A man under a blue umbrella, walking in the not-quite-sunshine of early morning.
A woman, blonde, crossing the road with a cane.
Another woman, dark haired, staring at the device in her hand while behind her walks, skips, occasionally hops, a boy too blessedly young for a device, picking what appear to be invisible plums from the air.
An abandoned barbeque, hoping for a thief with gourmand tendencies.
Lunch, freshly picked, as yet unassembled.
I was honoured to attend The Literacy Council of Durham Region awards presentation last night recognizing those adults who, through the Council’s tutoring program, have learned to read in the past year. Also recognizing their tutors.
What I loved best about the event—aside from the fact that it was beautifully organized with not a moment of wasted time nor long-winded hoo-ha speeches (celebration, respect, warmth and camaraderie were the order of the day)—was that no distinction was made between groups as people were called up to receive their awards; we knew not if the recipient was tutor or student—this effectively sent the message that the process of teaching and learning is equal, that it takes courage and commitment to do either, and that every teacher is a student at some time.
The emotion and pride on every face spoke volumes about the power of the work, the power of words. I watched as people opened certificates at their tables, imagined the impact of not only being able to read words such as recognition or achievement but to know they referred to you.
What I can’t imagine is the stress of a lifetime hiding the fact that you can’t read—at work, in a restaurant, when your kid brings home a card she made for you—or, worse, pretending that you don’t want to. Even less can I imagine the chutzpah it must take to suck it up and say: today I’m going to do something about that… and then really do it, to actually pick up the phone, admit you need help. And then—as if all that’s not tough enough—you show up for lessons and feel, initially, like you’re in kindergarten, trying to understand that r-e-d spells the colour of your shirt.
But you keep going anyway.
Chutzpah.
And then, one day, you put on a shirt and it’s blue and you can see the word in your head. And when the goodbye card is passed around the office you can not only write your name but what you feel: hey, pal…good luck! You read pasta on a menu and decide you’re not in the mood for spaghetti; you look through the sandwich selection instead, ask for tuna on white, toasted, and when your kid says read me a story, you can.
Susanna Kearsley, one of the invited guests (and a former museum curator), compared the right to read with museum contents kept under lock and key, privy only to the curator. Thing is, she told the audience, we’re all curators of this particular museum and it’s wrong that certain of us are denied the key; we must ask for it, demand it if necessary.
In essence, that’s what last night’s graduates did, took back what was always meant to be theirs. But the effect of their actions goes way beyond what they’ll get out of it; I’m guessing more than one will take the step from student to teacher, if only by not letting anyone they know go without that key…
“Learning is not attained by chance. It must be sought for with ardor and attended to with diligence.” ~Abigail Adams
“Excerpts from a list of bird mnemonics, one of the many means employed by birdwatchers to distinguish one species’ call from another. The full list [of 94] can be seen here.”
Bittern, American bloonk-doonk
Blackbird, Red-winged konklaree
Blackbird, Yellow-headed don’t you dare
Bunting, Indigo fire, fire, where, where, here, here
Chickadee, Black-capped chickadee-dee-dee and cheeseburger
Dove, Mourning hoo-la-hoop, hoop, hoop
Flycatcher, Olive-sided quick, three beers!
Nuthatch, Red-breasted ink, ink, ink
Owl, Barred who cooks for you, who cooks for you all?
Rail,Virginia gidick, gidick, gididick
Sandpiper, Semipalmated tweedle dee dee
Sparrow, White-throated poor Sam Peabody
Thrasher, Brown drop it, drop it, pick it up, pick it up
Warbler,Connecticut whip it, whip it up, whip it good
Waterthrush, Northern nice old ladies don’t chew
~From GEIST 80, Spring 2011
1. Not much.
2. This.
I’m swanning about the place in a tiara today. Also a sash. Just missing a mitre—and, what, an ermine robe is asking too much?? All this thanks to Allyson Latta who bestowed on me the most wonderful surprise of naming Matilda one of her picks for the (brace yourself) Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award—whose logo is a strawberry shortcake, which makes it probably the best award I’ve ever heard of.
The protocol, I’ve been advised, on receiving the ISBA, is to a) thank the person who nominated you, b) share seven things about yourself, and c) pass along the award to other irresistibly sweet bloggers.
Well, first things first then: thank you so very much, Ms. Allyson, for thinking of my little corner of cyberspace and for the kind things you said about it—the phrase “sometimes wacky” notwithstanding; surely a typo… :D (me, wacky??)
As for sharing seven things about myself—this should be relatively simple given that there happen to be exactly seven things about myself.
They are these:
1. My backyard is home to several giant ant hills (by which I mean three or four), none of which I intend to do anything about. One of them has been there fifteen years. We call it the Ant Hotel. When visiting kids were small we had a sign for it. Very reasonable rates and efficient, speedy room service (albeit small portions) were its hallmarks.
2. I’ve been toying with the idea of trying to like coffee but I keep buying tea.
3. Corn makes my stomach ache. Annoying because I like polenta and Mexican food and Fritos, not to mention buttery cobs on summer days, which when I was a kid I used to eat like a typewriter. (Link provided for those who just said a what??)
4. My heroes tend to be animals, children and very old people.
5. I’m happiest when the fridge is on the empty side. I find this inspires creativity in my cooking. Some wonderful things have been invented under the most spartan conditions. Or maybe I’m happiest when I’m outside, up to my wrists in dirt (pardon me, soil), or on a lounge chair in the company of words. On the other hand, swimming, plunging my nose into laundry fresh from a sunny line, a morning spent walking or writing at the beach…all leave me smiling pretty solidly too. As does rain and snow and the kind of breeze you could fall asleep in and then you do and that feeling when you wake up and the world is just there, waiting for you, making no demands. And you remember there’s just enough ice cream left for a small bowl and because there’s only a bit, it tastes that much better. And then you find a jar of cherries.
6. I saw Leonard Cohen in concert in 2009. I still haven’t completely recovered.
7. I would like to learn Spanish and Sign Language. Spanish, so that I can go back to Chile and discuss bread and wine and life. Sign Language for its beauty and elegance.
Finally, a few bloggers to whom I’d like to pass along the shortcake. Not for sweetness but for enhancing the interweb with their wise words, gentle spirits and contagious sense of joy.
Alone on a Boreal Stage—Home of poet and visual artist Brenda Schmidt’s photo/video poems and other bird/nature/book related pleasures.
We Drank Cachaca and Smoked the Green Cheroot—I’ve become addicted to this site because of stolen rhubarb, orange knickers, lady bikes, Jean Talon Market and sentences like this:
“I was not expecting the skies of England to be all painterly, to perform for me as they have apparently done since William and Dorothy Wordsworth pottered about the countryside with their pockets full of mutton pies, but the skies did perform, and I am still thinking about them, because they billowed alive over the built-up bricks and statuary and pomp and palaces that caused the subtitle BYGONE DAYS to float across my mind the whole time I was there.” (From the post: Whence and Whilst and Those Constable Skies, 6/14/11)
Pickle Me This—I’m always happily surprised whenever I check into this site. Kerry Clare has exactly the right mix of book smart and life whimsy.
Carol Bruneau’s Blog—This is where I go to remind myself how to think about writing.
Four Rooms—Exploring the power of words in various forms.
Island Editions—Publishing, books, beachy vistas and occasionally food.
And a beach, a beach
A seat is indeed a seat
And if you look closely you’ll see [in the background] that a reed is just that: a reed
Iris of course are, among other things, iris
And, fortunately, a bin will always be a bin.
Some people ask for an Hermes scarf when their chap goes to Paris. Me, I just wanted some good dandelion seed.
The chap did not disappoint!
Et voila! The shady corner of the garden where pissenlit (translation: ‘wets the bed’—dandelion is a known diuretic so maybe best not to eat bucketsful before lights out) shares space with the domestic variety, as well as horseradish, nettles and returning tufts of raddicho. The naked bits are where seeds have been sown for a fresh Fall crop. (Think salad… with chopped egg, garlic and a warm grainy mustard/bacon vinaigrette.)
Try doing that with a scarf.
Matilda Magtree 