February vacation was next week and everyone was excited. During the morning meeting, everyone took turns saying what they were doing. Rebecca was going to visit her cousin in New Mexico. Bobby was going to Paris. Betty was going to Louisiana. John, Sally, and the teacher were going to Iowa. Sam was headed north to Canada. Ana, Tammy, Tessa, and Matthew were going to Florida.

When it was Amy’s turn, she told everyone that she was staying in Vermont. Amy then explained that her February vacation consisted of helping around the farm like she always did and helping to get ready for the sugaring season. Her family had a sugar house in the woods surrounded by maple trees, perfect for making syrup. Every February vacation they would prepare for the upcoming season by making sure everything was hooked up, ready for the sap. Once they got that ready, it was time to start drilling holes into the trees. After explaining all of this, their morning meeting continued as planned. 

 

 

These are more photos from November 7th.
 

 

“Time to get up,” said Dad. Half awake, I had almost forgotten that we would be going ice fishing today. We get ready to go by packing all of our gear, checking the tip-ups and loading up the truck. We need extra warm clothes today since we’ll  be out on the cold ice all day. 

We drive to Lake St. Catherine and once we get there, we unload the truck. Today is going to be a good day out on the ice, I think to myself. We walk around on the ice until we think we have found a good place to fish. We use the auger to drill holes in the ice and get the tip ups in.  Now all we need to do is wait until a fish bites.

    I like to jig while we wait. Jigging is when you have a little pole and bait and you drill a hole in the ice and fish with your jig pole. You usually want a lot of holes. I only jig a few minutes in every hole. It is better to have a portable fish finder so you know where to fish. You usually will catch panfish but I've caught others. 

I am doing history homework 
when I watch the Capitol fall. 
                  (Ironic, isn't it? History always repeats itself.) 

We were trying to watch the 
electoral votes being counted and suddenly 
a push           no a wave 
of red, exclamations about gas masks 
and armed rioters and for a second 
I thought we had been transported 
right back to where we came from.
                  (God! my mother exclaims. It reminds me of Iran!) 
Please tell me what to do.
I am fifteen years old and I am watching 
democracy burning, burning. 
I am fifteen and I am watching a red man sprawled over
the vice-president's seat, confident. 
                  (It's funny, the smoke kind of smells like spit & passion, 
                   like hurt & tears, like treason & smashed glass.) 
There are pictures, guns drawn 
and I watch the news anchors repeating 

i. dremel uvula
we are girls. to hope is to expect. to revert back
to sticky hands, to beg between tantrum sobs
for lullabies. we are girls, we polish
our sentiments (with sandpaper tongues)
down to shining minimums
before bending at the waist to spit them
onto the kitchen table, beside the clay vase
of cut carnations. we girls wipe away excess saliva, knowing
nothing tastes as cloying as an apology. we girls dance
to the clatter of amethyst
on expectant dinner plate. to the fine china shards
we tape to brick walls. girls, girls
almost as demanding as
the word pretty.

ii. gardeneress
the gardeneress twists submission from silence
like warm bathwater from a washcloth
& hangs them both up to dry. looking at bookshelves
the same way she yanked out her son's teeth
in the dull living room bulblight. he watches as she

Coiled on the windowsill
watching as the snow falls down
from a leak in the clouds

a tail like an old grandfather clock
swish, swish, swish
giving the occasional thump on the wall

someone splattered the unwanted colors
and she was caught in the mix –
she is only black, brown and white now

small breaths fog the glass
steam like the hot cocoa being
passed around the table

nose pressed against the cold window
almost as though she can touch the feathery frost
that lines the windowsill

satellites sit atop her fluffy head
twitching at the smallest sound
always listening

collar purple like the old wrapping paper in the basement
or the dried out flowers on the counter
or the little girl's coat, except it is not speckled in snowflakes

still, on the windowsill
stomach rising up and down
gentle, calm.