Mrs. Meehan- Closing Thoughts

 Hi everyone, 

Thank you for writing and reading slices throughout the month, and if you were a commenter, an extra thank you! 

I’ve loved coordinating this effort, even more than I expected to. Yes, there were moments when I wondered if the energy would catch on, and there were moments when I felt like a nag or that people avoided me so I wouldn’t ask them to slice. Please don’t feel that way! Believe me, I understand how hard writing can be! 

That being said, the reflections that have come my way are share-worthy! Here are a few of them!

• I lived differently because I was trying to figure out what to slice! 

• I realized that there are slices everywhere if we are looking for them. 

• I understand and empathize with students more when they say they have nothing to write about. 

• It’s really hard to put yourself out there for peer review-- but that’s what we ask kids to do every day. 

• Writing scares me. 

Yes to all of these! Many posts touched me, but these two posts from Tootin’ teachers especially touched these sentiments. Both have given me permission to share them with you. 

• Silvie Fluckiger’s post where she tried to find the best way to begin her piece

• Jess Flaherty’s post about finding slices everywhere. This post is on a google doc since it won’t publish until 1/31. 

There are a few teachers who have asked about continuing to slice with students. If this is something that interests you, please reach out to me. I’d be happy to connect students across the district and maybe even beyond. 

Ms. Riera: Daisies Can Fly

With John driving down the back country road of our quaint little town, the world whirled by in slow motion, as if on a carousel going at quarter speed. I saw every minute detail of the street, but in whirring colors. The willows bending and swaying in the hot summer breeze. My child’s hand riding the windy wave outside the truck window through the rearview mirror.  The deep nightingale color of the tall, dry grasses reaching towards the sky like a thirsty hand reaching for water. In this moment of time, my life was not a reality, but an illusion; a sleight of hands. The emptiness beginning to creep into the pit of my stomach was one I had never truly known, even though this was not my first loss or tragedy. As I closed my eyes to lean my head back in hopes for a moment of quiet repose, the truck lurched on over a speed bump in the road.  Suddenly, I was jostled awake by a perfect, yellow daisy flying into the window and landing directly on my lap as if it were nonchalantly tossed there. John brought the truck to a stop and said “That was your dad. There’s your sign that he is always with you.”  Up until that moment, I thought that daisies couldn’t fly.

Mrs. O'Connor- Life Askew

 I'm a Libra. 

 Balance matters to me.

 

Equilibrium.

 

I was born on October 22, a palindrome. Perfection.

 

Twenty-two served as my lucky number until January 14, 2002.

 

Heroin stole Keith that day at 22, a baby.

 

Heroin forced me to live forward without my brother for 22 years.

 

We no longer shared memories of the past, present, or future.

 

That’s unnatural.

 

We were supposed to grow up together.

I visited my brother at the cemetery today, January 14, 2024.

I released two, helium-filled, black, 34-inch number two balloons into the sky.

The wind carried them.

The number 22 soared higher and higher away from me.

The tipping point.

When I wake up tomorrow, I will have lived longer without my brother than I lived with him.

 

The scale will tilt.

 

Disproportional. Lopsided. Askew.

 

Heroin broke me; maybe more than it broke my brother.

Mrs. Labrecque- Dog Days of Glory

As I walked out of PD on Friday afternoon, excited for the long weekend and anticipating an additional snow day, the sun was shining and I couldn’t have been in a better mood. One of my favorite forms of self-care is walking my dog, which is exactly what I was going home to do.

Now before I tell my story, I have to share a little background. In the summer of 2020, my fiance and I decided to adopt a dog. He was adamant about adopting this dog, Chezzy, but I was more hesitant. Once I met this two-year-old, 62-pound ball of energy with puppy dog eyes, I couldn’t say no and we left with him immediately. However, we were not fully prepared for what we were getting into.

The first two years of having Chezzy, we were up at 5:00 each morning to give him a 45-minute walk before work each day. Then after work, another 75-minute walk to release his energy. Thinking this would have him tire and watch Netflix with us, we were wrong. It took another twenty minutes of fetch for him to finally settle.

Flash forward to this year, he has become stubborn in his walks. Not in the sense he wants longer, he has turned into a couch potato! Our morning walks have turned into him doing his business and then laying on the cold ground, only moving if I pick him up. He tends to do better in the afternoon where he enjoys smelling the sweet treats from whole foods and smiling at the people nearby.

So on Friday, I was expecting to do a nice walk and get my steps in. But Chezzy had a different plan. He laid down, belly side up, and protested for a solid five minutes. Cars were looking, I was anxious and he was just living his best life. Until a familiar car drove by, beeped, and smiled and Chezzy hopped right up thinking the attention was for him. So if you ever see a dog at Whole Foods, protesting his walk feel free to yell out Chezzy!

Mrs. Sullivan- la despedida

Tim pulled up behind the cars that were triple parked.  He stopped the wipers, put the car in park, and tapped the hazard lights to indicate to airport police that he would not be there long. He composed himself with a deep breath and looked over his shoulder to the back seat.  With a big smile plastered on his face, he said, “Are you ready, Kate?”  Kate took out her right headphone and then her left, gave a faint smile, and nodded.

Tim reached for his door handle and pulled, and I followed suit.  A cold mist sprayed my face as I stepped out of the car, avoiding a puddle that was a few degrees away from freezing.  I met Tim at the trunk as he was raising the door.  He squeezed my shoulder before leaning in and reaching for the larger of the two suitcases.  He set it on the ground beside me.

The suitcase was a generic dark gray one, indistinguishable from most suitcases you’d see at the airport.  Out of fear that Kate would not be able to easily identify her bag in the sea of luggage, Maggie and I had decided to decorate it with strips of duct tape.  Each strip had a message like ‘U Rock”, ‘U Da Best’ and my favorite ‘Tomate.  It had said tomato, but Tim had changed it to its Spanish translation.  One of Kate’s many nicknames was Kayta Tomata.  It was an homage to her red hair and ruddy cheeks, which became more prominent when she played sports or danced.  

Tim grabbed the smaller suitcase on wheels as Kate sidled up beside me. Tim set the suitcase down, lowering the trunk door.  He turned and faced Kate, put a hand on each shoulder, and looked her in the eye.  With an abundance of enthusiasm, he said,  “You are going to rock Spain.”  Kate smiled up at him with glassy eyes.  He pulled her in close, hugged her tight and long, and kissed her on top of the head.  “Now get out of here,” he said.

Kate and I each wheeled a suitcase towards the curb, as I lifted the heavy bag over the edge I startled at the loud voice that screamed, “Yeah Kate, Whooo, Go Spain!!”.  I looked over my shoulder to see Tim’s hand waving frantically out the window as he continued to holler and beep as he drove away.  Kate and I gave a familiar head shake to each other, acknowledging her dad’s silly and frequent antics, something Kate had inherited.  

We entered through an automatic door, and took a second to take in our surroundings.  Couples, families, and people who appeared to be traveling alone were bustling by, some with a purpose, some unsure where to go.  We fell into the latter category, but we followed a crowd heading for kiosks, thinking this may be where we needed to start.  An assertive woman with a loud voice and official uniform instructed travelers to use the kiosks to print off baggage tickets and then to get into the long line to check their suitcases.  We decided Kate would print off the ticket while I got us a place in line.

The line resembled something you would see in Disney World.   Ropes created rows that twisted and turned, giving the illusion that you were not far from your destination, while in reality you probably had a long wait ahead of you.  I looked around. The airport was dimly lit and the walls a muted gray, the ambiance mirroring the rainy weather outside.  I imagined the muted lighting was meant to calm nervous travelers.  I listened to conversations around me.  There seemed to be many like me and Kate.  Young adults, college students, with a parent or two.  Dad’s staying quiet and mom’s giving some last-minute advice.  Some students showed excitement and confidence, while others looked unsure and uneasy.

I was about halfway through the winding line when Kate wheeled her carry-on over to me.  She fastened the luggage tag to the large suitcase that she had planned to check, the one I had kept with me in line.  She leaned her shoulder into me and sighed.  I wrapped my arm around her and gave her frequent hugs as we neared the front of the line.  We talked a little about the excursions she might take and the sights she hoped to see while living in Barcelona.  We eavesdropped a bit to a daughter arguing with her mom and raised uneasy eyebrows to each other.  But mostly, we just leaned on each other and stayed as close as we could, with the little time we had left.

It was Kate’s turn to put her luggage on the counter.  The woman gave us a warm smile, and checked Kate in.  She directed us to the TSA security line, another Disney-like line that Kate would have to stand in alone.  Kate and I walked over slowly.  The tears were forming in her eyes, and starting to drizzle down her sweet cheeks.  It was not my first time saying goodbye to Kate, but it would be the longest I would go without seeing her. My voice was tight, trying to find the right words to form.  “Kate,” I said, looking her in the eye.  “I am so proud of you, and could not love you more.”  

Kate nodded and whispered, “I love you too.”  

“You were meant for this, you will have the time of your life.” I pulled her in and hugged her as tight as I could.  We hugged for a minute, then I released her.  The line was long, and she needed to make her flight.  I grabbed her face and kissed each tear-stained cheek, as my own tears started to fall and released her again.  She turned, and I watched her walk off, my heart ached. As I tried to compose myself, a man with a sympathetic expression caught my eye.  With a thick Spanish accent, he said, “It will be ok.”  I smiled, because I knew he was right.

Mrs. Lindquist- Thankful

                I am thankful for the small stuff.

         Like getting to school each day. For the last forty-five years, I have commuted to Latimer Lane from my home in Wethersfield. The drive is a 40-minute, 19.4-mile obstacle course of four-lane turnpikes, crowded city streets, twisting suburban back roads, major arteries, minor arteries, 42 intersections, 14 stop signs, 21 traffic lights, 9 bus stops, 17 pedestrian crossings, 2 train crossings, a bridge, a valley, and a mountain. 

         Along the way, there are ample opportunities for misadventures. And I’m no stranger to them. In my last house, the challenge began before leaving the garage. We had a 16’ x 7’, 132-pound, steel-back door that was a worthy match for an Olympic deadlifter. If it jumped the track – as it did, regularly – I’d be lucky to make lunchtime recess duty. These days, my car sits in the driveway, uncovered, so if we’re treated to an overnight snowstorm -- well, no need for arm day at the gym. 

         And those storms have added all sorts of other trials to the morning mix. Simsbury Mountain is fine for a snowcat, not so much for my previous car. There were many winters when I got to slide down Simsbury Road like a kid on a well-soaped toboggan. More than once, I had made it to the bottom of that slick hill, quietly exhaled, and  – Wham! –the leadfoot behind me had mashed my rear bumper. (One time, the lead shoe was on the other foot, and I was the one who scuttled the morning of the very forgiving owner of a new Corvette in front of me.)  I’m thankful I now have my Subaru. Then there were the days before cell phones, when I would proudly make the slushy slog to Simsbury on time and unscathed, only to arrive at an empty building:  school had been canceled, but the eleventh-hour message from the superintendent’s office was left on my home answering machine just minutes after I’d left the house. 

          Every day of my commute, I’m thankful when things like these don’t happen. I’m thankful when the car starts and gets out of the driveway each morning. I’m thankful when I make it down the roads and through the intersections with my bumpers – and body – intact. I’m thankful for the timely snow alerts on my cell phone (and even more thankful for the days without snow alerts, period). And I’m thankful when I finally make it through the front door of Latimer Lane to see my students and colleagues each morning.

           When my dad was alive, he would get down on his knees each morning to pray and give thanks. Every day above ground was a blessing, he’d wryly quip. Appreciate the positives in life – big and small – as, Lord knows, there’s no shortage of negatives.   

            I guess the apple has not fallen far from the tree. And I’m thankful for that, too.

Mrs. Schwarz: Winter Break Cut Short

 As I refreshed the weather app on my phone for the hundredth time, I accepted that it wasn’t going to change. I was supposed to have one more day to do all of the things that I had wanted to do before my son went back to college. But, with the impending storm coming, we lost that time and we had to take him back a day early. Three weeks at home still didn’t seem like enough time with him. Before the break, I had visions of us spending so much quality time together. We would go out to lunch, I would make his favorite dinners and we would sit around talking and catching up on all of his new adventures. But, with the stress and chaos of the holidays and the time that he wanted to spend with his friends, life didn’t go according to my plan. And here we are…preparing for him to leave again. 

As we sat in the car driving along the winding roads that lead to his school, we talked about life in a way that we haven’t before. We talked more like peers and less like mother and son. He told me things differently than he had before. His perspectives have changed. His life views were more mature and his plans for his future have evolved. I looked over at this man sitting next to me and realized, maybe for the first time, that he is no longer my little boy. A sadness took over as I remembered how he used to only be able to fall asleep if he could twirl my hair or how he always cuddled with me in the mornings while we watched cartoons together. Time seemed to go by so much slower then. I remembered that he still would tell me he loved me in front of his friends, even when he was probably too old to do so without being teased. And I ached a little for the time that went by far too quickly. 

As we continued along and our conversation continued, the sadness slowly began to fade away and was replaced with a sense of pride as I looked at my son differently than I had before. He had his whole life ahead of him. He seemed excited to go back to see his new friends, to go back to his training and his classes. His life was there now. As we talked, I suddenly realized that he still needs me but that my role has changed. I can be a different kind of support for him now. I can listen, give advice, and be there for him, but he will forge his own path and that’s okay.