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Poetry Friday
It’s nearly the end of National Poetry Month. And finally! A Poetry Friday post! (I know you’ve been holding your breath.) Today I’m paying tribute to Barbara Park, whose Junie B. Jones books have been cracking us up all year. I know there’s a divide over Junie B. so I’d like to come out and say I am firmly in the “pro” camp — so much so that I just don’t get why there’s a divide in the first place. (I should probably come out here and say I’m pro Captain Underpants, too.) Junie B. has taught us plenty, like how your own Grandma’s house is best, how lots of things can qualify as pets and how you shouldn’t kick a cow watering can when it’s full. She (and her teacher, Mr. Scary) also taught us how write a five-line poem called a cinquain.
Read on
Posted in Poetry Friday
8 Comments
Rock bottom
I went to see The Rock Bottom Remainders this week, figuring that my standing as a writing geek would be revoked unless I saw these people play live. The band of writing luminaries started jamming together in 1992 and for me the draw was — no, not Stephen King, who wasn’t on this tour — Dave Barry, a founding member, an author, columnist and humorist.
When I was in college, I had sort of a writing crush on Dave Barry and I thought I might marry him except that I already had a boyfriend and he was married to “my wife, Beth,” who often appeared in his columns. Then they got divorced, which should have meant there was room for me but actually? I was kind of crushed. But he found love again. I’m hoping Beth did, too.
Anyway, my senior year in college I wrote him a letter asking for job advice and he graciously responded with a long handwritten note that I kept on my bulletin board for years after I finally did land a job in journalism. In 1991 I was even quoted in an actual Dave Barry column because I had reported on a tomato that speed-dialed 911. True story. (The column is here, online, courtesy of the Orlando Sentinel. You will find his reference to me on page 2. My fifteen minutes. Tick. Tock.) Read on
Posted in music, writing
8 Comments
Thank you notes
Dear Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Morty,
I’m sorry you couldn’t come to my bat mitzvah.
I don’t remember why you couldn’t make it, especially since 30 years have passed since then. My mother says you didn’t like to travel outside of New York much so that was probably it. The ceremony was held at the new synagogue in Blacksburg, Va., which we had just finished working on. It used to be an Oddfellows Lodge, and when we were cleaning it up Mr. Krutchkoff looked in the small room behind the pulpit and found a coffin. Fortunately, it was empty.
My father always called the synagogue The Building. “We have to go work on The Building,” he would say, and we were always working on it — it was the first time such a place existed in our corner of Southwest Virginia, where the Jewish population wasn’t exactly thriving; we did most of the handiwork ourselves. Now it reminds me of that song “I’m working on a building for my lord, for my lord,” but I didn’t know the song then and anyway, I wouldn’t have sung it because at the time I thought if you were Jewish and you sang gospel songs you might get into trouble.
Posted in family, judaism, thirteen
7 Comments
Sometimes
Sometimes it’s easier to get rid of things if you take a picture first.
Posted in archiving, cleaning
4 Comments