Glasses, Who Needs Them? (me)

I finally got a new pair of glasses. One of my students said they make me look like Junie B. Jones. Ha! I swear, I'm getting blinder by the day. I cannot see the numbers in my book catalogs anymore without my specs or even the sign in sheet at work.

I wasn't always like this. From age four to about age thirty nine, I had just plain old astigmatism. Then I turned forty and far sightedness set in like a permanent bad weather system, turning my world to haze. For a while I went about replacing our ordinary lightbulbs with higher wattage bulbs like Reveal. I was thrilled when I picked up a magnifying bookmark at an SCBWI conference last year.

I've talked to doctors about lasic surgery but, frankly, the idea scares me and it wouldn't correct everything. And what if they mess up? My vision, such as it is, is precious to me. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't paint or use a keyboard anymore, not to mention read or countless other little pleasures that involve sight.

Last night I went to a retirement dinner and an amazing peacock strutted past the window. He was a gorgeous bird and I wish I'd had my camera handy. At least I could see him, though.

Why We Still Need Books

If you had $2,800.00 to spend on books for your library, what would you buy? It's truly a pittance. The administration transferred me to a library that needs everything except scary books (which comprise our entire story collection), sports books and another series of Babysitter's Club, Goosebumps, Fear Street etc. We need picture books desperately -- something besides Bob the Builder ( I'm not kidding), Disney books and other commercial books. We also need more outstanding fiction and nonfiction. As I said, just about everything. So, on my list are this year's Caldecotts and Newberys, a lot of the starred reviews from School Library Journal -- among them, The Invention of Hugo Cabret (a visually stunning book), Clementine, by Sarah Pennypacker and some old favorites that are still in print.

I've always maintained that there's a picture book for every person and every occasion and that's one of the reasons why we need good book budgets. I recently bought an old copy of The Blind Men and the Elephant which I read to my first graders. They got it! Maybe Laura Bush should read it to her husband. Mem Fox wrote a great little story called Feathers and Fools which every soldier and general embroiled in a long, ongoing war should be required to read. And I really think every urban planner and developer needs to study Virginia Lee Burton's book, The Little House or Jeanne Baker's wordless book, Window. When I have a painfully shy student, I often pull out Rosemary Well's book, Shy Charles. And Patricia Polacco's Thank You, Mr. Falkner or Lauren Mill's story, The Rag Coat, are two wonderful books that gently show children the emotional impact of bullying. Living in a diverse society in this day and age, children enter school with more baggage than ever and we need books that will address the broad range of their backgrounds, experiences and problems as well books that still make them laugh. Picture books cut to the chase and get their points across more succinctly than just about every other form of writing .

A lot of school administrators are of the opinion that with the internet and databases so readily available, we really don't need as many books as in years past. What they don't know is that we need books more desperately than ever. Like human beings, books have spines. They have stories to tell. When we open them, they speak to us from the depths of the author's heart and soul. One of the hallmarks of a great civilization is a strong storytelling tradition. Stories give us heroes to emulate, problems to consider, lessons to ponder. Books represent lives, both real and imagined. The internet is fun but, like a slide show, the images flit past us rapidly -- so rapidly that we don't really have time to absorb them. A good story slows down time and gives the reader a chance to absorb the meaning, to soak up the poetry of the language. So, I ask, why not more books?

My art instructor, Robert Armetta, won second place in the Portrait Society's annual competition. We're all very excited for him. His portrait was one of 1,300 submissions and he had very stiff competition. Robert is not only a phenomenal artist, but a truly gifted teacher and a warm and compassionate human being with a great sense of humor. He's also very humble. Last Saturday when he told us he wouldn't be there for art class, he didn't tell us why -- only that it was because of something unavoidable and he apologized. It wasn't until yesterday that we finally learned the real reason; he had to go to Washington to accept his award from the Portrait Society. It's about time he finally got some recognition for his hard work and great talent.

The portrait that snagged him the award is of a model we once drew in our figure class - a rather homely looking guy who, I hear, is now homeless. He's wearing a pair of blue pants but is shirtless. It's a great character study (check it out at www.robertarmetta.com under gallery/portraits). For me, the art of portraiture is about capturing the personality of the subject. Right now I'm struggling to learn how to paint flesh tones. I've drawn people for years but learning how to paint them is going to take a while. Once I've accomplished that, then I can worry about capturing my subject's personality.

While I'm here posting, Happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers and mothers to be. Once a mom, always a mom - even once they're out on their own. Today my two sons are away. Derek is on the Appalachian Trail somewhere in Virginia and Sean is up at SUNY Oswego getting ready for his finals. Doesn't seem so long ago that they were tiny pink bundles I brought home from the hospital. I miss them terribly but, at the same time, I'm happy to watch them making their way in the world. Creating a well adjusted, independent adult is, after all, one of the goals of motherhood.

May in Virginia

My AT hiking son, Derek, has made his way into Virginia. Last Sunday when he called home he was in Pearisburg, outside of Blacksburg (where Virgina Tech is located) -- almost one third of his way to his destination. His biggest enemy so far has been the weather. As the weather warms and the humidity levels increase, I suspect the enemy will morph into insects-- especially the notorious black fly. Black flies, as I recall, are renown for taking enormous bites. They're sort of the vampires of the insect kingdom.

The local newspaper that Derek's been writing for, The Suffolk County News, called yesterday. It seems their owners (I think the paper has been bought out by some conglomerate) are trying to become more solvent and so they're downsizing. Translation: they can no longer afford to pay Derek his whopping $50.00 per article salary. Not like it was a huge amount of money but it did help keep him afloat while out hiking. The looming question is now whether or not he'll want to continue writing his articles. I think he will. He's established a local group of readers. I know the Boy Scouts read his articles aloud at their meetings (Derek is an Eagle Scout). Our friends and neighbors read them, too.

By the way the Suffolk County News may now (finally) be accessed online at the following address: http://www.suffolkcountynews.net. It is free (yay!) but you do have to register, for some weird reason. His latest article is under the news division. I think it's on page 8. Check it out!

The Purple Splot

A few days ago, as I was passing back sign-out cards to a class of second graders, a boy named Frankie raised his hand. "What is it Frankie?" I asked.

He pointed to a spot on the table. "Something's on the table." I took a closer look. Something certainly was. The spot was about the size of a quarter, round, purple and looked like wet ink.

"Okay," I said. "As soon as I finish passing back these cards I'll take care of it. Meanwhile, just don't touch it!" I warned him. He nodded.

A few minutes later, the boy sitting across from Frankie -- a kid named Anthony --- called out. "Mrs. Michel, look at Frankie!" I looked. The purple spot was now a large purple smear that he'd managed to spread all over the tabletop. In addition, his top and his hands were covered in purple ink -- or whatever it was.

"Frankie! Why did you do that? I told you not to touch it."

He looked down and shrugged. "I was trying to help. " I sent him to the bathroom to wash his hands and took out my trusty bottle of Fantastik and cleaned the table. I blamed myself. I should have taken care of the purple spot before continuing with the cards. I should have known that a wet spot of purple ink was just too tempting for a seven and a half year old boy who was a little A.D.D.

It struck me later that sometimes a piece of writing can be a lot like a splot of purple ink. Sometimes the more we try to fix it, the worse we make it until we've turned the little problem into a big ugly smear.

Libraries and Librarians

I haven't blogged about libraries yet because it's a topic so near and dear to my heart that it's hard to keep it short and manageable. And, sniff, I'm still smarting from a hurtful blow that happened nearly a year ago.

For reasons not quite clear to me (except that it had nothing to do with me), I was moved from the library where I worked for the past 13 years -- a library I'd rescued from something akin to a coma and nurtured back to health -- to a library in a different school with an automated card catalog but, alas, hardly any books. A lot of people said, "Well, that's nice. You'll be out of that basement. You'll finally have an automated catalog instead of those cards." People who don't understand libraries didn't get it. The computers aren't what makes a library wonderful and special. It's the collection -- the books. Books and literature are the reason I went into library work and over the years I'd built up one great collection. No bragging, just fact. I read book reviews and a wide variety of professional journals to cull out the cream of what was published each year. A lot of those books -- like Ted Hughes's book, The Iron Giant, or Barbara Cohen's book, The Carp in the Bathtub -- are out of print now and can't be easily or inexpensively replaced.

The library they put me in has a lot of junk -- every Goosebumps book, every Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew etc. but few books of real substance. No books on the Civil War and few of the award winning books. Not even a thesaurus. Certainly no Iron Giant. I've nicknamed the collection "Series Are Us". The previous tenant was more obsessed with computers than books and so, sadly, this is her legacy to me and the children of the school where I now work.

Anyhow, above is a photo of my old library that I took before I left on my last day and took my plants with me. Yeah, I know it was in the basement and had those ugly pipes running through it (it was an 85 year old school) but I loved that collection! And that library was bigger than it appears in this picture.

So, now I'm sort of starting all over again. The PTA donated over $3,000. to help rebuild the collection. It was very generous of them but I'm afraid it's going to take many years as well as thousands of dollars to bring it up to snuff. Still, hope springs eternal. And it is spring, right?

Anticipation

Back when I was slightly younger there was a song I used to sing along with on the radio - "Anticipation" by Carly Simon. Later (but before it became a Heinz Ketchup commercial) I even went out and bought the album. Carly Simon's lyrics seemed to mirror many of the feelings I had growing up and she quickly became one of my favorite recording artists.

Unlike most of the topics explored in Simon's early albums, anticipation is one feeling I still haven't outgrown. It always feels good to finish a painting or a poem, a story, a chapter -- to take something as far as I artistically can. The problem comes with getting ready for the next story, the next chapter, the next painting. I get fidgety and high strung like a sprinter waiting in the starting blocks for the crack of the gun. If I'm getting ready to paint I might clean around my easel, scrape down my palette and squeeze out a fresh array of colors, sharpen my pencils in anticipation of a future drawing or go for a walk. When I'm getting ready to write, I'll assemble the reference books I might need, spend extra time on my background notes or character sketches, work a little more on my rough outline - anything to delay the act of putting my butt in the chair and writing. Once I settle in, however, I'm usually fine.

Maybe it's the transition that's hard to deal with -- the anticipation of change coupled with the hope that maybe this will be a breakthrough painting or a defining chapter in my character's story. Maybe it's the fear that I'll fail miserably. Not that failure is bad. I just finished a portrait that I refuse to share with anybody outside of my painting class. It's dreadful and far below my standards but I did, I admit, learn a lot by doing it. It was, to put it nicely, a learning experience.

Nearly everything we do by our own creative energy should be a learning experience. And if it isn't then what's the point?