"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

Belonging

There are some times when a mother can't help but feel like a failure. Especially when she gets a phone call late afternoon, from a member of the Campus Ministry Team at her son's school, reminding her to send in the now overdue letter she was supposed to write for her son's 8th grade Recollection, which is on Friday. Especially when all she does is write.

To be honest, I'm not up to snuff on the Recollection stuff. Or, for that matter, any of the Catholic stuff. Max attends a Catholic school, and even though I was raised Catholic, I didn't listen much. But that's no excuse. I should be more attentive. Especially when my kids are in Catholic schools. And why we send him to this particular Catholic school, aside from its rigorous academics and excellent fine arts program, has a lot to do with the Campus Ministry phone call. And those people behind the calls. It's about caring, and watching out for one another, and taking the time to call slackers and say, Hello, did you forget? (No, no! I didn't honest *God strike me dead* I'm bringing it in tomorrow morning!) It's about teaching kids not only academic crap they'll forget years down the road, but about the power of kindness, and compassion, and dare I say, even prayer: Moments to meditate, to ponder their soul, to think about their purpose in this world, and how their actions, their thoughts, have real effect on mankind. How they can use all of their gifts and talents to better the world.

Hey, is that not Recollection?

Well, when I was a girl it meant begging for forgiveness for all the bad things I did (oh, and there were so many, but sometimes I had a stretch of a few good days and had to make things up for confession so as not to appear too perfect) from secret, and very stern, priests hiding in dark, screened booths. Oh, wait a minute, that was Confession! Or Penance. Or something scary like that. (Sorry, 'tis all I remember from my Catholic school days.)

So, because I'm a seriously deficient Catholic mother, I looked up the term on a religious website and found this definition for Recollection: Attention to the presence of God in the soul. It includes the withdrawal of the mind from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things. It is the same as interior solitude in which the soul is alone with God.

Moments to meditate. This sounds like a good idea to me. Not too scary. Take a breather. Reflect. Withdraw the mind "from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things." Recollect. I guess I wasn't too far off with that first thought. Phew. Perhaps there's still hope for this Catholic lady.

The letter. The letter is to be delivered to the students at some point during their day of Recollection this Friday. The theme, this year, for Recollection: Belonging. I thought that was a beautiful theme, and why I didn't respond immediately I don't know. I mean, what an opportunity, what a precious gift to give to your child. A letter. About belonging. Don't we all need to feel like we belong. Maybe I had to let the theme percolate.

In any event, it's done. Sealed. And includes a photo of Max when he was just a very little man hangin' and jivin' in bouncy seats. I hesitate to publish my letter here, but there's this voice saying, Oh Hell, tell the world how you feel about your son, and belonging. And then there's the other voice that says, It's private. And yet another that says, Boy, this is going to confirm how kooky your mother is, poor kid.

But no matter, we're all kooky in our own way, aren't we? And we all belong somewhere, doing some thing, being some one. In our own kooky way. So if you want to look at some kooky mom's letter, you can read more below. If not, stop here, and recollect. (You don't have to be Catholic or religious to do that.) You belong.

The Little Team That Did

Sports is not a topic I often write about, as I am woefully unqualified to do so. But, with both of my kids now involved in middle school athletics, these past few months have been a whirlwind of sports related activity, an opportunity for me to act as enthusiastic spectator (soccer), as well as assistant coach (cross-country). Even so, I must further preface: I know—aside from a permanent reminder of the game in a place where the sun doesn't shine—diddly about soccer. 

Couldn't tell an offside from a dangerous play.

Brackets?  Finally figured them out! And here's what they looked like yesterday:

Look, there's Mount - front and center! Go Mounties!

Last night, I watched our team, Mount Saint Charles Academy—the team I affectionately, secretly, referred to as The Little Team That Could—lose the state championship to a formidable opponent. While admittedly (at least statistically and by physical stature) Mount seemed the underdog, one still hoped for that "you never can tell" moment. The moment where the little guy, wide open, grabs the assist and charges to the net. It was not to be. Archie R. Cole Middle School in East Greenwich scored the only goal of the night with a header. It's not easy to keep that kind of ball out of the goal.

But hey, there they were—the boys (our boys, an exceptional bunch), an assembly of seventh and eighth graders from different towns, even states, their first season together, their coach an ancient (but apt) priest, a final night on the astroturf, under beaming lights and freezing temps, wind howling in the tear-streaked sky, performing war chants, looking... well, cold. And ready.

The other boys? Large and rugged, with a perfect record. Also ready.

I was sitting on the wet, metal bleachers—wishing I had a nip bottle or valium—not ready. 

Well, you already know how it ends, so no need for further detail. Except to say, that The Little Team That Could stood proud at the Final, and their loss last night could not diminish their many accomplishments over the season. The fact that they were sandwiched in those brackets spoke volumes to superior coaching, hard work, team spirit, dedication, and remarkable camaraderie. 

To Fr. Charlie, his assistant "Mrs. Coach", and the boys: it really isn't whether you win or lose, is it? Sure, some glory is good, but you know it's really all about—as they say—how you play the game. I know you know this. You left the field glowing. Tired, wet and cold, but glowing. And no longer The Little Team That Could. No, no. What you had become was something much more, something very impressive:  The Little Team That Did.  Glory, Glory, Alleluia.

MSC - State Finalist - Soccer State Championships 2010

Ring Ring Goes the Bell...

(Feel free to keep groovin' to the music while you read this.)


Books covered. Check.
Lunch packed. Check.
Uniform ironed. Check.
Calculator functioning. Check.
Summer reading complete. Check.
New schedule in hand. Check.
Smile on Face. Check.

'Tis true—the very first day back to school for you, my sweet eighth grader.  Do you look the least bit worried?  You couldn't be happier—how you love your school, you think your going off to a party, a Chuck Berry concert, twisting the day away, a back-to-school lollapalooza of World History, Algebra 1 and Art. A full year of Art! Again! What will you do when you have to take a real elective, like...well... Spanish or French (oh Français s'il vous plaît, please choose French)?

Eighth grade, where The Language of Literature awaits you, Little Man—I'm already sifting through your at-home duplicate copy (which I purchased online because I know that you'll forget to bring your book home and anyway, it's an awful heavy reader to be lugging to and fro school) of this hard-covered magnum opus. I see a whole section dedicated to Mark Twain. Twain—the one who wouldn't let school interfere with his education (but I won't tell you about that particular quote) yet still managed to become one of our greatest American writers. Perhaps you read about him in this year's Old Farmer's Almanac—you know, the one in our first floor bathroom. Maybe I will actually convince you to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn this year. Maybe I'll read it again myself. And maybe your English teacher will help you understand the significance of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451—your required summer reading—the little novel that so frustrated you, its theme you thought irrelevant, or maybe just odd (technology attached to you at the hip). But know this, Little Man, in 2010 this fifty-seven year old parable, a literary classic, could not be more relevant! Oh, maybe I should just rent the movie and have you watch it. 

Eighth grade, where Science will reveal many serious matters, compounds, mixtures and important minerals (like diamonds), and we can talk all about Libebcnofne and Namgalsipsclar... and other little tricks... and my days in chemistry class with Mortimer Simons—the original mad scientist.

Eighth grade, where the algebraic equation is waiting to wrap its linear arms around you and perplex you with all its inequalities. Sorry to say Little Man, I won't be of much help to you in that cozy little huddle. I recall the cold cuddle I had with Mr. Buonanno when he told me with his mean molars and thin eyes that I passed his high school class "by the skin of my teeth."  It won't do you (or me) much good if I finger through the duplicate copy of that colossal codex—ask your uncle, the one with whom I went to college, about my, shall we say, adventure with Math 109. I've forgotten now how many times I took it. (And as far as I'm concerned, parentheticals and expressions ought to be reserved strictly for use in sentences.)

Enjoy 8th grade little man, because after this year it gets pretty serious, in high school that is. Doesn't it?

Hail, hail, off you go Little Man... 

...American history and practical math, you'll be studyin' hard and hopin' to pass. (Won't you now?!) 

Meanwhile, I'll be waiting for your 'lil sis to return to school—next week!—at which time I'll be doing the twist. Hail, hail School Days!