“Mama, look! Fred’s back!” I glanced out the window above the kitchen sink to see the bright red feathers of a cardinal sifting through the feeder, a pile of discarded sunflower seed shells by his feet. His mate, Ginger, was on the ground searching for insects nearby. That suction cup window feeder is one of the best purchases we’ve made during, as my 7-year-old says, “this here quarantine”. The cardinal visitors have been among our greatest rewards during months of heightened backyard observation. My husband bestowed the names “Fred and Ginger” upon the pair back in May and the names stuck. Though we see one specific pair more frequently, there are definitely 2 (possibly 3?) Freds and as many Gingers. Fred’s appearances at the feeder have been predictable: mornings and evenings for a lengthy amount of time as well as sporadic afternoon visits. We identify his chirps coming from the treetops even when we cannot spot him. Ginger tends to be skittish and approaches the feeder with more irregularity. As spring turned into summer we have had the delight of watching several juvenile cardinals come to our window, their beaks and plumage now brightening as the days grow shorter. We have enjoyed the way in which their daily return to the feeder intertwines with our own days. We anticipate seeing our cardinals throughout the changing seasons, and are curious to see which migratory birds drop off our radar and then return to our feeder next spring.
Having a place to return to has been fresh on my mind as I know full well the pull of returning to a beloved location year after year. When I was a young teen into early adulthood, summer meant a seasonal address change to 822 Peru Road as I spent the entirety of those warmer months at Camp Ashmere. I cannot imagine a better place to have spent the summers of those formative years. The friendships, spiritual growth and mentorship, love of the lake, leadership skills, confidence, opportunities for mistakes and forgiveness, and memories of those years continue to deeply impact my life. “This place is in your blood,” a friend observed one evening as we looked out over the camp from the second floor balcony of the bathhouse, having finished the day’s work of painting and landscaping and mattress placement prior to the start of the official camp season. He was right.
More recently, we spent a week at a lake house rental in NH with my husband’s family. It was our fifth summer there together, and that old house on a little pond has grown so dear to us. As a parent of young children I see growth demonstrated through the yearly return to a place. We have exchanged diapers and pack ’n plays for Pokemon cards and boogie boards. The kids’ backpacks, larger now, are filled to the brim with chapter books while our beloved board books sit abandoned on the shelf at home. We used to watch toddlers splash within the confines of a roped off shallow area and we now watch a growing pile of discarded puddle jumpers and swim belts as the kids freely jump off the raft, emerge, and climb up to jump again. Each and every year they can do a little bit more: kayak a little longer, cast their fishing poles a little farther, love that place and our family time together a little stronger.
After leaving teaching in my ninth year to stay home with babies-turned-big-kids, it was always the plan for me to return to my job this year. I went back briefly when my older son was one. It wasn’t the right fit for our family. I resigned. “When our second child goes to kindergarten,” we agreed, before he was even conceived. Now here we are with our rising second grade and kindergarten sons. As we had said, I do indeed find myself preparing to return to teaching this year. My desk is littered with a collection of scope and sequence guides from math and reading curriculums, the guides themselves covered in a rainbow of fluorescent ink as I process and plan. My trusty laminator and tangle of velcro will be put to work as soon as I finish cutting out a growing stack of printed cardstock. There is an ongoing list titled ‘Read-Aloud Ideas’ on a notepad to my right and a bright pink post-it note containing log-in information to various online resources stuck to the corner of my computer. I have put tennis balls on the bottom of a child-sized chair, organized math manipulatives, and keep finding “just one more thing” to add to my online shopping cart. I have delved deeper into the MA curriculum frameworks than I have in at least a decade and am reigniting my love of teaching multi-sensory phonics. I have also done something that we did not anticipate as part of my “return to teaching” plan – officially submitted a ‘Home-Based Education Application’ to the boys’ school department.
As I sorted through the bins and photocopy paper boxes containing my teaching supplies recently, I was flooded with memories of faces and the places those materials had been. I found the little envelope that stays tucked safely inside the top drawer of my school desk. Inside are photos of the boys who grew me from a college graduate with an education degree into an experienced teacher. When I left them and that district, I quietly questioned if it was truly teaching that I loved or those specific students, families, and community. Luckily, my skills and instincts have proven to transfer to each teaching situation I have encountered. Each time I set up a new classroom (six different physical spaces in three districts in those nine years…) I would feel a growing sense of excitement for what the year would hold. That familiar sense of excitement about the potential of a fresh school year has returned as I prepare a room in our home for what I anticipate being my most important, rewarding year of teaching yet.
I hear Fred chirping outside of the kitchen window as I sit at my desk. He has returned to the feeder this morning, as predicted. I am returning to teaching this year, not quite how we predicted, but as predicted nonetheless. I pause and listen to the cheerful chirps, giving silent thanks for sharing in the feeling of having a place to return to.
A Moment's Notice 