It’s a late afternoon on a winter Saturday of my childhood. And that means the big Ferguson radio – the one that had the exotic place names on the dial – Hilversum, Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Limoges, Toulouse – is warmed up. The fire is lit, the coal scuttle is full and the kettle is on. And my father – who was…
I’ve been looking for a particular poem for a while now. When someone used the hashtag #SherlockPoems in a Twitter conversation I posted my inquiry. The poem I remember – but can’t find – is about a market stall heaped with glowing and colorful tropical fruits. It was used in a GSE exam paper sometime in the 1970’s. I didn’t…
The farmers’ market is full of strange squash and gourds and pumpkins of every color, shape, and size. Autumn – mists and melancholy, falling leaves and nostalgia – is a time for memories. Mists that burn off by mid-morning and skeins of geese and migrating birds. Dark evenings when you can still play outside exhilarated by the chill, and the smell of…
There’s a good article in the local paper on the inexact science of school weather closing. Our recent spell of sleet, snow, patchy fog, freezing drizzle, rain, freezing rain, rain mixed with sleet, wind, sunny intervals and ice pellets has been a challenge that we can only anticipate will continue. That phrase “wintry mix” brings to my mind colorful mega…
You see, there are all those early memories; one cannot get another set; one has but those. Willa Cather, Shadows on the Rock I sometimes think of Cather’s words when I visit the classrooms or the playground or attend the performances and events at PDS. It is there that our teachers are helping students build their storehouse of memories. And…