I wish you a reflective Thanksgiving with your family today ~ moments of deep thought to consider all that we have and time to be grateful for it. On days like this, where I have all the morning to write and a travel post from yesterday waiting to be shared, it seems I need the reflective rock time more than the writing today.
Perhaps you’d like to ponder on it today as well. Look closely – – at one time, it was broken. It has been mended. And it holds messages here for people, for hearts, for families, for nations.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Plymouth Rock in Plymouth, MA – photo taken November 27, 2024
After the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) Convention concluded in Boston on Sunday, my husband and I rented a car and started a loop through New England so that we could see a little more of the northeastern United States. Since we didn’t take a vacation anytime earlier this year, we decided to take a trip this week and enjoy some time away to relax and recharge.
I might be a pain as a travel companion. I’m pretty sure I am, because there was frost on the top of the car and I urged my husband to get up and watch the sunrise with me. On the rooftop of a hotel. When the wind was blowing so hard the seagulls were forced into changing course.
I can’t help it. There’s something exhilarating and soul-renewing about the way the sun casts a glow at the top of the day, as if it’s pouring the world a glass of orange juice to serve up energy for all the day brings.
We woke up in Kennebunkport, Maine this morning and did some exploring in that coastal town before driving across New Hampshire to Woodstock, Vermont to do more adventuring in another state.
A pano my husband took in Kennebunkport
Sunrise picture
Christmas tree being decorated in the middle of the street
We’re enjoying watching places decorate for Christmas. We found some men with a ladder decorating a tree in the middle of the street right in the heart of Kennebunkport. There was another crew hanging garland over the bridge, and still more putting out a reindeer with lights and a sleigh and a Santa and a snowman. Snowflakes with lights were hanging at the tops of buildings, and the festive feeling of Christmas was in the air. Some homes had pumpkins on the front porches and wreaths on the front doors, and I feel like I learned something important from that.
On the bridge in Kennebunport (it was so cold I had to buy a hat for my ears to stay warm)
My favorite stop of the day was the U.S. Post Office. I’d broken my own rules by taking 17 books from NCTE with no plan whatsoever for how to get them home in just the carry-on and personal bag I brought along. So I asked my husband to find a Post Office, and one was right down a side street from the middle-of-the-road Christmas tree. I purchased a box, the kind that you peel the sealing tape off the side, scribbled my address in the TO space, and mailed these signed volumes home to myself at the book rate.
The fun came in the place and people, and I’m convinced that the actual Post Office is a character all by itself, with its very old doors that I wished had a register of all the people who’d ever entered and exited. I felt I’d stepped back in time to the 1940s. My next goal is to research the history of the building with its tiny mailboxes and the feeling of nostalgia here that had me wondering if ten thousand ghosts weren’t waving to me from the ceiling space. I saw live people coming and going, but the feeling of past was powerful here, kind of like mediums must feel when giving a fortune telling.
Then there was the man in line behind me, a gentleman of about 80, who was as kind and curious as humans come. He suggested I sit the box down when he saw me holding it so long, but by that time, I was next. He said it looked heavy, but I told him it was all books – and then he got interested……especially when I told him who’d signed them all. Supreme Court Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, Kate McKinnon, Bryan Stephenson, Ada Limon, Sy Montgomery, Matt Patterson, and more.
I kept wondering what was taking so long – – until I got to the window and figured it out. The Postmaster was a character, too – maybe the main one. He was about 70, hilarious with his jokes and fun. His piercing blue eyes and his mannerisms took ahold of me. He had to read the whole script, asking me if I had…..”anything perishable…..any batteries….anything liquid…” even though I kept saying no and had read the screen and pushed the NO button. He smiled a little and peered up over a raised bushy eyebrow atop the rim of his glasses so I would know it was a game. Then, when I asked for elves holiday stamps to mail postcards to the grandchildren, he told me they’d just gotten those in from Graceland, handing me two books. “You know, where all the Elv(i)s live!” I laughed the corny joke laugh, smiled what felt like the realest smile I’d smiled all year long, and wondered why every place couldn’t feel this unhurried and fun. Especially at such a busy time.
Then I stepped back out the doors into 2024.
Look closely for ghosts. I swear they are here somewhere.
My husband’s favorite stop of the day was the Bush compound, and we caught sight of three people walking. We couldn’t tell who they were, but we know someone was home since the flag was up to indicate their presence – plus, we saw several cars including the tell-tale Secret Service black SUV. This was an unplanned stop on the route, but one we both enjoyed. Even though we didn’t get that invitation to come in for a cup of hot chocolate that we stood there hoping for.
When we finally arrived in Woodstock, we went to The Vermont Flannel Company on the suggestion of a friend, who had been during her fall break last year and loved the place.
The bad news: I couldn’t buy a blanket because…… only a carry-on and a personal bag.
The good news: I couldn’t buy a blanket because…….only a carry-on and a personal bag.
I could live in their shirts and wrap up every night in those cozy blankets. And I see why the flannel is such a hit here. It’s freezing. And the Georgians? Yeah, we brought denim jackets and thin nylon windbreakers but no coats……that’s the other bad news. (I awoke early, and below is the forecast for today):
But onward we march, freezing and having a wicked good time.
The Vermont Flannel Company on Elm Street, Woodstock, VT
We checked out of our tiny hotel room Sunday morning to make our way to Kennebunkport, Maine as part of the slow travel loop we’ll make to see some of the northeastern United States as we push the pause button and enjoy some of the natural beauty of our country before the holiday season. We will bask in the silence, unplug, and enjoy some quiet time focusing on each other – without deadlines and rushed agendas. I’ll go to bed early just to wake in time to catch the glorious sunrise in these places.
First on Sunday, though, Ada Limon! She was the keynote speaker for the closing session of NCTE 2024 – our 24th Poet Laureate of the United States. She lives in Lexington, Kentucky and has written such spellbinding poems about place and moments. I love How to Triumph Like a Girl, and her books The Carrying, The Hurting Kind, and Bright Dead Things, which contain a variety of her poems. My friend Fran Haley of North Carolina and I led a book study on The Hurting Kind last April, and we had trouble deciding on our favorite poems to discuss. If you haven’t read any of her work, I recommend beginning with The Carrying. It’s my favorite collection ~ perhaps because those poems spoke to where I was when I was reading them, needing the deep cerebral massage of her words.
Next, we grabbed an Uber to the airport to pick up the rental car to drive through the scenic places we’ve picked to stay. We’re hoping for some leaves left on the trees so that we can see the seasonal burst of color, and Boston gives us hope that we will see these magnificent sights.
Ah, but as we drove, they turned out to be few and far between, with a pop of red here or a last smattering of yellow there. Most of the trees are bare, and then – just like that – we cross the Maine state line and begin to see the magnificent pine and spruce trees. I’m smitten with the landscape, and it takes me back to the part I loved most about Route 66 when we traveled it a year and a half ago: the changing landscape of America (and of each state – because it changes from border to border) that helps me feel like I’ve seen the fingerprint of a place more than one lone city.
The room is bigger, but not by much. But what a difference: a balcony overlooking the water and the boats! We’ll be able to see more in the morning.
We checked into The Boathouse in Kennebunkport – right on the water with a balcony view of the harbor. Although the room isn’t much larger than the one we left in Boston, we fell in love with its decor and cozy feel. The colors of nautical navy and white, with warm woods, gave us the vibe of New England hygge, when the wind is whipping cold outside but it’s warm and glowing indoors.
Since we’d skipped lunch, we were hungry for supper early, so we headed downstairs to the restaurant directly beneath our room and shared a pair of crab cakes, a bowl of New England Clam Chowder, and a lobster roll. It was the perfect way to cap off the day before getting a hot shower, wrapping in the luxurious bathrobe, and retiring to read and write.
New England Clam Chowder and crab cakesLobster RollView from our balcony at nightLuxurious bath robes
Tomorrow, we will piddle in town, try the lobster rolls at The Clam Shack that we have heard so much about, and then make the drive from Kennebunkport to Woodstock. We will share more of the journey as we go!
Even the front doors had me excited! This is a little slice of heaven on earth.
I often experience those spinoff tornadoes of excitement that NCTE brings – the conversations with others that aren’t officially a part of the conference but that take me further down avenues of thought – and occasionally, further down blocks of the city to explore physical places someone mentions.
Such was the case when I met Richard Louth, the creator of the original New Orleans Writing Marathon, whose NCTE workshop in Boston offered attendees the opportunity to participate in The Boston Writing Marathon. In this writing marathon, a large group met and wrote together for a practice session on all the exciting ways to center their writing for the hours ahead. They had a round of sharing with a protocol that allowed everyone to honor the writing of others. Then, they set out in small groups to write in various locations, capturing in words and worlds all that came to mind. When they returned, they shared their writing and experienced the essence of the collective experience.
I’d stopped by to meet Dr. Louth and expressed my disappointment that I would be unable to attend his workshop. My presentation time was overlapping the workshop – but I wanted to know more. He ran for his handout and encouraged me to write, even though I would be unable to be part of the group on the first day of the conference.
He shared more about Virtual Writing Marathons (VWM), explaining, “When the pandemic hit and physical Writing Marathons became impossible, I helped Kel Sassi of the National Writing Project create a VWM program in the summer of 2020. That summer, VWM writers virtually visited a different location in the country for an hour each week under the guidance of a local NWP site and ‘Storymaps’ that focused on different locations, and we wrote and shared in small breakout groups through Zoom. We did 10 weeks that summer, with each VWM attracting 50-60 people on average. The final VWM that summer was in New Orleans. The VWM continued each summer, and it even expanded into monthly Tuesday evening meetings during the school year. We had VWMs in Arkansas and Missouri this fall, and our next will be in January.”
He further added:
“For more information, Google NWP’s ‘Write Across America.’ It’s open to anyone to register…..also, check out the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival website.”
In our later conversation by email, I learned that Dr. Louth had gone to a place called Grub Street with a former student, where they had written together near Pier 4 for their Boston Writing Marathon location.
I had to check it out!
When we approached the doors, my husband shook his head and caught my eye in that fearful kind of way that husbands do when they realize they are about to go broke.
“Ooooh, Baby. This is all you,” he sheepishly conceded, reluctantly patting his wallet.
He was right.
From the moment we entered the place, we breathed life-giving air. Reading and writing particles flitted like glitter through the air and engulfed me in sparkles. In this place was some kind of magic for everyone. My husband took to a corner with a book by Paul McCartney entitled The Lyrics, which explains the backstories of songs. He got lost in a concert all his own, silent music flooding his soul, entering his eyes and exiting through one tapping foot.
Just the patterns of the floors and unique shapes of the light fixtures were captivating. Every now and then, I enter a place where the lighting illuminates the darkest parts of a searching soul – so much that I can feel it. I felt it here in Grub Street.
I was fascinated by the people – some working, some writing, some seeking, some reading. All engrossed in their moments. The winter wear sets a photographic temperature – a very Bostony cold with rain on the way, and winds whipping our faces. We were completely unprepared for the weather, but it added an element of survival to the experience just as any adventure book would reveal in the exposition.
And we were suddenly the coatless characters in this book store story.
I stood for a while and read the titles visitors had added to the list of books that made them feel grateful, a common theme word for the month of Thanksgiving. What book would I add? Mary Oliver’s Devotions, no doubt. And Billy Collins’s Whale Day, Sy Montgomery’s Good, Good Pig. I would run out of Expo markers before I could finish listing all the books that bring to heart a grateful spirit.
I wasn’t able to go upstairs, as the top floor had been shut down for the night, but I’ve added this to my list of places to visit when we return to Boston. What a unique concept – a writer’s haven.
I’m so grateful Dr. Louth shared this place, and thrilled I took the opportunity to visit.
Until we return, I’ll continue to wonder about the upstairs writing that happens at Grub Street.
And a part of me will secretly be grateful that I didn’t get to see it this time.
The wondering fuels the imagination and the dream. And the desire to return.
Water Taxi from Airport to Hotel – in Boston Harbor -it’s the best way to arrive in Boston in warm months (note to self: it’s cold and windy on the water in November)
yesterday we came
to the big city: Boston
but our hearts are home
Nothing grounds me, pulling on my rural roots and centering my belonging more than putting on my sweatpants, wrapping up in a jacket, and throwing on my dew-proof duck boots for a walk with the dogs in November on the Johnson Funny Farm, one hour south of Atlanta, Georgia but as rural as Little Red Riding Hood’s deep woods with all the mystery. I smell the wet earth of morning wafting up from beneath the pine straw, see the falling leaves and misty haze through the thicket, and hear the lone woodpecker overhead, calling to us from the towering Loblolly pines. I’ll carry the country silence of my Sunday morning walk with the boys close to my heart all week as we travel. I’ll miss them, and I will pull up these blog photos below many times while I’m away. The one with Ollie trying to be a stowaway will bring tears by the end of the weekend.
I know that there is much to look forward to in the city beyond the NCTE Conference, where I, along with my writing group, will be presenting our latest series of books for teachers on Thursday. We’ll see the nation’s history unfold along the Freedom Trail if the weather permits, and from there, following the NCTE Convention, we’ll explore several New England states and share Thanksgiving Dinner at Plimoth Plantation as we see The Thanksgiving Story come to life on stage.
As we share in our love of travel, though, there is nothing that compares to coming home. To being home. To belonging, and to feeling the sanctuary of our space here in rural Georgia with our three rescue schnoodles – Ollie, who walks with his nose up, sniffing the air all around him, Fitz, who walks with his nose to the ground, sniffing what has been there before him, and Boo Radley, whose nose and eyes are always directly ahead so that he doesn’t miss a thing. It seems silly, really, to have to walk these boys on a leash in all this space, but out here we never know what wildlife we’ll encounter, and they are prone to chase everything from deer to cattle and donkeys that get loose from nearby pastures. We don’t take any chances.
As we fly out on this work conference and extended adventure, it is comforting to know that our return ticket will bring us right back where we belong.
This is what country folks look like when we take walks on the farm.
Noses: on ground, in air, straight ahead
A few sounds of the country
Ollie confirms that his people are leaving on a trip and looks for space to fit in
Sharing dinner before the conference frenzy begins (From L-R: Tammi Belko, Dawn Lanca-Potter, Kim Johnson, Sarah Donovan, Leilya Pitre, and Denise Krebs at Layla’s American Tavern, Boston)
Sarah Donovan and me – Sarah’s writing group at http://www.ethicalela.com saved my life as I struggled with grief over the death of my mother in 2015. And we’ve been writing ever since.
Erica from Arkansas is our host today for the fifth and final day of the November Open Write at www.ethicalela.com. She inspires us to write story-poems that span from childhood to adulthood and hover on the brink.
She urges us to “record imagery that comes to mind when you think of that childhood experience. I encourage you to focus on concrete sensory details, but if you have to pull from memory or make something up that’s fine too.”
Earlier this week, we wrote 4×4 poems, featuring 4 stanzas with 4 syllables on 4 lines with a refrain. Today, I’m trying a 5×5 with those same parameters, but without a refrain.
On the last day of October’s Open Write, I shared this poem:
An Invitation
save the date: November 16
you may choose to arrive by stretch limousine
we’ll be gathering in style for a writer’s retreat
whether castle or cabin or on your own street
we’ll spend the day writing in fantasy places
day one: a packing list poem ~ what’s in our suitcases?
so gather your words ~ select them with flair
I’ll be the door greeter to welcome you there!
you’ll need your location and writing utensil
something to wear, and perhaps a spare pencil
we’ll all need a critter (think Hogwarts style)
and a snack to share to write all the while
and then let’s bring one thing – a gift for the group
something to make us all laugh, cry, or hoot
what’ll it be? oh, I can’t wait to see ~
here’s a basket of tickets – take some – they’re free!
let’s keep Donnetta’s theme words sparking and growing
return in November, keep writing ongoing!
I offered a glimpse of today’s prompt, encouraging writers to think of a fantasy writing retreat and these aspects: location, clothing, writing utensil, critter, snacks, and a gift for others.
Today, I offer this poem to inspire others to write poems about a fantasy writing retreat. Come join us, and share yours on the ethicalela website!
Location: I’m arriving by Oz-graced Yellow Brick Road
to this heavy oak castle door with just an armload
Clothes: wearing overalls under my farm-writing cape
this magical cloak of virtual escape
with shimmery amber-hued dragonfly wings
and chicken foot bracelets and beetle leg rings
just a suitcase, you see, for this week here together
with all of my writing pals ~ birds of a feather
Utensil: and speaking of feathers, I’ve brought my quill pen
plucked from the wing of a feisty owl hen
Snacks: I’ve sugar-spun cauldrony crinkles for snacks
shaved off curled spikes from chameleons’ backs
Critter Companion: made easier by Razor, my pink crocodile
I walk on a bling-leash, in true Funny Farm style
Group Gift: and one more thing: I bring a group gift ~
My father, an avid book collector, introduced me to Gladys Taber’s writing years ago, and I fell in love with her instantly. He has always had the uncanny knack of matchmaking book lovers with books that become favorites.
Sometimes I like to go to my collection on the shelf of my reading room and pull a Taber book and read random passages. Many of her books are organized by month or season, so I find that no matter where I land in her seasonal offerings that mirror mine on our farm in Georgia, I am there – right there with her – in Southbury, Connecticut.
From Still Cove Journal: November
“November is a month when the chill blustery days and long cold nights are hard on dieters. Green salads are fine on hot summer days. but the very sound of the wind from the Atlantic against the big window makes me think of a real breakfast of sausage and buttermilk pancakes with first-run golden maple syrup. By suppertime I forget I am a non-dessert eater, and when I go out to eat, I often order Indian Pudding. I have had many very fine puddings, but almost never an authentic Indian Pudding. So I like to share the recipe my mother and grandmother used:
Bring 4 cups of milk to a boil in the top of a double boiler. Gently stir in 1/3 c. yellow cornmeal and cook 15 minutes. Add 1 cup dark molasses and remove from heat. Add 1/4 c. butter, a teaspoon each of salt, cinnamon, and ginger and 1/2 c. seedless raisins. Place the batter in a greased baking dish. Then pour 1 cup cold milk over it. Bake in a slow oven for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Serve with hard sauce or cream or even vanilla ice cream.
The main thing about the real Indian pudding is the cup of cold milk poured over…..”
I’ve never made Indian pudding, but it sounds divine. I’m making a shopping list now to try it, perhaps for our Thanksgiving lunch at the office a week from Tuesday. There’s something magical about an old recipe that seems to conjure up the spirits of those long dead and welcome them back to the present. If we ever do discover time travel, I’m fully convinced that the portal will be through an old recipe box, long forgotten, hidden in the corner of an attic, and one that comes alive like Frosty the Snowman’s magical hat.
A quartet of carolers opens the play with Still, Still, Still
We didn’t come straight home from Halloween festivities and put up our Christmas tree (it still isn’t up), but we have officially begun preparing our hearts for the Christmas season ahead. It began two weekends ago when we took our grandson Aidan to see The Nativity Tour at The Biblical History Center in Lagrange, Georgia. When it comes to Christmas, I do love the charged energy of cold weather, the laughter of shoppers, the gatherings with food and fellowship, and the lights. But Christmas, for me, lives in the quiet moments of deep thought and reflection – about ordinary things and how they connect to a greater concept.
The first reminders of the season came as we stood outside a sheepfold with our firstborn grandson, now a few months away from a driver’s license, learning about the likelihood that the manger may have been made of stone and the surrounding animals predominantly sheep. We discovered the reasons that a family in Biblical times may have turned away a woman expecting a baby for fear it would displace them if birth occurred and rendered their house unclean for 30 days. Having no room in the inn has been a frequent thought recently as I watch families unravel over candidates – brother against brother. Sadness, angst, grief over loss of relationships, and anger have all been the emotions of recent days. It’s hard to escape.
The second reminders of the season came as I watched my favorite Christmas book, A Christmas Carol, come to life on the stage. Is there any wonder that this particular adaptation of the play at this theater opens each year with a quartet of carolers singing Still, Still, Still? It prepares the minds and hearts of the audience to pay attention – to be still and watch for what is most important by looking in our own mirrors – to listen to the characters and the messages they bring. And yes, to sit right next to Charles Dickens himself, whose own story lurks in the shadows, and to wonder: what, dear friend, do I need to see in each of these characters and change in my own life as I seek joy this season?
Is there any greater time to hear this message than right now, today? It is the message of Christmas that beckons us to think not of our own rights and wishes, but the acts of service and giving to those around us to avoid those two hideous children, Ignorance and Want, who huddle under our cloaks. Children we try to hide, who are as clear and present as decaying front teeth behind a selfish smile. Is there any greater time to seek healing in our own hearts than Christmas?
Adults are often asked if we believe in Santa. Whether we do or don’t, the greater question, I think, is whether we believe in Scrooge. Somewhere in the quiet moments, I am reassured that even old Ebenezer himself, and even the Grinch, has hope – as do I, as does this nation. And this year, perhaps more than ever before, I welcome the ghosts to remind me to count my blessings.
Common Threads 