"You're in the Wrong House"

It was the morning after Thanksgiving and I had a patient I was going to see at 7:00 a.m. She was a rather new patient for me, only had seen her a few times. She said she'd leave the garage door open for me.

It was very dark that morning and I was driving down her street and saw the garage door open with he light on, so I parked in the driveway and walked to the door, rang the bell and walked in with a cheery "Good Morning". The lady in the kitchen in her bathrobe all of a sudden didn't look familiar to me. She responded, "Good Morning. You're in the wrong house. You want to be next door. I just talked to her and she's waiting for you". Oh! My! Gosh! She was laughing and I was laughing. I must have been bright red.

So, I moved my car to the next driveway (which was around a little bend in the road so I didn't see it when I made my terrible mistake.) I parked in her driveway and walked through the garage through what I thought was an open door into the laundry room. Then, to my surprise, I walked right into a glass door, already mortified that I had walked into someone else's house. When I finally got to my patient and told her the "next-door neighbor story" we both laughed. She said that was her good friend and she probably got a good laugh too. (I never told her about smashing my face into her glass door.)

Contributed by Shelley.

Real Bad Poems

I was perusing through volumes of glorious poetry at the local Barnes & Noble this afternoon, looking for the perfect book of poetry to suit my mood. While pouring over volumes of Yeats, Dante, Thoreau, Bronte and the like, I came upon a a book of some of the worst poetry ever. The book, Very Bad Poetry, contained such works as "The Stuttering Lover" and "A Poem to the Diseases of the Teeth." How beautiful to live in a country where even the worst crap can find its way to a shelf near you in the interest of good plain fun.

Contributed by Sarah.

D-N

Today I was asking one of my students where the middle and end of his story was. His Christmas story began like this, "Me and my sester and my mom are going to the North Pole. Love, Brandon." Somehow he combined his Santa letter with his Christmas story to create this wonderful piece of work.

I told him, "Well Brandon, what happened in the middle of your story?"

He responds, "We went sledding with Santa."

I asked, "What happens at the end of your story?"

Confused look from student. A moment later, "Ms. Lee, look, DN. You know, D-N of the story!"

Brandon had written at the bottom of his paper, in large capital letters, DN. God, I love teaching first grade. SMALL (with capital letters), stupid and beautiful.....

Contributed by Katey.

Letters Forever

I also wanted to add something small, stupid (I originally wrote "student." I guess that being a teacher has complete destroyed the word "stupid" from my vocabulary. I think it's a good thing.) and beautiful. But I'm not sure if I will make it sound as pretty as you write yours.

I'm watching a struggling student try to write "Santa" the other day. His 'S' wouldn't stand up straight, his stem was on either side of the 'a' and he kept forgetting the 'n.' I lightly wrote out "Santa" at the top of his paper. I told him he could trace mine before he started out on his own.

As I watched my student trace over my own letters that I had so carefully written, I realized that I'm teaching these kids how to write. They will write these letters forever, over and over again. I forget sometimes how beautiful it is to know that I'm part of these students' lives.

Contributed by Katey.

Neon Silly String

I spotted this article on Yahoo! News on 12/6/06 and promptly forwarded it on for it to be trashed by all. Mom Marcella Shriver from the Philadephia area has been collecting 1,000 cans of this plastic goop to be flown to the Middle East thanks to two churches and a pilot.

Her son stationed in Iraq related to her that before entering a building, troops squirt the plastic goo, which can shoot strands about 10 to 12 feet across the room. If it falls to the ground, no trip wires. If it hangs in the air, they know they have a problem. The wires are otherwise nearly invisible.

In an age of multimillion-dollar high-tech weapons systems, sometimes it's the simplest ideas that can save lives.

Something small, silly and...beautiful neon colors!

Contributed by Ann.

Mason Jars

I feel like a collector. I am standing before oak shelves stacked with dusty mason jars, teeming with fireflies. It is time to let the fireflies free. I am through hoarding such things. I think others are, too.

Miles Davis

I was looking through one of my Black Notebooks and I found a short note: "Only God would request Miles Davis at three in the morning." I must have been listening to college radio at the time.

Herring

"I want my heart laid bare like fish-market herring. I want someone to wrap it up in newspaper to take home."

This was the only line of a play I wrote. The stage directions are simple. After the lights dim, the people in the audience are to stand up, turn to whomever they came with, and read the first and only line, all together. Then, the lights are supposed to go back up and everybody goes home, playbills in hand.

The Curtain Falls.

Truck Stop Haiku

A couple weeks back, I stopped at a truckstop off the turnpike. It was late and I wanted to call home, but all the payphones were in use and the way those men reclined against the wall, I could tell it was going to be a while. To kill time, I went to the rest room to clean my face to wake up for the wait. I go to push the button for the hand-dryer and above, tucked in with the usual, racist shit was this poem:

In my old home

which I forsook, the

cherries are in bloom.

I forgot about calling home and crashed in the sleeper. Can't help thinking, dreaming, really, that I might run across the guy who wrote that on the road somewhere.

Contributed by TruckinTom.

Grand Haul

One day, while at a small hospital working a 15 hour day, my husband stopped by a vending machine for a snack. He deposited the requisite 75 cents for his desired bag of chips. The machine whirred and buzzed and proceeded to keep both his money and his chips. Hungry and hopeful he tried again with the same result. Out of money, he and his empty stomach went back to work. About an hour later he happened to be going through the lobby again when, off in the corner, he saw two young girls in front of the same vending machine jumping, giggling and smiling from ear to ear as they pulled their grand haul--three bags of chips for the price of one. They had hit the mother load. Their sheer joy at something so small made my husband's day.

small...stupid...but beautiful.

Contributed by Sarah.

Pedaling Backwards

About a year ago I was driving down Snelling--a street that some might consider an unlikley place for small, stupid, and beautiful things, but a prime locale in my mind--and listening to The White Stripes. As I cruised through the intersection of University and Snelling, I saw a man, in-between two zooming lanes of traffic, on his bike pedaling backwards, completely stationary. The effect was mirage-like; moving yet unmoving, safe amidst a dangerous flowing mechanical river. Beautiful.

Contributed by Aryn.

Alphabet Soup

Once, when I was sick, my mother decided to settle my stomach by feeding me crackers and alphabet soup. I made it through three-quarters of the bowl and a half dozen saltines before my stomach turned.

As my mother swooped in with a washcloth and indomitable long-suffering, all I could do was stare at the mess I had made, trying to make words out of haphazard strains of partially digested letters. I feel like I am still doing this: making messes on paper and thinking that when it is all said and done, I will read something true.

And beautiful.