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Marty's Web Review

Website Review:
www.justicelearning.org

One area of U.S. History that seems to be of high interest to middle school students is around the issue of civil rights. Young people at this age have a strong sense of fairness, which lends itself nicely to rich classroom discussions when learning about the creation of our Constitution and the Bill of Rights.
The website that I chose to review is a relatively new one that only recently has been completed. A collaborative effort between NPR’s Talking Justice and The New York Times Learning Network, this site focuses on civic education for students and classroom teachers.
One thing that I think is very useful about using this site as a student resource is that it provides current commentary by officials and subject experts, ranging from Supreme Court justices, to political scientists. This allows students to access different viewpoints at one site on any given civic-related topic.
In addition, interactive timelines are provided, allowing students an opportunity to really examine the development of law as it pertains to a particular topic. For example, students can investigate the chronological development of race relations in education - starting with Brown vs. The Board of Education, to current day social trends that threaten to undermine the promise of this landmark case. This is an excellent site for students who are charged with gathering persuasive arguments focused around a wide range of constitutional issues.
Finally, this site offers teachers a wealth of information through a variety of resources, such as a student-friendly guide to the Constitution that breaks down each article into simpler language. Also, teachers are provided with regularly updated lesson plans, as well as suggested links for various topics of interest.

Marty's Review # 4

Worksheets Don’t Grow Dendrites:
20 Instructional Strategies That Engage The Brain,
Marcia L. Tate

Eric Jensen first introduced me to brain-based learning strategies two years ago at a weeklong conference in San Diego, California. He is one of the leading gurus in this field, and modeled these strategies in all aspects of the daily course agenda. By the end of the week, you felt energized and committed to integrating this “new” way of teaching into the next school year. I remember thinking throughout the conference how interesting it was that those responsible for teaching the learning process had little to no real understanding of how the brain actually functions or best learns. Let alone any real training on how to facilitate this kind of learning in the classroom. I suppose good teachers just intuitively know what works best for their students and use a lot of these strategies without understanding exactly why they work.
This book is filled with many useful, ready-to-use ideas for ways to stimulate student motivation and learning by using brain-friendly techniques and methodology. I find the organization of the chapters to be very helpful and user-friendly for teachers. The author provides you with a clear definition of each strategy, the relative research rationale, sample classroom activities, and the standard objectives outlined by grade level and subject area.
Some of the specific brain-friendly, dendrite-stimulating strategies include: the regular use of graphic organizers, drawing and other kinds of artwork, the use of maps and word webs, the use of musical rhythm and rhyme, regular movement, storytelling, dramatic performance, and the use of visuals in all forms.
Another part of the organization of this book that I find very useful for teachers is a reflection sheet, located on the last page of each chapter. This space allows you to record your reactions and evaluation of the effectiveness of that particular strategy, and whether or not you feel it engaged your students in a meaningful way. I have written down the ISBN number and plan to pick up my own copy.

Marty's Review # 3

Reading, Writing, and Rising Up:
Teaching About Social Justice and
the Power of the Written Word,
Linda Christensen

I first discovered this book when researching potential resources and materials for a class I teach called ACT, which stands for Active Caring Teens. This is a service learning and social activism class that deals with both local and global issues. What I found was an amazing book filled with ideas for ways to connect my students to their own voices.
One of the things that I appreciate about Christensen’s overall objective throughout this book, is her desire to reach every student by creating a sense of community and a feeling of inclusiveness. She obviously cares deeply about her students. and has outlined lessons that provide the opportunity for personal exploration and empowerment. Many of the writing exercises help to create a link between students’ past and present lives, encouraging them to ask important questions and to look beyond the obvious for the answers.
The general theme throughout the chapters in this book is not only about connecting kids to their inner voice, but about inviting them to share what they learn about themselves with others. Many of the writing exercises also provide opportunities to connect students to the world around them through various kinds of investigation. Lessons dealing with such topics as stereotypes or the marginalization of people in our history, help call into question society’s norms and expectations. They also encourage students to challenge their thinking regarding issues that deal with a wide range of social injustice.
In my opinion, this book is well organized, user friendly, and offers wonderful examples and models that can be useful to both teachers and students.

Marty's Review # 2

Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the
Writer Within, Natalie Goldberg

What I love about Natalie Goldberg is how she gets right to the heart of the writing process. For instance, how she uses words in an eloquent and precise way to describe the times when you can’t find the words! Not only can she articulate the exact feelings one experiences when in the throes of writer’s block, she provides you with remedies that can be immediately administered.
One remedy that I have found useful is what she calls “sprinting”, writing for ten minutes or so about a single subject; just listing words, describing feelings, identifying thoughts that come to you in a rapid succession. It’s like this exercise gets the blood pumping, which can then serve to dislodge the writer’s block you are experiencing. I have found sprinting to be a very effective writing tool.
Another exercise for generating your thinking about a particular piece is what she calls “composting,” raking over the shallow thoughts in your mind, then turning them over in order to get to the deeper stuff that is often buried layers below the surface. She recommends tending to our inner thoughts in this way, for purposes of generating a repository of memories to draw from in the future.
One aspect of good writing this author talks a lot about is the importance of being specific through the use of details. She reminds you over and over to remember to include the words that will create the pictures in the reader’s mind. Not just the piece of fruit, but the red apple; not just the tree by the pond, but the swaying willow by the pond. Goldberg reminds you that not only do details generate pictures for the reader, but they can serve to convey or illicit the feelings or emotions intended by the writer.
Finally, I am enjoying reading this book because I find Goldberg to be so encouraging. She finds a way to address every possible fear or concern, difficulty or challenge a writer may experience, and leaves you feeling like, yes, I can do this! I am not alone. Even Natalie Goldberg and other accomplished writers struggle, and that this struggle is actually just a normal part of the writing process.
She tells you that the key to developing your skills and intuition as a writer is to just keep writing. Every day write something, practice what you know, ask yourself questions, look for the details in the familiar, delve into the unfamiliar, and so on. This book is a great read and will leave you feeling empowered to sit down and write!

Marty's Review # 1

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions
on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott

I think anyone who has an interest in writing, but feels overwhelmed with thoughts of where and how to get started, should read this book. Not only because it is filled with helpful tips and information about the writing process, but because it is funny. Lamott is willing to share all the ups and downs of her own journey as a writer, and in doing so, brings you along with hope, that you too can write. Maybe you already consider yourself a writer, in which case, this book may then serve simply as an affirmation of and validation for your own writing experiences.
Step by step, Lamott guides you through the various steps to the writing process by talking to you about her own experiences. Her conversational style of writing lets you into her private world of friends and family as she offers the reader occasional “instructions on life” as well, which are interwoven throughout the book. These witty and thought-prov
oking vignettes will cause you to laugh out loud, while considering their applicability to your own life. You are able to see how an examination of own experiences can provide a rich reservoir of writing material.
From “Shitty First Drafts,” to “Writer’s Block,” to the chapter on publication, you are reassured that every writer struggles in the same way. This is the part that impacted me the most, because prior to reading this book (which I read for the first time about five years ago), it was my belief that good writers just sat down and produced a final copy in the first draft. I really believed this, and because I couldn’t produce writing in this way, I believed that I couldn’t write. I may still struggle with writing, but at least now, after reading this book and others, I am not afraid to try.

Reflection on the OWP by Marty Smith

                                         Reflection on the OWP

When considering whether or not to apply for the Oregon Writing Project, I must admit, the nine credits were very tempting for me. The number of credits I could earn in this four week class, would otherwise take me months to accumulate. Of course, there was that four week, Monday through Friday, all-day-long thing that would tug my thoughts in the opposite direction. It had been such a long school year and I was so ready for a break. Some real down time where I could just be a vegetable head, bask in the morning sun with a good book, linger over the morning paper with my coffee. I had flowers to plant, furniture to refinish, trails to hike, and my grandson’s quilt that was only a day’s work away from being finally finished. But there were those nine credits, and oh yeah, that writing thing I had always wanted to explore.
I decided to check around in my building to see if anyone knew anything about this particular class, and found that several people had either completed the course themselves, or had heard about it. The promising news was that each individual that I talked to, gave the OWP rave reviews. They told me that I would love it! They said that I would get a lot out of it, and though a big time commitment for summer break, well worth it. They told me that I should go for it. Damn! All right then.
I knew time was running out and that I needed to e-mail some questions to that Nat Teich guy. Just how much writing would I be doing, and how exactly would this class work; would the whole class be reading my writing? How much work would we be expected to complete outside of class? What kind of writing would I be expected to produce, and what do you mean exactly by a presentation?
The requirements seemed like a lot, but eventually I decided that I would, indeed, go for it. The nine credits would be great, however, hiding in the back corner of my mind was the secret hope that maybe I would discover that I could write.
If only for the purpose of purging all that was inside my head and finally putting it down on paper. I had always wanted to do this kind of external processing as a way to remember (and make sense of) my past. Writing had always been so difficult for me; so frustrating as I would struggle to not only find the right words, but to put the words together in a way that would accurately convey their intended meaning. All previous attempts at writing wound up only helping me to perfect my bank shot. “Forget it, I’m not good at this,” I would proclaim in complete utter defeat. Maybe the OWP class would change this for me?
From day one, I have enjoyed being in this class. I have learned a lot about teaching writing, and I have taken something I can use in my classroom from almost every presentation made by classmates. Besides working with a nice group of people, it has been helpful and inspiring to learn from other teachers. We educators seldom have the time to discuss and share c
lassroom practices and strategies in our own buildings. The class schedule itself (breaks and lunch included), and the response groups, provide such opportunity for discussion and camaraderie. I have really enjoyed this aspect of the class.
In addition to the opportunity to learn teaching strategies and to develop my own writing, one of the most valuable lessons I will take away from the OWP, is a reminder of what it is like to be a student. I had forgotten how difficult it was for me to respond to certain writing assignments. I found myself wanting to ask presenters the same question so many of my students ask of me, “Can I take this home?” I also found that I experienced an even higher level of anxiety when the presenter placed a time limit on the assignment. I know these experiences will help me as a classroom teacher to relate to the potential issues my students may experience with various kinds of writing assignments.
Finally, I have so appreciated the wealth of information we have received from Karen and Nat: suggested lists of wonderful children’s books to share with our students, seemingly unlimited lists of recommended reading for professional development, names of authors who specialize in your area(s) of interest, and organizations to investigate if you wish to stay connected to others in this field. All very valuable to us as educators. I have also appreciated their warm, friendly approach to facilitating this project, offering flexibility, and practical application for all of the above.
Finally, I now feel confident enough to sit down and simply write. I understand that my first attempts will be messy, as they are for all writers, and that it takes time to create a finished piece. I also have realized how important and helpful it is to receive feedback on your writing from someone you trust. I don’t know for sure how far I will pursue my interests in writing, but at least now I feel equipped with the necessary tools should I decide to do so.

One Nation, Under Gods by Marty Smith

One Nation, Under Gods

Serving one of the many farming communities in the Central Valley of California, is Chatom Elementary, a small rural school about ten miles outside of the city of Turlock. When my older siblings and I were students there, the playground and outlying grassy sports field was hemmed in by Chester Smalley’s black and white dairy cows, and Miguel and Josephine Rocha’s verigated green sea of alfalfa. The country lane that you would take from the main road to get to Chatom, was lined with sagging barbed wire that was supported by old moss covered fence posts, and latticed with those big yellow sunflowers. We were comforted by the famialarity of this landscape as each day we were taxied to and from school by a big yellow Blue Bird.
I have many happy memories of the staff at Chatom Elementary, from the friendly faces of the women in the office and in the cafeteria, to Mrs. Dailey who drove my bus and who was always, always kind to me. But it was the teacher
s who would make a lasting impression on me during those formative years. Teachers who made school fun and a place that I enjoyed being each day.
Mrs. Rutschow was my first grade teacher. I have never forgotten the sincerity in her her eyes and that caring, supportive tone that left you feeling like you were truly valued and capable of whatever the task at hand. Mrs. Jasquanas, in second grade, with her round, jovial face and big laugh, made learning fun with lots of art projects and music. I still know most of the words to the song “Donkey Small”, and I can still see Brett Johnson, the cutest boy in our class, beatin’ away on those bongo drums. Finally, who could forget Mrs. Tate in third grade? Always smiling, always encouraging you to take your learning to the next level, and you would, because you knew she believed in you.
All of these teachers ran tightly structured classrooms with well orchestrated daily routines. You knew what to expect at every turn; knew both the potential rewards and consequences for every action. Being a student in their classrooms made you feel safe and secure; creating a positive framework of norms and expectations for understanding this institution called school.
Fourth grade, however, would blow this understanding for me right out of the water. In its wake, was an equally positive, though changed, impression that has, in some ways, influenced my thinking today, including my own teaching style.
We had all received letters at the end of summer, a week or so before school was to start, informing us of our new class assignments. We were to be in room four with Mr. Padlo. On the first day of school, Julie Starn, my best friend, and I, rushed down the corridor before the bell to see where we would be spending the next nine months. We quickly examined each room in passing, taking time to more carefully inspect room two, Mrs. Peterson’s room, where our good friend Debra Panara had been assigned. At least she would be only two doors down.
Finally, we arrived at room four, last room on the end. Wide-eyed, we peered anxiously inside the open door. To our amazement, nothing was as expected! This can’t be our room, we thought to ourselves. Something was wrong. This room did not have the familar long, perfect rows of neatly lined desks. In their stead, were small groupings of desks scattered around the room. Maybe Mr. Padlo had not had a chance yet, to set up the room? But the bell was going to ring any minute, so shouldn’t he be in here getting things ready? The uncertainty of the moment left both of us feeling disoriented and a bit anxious.
Our eyes continued to scan the room for the reassuring, familiar sights of the teacherly order that would at least help to anchor us for the moment; like, a few neat stacks of lined writing paper with the evenly numbered boxes of those fat, red pencils and pink erasers? How about a nice bulletin board with a copy of the school calendar and that wee
k’s lunch menu? Nothing. These walls had multicolored posters of weird things, trees and frogs, with weird sayings, like, Earth First and Imagine. As we continued to scan the room, our disequalibrium only worsened. Lining the back wall was what appeared to be the bottom of a large tree, root system in tact. Laying next to it were two fallen telephone poles. From the center of the room, hung a large world globe.
Stunned into silence, Julie finally asked, “What’s going on? Is this really our room?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” I offered in consolation, as I double-checked the number above the door. Yep, it was room four, alright.
Suddenly sensing a presence behind us, we turned to find a strange-looking, bushy eye-browed man who appeared equally intrigued by the sight before us. “Cool room! I hope I get to hang out here,” he exclaimed, with a twinkle in his eye.
Given his casual attire of open-necked brown cordiroy rolled up at the sleeves, and faded denim, he was obviously unaware that school was starting today. We could only stare in utter bewilderment, as we nervously offered him our brand new 4th grade smiles.
In a single school year, our academic life would be changed forever. Over the months that would follow, we came to love this weird, strangely animated teacher. He opened our eyes and minds to possibilities that extended beyond neat penmanship and high scores on daily math tests. We became cooperative learners and artists, earning time each day to contribute the wood carving skills that we didn’t know we had, to class projects. By the end of the school year, we had helped to transform the tree stump into a cool chair, complete with the face of a mysterious mountain man carved into the backside. The two telephone poles were painstakingly chiseled into totem poles. One, honoring the spiritual beliefs of the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest, the other, the exotic mysteries of the aboriginees of Australia.
We also became musicians, learning to play a ukelele that we each were afforded the opportunity to purchase for ten dollars, complete with a cool vinyl case. We would perform two concerts that year for our parents. We also learned to play chess, and to demonstrate our understanding of current social issues, such as teen pregnancy and alcohol abuse, through dramatic team performances. And, we became politically minded as we were asked to consider such topics as an individual’s civil rights, or whether or not our nation might be under more than one god?
I’m not exactly sure whatever happened to Mr. Padlo. I believe I heard from someone that his teaching style did not blend well enough with the staff in this small country school, and that he eventually moved on to teaching high school in some neighboring city. Wherever he ended up, I know with great certainty, that there are small pieces of him that will reside within me, forever.

Peaches by Marty Smith

                                                  Peaches

Nestled in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley in California, is a series of small farming towns that produce much of the fruit and vegetables sold throughout the United States, and parts of the world at large. Gustine, Newman, Patterson, and Los Banos are but a few of the seasonal stops made by those who follow the harvest circuit. Like my older brother and sisters before me, it was here that I spent my childhood summers, hanging out in peach and apricot orchards.
Perched high above the tree tops, I had the good fortune of being able to take in the world from atop a ten foot ladder. To the distant west was the coastal range, and to the east, the Sierra Madres. The rest of the landscape was a series of rolling hills covered in a patchwork quilt of agricultural farms varying in size from a small ten acre plot here, to a few thousand acre spread there. It was a view I never tired of seeing.
The air at the top of the ladder was always an infusion of rich, fertile soil, chemicals, rotting fruit, and diesel fumes emitted from the various tractors and other heavy equipment that dotted the country side. The chemicals lingering in the air (and undoubtedly in my lungs) would be the same chemicals whose usage was challenged during this time by Cesar Chavez and his supporters. I am not sure they won this battle, but even if they did, I am certain for many, it was too late.
I have many wonderful memories of the years I spent lugging buckets full of peaches to an awaiting bin, which once full, earned me nine dollars. For instance, I loved the challenge of stretching my arms out full length from the top of the ladder to retrieve the two remaining peaches on a nearby limb. It was a challenge in part, because I also had to keep from dropping any of the fruit that was now piled dangerously high above the rim of my bucket that I wore harnessed to my body. It was a balancing act that required a lot of physical strength as you had to wrap one foot a round a rung in the ladder to hold on, while you stretched out to reach the prized peaches. No one wanted to make another trip up the ladder for only a few pieces of remaining fruit. Of course, this was part of the challenge as well. You became adept at “setting” a ladder to allow maximum access to the surrounding fruit in that set. Although you might make several trips up the ladder, ideally, one could harvest all the fruit from any given tree in only four ladder moves. I was good at this, if I must say so myself. I guess in part because by the time I reached adolescence and was working to make my own money, I was anxious to complete my on-average quota of four bins a day, and didn’t like wasting time nor energy on ill-placed ladder moves.
I think one of my favorite memories of working in peach orchards had to do with the sounds. Two sounds that I enjoyed in particular were ones that greeted me at the start of each work day. My dad drove an old ‘58 Dodge pickup truck with a camper on back. After rising every morning at four o’clock in order to eat breakfast and be in the field by five, I crawled into the back of the camper for the drive to the field (along with the buckets, ladders, and the big, green, metal water cooler). There, I slept on a pallet of old blankets and pillows. Apparently the issue of travel safety was not a concern at that time. I could have at least been given a helmet in the event one of the ladders were to land on my head, but guess that just wasn’t a concern for my parents. I did survive those years unscathed, so I suppose it wasn’t all that bad. I must admit I don’t remember even once being concerned about a head injury.
The rocking back and forth of the truck as my dad drove over the tractor ruts and dirt clods, signaled that we had arrived and the time for sleeping was over. At first, after hearing my dad turn off the truck motor, there would be only silence. But then I would listen for the familiar sounds of the work day... and then I would hear them. First, the faint and distant drumming sound of fruit hitting an empty bucket in the still of the unfolding dawn, and then the eventual sounds of Mexican voices calling out greetings to each other from neighboring rows. The sound of friendships forged over years of long hours toiling in backbreaking work, under the merciless sun of the San Joaquin Valley during the long summer months. Men, women, and children who returned year after year to work for my father, who with a sixth grade education would have struggled to locate their home states of Durango or Oxaca on a map of Mexico, but as a field foreman with thirty years experience, recognized without fail their strong, unwavering work ethic. These families were always the first to arrive and the last to leave the field each day. Next to my father and brother, they were the hardest working people I’ve ever known. It was this that earned them my father’s respect and the assurance of the best, fruit-laddened sets for each work day. The ones that would bring the most money for their families on payday.
My memories of the peach orchards of my youth are extensive. From the chaise lounges constructed from down-turned peach lugs (small, wooden boxes used for hauling fruit) leaning against a tree to support a short midday nap, to the plastic grading rings my father carried in his pocket to monitor the size of the fruit being harvested. Making fashion statements even as a child, I managed to secure these rings in all colors, and wore them as my first-ever bangle bracelets. A personal favorite accessory that continues to be true for me today.
I don’t miss the long hours, sweltering heat, nor the combined feeling of peach fuzz, field dust, and sweat that would line the inside of your shirt collar by midmorning each day. However, I will forever be grateful for the memories and lessons learned from a hard day’s work in the peach orchards of the San Joaquin.

   

Hold 'Er Newt, She's a Rearin'! by Marty Smith

                                                  Hold ‘Er Newt, She’s a Rearin’!

I stared out the window of the westbound Greyhound at the countryside passing just outside my window. There were miles and miles of wide open farmland with the occasional scattered flock of those black iron oil rigs (indigenous to Texas), bobbing for that precious “black gold”. As the landscape changed from farmland to painted desert, I tried not to think about the heavy-hearted goodbyes that had taken place the day before. Tried not to think about the look in my mother’s pleading and apologetic eyes that simultaneously registered a knowingness about her youngest child; that I wouldn’t be back. At least not to live in my childhood home in the Ozarks, on North Camp Creek Road, on Rural Route # 1.
    At seventeen and ending my junior year in high school, unlike many of my friends, I did not believe I had all the answers. In fact, I was manically aware of the intense level of uncertainty and frustration that seemed to define my life. I questioned almost every aspect of myself with, what some might argue was simply normal adolescent self-absorbed paranoia, instead of the kind of half-crazed-preoccupation-with-my-whole-self kind of thing I had going on. I retreated to and occupied all of the available real estate inside my head, finding it a struggle to vacation for too long on the outside. A trip that later would only be financed by years of good counseling, and good friends. Today, I am grateful to be enjoying a mostly permanent change of residency.
    Of course, not all my memories of those years trigger a retreat. I mean, it’s not that I was freak. For instance, my natural-curly afro with the multicolored, Goody brand hair pick look, was all about cool (of course, given my unruly mass of curls, I’m not sure I would have had a choice in hairstyles). Then, there were the thrift store Big Smith overalls accessorized by last season’s basketball shoes that just screamed “trend setter”. My shoes were, after all, Chucks, as Converse high tops were regulation in Fulton County. I needn’t say more, right? I didn’t think so.
    In all actuality, I did have other positives going for me at the time, that I was just unable to recognize. For one, I loved school. I loved everything about the whole experience; the learning, the challenges, my friends, the teachers (okay, not all of them, certainly not Mr. Carruthers), but the majority of them; the smell of new text books and a fresh supply of newly sharpened # 2 Ticonderogas (I know these don’t fit with the oh so “hip chick” image I’ve described for you so far, but you’ll find them stashed around my classroom to this day, only to be loaned out to the most trusted students).
    Then of course, there was sports - another positive for me. Those Friday night football games that always concluded with a gathering of your friends at the Hwy. 62 Drive-in, nursing Dr. Peppers over shared baskets of greasy fries, before sneaking out to Nicky Painter’s Ford truck for Mountain Dew and Everclear chasers. We lived in a dry county and Nicky was our official “line runner” - and I’m not talking football.
    But the sport that would sustain me through those years was basketball; one that served as a catalyst for my transformation from what was essentially, invisibility, to what would eventually come to feel like almost, small town local celebrity. I went from being, Marty, the frizzy-headed girl who read a lot, to an identity that was sure to secure a daily, “What’s up, Fuzz?” in the halls, from even the most popular upper classmen. Remaining calm, I would cooly respond, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” all the while resisting a quick look over my shoulder, just to confirm, that, yep, he means me alright.
Fuzz was the nickname given to me by Coach Cooper, our highly respected girls high school basketball coach. It was his belief in my abilities that served as a kind of life preserver for me during those years. I think he recognized the drowning kid, whom he knew could swim.
    Given Coach Cooper’s winning record, it was not uncommon for half the town to come out on a Friday night for one of our games. It was surprisingly uncommon on a game day for me to pass a couple of good old boys I didn’t know down on the town square, wearin’ faded work shirts and sportin’ new haircuts from Virgil Cochran’s barbershop. They would tip their equally faded John Deere ball caps and drawl out, “Give’ em hell tonight, Fuzz.” Careful to conceal my inner angst, I would smile, nod, then confidently boast, “We’ll git it done, boys.”
    Though my future in this sport was promising, I would not see my senior year at Salem High. Not the lure of college scouts, nor the memory of my best friend, Wendy’s tears, would deter my steps as I headed out to the barn that last morning to say goodbye to my dad. A proud, hard man who had survived the Great Depression, and who, being the second oldest of Luther and Bethel’s eleven children, had spent his life in service to others; often at the expense of his own life; certainly at a cost to his own family.
    As I slid back the heavy wooden door, I took a deep breath and braced myself for what I knew would be both painful and awkward. I found him at the back of the feed shed, busying himself mixing calf formula, with uncharacteristic accuracy. My lungs, on the verge of collapsing, would allow only a whispery, “Dad, I’m taking off.” “Well, alright then,” he struggled in return. Without ever really looking at me, he managed a shaky, one-arm embrace, both of us wrangling with that old familiar feeling of mutual love, respect, and resentment. A father and daughter; we mirrored each other’s stubborn, unyielding personality when it came to being challenged or questioned on certain matters of the heart. Sadly, we have yet to experience the full, untethering release of forgiveness.
    As the bus neared the station in my older sister’s hometown, I allowed myself my first deep breath, unencumbered by the weight I had been carrying for the past few days. I knew I was about to embark on that vacation ‘to the outside’ that was a lifetime overdue.

Paper # 2

Hold ‘Er Newt, She’s a Rearin’! I stared out the window of the westbound Greyhound at the countryside passing just outside my window. There were miles and miles of wide open farmland with the occasional scattered flock of those black iron oil rigs (indigenous to Texas), bobbing for that precious “black gold”. As the landscape changed from farmland to painted desert, I tried not to think about the heavy-hearted goodbyes that had taken place the day before. Tried not to think about the look in my mother’s pleading and apologetic eyes that simultaneously registered a knowingness about her youngest child; that I wouldn’t be back. At least not to live in my childhood home in the Ozarks, on North Camp Creek Road, on Rural Route # 1. At seventeen and ending my junior year in high school, unlike many of my friends, I did not believe I had all the answers. In fact, I was manically aware of the intense level of uncertainty and frustration that seemed to define my life. I questioned almost every aspect of myself with, what some might argue was simply normal adolescent self-absorbed paranoia, instead of the kind of half-crazed-preoccupation-with-my-whole-self kind of thing I had going on. I retreated to and occupied all of the available real estate inside my head, finding it a struggle to vacation for too long on the outside. A trip that later would only be financed by years of good counseling, and good friends. Today, I am grateful to be enjoying a mostly permanent change of residency. Of course, not all my memories of those years trigger a retreat. I mean, it’s not that I was freak. For instance, my natural-curly afro with the multicolored, Goody brand hair pick look, was all about cool (of course, given my unruly mass of curls, I’m not sure I would have had a choice in hairstyles). Then, there were the thrift store Big Smith overalls accessorized by last season’s basketball shoes that just screamed “trend setter”. My shoes were, after all, Chucks, as Converse high tops were regulation in Fulton County. I needn’t say more, right? I didn’t think so. In all actuality, I did have other positives going for me at the time, that I was just unable to recognize. For one, I loved school. I loved everything about the whole experience; the learning, the challenges, my friends, the teachers (okay, not all of them, certainly not Mr. Carruthers), but the majority of them; the smell of new text books and a fresh supply of newly sharpened # 2 Ticonderogas (I know these don’t fit with the oh so “hip chick” image I’ve described for you so far, but you’ll find them stashed around my classroom to this day, only to be loaned out to the most trusted students). Then of course, there was sports - another positive for me. Those Friday night football games that always concluded with a gathering of your friends at the Hwy. 62 Drive-in, nursing Dr. Peppers over shared baskets of greasy fries, before sneaking out to Nicky Painter’s Ford tru ck for Mountain Dew and Everclear chasers. We lived in a dry county and Nicky was our official “line runner” - and I’m not talking football. But the sport that would sustain me through those years was basketball; one that served as a catalyst for my transformation from what was essentially, invisibility, to what would eventually come to feel like almost, small town local celebrity. I went from being, Marty, the frizzy-headed girl who read a lot, to an identity that was sure to secure a daily, “What’s up, Fuzz?” in the halls, from even the most popular upper classmen. Remaining calm, I would cooly respond, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” all the while resisting a quick look over my shoulder, just to confirm, that, yep, he means me alright. Fuzz was the nickname given to me by Coach Cooper, our highly respected girls high school basketball coach. It was his belief in my abilities that served as a kind of life preserver for me during those years. I think he recognized the drowning kid, whom he knew could swim. Given Coach Cooper’s winning record, it was not uncommon for half the town to come out on a Friday night for one of our games. It was surprisingly uncommon on a game day for me to pass a couple of good old boys I didn’t know down on the town square, wearin’ faded work shirts and sportin’ new haircuts from Virgil Cochran’s barbershop. They would tip their equally faded John Deere ball caps and drawl out, “Give’ em hell tonight, Fuzz.” Careful to conceal my inner angst, I would smile, nod, then confidently boast, “We’ll git it done, boys.” Though my future in this sport was promising, I would not see my senior year at Salem High. Not the lure of college scouts, nor the memory of my best friend, Wendy’s tears, would deter my steps as I headed out to the barn that last morning to say goodbye to my dad. A proud, hard man who had survived the Great Depression, and who, being the second oldest of Luther and Bethel’s eleven children, had spent his life in service to others; often at the expense of his own life; certainly at a cost to his own family. As I slid back the heavy wooden door, I took a deep breath and braced myself for what I knew would be both painful and awkward. I found him at the back of the feed shed, busying himself mixing calf formula, with uncharacteristic accuracy. My lungs, on the verge of collapsing, would allow only a whispery, “Dad, I’m taking off.” “Well, alright then,” he struggled in return. Without ever really looking at me, he managed a shaky, one-arm embrace, both of us wrangling with that old familiar feeling of mutual love, respect, and resentment. A father and daughter; we mirrored each other’s stubborn, unyielding personality when it came to being challenged or questioned on certain matters of the heart. Sadly, we have yet to experience the full, untethering release of forgiveness. As the bus neared the station in my older sister’s hometown, I allowed myself my first deep breath, un encumbered by the weight I had been carrying for the past few days. I knew I was about to embark on that vacation ‘to the outside’ that was a lifetime overdue.