Archives for category: Teachers Write


Gentle sway

Sun warming

Wind whispering

Breeze tickling

Sunlight dappling leaves

Waves licking

Sails rippling

Coffee brewing

Bacon sizzling

“Come on in, breakfast is ready!”


“And we are nearly ready to go.  The sisters have assumed their positions around the pot, each with cup in hand.  We have Oreo Cookie cup, New Orleans Jazz Fest cup, and rounding it out, there is 70s Flower Child mug.  It looks like a great day for coffee, don’t you think, Skip?”

“I do think so, Bob.  The participants are gathered around the Mr. Coffee, and all eyes are on the pot.  And these eyes are not pretty, Bob.  We have Oreo Cookie cup with the blood shot, red, swollen eyes of way too much fun last night.  Next to her, we have Jazz Fest, and these eyes are flying at half mast this morning.  Not sure how competitive this one is going to be able to be at this hour.  Flower Child looks like the perkiest of the bunch.  She seems rested and relaxed.  Those two other cups are going to have a run for their money with Flower Child in the mix.”

“Well, Skip, looks can be deceiving.  I never underestimate a tired, hungover woman when coffee is involved.  I remember once… Wait!  It looks like… Yes, the drip has stopped.  The drip has stopped, and we are off to the races!”

“Flower Child reaches out toward the pot as the last sputter of drip empties into its 12 cup receptacle.  It’s Flower Child at the start, but wait!  Here comes Oreo Cookie with a shockingly quick box out!  Flower Child crashes loudly against the cabinets.  Jazz Fest seems dazed by all of the ruckus and leans against the counter to gather herself. Flower Child attempts to recapture her position, but it is too late.  Oreo Cookie has swept in and grabbed that first cup of liquid sanity. It looks like Oreo Cookie is our winner, Bob.”

“Hold on, Skip.  There seems to be a commotion coming from the kitchen.  Oreo Cookie has taken that first, delicious sip.  Her face is screwed up in horror. What could possibly be happening down there?  It appears that Oreo Cookie is yelling something.  Let’s see if we can make it out.”

“All right.  Which one of you A**holes made decaf?!”

“Come on!  It’s right up here, past the clay bank,” Tommy shouted over his shoulder as the rest of us scampered behind on the trail.

“Gramma said that her name is Emily,” said Betz.

“I don’t see why we have to go down there.  What if she’s weird.   Then we have to pretend to be friends with a weird girl all summer,” Laura grumbled pulling up the rear.

“I’ll bet she’s nice.  Gramma says she’s our age.  We might really like her,” I chimed in.

“Nice try.  I doubt it.  I’ll bet she’s super weird and she’ll mess everything up.”

“Lighten up, Laura,” Betz said as we entered the clearing past the clay bank. “There’s the house.  Fancy, huh?”

We all looked in wonder at the A-framed structure rising up before us.  It was a far cry from our little cottage and certainly different from the sleeping cabin that Grampa ‘Kay built in 1940. That’s where we kids slept all summer.

“They have carpet!” Betz marveled gesturing toward the remnants left alongside the house.

“Shag,” whispered Tommy. We were accustomed to linoleum flooring.  Practical because of the beach sand and pine needles that hitchhiked on our bare feet to invade the floor of the cottage. Gramma waged a constant battle against the assault.

“OK, let’s get this over with,” Laura said walking up to the side door.  The front of the house was one giant window facing the lake, so the side door seemed like the right place to knock.  And knock, she did, with the rest of us crowding behind her.

A surly teen opened the door.  “Ya?” she said one hand on her hip.

“Can Emily come out and play?” Betz asked.

“There’s no Emily here,” replied the girl, and she abruptly turned and closed the door.  We stood in astonished silence on the porch.  Maybe Gramma was wrong.  Maybe there was no girl our age in the A-frame.

“Well, that’s just great,” Laura said sarcastically.  “Now what?”
“Back to the cottage for lunch, I guess.” I said heading back down the trail.  The others turned to follow me.

“Hey!” We all turned in unison toward the voice.  “I’m Amy.  Where you guys just at my house looking for me?”

Little did we know, that this moment would change our summers at the lake forever.


The Power of One

The world, it seems broken.  
But what can be done?
Don't underestimate the power of One.

One can acknowledge the problems we see.
They aren't about them,
they're You and they're Me.

One can decide to reach out and connect,
with those who are different
 from what we expect.

By learning from others,
their truths and their tears, 
One can cast away prejudice, judgement, and fears.

One can build bridges between you and I.
It may not be easy,
but shouldn't we try?

It's not about cops
and it's not about color.
It's mostly about us not trusting each other.

Trusting's a risk that we all need to take.
Are you One to take risks
for humanity's sake?

If you are, please come join me.
I'm One, and I'm ready.
To stand for what's right, I'll be strong. I'll be steady.

Your One plus my One, makes two, that's a start.
It may be imperfect 
but it comes from the heart.

Together we'll model how it could be done, 
so don't underestimate
the power of One.


“Mo!  You better come here!  Looks like another one.”  My footsteps crunch the pine needles, leaves, and twigs beneath them.  My feet move me forward, but my eyes search behind for my sister as I approach the scene.  I sweat, despite the cool breeze, and my mouth goes dry when the buzz of flies and the smell of decay assault my senses.

“Jesus Christ!  Not again?  Why does this shit keep happening?”  Mo is all business.  She gets things done.  She shakes her head as she approaches the scene, hands on her hips, disgusted.  She’s done with this, but that won’t make it stop.  “This has become an epidemic.  Every single time we come here, we have to deal with this crap. When is enough, enough?”

We stare down at the bloody mess, no longer horrified, but annoyed.   Bones, cartilage, and torn flesh blanket a section of the wood’s floor like that spill that happens when old Chinese tumbles out of your too full fridge and the carton busts open right there on the linoleum.  What a freaking mess.

“What do you think happened, Mo?” Mo is short for Maureen, but I dare anyone to call her that.  My eyes search for answers in the crime scene, darting here and there, trying to make sense of the mess.  I wring my hands a bit, knowing that the clean up isn’t going to be pretty.  It never is.  But we can’t just leave it here.  Someone has to do it, and that someone is us.

I’m the nervous sister.  Not quite timid, but definitely more cautious and far less foul-mouthed than Mo.  She swears like a sailor on shore leave.  Nobody seems to mind.  It kind of suits her.  She’s bright red, I’m a dull yellow.  People call me Kit.  My name is Katherine, so it went from Kat, to Kitty Kat, to Kit.  Dad sometimes calls me Kitten, but he’s the only one that can get away with that.  I’m a little nervous, I’m not a doormat.

“How should I know, Kit? It’s the same every time.  Is it man?  Is it nature?  We don’t know, and we probably never will.  All I know is we better go suit up for disposal before Sonny gets here.  You remember what happened last year.”

I think back to last summer and suppress a grimace.  Sonny found last year’s contribution to the Circle of Life before we did.  He carried that spine around like he was leading the band with it.  Not just part of it, either.  The whole dang thing.  Finally, we wrestled it away from him.  Sonny’s not quite right in the head.  Generally sweet, but trying way too hard to be Alpha.

“I’ll go get a bag and some gloves, Kit.  You stay with the body.  This is some bullshit right here.  Damn it.”  Mo trudged off toward the house leaving me alone with the corpse.

“Bambi sleeps with the fishes,” i muttered to no one in particular.



“Tommy!  Toss me Richie Rich.  I haven’t read that one.”   I reach my grubby, s’more covered fingers toward the comic, but I am too late.

“Forget it, I’m not done with that stack yet.  Read Little Lotta,” Tommy smirked.  “That’s more your speed anyway,” he said twisting away from me using his back as a barrier against my grubby grab.

Laura flipped over in her sleeping bag, so that she was now facing the top of the tent.  Her mouse brown hair poked out of the top of the bag in an any-which-way it wants, no rules, manner that made me wonder how much of it was hair, and how much was pine tar and dirt. “Will you guys shut up?  I’m trying to read, here.”  Betz moved the flashlight so that she could better see her Hot Stuff comic. She was not about to get dragged into any bickering, so she kept to herself.  Amy giggled in the corner with a pile of Little Dot and her friends.  Amy didn’t need any of us to have a good time.  Her nickname was Polka Dot, so she thought that all of the Little Dot comics were written about her.  Her wild, curly brown hair, not so much framed her face, as allowed it to exist within it.  Her laughter was contagious, so quiet giggles were appropriate for settling us in for the night.

The scene was a familiar one, each of us head bent over a comic.  It’s what we did in the summer.  There was no TV to watch, and there were only so many times that we could read the same few Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books that were in the shack.  The comic book scene was familiar, though the tent was not.  We had begged our parents to let us spend the night out in front of the cottage in Great-Uncle Mertz’ army tent.  After an unusual amount of begging, we ultimately got the go-ahead and started setting it up.

It took forever to get it up and prepped for our adventure.  I’m not sure what we expected, but when you are 10, and sleeping outdoors with your best friends all night, the world is your oyster.  The adventure came with the rush of independence, the sense that for the next ten hours, we were in charge.  If we wanted to stay up all night and read, no one would be there to stop us, and if Old Man Marker’s ghost decided to pay us a visit…no one would be there to protect us.

The tent was ancient, army green canvas and fit all five of us with room left over to house a tribe of Pygmies.  Once up, its gaping, musty, mouth revealed a coated canvas floor that crinkled as we began staking our claims with sleeping bags and piles of Harvey, DC, and Action Comics.

Dinner had been perch that Grampa ‘Kay had caught that morning with Mertz. It was delicious and pared with a three bean and onion salad that Gramma ‘Kay had made. Yummy as it all was, it would prove to be the potential unraveling of our adventure.

Perspective 1 narrator

He travels with an entourage these days, one in front, and one in back, frequently hangers-on crowd along his side.  His gait is deliberate. People take notice when he enters a room.  They pause from their meal, their conversation, their cocktail and watch as the group passes.

Ahead, the door is held for him, wide and welcoming. Heads turn at a table nearby, all eyes upon him.  People smile, and titter, and make way. Someone standing nearby quickly moves an errant chair out of the way as he heads toward a chosen table.  The table is covered with the bounty of summer.  Bowls of fresh cherries shimmer in the sun, chilled glasses of recently poured IPAs fizz, while giving off a golden glow.

A woman, noticing him at the door, leaves her position at the table and heads over to him.  She moves efficiently, yet gracefully, in his direction.  Her sun-kissed nose and cheeks reflect the flickering light.  Her hair curls softly about her face, the blonde dulled with age, but still lovely.  She smiles comfortably as she approaches, and holds her arm out to him.

“This way, Dad,” she says, as she steers him toward her table.  The entourage peels away like the petals of a banana, leaving the tender fruit exposed.

“Oh, it’s you!  Are you Kathy or are you Sue?” he asks with a good-natured smile.

“It’s me, Dad.  It’s Kathy.”

Perspective 2- Main character

My God, why are all these people hanging around? I’m just trying to get something to eat. Can’t they get out of my way? Look at them all staring. What’re you looking at? You got something to say? Say it!

I can do this myself, you know. I’ve been walking for a very long time. Eating too. I suppose that surprises you. You look and see a feeble old man. You don’t know me. You don’t know my story.

People used to stand up when I walked into the room. They used to show their respect, and hang on my every word. Now, now they hang around waiting for me to fall. They used to look at me with envy, now they look at me with pity. I know people, you know? I’m the man who gets things done. I know people. Now, if I could just remember his name…