  I called out "On your left!"  The cowboys moved over, but the cowdog wanted to play my least favorite game, Crash the Cyclist.  The dog beelined right for me.  I called out "Watch out, dog.  I don't want to hit you."  Cowdog's owner offered up the very helpful suggestion "Just run him over."  I replied "That won't end well for me."  The dog charged my right foot and in the nick of time, I clipped out and kicked the dog.  He yelped.  I am not an animal person, but kicking a dog made me feel terrible.  I rode away riddled with guilt and dreams of lying down on the side of the road.  After a measly thirty-five miles, my step-dad scooped my up in his rescue van and returned me to my car.

.1 Soccer Halftime Show: After checking in with the ride coordinators to let them know I was no longer on the course, I walked back to my car.  I'd parked along a chain link fence surrounding soccer fields.  There were hundreds of itty bitty soccer players enjoying a halftime break.  As I walked the fence to my car, my insides did the Vulcan death grip on my stomach and before I could turn away from the cute, little soccer players, everything I've ever eaten began to revisit me.  I clung to the chain link fence and threw up.  A lot.  The soundtrack to my misery was a chorus of high-pitched "Ew!  She's puking!  Ew!  Ew!  Ew!"  As I was doubled over, all I could think of was that great soccer announcer bellowing "Gooooooooooaaaaaaallllllll!"

.1 Flat Tire: The next weekend, I was determined to take The Rocket out and expunge the memory of what competitive eaters call a "reversal of fortune".  I headed out to the garage to prepare The Rocket for a nice climb to Shasta Dam and a drop down onto Keswick Dam.  Go ahead and insert your own dam joke.  I'll wait.  I plugged my water bottles (full of water only) into their holders and noticed The Rocket was looking at me with one very sad, flat back tire.  Last month she got a flat front tire after driving home from S. California.  This time she got a flat after the rescue van pick up.  I think The Rocket is sending me a not so subtle message that she does not like riding in cars.  She likes to be on the road.  Message received.  Last month I successfully changed a front tire by myself, but I've never changed the back tire.  This involves removing the wheel from the chain and stuff like that.  I took out my trusty tire irons and set to work imitating everything I've seen other people do.  Miraculously, my pretend attempt worked and I changed my back tire all by myself.  My hands were black with grease and I knew my mechanic brothers would have been very proud.

.63 miles: Two days later I headed up to Whitmore with my friends Nick and Nathan.  It's a sustained climb with some steep pitches, but my legs felt strong.  A couple of times I had to stop to remind my heart that it is also strong and there is no reason for it to beat out of my chest like that.  After a quick breather and a stern talking to, my heart shaped up nicely and I enjoyed my longest ride of the season.

.1 more dog: After stopping at Whitmore School for some water and a snack, we turned around to enjoy the downhill home.  I was cruising along pushing in my big chain ring.  Nick and Nathan were behind me and I was lost in some monumentally important reverie about what kind of burrito I wanted for lunch.  Nathan interrupted my burrito planning session when he yelled "GO, ALICIA, GO!"  This wasn't the peppy yell of a cheerleader rallying the football players.  This yell had the distinct tone of immediate danger.  To confirm this Nick yelled "You're screwed!"  As I shifted into my little chain ring to pedal a little faster, I looked back and saw a rat terrier nipping at their heels at 20 MPH and gaining.  The dog eventually tired out and turned around.  Let me take a moment to provide a public service announcement.  If one is on a bike and would like to warn someone that a dog is starting a game of Crash The Cyclist, it's very helpful if you actually mention the word dog somewhere in your warning.  Yelling "You're screwed!" isn't as helpful as one might think.  Having said that, I loved Nathan's take on rat terriers: they're dangerous because they can get caught in your spokes.  Classic.

.2 more dogs, no seriously: After fun with the rat terrier, we continued toward home.  This time the boys were ahead of me, but within sight.  As we rode next to a hill, two bulldogs came tearing down the hill after Nick and Nathan.  The dogs were a blur of barking, growling, and serious running.  Fortunately my sloth-like speed made me invisible.  As the boys sprinted away, I began to realize that soon the dogs would tire out, turn around, and see me.  Oh, this did not seem like it would end well.  With the boys out of sight, the dogs turned around and trotted toward me.  I tried to be calm.  I tried to be cool.  I failed.  As they neared, I used a voice reserved for cute babies and adults who annoy me and said "Hi, sweet doggies.  Whatcha doin', you good wittle doggies?"  Bulldog #1 panted and wagged his tail at me.  Bulldog #2 was having none of that.  I don't blame him.  I can't stand it baby talk either.  He gave me a sharp bark that clearly meant I had three seconds to leave with all body parts in tact.  In a wavering big girl voice, I said "Ok, I'm leaving" and pedaled away, praying the dogs didn't want to play Crash The Cyclist From Behind.  They didn't.  I turned a corner to see Nick coming my way.  He said "We sprinted away and then I realized we'd left you behind."  I informed him that he was definitely 0 for 2 when it came to dogs that day.  There's that saying that when 2 or more people are being chased by something, you don't have to be faster than the something, you just have to be faster than the slowest person.  Let me tell you, being the slowest person stinks big time.  I've got to work on that or I've got to start packing milk bones in my seat pack.

.$1,195 donated so far: Thanks to Jean P., Amy and Steve P., Tracy H., Jeff W., Anita J., Carmen L., Chris F., Katie L.., That Unicycling Guy, Sue H., NVB employees, Kyra M., Janet M., Nancy W., and Debbie S. I appreciate your support and generosity.

.$805 until I reach my fundraising goal: I'll be accepting donations through the month of June, followed by my century ride in July.  So, if you'd like to help me meet my goal and support a great cause, click on the link below to donate online.  You can also write a check to The Lance Armstrong Foundation and I'll make sure it gets to the right place.  Thanks for your support!

Fondly,

Alicia

Fight cancer by supporting my century ride for The Lance Armstrong Foundation. https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=294743&supid=241282118

The Little Book That Could

Once upon a time there was a teacher who loved writing.  (Yes, this story is about me.  Aren't they all?)  The teacher loved writing so much that she and her class wrote a book.  It was such a beautiful book that the teacher decided to use lulu.com to make it into a real, live book.  She convinced a photographer to snap some lovely pictures to accompany their words.  Her class raised enough money at the jog-a-thon for each student to have a copy of their very own, real live book.  The children beamed.  The teacher beamed.  The parents beamed.  They had done it, authored a book of their own.

Just when the teacher and her class thought they couldn't be happier, the teacher got an e-mail saying their little book was now going to be featured on amazon.com for all the world to see.  The students were thrilled that children in China , Moscow , and even the remote jungles of Sacramento would be able to read their book, Drumming Hearts and Rosy Lips.  I am now big and famous and poised to sign autographs.  Oh yeah, they all lived happily ever after.  The end.