When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
There has to be more to it, doesn’t there? Doesn’t this “Santa” guy have some ulterior motive?
Many people have something they dread about parties and gatherings, especially ones where a lot of the people are strangers. Some people worry about what they have to wear or how their hair looks. Some are introverts who worry how long it will take them to feel exhausted. I have a different problem – wondering how I’ll keep my mouth shut. It’s not because I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid because I know that’ll happen. What I hope I can avoid is betraying my social class and revealing myself to be a potentially dangerous outsider.
The essays come home in waves, taking the form of a packet. There’s a lot to wade through in order to understand how the kids are doing, but it’s every parent’s job. Since I’m more visual, and since I like to know how all the kids are doing, I find the walls of the classroom taped up with dozens of essays in one giant object d’art much more interesting. Standing in front of it I can see the plain truth of third graders; the composition is iffy, the spelling atrocious, but overall they are more honest and know what matters better than many adults.
It’s my usual time to write my novel, first thing in the morning. I make myself a cup of Twinings Prince of Wales, fidgeting through the time it takes to steep. I turn the radio on to Minnesota Public Radio and hope that they’re playing something I like. When the tea is ready I stuff my nose into the cup and breathe in the musty fragrance. I let whatever is playing sink into my morning as I look out the window at Irvine Park, the center of my existence. As I relax into my world, I’m ready to write. I’m motivated.
Barataria - The work of Erik Hare 