Donald Hall in Ann Arbor: Sometimes Writing is Just a Job

We just got back from a whirlwind weekend of travel and events. More later on the fact that I've been offered a new job, we're leaving Alpena, selling a house here, buying a house downstate, and getting NewPages World Headquarters ready to move - all a giant UGH! to deal with, but will be well worth it. One of the reasons why - access to art and literary cultural events.

Saturday, we hit the Ann Arbor Book Festival, which was a surprisingly small event. Not hardly a couple hundred people were there at any one time, which was nice in terms of moving around and sitting in on some sessions, but a bit disappointing in terms of thinking there should be more people there wanting to absorb this kind of cultural event. But, then again, Ann Arbor probably gets so much of this, it's no big deal. School was also out of session, which may have had something to do with it.

The weather was beautiful, sunny, not too hot. Tents were set up in which authors read works, poets slammed, librarians addressed issues of concern, and children listened to storytellers and created bookmarks. We had the great pleasure and honor of sitting in on an afternoon session with Donald Hall. He read from his most recent book, which recounts his life with Jane Kenyon, and her death. "The book starts with her death," he said, "so there is no suspense." The rest of the book is about their life together, the joy of their time with one another and the pleasure of their literary life.

I don't know Donald Hall much, if at all. I've read some of his poetry, but don't know much about him other than what I know of his life with Jane. And I suppose that might be what there is to know of him. He was her teacher at UofM when she was a student, but once they left Ann Arbor for the family farm and lived their life of writing, he said it was clear that she was the leading force in their literary life together, and that he followed her lead. I guess I would have thought it was the other way around, but after hearing him speak, I saw a side of him that reminded me of my father, who, after many years into my own adulthood, I began to see as the more emotional of my parents, my mother the much more stoic.

Donald Hall also related a funny, very practical story of being a writer and simply trying to make money. I can't imagine leaving a tenure position at UofM (or any college for that matter) to go write. That, in and of itself is a truly romantic approach to life that many of us just simply wouldn't have the courage to do, let alone the fortitude to pull off. But, so they did. At the same time, the romanticized notion of it has a practical side - and Hall told of writing a children's book that became a Caldecott winner. The motivation for writing the book? Money for a bathroom remodel. So, jokingly, the bathroom has been named the Caldecott room.

I see my own work as not so much different, then. And that's what it is - work. Summers off for teachers? No such thing. Here I am now, cleaning, getting the house ready to sell - doing a lot of work that would have/could have/should have been done during the school year, if I hadn't been buried under piles of papers at home. Who brings home this much work with them? So, teachers spend their summers doing everything they should have been doing the last nine months had they had a 8-5 job. And, then I go and take a summer class to teach. Why? Money. We need the money. Pure and simple. It's not that I think students should have access to a class or that I care about their being able to fulfill their educational requirements. We're facing a lot of expenses now and in the coming months, so teach a class, make some cash. It's a job. Teaching is just a job like anything else. Like writing for Donald Hall. At a certain level, it is what we do to survive and thrive. So, no matter the romanticized notions of the lifestyle - the writer on the farm, the teacher with summers off - it is just a job. And, no doubt, if we didn't need the money, we certainly wouldn't do it. At least not to the extent that we do.

Scrappy - New Dog in the House

I've a new family member: Scrappy. His story goes like this...

I saw his picture in the paper over a month ago, in one of those sponsored picture ads for the Humane Society. "Terrier Mix" he was labeled. Ugly, is all I could think. He looked like his name described him: Scrappy. And at the same time, I was absolutely struck by his image. I looked at him and immediately thought: That's my dog.

Now, to have heard me talk about my current dog, Isabelle, over the past year, this would be the furthest thought you would ever think from my mind. She has had so many health problems and needs so much care that I had sworn off dogs - publicly. She's an eight-year-old English Mastiff, weighs in at 140lbs and rattles the windows when she snores. She doesn't drool, but she can fling lip stringers across the room and leave marks in places I never would have thought a dog could reach. She sheds constantly, can't control her bladder (thus, one of her many medications), is prone to urinary tract infection and has bad joints, making it hard for her to get up. Whew! Oh, but did I say I loved her from the moment I saw her as a 1-year-old in a Humane Society in Oregon? Yes - she was the exact dog I had been dreaming of. (Be careful what you wish for...)

So, I was out of my mind to think I would want another dog. Two weeks ago, I went to the feed store and stopped to check out the shelter pictures on the board. There he was again. Scrappy. "Been here several months already and needs to go..." Oh, he really was too ugly for Alpena. He didn't fit the Rottie/Huskey/Shepherd/Lab profile that everyone here seems to look for in a dog. He looked like a terrier in the face, but something like a coyote in the body, with terrier hair. "Gets along well with children and other dogs." I don't have kids, but I always wanted a dog that was good around them - for all the wild ones that come running up and always ask too late if it's okay to pet the doggie.

I went to lunch a week later with my friend Kathy. At the end of lunch I told her about the dog. "I just have to go see him," I said. She laughed at me like a good friend should when the other is talking nonsense but knows there is nothing she can do about it but enjoy her role of helplessness. I left and went directly to the shelter.

When I got there, I told them the dog I was looking for. The worker took me back through and pointed to an empty cage. "It may be that one, or," she went back to another run, "this one." She pointed at a sheepdog-looking thing.

"Not that one," I said. "Scrappier. Really scrappy looking."

"Yeah, you mean Scrappy." She took me back out front. "He actually went to a home."

I felt a sense of mixed relief and sadness. Okay, not meant to be, I told myself.

"But," she added, "it's not working out. Not any fault of Scrappy's. The woman already has five dogs, and a couple of them don't like Scrappy. Tell you what, if you leave your name and number, and if it doesn't work out for her, I'll give you a call."

As I stood finishing up my number, another worker walked up to us. "You here about Scrappy?" she asked me. I nodded. "The woman who took him, that's her right there." She pointed to a woman standing at the front desk.

I quickly introduced myself as the workers told her I was looking for Scrappy and as she was explaining to them why it wasn't working out with him. She didn't come in to bring him back. Of all things, she came to volunteer her time to walk dogs, which, come to find out, she does regularly. Five dogs at home and she volunteers to walk dogs! How huge is this woman's heart?!

After a brief chat, we left together and I followed her to her house to meet Scrappy. She talked and talked him up, but certainly didn't need to. When I saw him, I knew, he was my dog. He just was. There was no question about it. It all worked out for this very reason. We exchanged phone numbers, and I went home to "try to talk my husband into a second dog." I knew he would blow a gasket and never agree to this one easily, if at all.

After a few moments at home, talking chit-chat with him, he asked what else I did that day. "Funny you should ask," I began, then launched into the whole story of this dog who kept coming back into my life and meeting Judy just at the right moment at the shelter and how it was crazy to want another dog but Isabelle was old and I wanted a dog to run with me and...

"If you want the dog, go get the dog," were his first words.

I was shocked. "No, really...you're supposed to try to talk me out of this."

"Why? It's obvious you really want the dog, and if it will make you happy, then get the dog. Go, get him right now, and while you're at it, pick up the mail."

I hesitated. Walked about the house, did some work, thought about it, made sure it really did feel like the right thing to do, then, I called Judy. We were both equally stunned and excited. Us two total strangers on the phone, near tears of excitement over this mangy-looking mutt.

I got the mail, then I got Scrappy. It's been a whole week now, and he's here beside me in my office as I type this. He's a famous dog. As it turns out, come June he would have been in shelter for a full year. There are so many people I talk to who know him - from his picture in the paper or because they saw him at the shelter. I literally had a woman stop in her car on the road, get out and come up and ask me about him. "Oh, yeah! I know Scrappy. I told my mom about him, that she should get him, but she didn't." Good for me! I thought.

He's sweet, cuddly, loves to be pet and hugged, he walks well on leash, he runs in the morning with me and still has endless energy. He's great with all people so far. I take him to Hope House when I volunteer and the girls mob him and love him. He gets along with Isabelle (though is a bit too rough at times), and respects the cats (although we'd like him to chase the snot out of Deke - we think there's potential).

So, today, and for many more days, I am going to be grateful for no-kill shelters, for all the people who make them possible, and for wonderful volunteers like Judy. And of course, to my wonderful husband, who thinks Scrappy is just fine.

Almost There / They're / Their

Phew! End of semester...final papers all read...just need to calculate grades, ruin a few lives and move on. Last night, after reading for three solid days in a row - non-stop (I kid you not) - I reached up and put my hands on my head. It felt shrunken, all too small for all that I had read and shoved into it. It was a very surreal feeling - how could I have amassed that much reading into a space that fit between the palms of my hands and outstretched fingers. Certainly, it needed to be far larger, states larger, than that.

This was a hard end of semester for me. It always is a mix of good and bad in terms of feelings. It's a kind of euphoric-depression - eupression? I got this when I raced triathlon and running, especially after the big ones - the marathons, the half-ironmans. All those weeks and months (and really, years) of preparation, to come across that finish line is such an overwhelming feeling of relief, success, and "is that all there is." And, now that it's done, now what?

I know my students are out partying tonight. Well, a couple of them are still wondering how to mend their grades after being caught plagiarizing, but the majority of them are already tapping kegs, grilling burgers, racing their cars down dirt roads, going to movies. It's that emotional outpouring of knowing it's as done as it's going to get.

For me, it's some of that, but also, a strong sense of loss. I'm losing some great people from my life. Yes, my students are my life. I watch some of them truly grow and blossom in a year of classes. All the brightened faces of discovery in their own abilities, the light seeping into the cracks in their minds as they learn something of the outside world. I remember the fights and struggles, the pushing and the shoving of their fragile ideologies into a larger world. The tears in my office, the angry words...they're all still my kids. No matter their age. "Mom," as she was dubbed by the students, may well be, but while she's in my class, she's my kid.

All of this, boiled down into A, B, C, D, E - with pluses and minuses in between.

Is that all there is?

I'm exhilarated, yet feel empty. I come home and, believe it or not, go out to pick up dog poop in the back yard. Yup. That's my grand finale. Dog poop and sticks so my husband can mow the lawn. And, as I do it, I'm grateful for it. The meditative pacing back and forth across the lawn, like a labyrinth walk, finding the joy of discovery in a pile of shit, not wanting to let a single one get away from me, picking up the littlest stick triumphantly, as certainly I have saved the mower from catastrophe.

And I come in and call a friend. Angela. To hear her voice. To fill the void. We talk of what comes next in our lives, and I know there is something more. I know there is more, purpose, focus, direction. My volunteer work with Hope House. A new event at the library in June. But for now, I just want to sit at home. Look out the window. Maybe, finally, give the dog a bath.

Yes, it's over, and now is our down time before, all too soon, it will begin again.