(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

This is one of those deja vu posts — every year in March, our neighborhood gathers for a Winter Blues pizza party/ Yankee Raffle event as a way to reconnect as Spring arrives.

Last night, more then 150 people came out for the event, and it was nice to see everyone again. We even helped an elderly neighbor, who has trouble walking, to the event, as a way to connect even the housebound to the community during the waning days of Winter. She was very grateful. I’ve written about the event most Marches for Slices of Life over the past ten years.

One of the items in the raffle immediately caught my eye.

It was a large, oversized, framed map of our part of the city, in the aftermath of the Mill River Flood. The year is 1874. The flood began when an upper reservoir broke, and a wave of water barreled down the Mill River, killing people and destroying mills and other buildings.

The Mill River flood is part of our neighborhood’s story (a few years ago, we established a plaque by the river, dedicated to those who died in the flood). Believe it or not, we still find shards of pottery and old glass in the river from the remains of the flood.  The map was intriguing because it was published in Harper’s Weekly magazine, apparently, and it shows the old railroad lines and mills.

We didn’t win the poster in the raffle, darn it, but my wife and I found out who can get us a copy.

Peace (history, present, future tense),
Kevin

PS — when my youngest son was 8, he made this video about our Leeds community. It was a project that he wanted to do, and we loved seeing his view of the neighborhood from his eyes.

(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

Duke heard it before I did. He stopped, frozen in motion. One paw was literally off the ground, and his head turned, sharp. The bristles on his back went up.

So I stopped, too, even though our early morning walk is often something I just want to get done with during the winter months. But he would not budge.

And then I heard it, too.

The high-pitched yelps of a single coyote off in the distance, followed by the cacophonous chorus of other coyotes joining in. Then, silence, before the single coyote began calling out again.

Duke was freaked out.

We’ve heard the coyotes before, in our early morning walks, and I knew they were outside the suburban neighborhood where we live. Likely, they were down by the river, where the woods brush up against people. The coyotes have been back for years now, as the regular signs on telephone poles asking if we’ve seen missing cats can testify. When people and nature butt heads, it is often the domesticated pets that pay the price.

Coyote Track flickr photo by mhawkins shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

“Come on. It’s OK. Let’s keep moving,” I whispered to Duke, and gently pulled on his leash. He turned, on my command and coaxing, rather reluctantly, and then kept on walking, a bit closer to by my side than usual. His head kept swiveling now and then, listening and wondering, and worrying.

But the morning had turned silent.

Peace (in nature),
Kevin

(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

Maybe it is due to following Doodleaday this month, but I found myself noodling around during a meeting yesterday. Some people can listen more intently as they draw, but I don’t think that is always the case for me. I am better off taking written notes. Oh well.

Peace (on the paper),
Kevin

(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

A few weeks ago (wait .. that was Day Two), I sliced out how my yet-unnamed rock and roll band is searching for a new singer, and how we found someone we hoped might fit. Well, three weeks later — after three cancelled practices due to family conflicts, and then sickness among musicians, and then Blizzard Aftermath — we finally got to play some music again last night. It was good to pull out the saxophone and just jam for a few hours.

The singer, whom we invited for a second try-out, called in sick, but we decided that he probably was not the right fit for our band, due to style. He’s a full-out rocker — think Bad Company and Aerosmith — while we are more nuanced groove — think Otis Redding and Motown, with some ZZ Top thrown in. He was hinting in emails to us his own reservations about the fit.

So, we move back to Square One in our search for a singer. As I said when I first wrote about this, it’s not easy to find the right fit for a band, to find a person you can get along with and make great music with over the long haul.

We play covers and originals, and handing over a song you wrote to be sung by someone else you barely know is a fragile thing, one built on trust and collaboration. Things have to click if it is going to work. I’m not sure we completely clicked with the last singer. I think he wanted a band to back him up, not to be part of a band itself, if that makes sense.

We’re frustrated by how long it has taken us but determined to make it right, and get out there, gigging again. Until then, we’ll keep looking and keep on making music.

Peace (in power chords),
Kevin

(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

“Are his lips even moving?” my wife asked.

I adjusted my glasses, squinted a bit. The stage was in the distance, packed with about 80 high school juniors.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, as the chorus of voices on the stage recited the pledge for the National Honor Society during last night’s dedication ceremony for incoming honor society members. Our son is one of those on the stage.

Years ago, our older son was in the middle school chorus, rather reluctantly but we worried about him spending idle time in the Study Hall period. During concerts, he would not sing. He would just stand there, sometimes moving his lips. Never singing. Not even humming. Just … there. We laugh about it, as a family.

Now it was our middle son who had his own lips locked on stage, even as everyone around him was pledging to uphold good citizenship, academic performance and honesty.

He had somewhat been reluctant to agree to be accepted into the Honor Society (students are nominated by teachers), although he is solid student and fine athlete, and he does help others in the community. He has a big heart. We, his parents, shallowly like that being in the National Honor Society doesn’t hurt for his college applications and, not so shallowly, that it will provide more ways for him to do community service over the next year.

Later, he admitted to us that he didn’t say the pledge. He told us this with a grin on his face.

“I knew it!” my wife said, tapping him on the chest. He’s about a foot taller than she is.

“It’s kind of a cult,” he responded, and his best friend, who was also on stage with him, nodded in agreement. “Sort of cultish. Lighting candles and all that.”

What he meant is the strange vibe of geeky academic kids pledging in one voice to uphold rules and regulations in a sort of robotic recitation. The past members light four candles in honor of the “four pillars” of the society.

On one hand, I was proud of him for his individual spirit and sense of resistance. He’s going to need it in the Trump years ahead. On the other hand … come on, kid. It’s the National Honor Society! They do good in the world.

Sigh.

Peace (saying it out loud),
Kevin

(This is for the Slice of Life challenge, hosted by Two Writing Teachers. We write all through March, every day, about the small moments in the larger perspective … or is that the larger perspective in the smaller moments? You write, too.)

It might have been one of the last sledding days of Winter. A few days after the blizzard, and with rain coming, and with Spring just around the corner, my son readily agreed to an invitation yesterday to join a group of friends at the hill at his middle school for sledding (and King of the Mountain, and snowball fights, and all the things you can expect a group of adolescent boys to do with snow).

We arrived on time, but no one else was around yet (everyone else was late to the sledding party), so my son began the walk up the hill, and I let our dog, Duke, go free from his leash so that he could join him on the journey. As my son zoomed down the hill, Duke ran alongside him, tail wagging hard, as they both barreled down the steep slope, joy on both of their faces.

Peace (in snow, melting),
Kevin