And Then There Is a Day with Kids and Purpose, Joy, Hope, Creativity, and Possibility Gets Restored.

I left my house at 6:45 a.m., stopped home at 3 p.m. for Karal, then settled home again at 8 p.m. It began working with 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders at a school where pajama day was in session. My 20 undergrads wondered why I didn't tell them so they could have worn jammies, too.

One of the classrooms read a book about an evil carrot and decorated a door with their own creations. A young man said, "Try to find mine. I gave him a unibrow." Another invited me to participate in phonics lessons which turned into songs  and storytelling. It was a blast. A young woman raised her hand and asked, "Ms, Can I cash in my 12 coupons so I can have lunch with Dr. Crandall." The teacher had to explain they one coupons for achievements and they use them for what they want. I guess I was honored. 

Another was making pumpkin puppets and I was quickly gifted with one that was puking. Beautiful. 

I had to return to campus quickly after because I was doing a gig in a Shakespeare course on scriptwriting. The class fused 8th graders from Claytor with 20 undergraduates from campus. They've been reading Shakespeare together all semester. Of course, Dean Johnson was in attendance so he quickly became the improvisational gag of the ongoing afternoon (To wear tights or not to wear tights, that is the question Halle Berry).

Then, for dinner, I met up with colleagues, humor, more storytelling, and good company. The weather was miserable with winds and rains, but somehow one moment after another put light upon light. 

And I'm finding this funny because I also had dental work done on 3 teeth: two for mercury replacements and 1 crown. That's a rough go, but I didn't even think about it until I recalled that a day with smart people, young people, and happy people overpowered my @#$#@ teeth stories.

Every Once in a While a Throwback Comes Your Way & You Can Smell Old Books, a House in Hamilton, a Camp, and Childhood Treasures

I've written before about Miss Twiggly's Tree, but I know there were several other books in little cubby's of my grandmother's home and came (like Happiness is a Warm Puppy). When Jane Thayer's Gus Was a Friendly Ghost came across my feed I instantly remembered the purple cover and reading that over and over again on weekends and during the summer with family visits.

I'm also trying to remember a book about a country mouse and city mouse that she also had. I often think about that book whenever I'm in one location or another. Most times, when I'm in the city I want to be in the country, and when I'm in the country, I'm ready for more city life. 

This morning, I'm spending a few hours with undergraduate students at Franklin Elementary, before coming back to campus to work with students from Claytor in Dr. Shannon Kelly's Shakespeare class. I love when I get the invitation, and am even happier when a victim is sent my way (cough cough, Dr. William Johnson)(Dean of Students)(Shhhh. He doesn't know what he's in for). 

Temperatures have definitely dropped and this morning we have rain, which will make the undergraduates miserable as we trek to the school. It's all good. We're big people and we have to adjust.

I have a dental appointment in the afternoon, and that is always a joyous occasion, too...NOT. My wallet hates my mouth. 

Anyway, the link above goes to the reading of Gus. Not sure how many remember this, but it did put a smile on my face.

Now, to deal with traffic. 

They're Called Black & Whites in Connecticut (Even When Orange & Brown), Half-Moon in Syracuse, and Cow Cookies in Kentucky

Truth is, every fall I get the craving to treat my graduate students with Half-Moons, although my local baker calls them Back & Whites (even when dyed Brown and Orange). My students thank me, I sometimes indulge (definitely did last night), and offer spares to anyone I pass in the hall. 

It's a good October tradition.

I also had students discuss Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak, which is another YA tradition (with CNY ties) and read excerpts of her memoir Shout, which I pair with stories of the #MeToo movement. Definitely not a great evening to justify the ugliness of male behavior (and the policies that protect it). 

Today, the temperatures changed, and I'm giving my day of writing and planning. After spending hours on WorkDay yesterday (frustrated) I decided I need to do something better for my blood pressure and the sanity of all things good. 

I also notice that the shove from yesterday and the cookies for today are representing Autumn colors, which is good, because I've gone two days throwing back in my Syracuse ties and socks, which are orange and blue all the way. I cherish the respect and dignity of my doctoral studies there. 

I also cherish Hoffman hotdogs which I cooked Sunday in anticipation of a grab-n-go meal to assist another hectic week. I will say that a new bagel shopped opened up down the street and this makes me happy, too (even if last night's class discussed gluten at length and how bagels are massive triggers for those with the allergins). 

Now, time to get going on these writing projects. 

I Love Bringing My Spiritual Ordainment to Other Practices Beyond Marriage. I've Become Quite the Chaplain for Aviary Needs, Too

I wasn't home two minutes before I got another text from Pam that a bird died on her patio. They run into her window and plop to the ground. We've become quite profound in our ceremonies, too, and we named this one Wrendolyn Brooks (because as we prayed and sang hymns, I launched her into the woods by Pam's condo in the Brooks that lead to the Long Island Sound). 

Pam secured a ceremonial spoon for the scooping and catapult- launch for Wrendolyn's last flight. She was a good bird who never over ate her share of insects and who built an admirable nest for all who knew her. She did her best to miss cars in her mid-air excretions, and provided the best music she knew how to make the world a much more cheerful place.

I might call the untimely death of Wrendolyn symbolic, but I was also summoned to jury duty again on January 2nd, when I need to be teaching the winter session I was lured into taking on again. That, too me, is beyond symbolic of the life I live.

Fly away, bird. Well, land softly on your feathered wings that were freshly coating your stiff body when I found you outside Pam's patio door.

Bless this animal and all beautiful creatures who are simply trying to live their best lives while they have it. 

We played Rockin' Robin by Elton John at the after party, too. I will be communing with all the birds that knew her over the next several hours. If you'd like to Venmo me money in memory of Wrendolyn Brooks (Phew. I hope she is a wren), please don't be shy about reaching out.

Entering Monday Wishing More Days Could Be Sunday. We All Need More Time In Our Lives for Us

Okay, I did work all day Sunday, but I also had time to hike, to eat dinner with friends, and to catch up with my cousin Mark. We talked about his creation for Hoops4Hope in 1994 (my senior year of college) and how we began using the H4H story with my high school students in Louisville. We tried to name all the ways that literacy has become part of the sports programs and how Skills4Life have found their way to classrooms around the world. 

I began to realize how much of my story is wrapped in with my admiration for his work. We share our passion for advocating for all youth and work to not only value the importance of playing, but also to tying reading and writing experiences from what it is we are playing....hence Hoops4Hope.

It is because of CWP-Fairfield, our collaborations with Kwame Alexander, and sponsors of Hoops4Hope that books have been brought to basketball courts in Zimbabwe.

Tiny world. Big world. Word with more problems than necessary, especially when I see the value of investing in the next generation.

But Monday...your Mondaying is doing what it does, so my reflection needs to be short. Here we go work week. Let's give it what we can.

Final Day of #WriteOut '25 - Marching on with Marching Bands Providing the Final Rhythm for this Year's Celebrations. Now for a Day of Rest.

Marching On 

Day 15, #WriteOut ’25

b.r.crandall

I heard the drums around four, recognizing cadences of my adolescence when my sister marched with the Northstars and, years later, my niece did the same. Autumn traditions of drum majors, dance ensembles, woodwinds, brass, rifles, and flags. To me, a crisp night in the Fall means hot chocolate and the cymbal-ism of all the teams who give their everything to be on the field each weekend. In some ways, the marching tradition is the way I was raised, although I was usually the brother/son/uncle in the stands watching/listening with books.

When I heard the drums, I knew I wanted to walk the dog, as I like to see the schools practicing in the fields a few miles up the road. It brings back memories of this time of year: the CNS, West Genesee, Liverpool rivalry, culminations at the Dome where the acoustics were horrible, and the the onset of the Winterguard season (indoors and warmer). 

It was nice to have the drums practicing rhythms as I walked in anticipation of the last day of #WriteOut ’25. I wanted to capture the flags and the trees, but it was never presented as a possibility. Instead, I just listened to the high schools warming up and did my 90 minute trek around Stratford. I ran into John, Conner, and Summer also out on a walk and we talked engineering, our local pond, the need to let the town know (which I did) not to mow so close to the edge so that the vegetation can grow…we’re three years now with solid cattails, ducks, herons, frogs, and fish. When they mowed all that down, the wildlife disappeared. Let the vegetation grow, and life returns. 

It will calm down over winter, and we’ll have to await the peepers in the spring. The music they create is as awesome as the horns, clarinets, flutes, trombones, and saxophones making music at Bunnell High School last night. I know today NYS bands will be making their own music at Syracuse University as their competition season comes to an end. 

It’s time for us to march on, again, to move to another season of indoor traditions and days with less light. This is the choreography of the year and I welcome the winter months as much as the other seasons (in some ways I like them more, because I love blankets, warm drinks, and sparkling lights). I also love having reasons not to drive when it snows. 

Here’s to another spectacular National Writing Project #WriteOut. May the writing continue, even when it isn't part of a larger collaboration. 

Day 14, #WriteOut '25, In Between These Ears. A Rocky Start for a Saturday Wondering About the Way We Landscape Our Worlds

I took advantage of a Friday with no meetings to catch up on projects, to walk the dog, to care for the yard in pre-hibernal preparation for colder months. I needed a knitted cap to keep my ears warm. I read a book of poetry soon to be released - a hymnal of spiritual reflections and I wrote a review. I also stood my ground and rejected a review of a journal entry, simply because my brain can't take much more of the intellectual endeavors. I'd rather hike.

It's Saturday. The to-do list is immeasurable, but I'm okay with my flaws and the fact I'm unlikely to get to all that beckons my attention. I'll get to what I can, thinking about what I could, and what I will likely hope for in the future.

There was an evening of gorgonzola meatballs, garlic white pies, and friendship. The dogs wrestled on couches and under kitchen tables in canine delight. This is what I cherish most. Their frolicking and the ways #WriteOut asks us to think about what matters most.  

In Between These Ears

#WriteOut ’25, 2025 - Day 14

b.r. crandall

I saw my thoughts

aligning the trails

where my office

once found entrance into

an outdoor world.

They were recognizable, 

these stones, like brittled 

old bones covering landscapes

where wildflowers once grew…

oceanic primrose trading pink

for the gray that makes territories 

more concrete & sincere.

I couldn’t help but contemplate

such human choices, the

culmination of bureaucratic 

decision-making to outline what

we’re suppose to stand for. 

& I wonder about the birds,

their quest for worms and 

larvae covered by stone

where their beaks once 

found sustenance. 

These brains are interesting

spaces to unravel a

world that, at times, 

makes little sense.

I Have Nothing to Say About the Cosmos, But the Cosmos Has the Last Say - #WriteOut '25, Day 13...Coincidences of What's Still in Bloom

If you teach an 8 a.m. in souther Connecticut, you need to depart at 6:30 a.m. to make it in time....even if it is only 11 miles...that is traffic in the NYC corridor. Truth is, I assigned an incredible episode of This American Life - The Problem We All Live With, knowing I wanted kids to have an extra hour in their dorm, so I could better prepare for the class.

I also have to get my dog to pee, who will resist unless I walk her. We headed for a block run around 6 a.m (the trash pick up was the noise of this time of day), but when I came back to the house, in sunlight, I noticed the wildflowers that reseeded were doing what they do and I tried to capture the activity. I don't think I captured any of the bees, but they were all over this glory. 

I taught for 2 hours. Returned. Walked the dog again. Returned to campus for meetings and meetings and lectures and lecturers and came home to ask, "What was this day?"

Truth is, this day was this morning - when the blooms were doing what they do. I'm not sure I care much for human accomplishments, but I'm thankful I'm feeding the bees. Douglas Coupland, 101. I'm sure that reference is over 99.99% of anyone who might read this post. At this point, I simply hope to document so that anthropologists (or whatever they may be called) might have access to the world as it once was. 

Queue in Blues Traveler, Whoops. And that's a wrap. 

They Write The Poem, I Don’t

Write Out ’25, Day 13

b.r.crandall

Promise me you’ll tell the bees

I’ve pushed back on goblins

and ghouls to bring fuchsia

into October days with last

minute nectar. 

If you want, you can control

the cosmos, manipulate narratives.

And they’ll love you for it,

buzz-brained, wing-whomped,

and thirsty for last-minute sugar.

Ignore the mailman waiving

nuisances with bills and

advertisements.

They’re feeding, 

and I don’t know 

where such sustenance 

takes them, but there’s joy.

Honey, I hope it’s 

towards love…

which I found in my 

garden this morning

navigating the fallen leaves

and contemplation for

hoodies and pair of gloves.

Eye Don't Know, Day 12, #WriteOut '25. Off to Campus for a Very Long Day (Thankful, Always, to Writing Challenges to Keep Me Alive)

We're hanging in there, keeping up with the WriteOut challenge, working through all that needs to be accomplished on the work front, and wish I had much more time on the Homefront. I'm sliding into this morning at the last second of accomplishing what I set out to do. Turbos are insane, and I think I figured out a fix by starting out the first hour with a podcast to give myself more time to get materials together for the rest of the class. 

The great news is I caught up on grading. The sad news is that two major projects are coming in and will need to be graded this weekend. I'm never quite sure if I assign too much, not enough, or the right amount. Perhaps I'll ask them this year. I know the teacher reviews don't matter any more, but I still care.

After class, I have to figure out how to get home to walk Karal, so I can return for the afternoon commitments I have (one after another, after another, after another).

I do think I'm going to lay low on Friday. I need space to rethink, adjust, and realign. I'll work all day, but I think I want to do this in the presence of myself...with Karal.

Quiet. I crave quiet.

Eye Don’t Know

Day 12, Write Out ’25

b.r.crandall

Eye meant to sea

the sound, but saw

a stain, with no

one to blame,

but my own what’er

comes of me

blues…such hues.

Eye was looking for

green or red, trying

to orange a crayola

or two to match

the October sky.

stick stuck in my 

I 

ended up splotched

in a coffee ring. 

(eye needed another cup).

Yup

Day 11, #WriteOut '25: Walking with Robert. Also Navigating Age in a Right Shoulder and Now Ready For Retirement (Whaaaaaa! Ten More Years)

I think it is the rotator's cuff. Never had an issue in my baseball/football/volleyball years of throwing/hitting things around, but now I'm not enjoying the deep-rooted pain in muscle locations I can't get to with massages, rubbing against objects, and heating pads. I don't want to know what is really going on. 

Yesterday was a long day (with hints of them becoming longer with new assignments of teaching and no permission granting such classes over the holiday break). I learned this from...well...when students said, "I'm so glad you're teaching the winter session.

I am? I did know the instructor of record pulled away and I expressed my shock about this, but I didn't know it was assigned to me. Um...I'm counting the minutes of a 24-hour clock before I figure out how to deal with this. Packaging my frustration. 

I did like Rob Walker's WriteOut '25 prompt to put senses in relation to one another and to play with what is supposed to mean what. I went with that for today's post, but know I need today to get a grip on surviving another round of the insane. 

I also wonder with Ben Gay works. This shoulder pain really does hurt. 

Joining Rob Walker in a Scramble of Senses

Day 11 - Write Out ’25

b.r. crandall

Always a good day not to be

targeted by seagulls, all splotched

in runny euphoria with cracked eggs

upon a middle-aged shoulder.

There’s a ferry pulling cars

from one side of business to 

another, lapping waves for

Mercedes, Audies, and BMWs

attired with the convenience

of musical distractions.

These waters lap tasting light…

the salt lick without deer saliva

nor the glazed, apple donuts, 

but it’s hard not to taste one’s 

lips anyway. 

Sometimes I rid the stickiness

with my canines, the sweat pits of my 

arm, or the doom-scroll of today’s

species simply acting moronic…

it sort of feels like peach schnapps

for a 19-year old, all the vomit. 

Still, there is something about walking

emancipated with hope smelling the possibilities

of ginger cookies, pine needles, and the warm

hugs of familial scents, holiday sweaters. 

Sometimes I avoid avian stains on my walks, 

but realize I’ve been marked as a robber, 

who also walks with poetry. 

Day 10 - #WriteOut ... Didn't Have a Lot of Time to Appreciate the Outdoors But Did Catch a Bird or Two on My Roof (Perhaps they were searching for poetry, too)

Monday was a delicious day, not only because I got to hear Shonda Rhimes speak, (no scandal here), but because I'm part of a larger literary tradition in Southern Connecticut that makes bigger worlds possible. What a wonderful evening at The Westport Library to close off StoryFest.

I graded, did a dental appointment, planned for the week, and attended the last of the events (all while writing outside in a National Writing Project tradition). 

Birds of a feather, I suppose. We flock together, and we make meaning of it what we hope is a better way to live life. Appreciate the life that we have. 

Sometimes I Wonder, Too

Day 10 - WriteOut ’25

b.r. crandall

I’m a Louisville fan.

Why wouldn’t I be? 

Teaching at 1st & Muhammad Ali

all those years ago and loving urban

missions with volleyball nets 

and basketball hoops. 

The orange beaks aren’t bad, either, 

with a little blue, I am Syracuse, too,

transplanted into my southern Connecticut

way of life amongst Stags.

I wonder about the visit of a

female cardinal on my roof…

is she after the Chinese lantern 

flies, the yellow jackets, or the last-minute 

beetles feeding on the Morning Glories, 

or is just here, like me, 

wanting to find a way to 

survive, because that is 

what we’re destined to do?