 As I lay awake last night in the wee hours, I got thinking about the guys on the Washington Nationals team who just won the World Series. Surely they’d just spent the evening of a lifetime, triumphant, euphoric, wildly toasted and feted, praised and petted, surrounded by friends, fans, and family. Eventually they must have gone to bed. Then, since they were probably pretty keyed up, I imagine they woke up in the middle of the night. When you awaken in the dark, you are always alone. Even if someone lies next to you, they’re probably asleep. A couple of hours ago you were a hero at the pinnacle of adoration. Now, you are just a plain old human being, alone, awake in the middle of the night. Maybe you’re a little stiff from that slide into home. Maybe your mouth is dried out from yelling and drinking. Maybe you need to get up to pee. Do you still feel heroic? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 65: 161 words, TOTAL = 10,702; 49,298 remaining
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 I’ve been struggling with to-do triage this week. How do you prioritize? Bills: The ones with imminent deadlines and late-fee penalties move to the top of the list. I ought to complete charitable contributions too, but since they’re not “must do,” they get pushed down the list. Laundry: Only moves up when you run out of underwear. Groceries: Not urgent until there’s no bread/milk/yogurt/cereal/veggies/fruit or…whatever feels essential today. Student papers: Outrank personal writing, even though I’d rather watch the SheWrites authors’ onboarding video than grade “first fieldnotes” assignments. Wants: I want to find a recipe to use up that giant cabbage in the fridge, but walking the dogs and getting exercise goes first. Exercise is cut if grading and bills have reached crisis levels. I want to watch the last game of the World Series, swim laps, get a haircut, go to yoga class, and go hiking. I could do some things in the morning, but I have to get the oil changed, so I’ll have to use my remaining morning to finish class prep. Since I want, more than anything, to be ready to leave town when Nellie goes into labor, it’s urgent that I complete a maximum of “haftas,” asap. This is so boring. I’m stressed. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 64: 208 words, TOTAL = 10,541; 49,459 remaining  Twilight descends not long after my return from work these days. While the dogs and I trod the dimming fields this evening, a sound slowly wended its way into my brain. A flock of geese passed high overhead, calling out to each other. I watched them waver through several Vs and semi-Vs, trading places, disappearing into a cloud… The sound of their cries evokes the moving inward, the bracing, the melancholy of late fall. For me, another layer of resonance is Rachel Field, who thrilled at the haunting sights and sounds of autumnal shift. As you read Rachel’s poem, I recommend that you listen to the gorgeous choral adaptation someone produced a few years ago, posted below. Something Told the Wild Geese By Rachel Field Something told the wild geese It was time to go. Though the fields lay golden Something whispered,-- “Snow.” Leaves were green and stirring, Berries, luster-glossed, But beneath warm feathers Something cautioned,-- “Frost.” All the sagging orchards Steamed with amber spice, But each wild breast stiffened At remembered ice. Something told the wild geese It was time to fly,-- Summer sun was on their wings, Winter in their cry. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 63: 193 words, TOTAL = 10,333; 49,667 remaining  Really? You’re going to write about that?
Yup – it’s all part of the 60th year. Myriad thoughts passed through (!) during this little adventure.
My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 62: 235 words, TOTAL = 10,135; 49,865 remaining For their big, final research paper, my students have to write an ethnography about a subculture that they are unfamiliar with, a sphere of life that includes shared practices, behaviors, histories, rituals, vocabulary, and/or beliefs. As an outsider, they must explore another world through an insider’s eyes. This semester, I tried to get someone to study barbershop singers. “Huh? You mean a bunch of guys who sing in a barbershop?” Clearly, it would fit the “unfamiliar” requirement, but no dice, no takers. If I had to write an ethnography, I would write about the world of barbershop, which I have discovered through my son-in-law to be. “Greenlight,” Chris’s quartet, won the 2018 New England District championship of the Barbershop Harmony Society, an international organization with somewhere around 30,000 members. We were there to see their triumph a year ago, and there last night to see them present the award to this year’s champions. There are lots of old guys, a few younger ones, and a smattering of women singers. You see goofy suits and hambone shtick. Friends and family pack the arena, then hook arms and sway as they sing the ritual closing number together. Spontaneous harmonies break out. Tensions run high in competition, but an overarching sense of community and friendship pervade the room. Musically, I had my barbershop baptism one day last September. Tessa and Chris, and the baritone from his quartet, stopped by my brother-in-law’s apple farm in New Hampshire, when they invited me to sing a “tag” with them – a classic, splashy, barbershop finale. They taught me my part, then we sang it, right there in the dooryard, surrounded by weekend apple-pickers. “What was that?!” exclaimed a friend, jaw-dropped open. “I heard way more than four parts going on!” That, my friend, is called ringing a chord. The gold standard, the goal of the barbershop style is to produce those magical overtones, sounds beyond the four notes being sung. I may never achieve it again, but by some fluke I enjoyed a fleeting, insider moment of that thrill, immersed in a reverberant wave of sound. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 61: 349 words, TOTAL = 9900; 50,100 remaining  It seems like day 60 should be significant, given this 60th year/60,000 word challenge. Nah. Just another day along the way. Here’s a bit of verse, inspired by the day: Autumn lingers, slowing down; Fields of gold turn muted brown. Vibrant leaves are juxtaposed with branches barren and exposed. A multi-colored leafy spread Adorns the pathways that I tread. October fades to days of frost When all is silvery embossed. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 60: 70 words, TOTAL = 9551; 50,449 remaining  My parents lived next door to the Welles family on Ivy Hill Road for almost thirty years before downsizing to a condo complex a couple of miles away. After she was widowed a few years later, Mrs. Welles was ready to move. It just so happened that the condominium next door to my parents was for sale, and they invited her to take a look. So Mrs. Welles became their next-door neighbor again, for the rest of their lives. The funny thing is, they didn’t share a lot of life. They never traveled together or shared holidays, but they were always there for each other. And I guess they got used to that. You can’t choose family, and usually the same goes for neighbors, but if you’re lucky, neighbors become like family. I have lived in many places, but I’ve never had a better family of neighbors than I have now. I’ve watched our neighbors’ boys since birth. They hunt frogs by the pond, join me on dog walks, build epic snow forts with their dad, and pick up our mail (they’re paid in cookies). We’ve cheerfully exchanged mowers, fridge space, dog and child-care, and snow removal. No strings attached. Jean lives across the street. We climb mountains; we sit with tea; we roll our eyes at the news. We nudge each other to get to yoga class; we commiserate and celebrate over dogs and husbands. She reminds me to breathe. Our lives have overlapped in motherhood, the empty nest, the loss of parents, and soon, grandmotherhood. I have two biological sisters. We are very close, but they live far away. My sisterhood with Jean is rooted in life experience and a comforting proximity to home. It’s nice to know she’s there. Oh damn. I think I’ve just walked myself into the State Farm insurance jingle. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 59: 306 words, TOTAL = 9481; 50,519 remaining  Inspiration does not come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving, but it comes into us slowly and quietly and all the time, though we must regularly and every day give it a little chance to start flowing, prime it with a little solitude and idleness. -Brenda Ueland, journalist, editor, and writer (24 Oct 1891-1985) Part of my word-geek devotion is a daily reading of Anu Garg’s “A.Word.A.Day” website. It always includes a pithy quotation, and this one grabbed my attention. I’ve been struggling against the compulsion to check my cyber-world communications every time I have an idle moment. I asked my students how much time elapses between waking up and checking their phones. An hour. Two seconds. They laughed. What is the draw? That external feedback, I think, fuels our sense of relevance. In idle moments, I use social media to give me direction, to find something to respond to, and it never fails to provide. As a source of inspiration, however, it’s like eating potato chips – an easy distraction, but empty of substance. I have witnessed the ravages of too much solitude and idleness. Loneliness can be a destroyer. But mightn’t the disappearance of solitude be just as damaging? Is our perpetual connectedness depriving us of the empty spaces that we need to create, innovate, or simply recognize that we are worthwhile beings, all alone? Can we offer our thinking minds a little chance to start flowing of their own accord? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 58: 245 words, TOTAL = 9175; 50,825 remaining  My publication contract is signed, and I have established a working relationship with a wonderful copyeditor in New York City, thanks to a first cousin with connections to the NYC literary world. My big assignment now is to clean up the endnotes for my biography of Rachel Field. For years I was rather haphazard about listing my source details. It’s all recorded…somewhere (I said to myself), but it will probably never be published anyway. And who will even care about this esoteric material? My academia-based son-in-law and my copyeditor have urged me to recognize that THIS IS REAL NOW. People will read this, and may indeed care to follow up on my research. So I have re-opened my stacks of paper and electronic folders. I am contacting archive librarians and tracking down details. I have ordered a copy of the Chicago Style Manual through interlibrary loan. As is so often the case, once I’d passed the hurdle of starting, I felt invigorated by re-entering search and discovery mode. Research is an addictive enterprise, and there are so many astoundingly helpful people in the field. I am halfway through the notes for Chapter 2. Seventeen more to go. I have my work cut out for me, but reconnecting with Rachel and her history and my years of detective work is…kind of thrilling! Am I a nerd or what? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 57: 227 words, TOTAL = 8930; 51,070 remaining  My oldest daughter wrote a college essay about hauling brush. The topic startled me, then stuck with me. With great insight, it tapped into the essence of our early family life. The six of us spent many weekend days together, hauling brush, hauling leaves, hauling lopped tree branches out of view, into the woods. This toilsome activity united us in more ways that we even imagined. Hard work had high value, but hard work shared was something greater. Reducing a massive brush pile to a clean piece of land feels good. When you do it as a team, the satisfaction is multiplied. You are helping and being helped. You belong to more than your own sphere of endeavor. You share grudging reluctance followed by action. You share scratched legs and circuitous stumbling through bracken and brambles. You share tricks – easier handholds, the best paths in and out. Education, tribulation, and celebration! What better use of family time? (Don’t answer that, children.) The other day Jonathan attacked some overgrowth with his chainsaw and a machete. Then we hauled brush. A couple of hundred yards of smoothed grass mark our drag trails to the woods behind the compost pile. Just like old times! Except I could barely walk the next day. Our labor force has shrunk, in more ways than one. Another pile is still out there, calling. Maybe I should wait and share the joy, next time some of the kids are home. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 56: 242 words, TOTAL = 8703; 51,297 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
April 2024
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