Twelve More Drives

Twelve more days of school.
Twelve more drives to Penfield Elementary,
then it will close its doors to students.
Forever.
I will miss the elk tracks in the ballfield,
the view of the huge chestnut barn,
the rock dams the kids and I built in Wilson Run,
the walk to the damp hillside spring when learning "ing" words,
the hundreds of thousands of violets,
the bent apple tree blossoming each May,
the huge classrooms,
and the closeness of friends,
both figuratively and literally.

I will also miss the drive.
Penfield is not as close as my previous schools--
sixteen miles as opposed to eleven--
but there are few buildings between home and school,
a lovely stretch to pray
and watch the seasons change.

When the jeep turns left onto route 322 each morning
I pass rock people scattered along both sides of the highway,
sitting,
standing,
balancing,
appropriate for the mountain called "Rockton".

Near the entrance to Spruce Hill Road

On the north side of 322

On the western hillside of 322

Near the ash dump on 322

East side of 153, near junction with 322

East side of 153

Upper DuBec-153 junction

I pass places where we have rattlesnake memories.
One is near the Greenwood Road.
When Paul and Luke were preschoolers,
we spotted a rattler on the roadside.
I remember my arms being stretched in opposite directions
as one boy pulled me toward the snake,
the other, away.
Funny, I don't remember which son was going which direction.
Years later,
Luke, Den, and I were motorcycling home
when we spotted a rattler on that same stretch.
We watched it crawl across the shoulder--
or "berm", as we say in central PA--
and   d  i  s  a  p  p  e  a  r   into the vetch
after I had been walking in vetch all day in sandals.
And daily I pass the big rock
where Den once stepped on a lurking rattlesnake.

Warning!

When the dirt road shortcut, DuBec,
is icy
or dusty
or slippery with mud,
I take the highway route,
but if I can drive thirty miles per hour
DuBec is a more time-efficient route
and potholes become the obstacles in a real-life video game.

Today, dust

Often at about 8:15
I am near the highest point on Interstate 80
east of the Mississippi River.
Big trucks of all types exit I-80 here,
and the road becomes busier.
There is the ravine where my grandparents' car landed
when they were struck by one of those trucks in 1984,
and there is the office for the Moshannon State Forest,
the road to the fracking wells,
and the fire danger sign near the entrance to S.B. Elliot Park.
Elliot was a busy place generations ago
when it was filled with family reunions
and baseball games.
My father-in-law,
Walt "Slick" Shaffner,
was one of the best-known ballplayers,
and I imagine him trotting around the bases after a home run.
This area contained the state tree nursery in those days as well,
but now the trees are all grown,
much too big for transplanting.
I follow the semis
and dump trucks
past the road to the sphagnum bog
(Bogs are SUCH cool places!)
down the absolutely straight two-mile stretch
past another nursery,
Johnston's Nursery,
where Paul landscaped during college summers.
It is now closed as well,
and up for sale.
Near the end of the two mile stretch
is a tumbledown fence.
Each April it is undergirded
by hundreds of daffodils
waving in the breeze of each passing truck.

Halfway point. On a clear day, you can see the Boone Mountain ridge

Many years ago in this area, seedlings grew into trees and boys grew into men

A great place off the beaten path

Daily fire probability update

Two mile straight stretch

Anybody want to buy a nursery?

April daffodils

Laurel Run's headwaters sparkle
between the cattails
in the beaver dams.
Laurel Run is dammed downstream
at Parker Dam State Park,
where CCC boys planted trees in the thirties,
where I swam as a girl,
where Baby Luke played in the sand
while Paul ventured out into adventurous knee-deep waters,
and where I have swum cooling laps
after sweltering September first grade days.
Next year there will be no more of that.

Headwaters of Laurel Run

Parker Dam State Park. Entertaining our family with frigid waters for generations

Before descending to the valley,
the trucks ahead of me are commanded to pull over
and I follow different trucks down the mountain,
in third gear so I don't wear out my brakes.
I pass signs for the Moose Grade Road
and Oak Stub Road
and the Lady Jane mine,
bump over the railroad tracks,
pass Morelli's gas station
(Full service! I will miss it.)
and stop at the light.
A semi zooms through
and then it is my turn.

Trucks must stop here...

...so you can follow new and different trucks.

Love these names

Beware of entering trucks

Morelli's. Always cheaper than Minit Mart, and they pump it for you!

My one stoplight

I pass the flashing slow-down-this-is-a-school-zone sign
near the historical marker in Deannie's yard
and turn left into the parking lot.

Penfield, thy days are numbered

Next year I will turn right on 322
and go to an as-yet-unknown city school.
I will visit these familiar mountain stretches
only occasionally.

Last Day Thoughts, Creek Walks, and Curious George

Wilson Run

The last day of school is tomorrow.

We began first grade in August
reviewing letters and sounds
and by spring
the class could handle one of my favorites,
Curious George.
George was a good little monkey.
He had only one fault.
He was too curious...

This year we have read hundreds of stories,
solved hundreds of math problems,
written hundreds of words,
learned the fifty states,
the seven continents,
the nine,
umm, eight planets,
all four verses of My Country, 'Tis of Thee
and put on two plays,
A Christmas Carol
and Peter Pan.
Perhaps the favorite memory of the year, though,
was the walk across the highway
to Wilson Run,
the creek behind my friend Deannie's house.

A century ago,
where the highway now is
a railroad ran
bringing timber to Bennett Branch.
We find pieces of metal in the creek
and wonder what they used to be.
The trains are gone
but tracks remain--
though now the tracks are animal.
 "Mrs. Shaffner, a BEAR was here!
...or maybe a dog..."

It's fascinating to watch the kids in the creek.
After we all walk upstream
(even the timid boy comes back in to join us)
and listen to the water gurgle over the rocks,
the kids scatter.
Some rush to find the deepest part,
curious to see if they might approach the knee-depth limit.
Some build a dam--
who can bring the biggest rock?          

Two dams on Wilson Run

Some stomp
and watch the mud
swirl to the surface
to the irritation
of the crayfish catchers.
The current carries the mud away
and territories are established.
Some holler under the bridge
to hear the echoes.
Some throw rocks,  
mostly away from their friends.
Anthony walks upstream and down,
comparing the water's pressure on his legs.
Three girls are fascinated
by what can be found
on the undersides of rocks:
Snails.
Jellied eggs.
Larval forms of mystery insects.

Creatures on the bottom of a rock

One girl with goatlike tendencies
goes for the highest spot,
a tree,
and looks down on her classmates,
grinning.
Kay is crouched over the water,
looking intently.
She holds up a
one-inch-square rock.
"Look, Mrs. Shaffner!"
There are infinitesimal regular markings,
a plant fossil.
It has been here for millions of years
and Kay
is the first person
to notice it.
We take it back to the classroom,
make crayon rubbings,
and learn it is called Lepidodendron.
We divide it into syllables
and read it slowly:
Lep-i-do-den-dron.

We were privileged to be there on this Noticing Day,
Deannie and I.
The kids were curious,
like George,
and it is not a fault,
it is a blessing.

Tomorrow
my kids will spend their last hours as first graders.
I am glad they've learned to read
and write
and spell
(well, mostly spell)
and add and subtract.
These skills form the base
that they will add to over the years,
but their skills will grow faster
and wider
and deeper
if the child,
the grownup-yet-to-be,
remains curious.

I hope the child in you
remains curious.
Stop
and look
and listen
to whatever-is-in-front-of-you,
the minutia of life,
with wonder.


 

 

You Must Be Proud....

Last week I congratulated six-tear-old Sam
on a neatly done, correct paper, saying,
"You must be proud of yourself!"

He looked me straight in the eye and replied,
"You know pride is a sin."