Dearest Santa
I used to sit upon your knee
And dream of presents under the tree.
And now to prove that you exist
I’m writing you this little list.
But first an insufficient thank you
That—I know—is overdue.
Thanks for all the Mother Goose,
One Fish, Two Fish and Dr. Seuss.
Thank you for the Napping House,
Walk Two Moons and Ralph S. Mouse.
Thanks for Christie and for Poirot
And for those I’ll read tomorrow,
Like Murder is Easy and Taken at the Tide,
And The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side,
Dasher and Dancer and other reindeer,
For bringing me playwrights like William Shakespeare,
I thank you for Othello and Emilia,
For Romeo, Hamlet and Ophelia.
More things like this would bring me cheer
Just as they have every other year.
No one else can do the deed—
Santa, you’re the only one who can succeed.
But if it’s a dilemma
Between David Copperfield or Emma,
I’d thank you for Jane Austen
And her worlds that I get lost in.
I like to read of Stephanie Plum
And whatever adventures that may come.
My favorite parts are with Grandma Mazur
And the consequent ordeals Steph must endure.
Just one final thing
To the end of this linguistic string.
I admit I am naïve,
But you deliver and so I believe.
So thank you, Santa, thank you,
And now I bid adieu.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Attention:
The student teaching placements are in and for those of you who have sent inquiring e-mails (thank you for your interest), Miss Acton will be student teaching at Kennedy High School in Cedar Rapids.
More news to come shortly.
More news to come shortly.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Musing on a Hurricane (revised)
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener, my younger sister sensed what she had to offer was larger than her little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has held our parents liable for her status as the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-leeze!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.”
Many times these phrases would be accompanied by feelings of pride. “Boy, that Tara,” my parents would say, “She’s got a mind of her own. She’ll never let anyone push her around!” Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never). These feelings of exasperation more than occasionally turned into full-blown rage, depending on their moods. Or rather, on Tara’s mood.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way.
And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When Tara’s powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, she was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun went down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly into the vide camera—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle.
I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at my sister, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece.
The tutu is gone, replaced by her ever-present headphones. Her baby features have set, preserving our uncle Kelly’s straight nose and small chin. Red streaks are prominent in her now curly-Q hair, nails clipped close—a testament to the guitar she lugs around. There she is, a down-to-earth diva, explaining her sarcasm as “the Acton way,” quoting lines from M*A*S*H and asking me soul-searching questions, such as, “Erica, would you be my friend if I s-p-e-l-l-e-d-ed everything” or “Erica, if I walked like a penguin, would you send me to a charm school?” And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener, my younger sister sensed what she had to offer was larger than her little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has held our parents liable for her status as the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-leeze!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.”
Many times these phrases would be accompanied by feelings of pride. “Boy, that Tara,” my parents would say, “She’s got a mind of her own. She’ll never let anyone push her around!” Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never). These feelings of exasperation more than occasionally turned into full-blown rage, depending on their moods. Or rather, on Tara’s mood.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way.
And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When Tara’s powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, she was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun went down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly into the vide camera—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle.
I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at my sister, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece.
The tutu is gone, replaced by her ever-present headphones. Her baby features have set, preserving our uncle Kelly’s straight nose and small chin. Red streaks are prominent in her now curly-Q hair, nails clipped close—a testament to the guitar she lugs around. There she is, a down-to-earth diva, explaining her sarcasm as “the Acton way,” quoting lines from M*A*S*H and asking me soul-searching questions, such as, “Erica, would you be my friend if I s-p-e-l-l-e-d-ed everything” or “Erica, if I walked like a penguin, would you send me to a charm school?” And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
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