Voice recognition software: A trial with a wedcam microphone.

This blog and entry is being compost using windows seven voice recognition software.


I'm hoping this software will enable all some of my students who has struggled with writing, to create a first draft quality cheeses of writing.


The result may still require editing, but it should enables my students to look smarter on paper. If you also say the considerable amounts of time.


The best part? The software is three! (hits included in windows seven.) New line

A view off the balcony: San Clemente Inn

Now I will edge what I've written. 

This blog entry is being composed using Windows 7 voice recognition software.

I'm hoping this software will enable some of my students, who have struggled with writing, to create  first draft quality pieces of writing.

The results may still require editing, but it should enable my students to look smarter on paper. It should also save considerable amounts of time.

The best part? The software is free! (It's included in Windows 7.)  

Zoom in! A gazebo!

Now I will edit what I've written. 

Now I'll try it again, editing as I go...

This log entry is being composed using windows seven voice recognition software. I am hoping this software will enable some of my students, who have struggled was writing, to create a first draft quality piece of writing. A

The results they still require editing, but should enable listings to look smarter on paper we should also save considerable amounts of time.

And the best part? It is freedom! (it is included in windows seven.)

Shuffle board anyone?

(this is still going to require editing!) 

That's all for now. Voice Recognition is found on the control panel (Speech Recognition). It includes 1/2 hour or so of tutorials, which I listened to. Not a real steep learning curve, but it still takes some patience and practice. I think I'll try it with a hand held microphone next time.

A Poem inside a Story

I composed this free-write over at Write with Pictures... (enjoy!)

Strolling through the park, I again looked up at the statue and smiled. There will never be a monument in a park for me, but I never wanted one. I sat down on a bench and composed a poem. 

Sitting on a Bench at the feet of Greatness?

I've walked the path marked out for me for well nigh 40 years.

I've seen joys and I've seen sorrows.
I've held babies and I've held my breath.

Passers by don't look up to me,
but my kids do.
My name is not famous in the town,
but my students and colleagues love me.

I've not been instrumental in local history,
but I've been instrumental in a few lives.

I didn't die on a battlefield of glory,
no, I've lived in the trenches of life.

And one of my rewards is this...
I sit on a bench composing verse
until...
I stand and continue on...
walking the path marked out for me.

An Experiment with Tagul and a Poem

I'm enrolled in a class to earn a new credential: a Preliminary Administrative Services Credential (PASC).

Among other things, a school administrator should be a leader in using technology, so this PASC class includes some how-to sessions on using technology, one being TAGUL.

Tagul allows you to take a body of text and have it analyzed for most often used words. After some edit options, the result is a poster-esque rendition of key words.

The Tuscon tragedy is in the news and on the opinion pages. I thought it would be interesting to try Tagul's analysis on a recent Op-Ed piece by Franck Rich that appeared in the New York Times on January 15th. (After creating the cloud in Tagul... opps... I deleted it.)

Then I did more work; this time on a poem by Robert Frost. I suppressed words like the, and, etc., and added a link so that if you click on a word... it goes to an online dictionary. (Think of the possibilities for teaching a reading lesson to young students who lack all the vocabulary: an easy, visual, exciting way to access the text.) Cool.

Here are the results:

I read a book by Gerald Weinberg... and it was excellent!

Flowers rock!

On August 3rd a post showed up in my blogger window from a blog I follow called Weinberg on Writing. The post began, "If any of you are still out there, you're probably aware that I've been absent because I've been battling (and winning) a thymic carcinoma."

I was still "out there" and sent out an e-mail to Jerry. He was kind enough to respond. Jerry is an author, consultant, and much more. Wikipedia describes him thusly: "Gerald Marvin (Jerry) Weinberg (27 October 1933) is an American computer scientist, author and teacher of the psychology and anthropology of computer software development."

He's kind of a nerd with personality and insight. His blog states his life's purpose as, "Helping smart people be happy." He's made mine happier.

I own three of Jerry's works of non-fiction: An Introduction to General Systems Thinking, Secrets of Consulting, and More Secrets of Consulting. (I used to be a Systems Engineer, and Jerry, through his books, helped me become a better one.)

At CSUF Arboretum

Back in December of 2008 I did a post called "Let kindness rule" that mentioned Jerry, and he posted a comment! (I was elated, after I found out it wasn't a prank. I was suspicious!)

As a result of that post, I began to follow one of Jerry's blogs: Weinberg on Writing. And that brings us to the topic of this post: I read a book.

This time a read a work of fiction by Jerry called "First Stringers."

When I heard about Jerry's bout with cancer, I wrote him an e-mail, and he wrote me back. At the bottom of his e-mail there was a line, "Treat yourself to one of my engaging eNovels...

See free sample chapters at: link."

Buster 1 and Buster 2

I read the free chapters, and then I ordered one of Jerry's novels: "First Stringers: Eyes that cannot see." It was captivating. It was enthralling. It absorbed my attention almost non-stop for 36 hours. Dang. (It's a 614 page e-book.)

I could talk about the book: setting, characters, plot, and themes, but I don't want to give too much away. You can read the free chapters and see what you think.

The sub-theme that I most appreciated? Abilities and Disabilities.

Remember Jerry's main theme is "Helping Smart People Be Happy." Jerry's a smart guy. He knows stuff about stuff. But most of all, he knows that smart people, people who think, people who ponder... yes, even people who blog, need help. We need help in learning how to be happy: Learning how to view our gifts, our world, and our part.

Jerry's novel continues in that vein. He has created robust, smart characters, installed them in the present day Southwest (Four Corner States), and has given them meaningful problems to solve. Against that backdrop Jerry continues his quest to help smart people be happy, this time, as we are carried along with the main characters through a suspenseful plot that twists and turns on its way to a satisfying conclusion.

A double delight!

All this... and there is a sequel!

Happy Sunday.

(And thanks Jerry.)

Progress is a new horse.

I'm a teacher. Teachers are supposed to be change agents, that is, we try to get students to change. That's what education is: positive change, improvement. Call it, progress.

But most of us are what I call resistant learners, especially when it comes to trying new ways of doing things, new ways of learning, new processes for progress.

We may be dissatisfied with our rate of improvement, but we like our methods. Our old ways are comfortable, broken in, safe.



So a big part of my job is to entice students to try new ways of doing things: ways that work better than their old ways. It doesn't matter if we're talking about ways to read a book, do long division, or sit at a desk. There are better ways of doing things. Ways that lead to academic progress.

Slow and sure may win the race, but I often work with students who are behind and need to catch up. They need to accelerate their progress. They need help, and often want help. They just don't always want to change.

That's why they need a change agent: a catalyst for improvement.



Recently one of my daily reading groups read a poem by Emily Dickinson. Here it is:

Fame is a bee

Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.

After several minutes of discussion, I was able to help my students reach personal epiphanies: this poem is not mainly about bees. What?!

They made connections: Britney Spears, for example. It was fun to watch.




Several days later I composed a poem in the general style of "Fame is a bee" that captures a lesson I've taught many times this year. My poem is called, "Progress is a new horse." The kids loved it. They applauded. Ah shucks. Here it is:

Progress is a new horse.

On the road of progress,
I find my old horse is dead.
It doesn’t carry me where I want to go.

But I love my old horse.
It’s the way I’ve always done things.
I hate to admit I’m riding a dead horse.

On the road to progress,
New horses are waiting to be ridden,
Horses recommended by previous owners.

Progress is a choice of horses.

* * * *

(Last weekend my wife and I took a weekend trip to a timeshare called San Clemente Inn. We drove down on a Friday and returned on a Monday. I took pictures.)

A Rictameter (not): 2010!

Sciptor, a true word lover, offered this nugget of knowledge recently over on his blog: "A rictameter is an unrhymed, 9-line poem with a syllable count of 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2 in which the first and last lines are the same."



Always on the lookout for new forms to try out... I give you...

2010!

2010 commences.
Old: set in stone.
Trip around the sun now complete.
Highs and lows, ebbs and flows: spirals drawn.
One year ends, another begins -- One decade passes, another begins.
Pastels or browns, success or failure: probably both.
Trip around the sun barely begun.
New: unset and open.
2010 commences.



Happy New Year! Carpe anum!

PS:

Being the proof-reader that I am... I discover that I've misread the directions/definitions. Rictameters involve syllable counts, not word counts. So this is not a Rictameter!

As a teacher, I am always amazed at how often my students don't read the directions, and they end up missing the point. As a teacher, I am too often amazed at how often I do the same. The nice thing is... my students catch me! Or sometimes, I catch my own mistrakes. Sometimes I don't. ;-)

Communication : Pitfalls and Potentials

One of the joys of blogging is discovering (and creating) a far-flung community of like-minded thinkers. Writing is thinking, and only the few are willing to pay the price exacted by regular excursions into the realm of personal thought.



DawnTreader, from Sweden, has a weekly post where she shares a meaningful quote. This week she posted a quote from the book Slow Man by 2003 Nobel Prize winner: J.M. Coetzee --

"There are the words themselves, and then, behind or around or beneath the words, there is the intention. As he speaks he is aware of the boy watching his lips, brushing aside the word-strings as if they were cobwebs, tuning his ear to the intention."

I see in this quote, a potential recipe for madness. Let me explain...

I am a truth seeker and a traveler. I grew up on the tail-end of the hippie generation, graduating high school in 1971. Even back then, I had an analytical bent. I enjoyed math, literature, and sports. But perhaps even more, I longed for deep personal interaction.



One of my sisters once said to me, "Why can't you just be shallow, like the rest of us?"

My sister did and does perhaps represent the majority opinion and life-style. For many, and perhaps most, life is rarely deep and meaningful. Usually it's just there.

Against this back-drop of shallowness, an analytical, caring, seeking, listening person is out-of-place. Coetzee's character, who brushed "aside the word-strings as if they were cobwebs, tuning his ear to the intention..." reminds me of an earlier self, a self who nearly drove himself crazy.

Back in the day, often during parties, hanging out with friends, or even playing chess with a friend, I would listen for the meaning behind the words. "What do they really mean..."



This not only led to isolating speculation, it led to alienation... I was often at least one step removed from a conversation. I was listening to the words, but at the same time searching for the intention, the motivation, the true meaning of what was being said.

It was maddening. Like a computer caught in an infinite loop, my brain and psyche would thrash upon itself fruitlessly.

I think this went on for several months, and I grew in despair. Some of my friends became worried. But one of them set me free!



"Don, what if people were just saying what they mean, and meaning what they say?"

"What?"

After processing that profundity for a while, I tested it, and he/she was right. (I say he/she because I can't remember who said it to me. Surely a Zen master in disguise. I think her name was Ann.)

Since then I have learned that most people, most of the time simply say what they mean and mean what they say. If I have any doubt, I just ask a simple follow-up question. How liberating!

I have also learned that some people, some of the time, cloak what they mean in what they say. These people are in touch with a depth inside of themselves.

These are the people where "brushing brushing aside the word-strings as if they were cobwebs, tuning his ear to the intention..." is an appropriate response. With these people, deep, meaningful conversation is possible.



One meaning of converse, is to share views by talking. It involves give and take, questions and answers, regarding and being regarded. Like a dance it has beauty and grace.

Conversation of this graceful sort reminds me of another quote from SeptemberMom's blog: "In life as in dance: Grace glides on blistered feet." Alice Abrams, the author of that quote, implies that artistry requires "blistered feet."

The Art of Conversation is no different. Done poorly, it can lead to misunderstanding and pain. Done well, it can lead to friendship, community, insight, and growth.



In conversation, one size does not fit all. Not all who walk, dance.

December Reflections

Recently I began to visit a daily photo blog. DawnTreader, the blogging photographer lives in southern Sweden. (How cool is that?)

Her pictures and post titles often invite fiction or, sometimes, poetry.

Today her picture inspired me to "pen" a brief poem.

DawnTreader's post is entitled: Tuesday Blue: December Reflections. Here is her picture:



Here is my poem:

December Reflections

Everything seems a bit blue
and upside down.

Nothing is clear
but strangely blurred.

Life is such a riddle.

But then...

I discover I'm looking down
instead of up!

I'm not even seeing what's real,
just some doubly reversed image.

No more December distortions!

Splat

Funny things happen, and I laugh a lot.

Sitting at the table in the faculty lounge, I had just finished my lunch. I waded up the paper towel which had functioned as my napkin, and I eyed the trash can. Claudia was munching on an orange in the next seat.




"Claudia, do you think I can make this shot?"

"Sure, give it a try."

The shot required that I loft the towel over Claudia's head into the awaiting trash can. We were both seated. I measured the shot. I visualized the wad swishing into the wide open "basket." I lofted my shot...

...and I missed off the front rim.

"Think I can make mine?" Claudia asked. She had a waded up paper towel as well.

"Sure, go for it," I encouraged her.



She launched her four foot attempt from her seated position. She pushed it long, hoping for a bank shot. Every thing was looking good, until...

Splat. Her paper towel hit the wall behind the trash can and exploded, spewing out the orange peelings hidden in its interior.

Nothing bounced off the wall. Paper towel and all splashed off the wall, behind and beside the trash can, on to the floor.



Laughing, we both got up and cleaned up the mess.

Where ever I go, I have fun. Even in the teachers' lounge at lunch.

Why I blog: 200 posts later...

My Blogger Dashboard is slighty ahead of my Blog's counter, but I sense that I'm passing a milestone here: 200+ posts. Woo hoo!

I began this blog after my oldest daughter, Joanna, began one of her own. I didn't want to crowd her with my comments on her blog, so I began my own. Little did I know how much I would enjoy blogging.



Readers of my blog know that I use personal affirmations to help move myself towards goals that are important to me. I have three affirmations/choices that tie closely to why I blog.

1) I choose to find delight in interacting with my wife, family, friends.
2) I choose to write to inspire and to instruct. It gives me satisfaction.
3) I enjoy the feedback my readers provide. I feel their love and care.

I work hard to be genuine. I detest hypocrisy. As an educator, I often teach writing. My master's thesis in education explored the question: Does my writing teacher write? I discovered that blogging gave me a forum for practicing the craft of genuine writing.

Blogging provides me with and opportunity to interact with my readers. I love your comments. (I also love the insights offered on your blogs. It's a two-way street.)



Blogging helps me distill out of my life those things that have inspired and instructed me. I discover what I believe through the writing process. Through blogging I've discovered a like-minded community of caring, thoughtful people.

I also enjoy the sense of unknown influence. I began my blog in October of 2008. In December, I started using Google's Analytics to track visitors. (Joanna taught me how.) Here are some statistics regarding my blog that Analytics has compiled since December of 2008:

1,058 unique visitors
5,608 page-views
2,374 visits from 60 countries. (Top 5: US, UK, Taiwan, Canada, India)
1,820 visits from the US (47 states -- just missing S. Dakota, W. Virginia, and New Jersey)



Analytics provides me with a sense of involvement in the blog-o-sphere, but it is my regular readers and comment-ers who motivate me to blog. You are the ones who inspire me share my musings and miscellaneous thoughts. Thanks for your friendship and involvement.

Happy Saturday!

A Dock and A Pond: Writers' Workshop

"An Undervalued Variable: Does your writing teacher write?" That was the title of my master's thesis.

About 90% of the writing teachers I surveyed do not write on anywhere near a regular basis: not even a twice-yearly newsletter. I wouldn't want to learn golf from a non-golfer. I don't want to teach writing if I'm not a writer: so I write.

Besides my own blog, I practice my writing at Pictures, Poetry, and Prose, aka PP&P. Laura Jane daily posts a picture and a prompt. I'm collecting most of my entries from there and posting them here. If you'd like to explore her blog, go for it.

I'm also posting a link to the photographer sites and the original PP&P site. For the adventurous, you can see more photos and read more entries on the picture of the day. (Perhaps you'll be prompted to practice your craft! Go ahead. Have some fun!)

Today, I've pulled two stories that have a loose connection: both pictures feature water.

Here is the picture that prompted the first piece. I wrote the piece from the point of view of the youngest girl on the dock. I have 36 first cousins: many of the female! I have two older sisters. I have daughters. It was no stretch at all to compose a piece from a young girl's point of view. (I also teach at an elementary school.) This entry won the daily prize at PP&P. The piece also reflects my general optimism.





Photo by Sabrina
Visit her blog - Nouns Make Verbs

(Other postings based on this photo at PP&P.)

This has always been one of my favorite childhood pictures. Aunt Joyce took the picture of the four girl cousins: the two older and the two younger. That's me on the far right -- the youngest.

We were at Big Bear Lake enjoying the sun in our cutoffs and shorts.

But what makes this picture my favorite is that Cousin Candy is wearing the friendship bracelet I made her at camp. (She's on the far left.)

It was the first time in my life that I felt included, valued, and loved by the older cousins.

That week changed my life, and this picture is proof of my arrival into the society of the girl cousins. I mattered.


The second piece I'm sharing today is based on the photo below. In addition to teaching writing, I teach math. Hidden in this short poem is a lesson on integers: positive and negative numbers. See if you can find it!





Photo by Lorelei
Visit her photo gallery at - http://www.pbase.com/birdseye
and her blog at - http://www.westcoastwriters.blogspot.com/

(Other postings based on this photo are here at PP&P.)

Countdown and Beyond

A three-arched bridge.
A two-storied pagoda.
A single pond.
Nothing to do but sit.
One hour gone.
Two fish jump and disappear.
Three picnickers leave.

Bird and Birds: Writers' Workshop

One of the reasons I began this blog was to practice the craft of writing. As part of this undertaking, I discovered a lovely community over at Pictures, Poetry, and Prose, aka PP&P. Laura Jane daily posts a picture and a prompt. Sometimes I dive into the pool of creativity and make a splash.

Since not all of my readers follow that blog, I've decided to post a copies of most of my contributions to PP&P on this site. I'm also posting a link to the photographer sites and the original PP&P site. For the adventurous, you can see more photos and read more entries on the picture of the day. Perhaps you'll be prompted to wade in too!

Today, I've pulled two stories that loosely share a common topic: birds.



Photo by Jim Pankey "WildSpirit"
Jim's Photography can be found at Picasa and fotonothing

(Here's where the picture and prompt appear on PP&P with the contributions of others.)

My poem:

A Complementary Hummingbird


What marvelous evolutionary adaptations!

What improbable aerodynamics!

What lovely shades of green, yellow, and lavender!

What? A non-bug-eating bird?

What? No more overly brittle eggs?

Pretty bird!

Lured by the sumptuous scent of the lavender-hued blossom, the hummingbird suspended its flight mid-air and hovered miraculously in an apparent defiance of gravity.


Scientist, engineer, artist, entomologist, environmentalist, child, and poet:
complementary paradigms converging for a moment in time.

The second "bird" post is based on the following photo and my past:




Photograph by Tammy Vitale
Visit her website - http://www.tammyvitale.com/
~


Here is my post and the originals at PP&P:

Closing Time

The college Job Finding Center had been helpful, and I had a job: groundskeeper at a large private residence. I'd been working for a month or two when it first happened: they came.

My school schedule allowed me to work late afternoons, and as the days were shortening, I soon found myself working until early dusk. The combination of working late and the change of seasons brought about my encounter with the birds.

Each day, about 45 minutes before dusk they would arrive in the avocado trees of the estate. It was as if they were waiting, waiting to go home before the sun finally set.

I was working in the avocado grove doing weed control when the first bird arrived, a fore-runner of the coming flock. They gathered in the trees until the sun began to fade, and then they moved up the hill to higher ground.

I'd like to think they were enjoying the sunset over and over again, but I think the sun was escorting them to their roosts. The day was ending for them, and it was almost time for me to go home too. It was closing time.

Vanishing Point -- Every picture has a Story...

Laura Jayne has created a writing community over at her blog: Pictures, Poetry and Prose. I don't respond to all the prompts, but sometimes I do. Many of the blogs I follow, I found after reading a good post on LJ's site.

I like people who think critically and creatively. When I read their writings, I begin to see the world as they see it. That's fun.

On Saturday Laura Jayne offered this picture and prompt:



Photo by Lorelei
Visit her photo gallary at - http://www.pbase.com/birdseye
and her blog at - http://www.westcoastwriters.blogspot.com/
~
Suggested prompt...
~
Tell the story of or create a poem for this amazing photo.

Here was my offering:

Vanishing Point

"Hard to believe there's only five more weeks of high school," commented Maria, her breath adding to the early morning fog along the riverbank.

"I can't believe it either," uttered Frank as he hunkered along, trying to stay warm against the penetrating dampness.

"And what were we thinking, ending our stint with a zero-period class?"

"Obviously we weren't thinking very clearly."

Maria laughed. "I'm going to miss you Frank."

"Ditto girl. But this is what we've been working hard for: we're both heading off to different colleges in the fall."

"You're right. Goodbye sleepy river town. Goodbye factory job. Goodbye future-less friends."

"We're in the mist now, but the dawn's coming. This fog will disappear, and so will we."

"You're such a poet! I'm the artist. Let's see: Gray hues will yield to bright colors. Vanishing points will give way to new beginnings, new perspectives."

"Oh Maria, I'm going to miss our talks and our walks."

Maria smiled in the mist, "Me too."

They walked on together in the predawn fog, each lost in their own thoughts, each enjoying the white space that punctuated their friendship, both moving on... towards the vanishing point.

Another Vial of Sand

I'm back from a week's vacation. I've been catching up on reading what my blogging friends have been up to. Now it's time to turn my attention back to my own blog.

Well, sort of. I'm borrowing from a post I did elsewhere, but want to share it here with my own set of readers. It starts with a picture:



Photo by Kathryn
for more of Kathryn's photography visit -
http://www.pbase.com/katwilkens

Over at Pictures, Poetry, and Prose the above captioned picture appeared along with this suggested prompt:

It was the sand of ______ that she would remember because...

Mixing fact, fiction, what-if, and some creative license, I came up with this:


The Other Vial of Sand...

Fifteen clear boxes of labeled sand. They were relegated to the family room shelf for display, clumsily inscribed in her husband’s bland printing. In her separate bedroom, she had her treasures, it wasn’t the gems, the jewelry, or the rings, but it was the small vial containing the sand of southern Utah that she would remember and treasure because of him… a different him.

They had met at college – a friend of a friend. Soon they were more than that, much more. The school year was ending, and she had convinced him to join her for a month-long, transcontinental road trip. He loved to drive; she had the car and her mother’s financial backing. His mom didn’t like the idea, but hers did.

His mom had moral problems with the arrangement, and worried about unplanned pregnancies.

Her mom appreciated the security that the young man would provide her daughter on the cross-country trip that would culminate at her son’s home in northern Florida.

The trip started out great. It was the best trip she’d ever take despite the lack of glamour.

They drove to the Grand Canyon, camped there for four days, and made a three-day hike into the canyon. Together they saw Phantom Ranch located on the river’s edge where they ate over-priced five-dollar peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Hiking out, they ventured off the main trail to Ribbon Falls. They drank in the beauty, and they showered together in the falls.

From the North Rim, the plan was to drive north through Kanab to Utah’s Zion and Bryce canyons before heading east. But on the way, they took an unplanned side trip to the Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park. It was nearly deserted, and they took advantage.

Salmon was her favorite color. This was what she would call her “salmon colored summer.”

The vial of soft, wind blown, pink coral sand that she kept in her jewelry box was like a magic lamp, providing a gateway to pleasant memories, to another time, to another place, and to another man.

Ahhh… that was the best part… a different man… the man of the salmon-colored summer, not the man of fifteen clear boxes of labeled sand.

Writers’ Workshop: Innovator in Medicine – Elizabeth Blackwell, MD.

About five years ago I wrote a biographical sketch along with my students. I chose Elisabeth Blackwell, who was a medical pioneer. I admire innovators, change agents, and those who persist in the face of adversity. Perhaps that’s what drew me to choose this Innovator in Medicine.



Innovator in Medicine – Elizabeth Blackwell, MD.

All women working in medicine owe a debt of gratitude to Elizabeth Blackwell who was the first woman doctor in the United States and England.

Born in England on February 3, 1821, Elizabeth’s family immigrated to the United States before she was 10. Her parents had many children and it was a great shock when, after the family had moved to Ohio, the father died suddenly.




Elizabeth and her two sisters started a small school in their home to support the family. When her brothers were old enough to work, they took over the support of the family and Elizabeth was able to think about college and her dream of becoming a doctor. But there was a problem. Medical schools in the US did not admit women.

Elizabeth didn’t give up. She was finally admitted to a medical school in New York after all the male students voted to allow it. She had difficulty finding a place to live because the townspeople didn’t want a woman at the college. After working hard, Elizabeth graduated, but her dreams continued: she wanted to become a surgeon.



Elizabeth went to France to study surgery, and after a long search, she found a hospital that would train her. Unfortunately, she contracted a disease, which blinded her in one eye. This ended her chance of becoming a surgeon.

She came back to America lonely and discouraged, but she didn’t give up. No hospital would admit her patients, so she started a clinic. Later she started a hospital and a medical college.

In her later years, she moved back to England and became the first woman doctor there as well.



Elizabeth Blackwell died at 89. She was a medical pioneer who dreamed big, never gave up, and overcame many obstacles by determination and hard work. Elizabeth Blackwell’s life is a true story that teaches us many valuable lessons.

Writers' Workshop: My 80th Birthday -- letter and poem.

I had so much fun with the pseudo-predictive piece: My 81th Birthday, I did two companion fictional pieces: A Friendly Letter and a Poem. (My Language Arts class had been studying both forms.) Here are the results:

11/20/33

Dear Joanna,

Thanks for your visit. I’m enclosing a little story I wrote, My 81st Birthday, plus a poem. Both explain what was going on in my head when you came to visit. Sorry for not getting it, and for not asking you more questions. Thanks for still loving your dad, even when he’s falling apart. Thanks for the lift.

Love,

Dad

PS: Please share this with Abby and her dear Danielle.
PPS: I have the volleyball sitting on top of my TV.



Here’s the poem:

Now I Get It!

A volleyball inscribed to Danielle.
I had no idea there was writing at all.

I didn’t see the writing.
I couldn’t read the card.
I didn’t know that getting old
would be so dog-gone hard.

But I kept on asking questions,
and I learned about the ball.
I learned about Danielle’s love,
and I began to bawl.

I may not see or hear too well,
but I’d better not just fake it.
I need to still be honest,
and admit that I don’t get it.

Dear Joanna, Abby, and Danielle,
thank you for your gifts.
Your visit, your thoughts, your words,
have given me a lift.



Love,
Great-G-pa Don

Writers' Workshop: My 80th Birthday?

One way to improve your writing is by writing, so in my English Language Arts classes, we wrote. Back in April of '04, I had my classes do a quick write using a prompt from The Writer's Block: 786 Ideas to Jump-Start Your Imagination. The prompt was, What if someone gave me a _____ for my ____birthday.

I wrote along with my students and composed:



My 80th Birthday

I was 80 years old. What was my daughter thinking when she gave me a new volleyball?

I guess I should backup to the beginning. It started when Joanna brought Abby to visit me in the hospital: the convalescent hospital. I’m not sick mind you. I’m just old and my body is failing. I’m too much work to have in one of my kid’s houses, and I don’t mind. It’s part of getting old.

But anyway, my 80th birthday came. It was kind of a milestone since both my dad and granddad never made 70 years. All the kids came, and the grand kids. I got some presents: socks, a clock radio with huge numbers, a head set for my TV, so I can turn it up real loud, and a volleyball. A volleyball! What’s an 80-year-old going to do with a volleyball in a convalescent hospital?



“Mr. Evans? Are you awake?”

It was the nurse.

“Mr. Evans, it’s time for your meds. Wake up!”

“Oh Lorraine, I’m awake,” I protested. “I’m was just resting my eyes a bit. Not sleeping. Just resting my tired eyes.”

“Okay Mr. Evans. Whatever you say.”

“Lorraine, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure Mr. E. Shoot. What’s your question?”

“I can’t figure out why my 56-year-old daughter would give me a volleyball for my birthday. I’m way too old to play.”



“You mean this volleyball?” said Nurse Lorraine as she poured out some water to go with the pills.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Well, it’s not even quite new, you know. And it’s got writing on it.”

“What? Writing? What’s it say? Man, these 80-year-old eyes are getting tired. I didn’t know there was writing. What’s it say?”

“Game ball 11/07/33. To Danielle McGowan – MVP.”

“Danielle? Well, that’s my great grand daughter. She’s only 10.”



“Well there’s a card here too, Mr. E. with a volleyball on it. Maybe it goes with the ball?”

“What does it say, Lorraine? I couldn’t read it. I just looked at it and smiled when Joanna and Abby gave me the ball. My eyes are getting bad, you know.”

It says, “Dear Great-grandpa, I couldn’t come to your birthday party today, because I’m in an All-Star volleyball game. I’m only 10, and I’m the youngest on the team. We’re in the finals this weekend. Last weekend I was voted MVP of the game. I wanted you to have the ball since you got this family playing volleyball back when you were young. When you see the ball, think of me, and know that me, mom, and grandma all love you and appreciate all you’ve given us, including a love for volleyball. All my love, Danielle.”

“Well, Mr. E. I guess that explains it.”



I thought to myself, Well, I guess it does, but I couldn’t say anything ‘cause tears were running down my cheeks, and I was softly sobbing.

It started out as a very disappointing gift, but once I understood, I learned that I was still loved and appreciated, even if I was 80 and falling apart.

Writers' Workshop: Gepeto is Found!

Another piece of writing from my junior high teaching days (May '04) as I practiced the craft of writing alongside my students:



Gepeto is Found

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty." Anne's anguished cry beamed out into the falling darkness like a fog horn trying to warn ships in a dense fog. She was trying to bring her cat Gepeto back inside. Gepeto was lost.



Gepeto was a black cat, kind of skinny, with a smallish head. Gepeto was an inside cat and Anne was worried. It all started when her son Joseph had left the door open too long this morning as he was leaving for school. Gepeto was in a playful mood and was running around the house. The door was open, and out he ran.

Gepeto was a well-loved cat. Anne had gotten Gepeto four years ago when a friend had moved away. Gepeto was going to the pound until Anne stepped in with an offer of asylum. Gepeto got a new home and a new love: Anne.



Anne was a cat lover. She had had five cats of her own when she had left Maine to move to California. The Gepeto Project was one of her ways of showing gratitude for those people in Maine who had adopted her cats. Anne was worried for Gepeto. And rightfully so.

Three days passed before they found the body.



Joseph was raking leaves in the back yard when he discovered Gepeto's stiff body under a bush. It looked like a car had hit Gepeto; not enough to kill him outright, but enough to end his new life in Anne's home.

Joeseph knew that Anne would be heart-broken at the news, but he knew what he had to do. He left Gepeto under the bush for now and walked slowly to the house to give Anne the bad news.

* * * * *

Since this is Sunday morning... I'll give a ray of hope that the story doesn't have... A line from a song: "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal."



I see in my own writings echoes of the melodramatic bent of my youngest daughter. What goes around comes around. ;-)