The Power of Words

Summer is here, and while I love the summer with no set schedules, reading books by the hour, jaunting to the beach, and the warm, sultry air, I am still thinking about the last few weeks of school, and the students I will miss next year. Teaching 5th grade is unique in that you don't get to see your former students grow and mature the following school year. They are off at a new school with new teachers, new classes, and new adventures. And it never fails, that with the new school year I inevitably miss my former students. At least for awhile, until I get to know and fall in love with my new students. I'm sure this coming year will be no different.

As you probably know by now, I love teaching writing to my students. We usually write first thing in the morning, and if the stars are in our favor, and there are no interruptions, and the kids are enjoying it, we may keep going for a full 45 minutes to an hour. Shhhhh...don't tell. Most of my kids love this part of our day.

This year, Ellie wasn't easily impressed or motivated to write. It was a struggle and she told me so. I worked with her and then let her fly (discovering at some point, that there was lots of pressure from the home front to succeed), and hoped she would find some joy in writing. She progressed immensely throughout the year and it was my hope that she was enjoying it, but I was never quite sure she ever did. But during the last week of school, we spent an hour in the courtyard (a beautiful outdoor space filled with flowers and benches in the center of our little country school) for popcorn poetry. This is a time where we eat popcorn and write poetry. The kids love it! It's a time to talk, share, eat, and marvel at the surroundings. It's a time for writing what we hear, see, touch, and are feeling.

The kids shared pieces of the poems they were working on, and some boys even wrote song lyrics. I was sitting near Ellie and we were talking about writing and I shared with her some things about writing that my mom had shared with me years before. How there are thousands of words to choose from and countless ways to arrange them, and it's how you string them together that makes up stories and poetry. Well, the last day of school, she handed me a gift (hummingbird earrings because I had told her I loved them), and a handmade card with a poem. Here is the poem:


Writing
by: Ellie

Poems, essays, stories
All put together by
words
Writing is lovely language


About a week before this, a student from the previous year came to see me. After giving me a hug, she handed me a piece of paper and told me it was a poem she had written and dedicated to me.

Shade
by: Emily

It cools me in the summer heat
The shade is pretty hard to beat
Unless the searing heat
Evaporates the trees
Or burns them down
The trees will always be around

The shade will always serve
As a place
To cool your face
When the going gets tough
We calm down
And look around
At all that we can see

The seas of trees
The hard and smooth pond
The fleets of flowers
Are all encompassed by one thing
The shade

I dedicate this poem to my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy. She always helped me when I needed
inspiration to write. Because of her, I will be a writer and a teacher just like her when I get older. Mrs. Murphy is the whole reason I love to write today. She can turn anything into a lovely written piece so I will work hard until I can as well. Thank you, Mrs. Murphy for opening my eyes to the wonders of writing. I will always remember you.

Both of these poems touch me beyond words and reinforce the pleasure and power of teaching.

Final Revisions...I think.

I'm at a point in my story where I think I'm almost done but I continue to read and edit, and edit some more. When do you make the final revisions and consider it complete? How many times do you write the first line, the first paragraph, the first page, and decide it's going to hook the reader and make them want to read every last word? I want my manuscript to be ready. To shine. To sparkle. To move young readers. I can't help but wonder if I'm almost there. Here's the first line from Melody's Song: The smell from the flowers in the living room nearly gags me and makes me wonder why people send them when someone dies. Does it compel you to want to read more?

Slave Diaries...

I teach my 5th graders American History and this year my focus has been slavery during the Revolutionary War period. I read Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson to give the students a perspective on the life of a slave girl and boy and background details of life in New York City during the unrest and upheaval in 1776. One of the assignments I gave was to write a diary entry as a slave child. I asked them to write about their chores, their slave masters, and include a metaphor for how they felt about being a slave. What my students wrote were both surprising and beautiful. It is some of their best writing I've seen this year.

Here are some pieces of the slave diaries of my 5th graders:

"When I think of my family I am as sad as the rain when it cries. I am a stump, a broken down train, a torn book, and a fever. I miss my family. I want to go home. How much longer do I have to live in New York City, this place smelling of smoke, the noise, not home?"

"Although I am only 11 years old, they work me as hard as an oxen going through the whistling winds. When I am with them, they treat me like I am the ugly duckling that needs to be slaughtered."

"When I am sad about my parents my eyes are like a rain cloud."

"My name is Casey, a slave in New York, and I have been literally ripped out of the arms of my parents and sold to a nasty owner named Beth. She makes me feel like a sole on a shoe, always being stepped on and scraped with no emotions coming from the person above holding me down, totally careless."

"I feel like a rock. If people want to hit a rock they hit a rock if people want to sell a rock they sell a rock. People treat me like I have no feelings. I hate being a slave. My mistress wants me to go fast but I can't go fast. I'm sad."

Smith Family Writers

It's fun to come from a family of writers. We share our work and we listen to each other. We talk about what we're working on, what we should be working on, and what we hope to be working on. Writing is hard work, no matter the genre. My siblings and parents and I all write in different genres but we all share a love for language. Writing is challenging and rewarding and compelling. I write for children (middle grade), my older sister, Robin, is a poet and also writes for teens, my younger sister, Cindy, writes romance suspense and mysteries, my brother, Dell, writes adult fiction, my mom has written magazine stories and romance novels, my dad wrote poems, humorous stories, journals, and cartoons. I think growing up around books and writing greatly influenced us kids. Can you tell? We call ourselves the Smith Family Writers and often send each other articles of interest. We give each other books for Christmas and birthdays. If not, gift cards to buy them.

We've always talked about who would be the first to publish a book. And now we know. Robin has had a book of poetry accepted by WordTech Communications LLC, Word Press imprint. It will be making its debut in December 2013. Go, Robin! You will be sure that we will have a huge launch party to celebrate her writing and her new book, Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter.

A Poet For the Ages, My Dad...

My dad was a writer. He loved the written word and he loved books. In his 88 years, he wrote two novels, poems, stories and articles. Many of which were published. He even wrote and published a few cartoons for The New Yorker.

My sister, Robin, found this poem tucked in a box my dad had sent to her before he moved to Florida. I want to share it with you.

MOMENT IN THE NIGHT

In the moment of the moment of remembering

in the empty moon-bathed street.

And beneath the street-light's arc, the shadow

running long, then short, then long.

And behind the doors, the darkened windows

night shades drawn, the lovers.

Hushed and heavy hangs the bow, the night

bird's startled cry cut short, the rumble of

the late train's passing.

At the crossing the whistle echoes, and the river

bridge over the water far below, moving

slowly towards the sea.

Oh, remembered of the nights in the shadows by

the lakeside ... the closeness, the feeling,

the touch.

Softly crossed the flesh, the curve of the bough,

arm-limbs arched and fingers pointing to-

wards the sky.

For in the moment in the nightness and the

moonlight is the doorway to all things loved

and all things feared.

For in the moment, time stops, and quivers in

the shadows .... and is gone.

* * Wendell E. Smith

From "Driftwind: A Magazine of Verse"

December 1948

My dad wrote this poem when he was 25, before he met my mother. It wasn't long after, that he met my mom and began passing notes under her door, as she didn't have a phone at that time. She and her mom had just moved into an apartment next door to my dad and his brother in Morristown, NJ. She once told me that she fell head-over-heels for him on their first date. They had so much in common. They both loved to read and to write, and they were both teachers. They both were youthful and looked like they were in their teens when they married in their late 20's. I am so thankful that we have this poem, and other works that he wrote. I hope that as we clean out my dad's things, and pour through the dozens of boxes he left behind, we will find many more of his writings and musings. He was a true poet for the ages.

Sweet Similes...

Similes are like tiny jewels in a summer night sky. They help create a poetic portrait of a character or paint a scenic landscape in a reader's mind. They help take your writing to the next level. I love similes and I love teaching my students to use them in their writing. During read aloud, the students give the thumbs-up sign when they hear one. It's like discovering a secret or finding a stone with rings, and the students always get excited when they catch one. Or when they write one. They rush up to me or wave their hands feverishly to share. "Listen to my simile!" It's the same when they find one while they're reading. "Look what I found, Ms. Murphy!" It's like they've found a hidden treasure. And they have.

One of my favorite things to teach my 5th graders is writing. I use Kimberly Newton Fusco's book, Tending to Grace, to teach about the use of language and, in particular, similes. I read it to them but they all have a copy so they can read along with me. When we hear how Cornelia, the main character, feels about her life, we stop and listen while I read a second time. Then we talk about how the author could have written how Cornelia feels lonely. But she doesn't, she writes, "I want to hide because my life, if it were a clothesline, would be the one with a sweater dangling by one sleeve, a blanket dragging in the mud, and a sock, unpaired and alone, tumbling to the road with the wind at its heel." What a lovely, haunting picture it paints of Cornelia's life.

One of the students' favorite similes discovered in Tending to Grace is the following: "The skin on her hand is thin, translucent, like china held up to the light." This compares Cornelia's mother's hand to china. Lenore is a fragile woman who leaves her daughter with her aunt because she is unable to take care for her herself. Another simile that describes Lenore is: "I want to tell her my whole life story in ten minutes, quicklike so the words tumble down fast and furious, like my mother's promises."

Give yourself, or your students, a path to more descriptive writing. Use similes. They are like tiny jewels in a summer night sky.

Hostels - they aren't just for youth anymore...

I spent a few days at a beautiful, old hostel in Truro, MA, this summer. The view surrounding the hostel was breathtaking and the peace and serenity, inspiring. It was built in the 1930's and was originally a Coast Guard Station. It's a five minute walk to the ocean. Truro's beaches are part of the Cape Cod National Seashore, a 40-mile (43,500 acres) stretch of unspoiled sandy beaches on the Outer Cape. The National Seashore spans Eastham, Wellfleet, Truro, Provincetown and parts of Orleans and Chatham. The beach we discovered was a vast stretch of white sand with large spectacular dunes and few people. It was the perfect place to get away from it all and write.

Years ago, hostels were filled with college students looking for a cheap way to see the world. Hostels are still an inexpensive and unique way to travel, but now it's not just for young people. This was my second trip to a hostel in two years and I am struck by how many retired folk and families vacation at hostels. It's a fun way to meet other travelers from all over the world from all sorts of vocations. I've met a family from England, a nonfiction writer, teachers, retired professors, young lovers, a German grandmother and on and on. In my experience, these people are quiet and respectful, intelligent and inquisitive, and open for adventure.

If you're expecting a luxury hotel, you won't find it here. But if you don't mind sharing a room or sleeping on a bunkbed. If you don't mind eating in a communal kitchen, or having a delightful breakfast (much better than most continentals you find at a hotel), then staying in a hostel might be something you want to explore. Think of it as part of the adventure of traveling. You'll meet lots of interesting people, find lots of nooks and crannies to explore, as most people love to share the places they have found, and it's cheap.

There are hostels all over the country from Maine to California. Try it, you might like it. For more information, go to http://www.hiusa.org/.

(The gorgeous photos were taken by my hostel cohort, Betsy Taylor Dever.)