These are books from my academic career. Two are translations into Chinese. Two are published only in Turkish. I co-author often because collaboration is exciting. Two heads are better than one (or three heads, at times).
My first book, with co-author Barbara K. ClarkeMy second book, co-authored with ed leadership colleague Elizabeth Monce Lolli.Another action research edition translated into Chinese.Earlier edition of Action Research text with Holly and Arhar.Text with co-authors Arhar and Holly, 2009Book for Turkish teachers, in Turkish, with co-author Kasim Yildirim2005 text with co-authors Kristo & McClureBook for Turkish parents on literacy support at home, with co-author Kasim Yildirim.Action Research text translated into Chinese.
I always liked this photo my brother took of me at 15.
When I was 15 years old, and a teenager, I felt strongly that grown-ups did not understand me. I resolved to make sure I understood teenagers, and some of the aches of growing up, so that I would be a good teacher and mother someday. So I decided to keep a journal – to remember.
Journaling wasn’t so popular in 1967. It was difficult to find something other than a school notebook to write in. But, in a stationery store, there were blank black books called “records.” The paper was lined, they came in sizes, and so I used my allowance or babysitting money to buy one. We were vacationing in Vermont at the time at a home my parents and grandparents jointly owned. Here is exactly what I wrote back then.
August 24, 1967 (age 15) Stannard, Vermont
This book is my teenage journal. Let the purpose of this book be remembered as a memory of that “precious period of frustration” which we call adolescence. Here I shall record that which I learn as well as that which I treasure. This way, I hope, all that I learn may be permanent.
Today I realized it was important to record this period of my life so that I may never display ignorance to someone I love. Teenagers are a distinct breed. They are all occupied in finding themselves and their way of life. However peculiar this process may seem, it must never be disturbed without marring their future, breeding some resentment.
Too many parents try to live their children’s lives. If I can’t live my own life, and believe me I will, then it is hardly worthwhile. I don’t want to just survive or vegetate. I want to live. I want to fulfill my life with exciting things worth remembering. Parents often blindly deprive their children of learning by doing rather than teaching.
Odd. I wrote this in 1967. Now I am 67 years old. I hardly know the girl who was me. But, I can find her in the pages of the many journals I kept then, and throughout my life (so far).
One summer project was cleaning out my desk. This one long drawer holds nearly all my journals, starting with the one in 1967. They are in many shapes and sizes. Some were gifts, others I bought myself. Smaller ones were well suited to traveling. And something about a pretty book with nice paper makes me want to write in it!
Journals come in handy. If the family is having an argument about what place they went on vacation in some year, or in what park we saw an eagle for the first time, then …..I can look it up in my journal and give a definitive answer!
I should explain that I don’t write everyday. Some people do. Me, I have never been good at anything that required that degree of regularity except brushing my teeth. Repetition isn’t my thing. If I had to do a job where you do the same thing over and over, I would be so miserable. Other people love repetition. Not me.
But the coolest thing now, is looking back on all the journals and visiting my earlier self. Who I was, what I was doing, what bothered me, what made me happy. When I was a kid, I read about Ralph Waldo Emerson. He lived long ago, and spent time in Maine where I live. I saw where he wrote, “Whatever you write, preserve.” I took his advice seriously. So the journals have been one way. I also have file folders of other things I have written.
So, I hauled out all those journals, and read sections of each. Now, it’s time to put them away for a while.
My daughter Amanda joined my household near to her 9th birthday. Our house included one English Setter dog named Lady Sara Jane, and one cat named Cosette, and me (the Mom). Before this, Amanda had lived in about 13 foster homes. In all the places she had lived, there were other kids. So she always had someone to play with. In my house, there was just a dog and a cat.
Amanda had difficulty making friends, even though our neighborhood had lots of kids of all ages. So, lots of times, she played with Sara Jane. Sara Jane was a medium sized dog, almost all-white, slim, athletic and comical. This nutsy dog loved to dive into mud puddles, chase shadows and flashlight beams, and blow bubbles in the toilet. A bucket of water could keep her busy for hours. Sara Jane was an interesting dog.
Amanda loved to play with art supplies more than dolls or other kinds of toys. So I got her sidewalk chalk for playing outside in our driveway. She enjoyed drawing cats and dogs and houses and sunshine.
One day, however, Sara Jane arrived at the door alone, barking to come in. I opened the door, and she was covered in streaks of pink and green chalk! Oh my, I thought out loud. I have a pink and green striped dog. Amanda came to the door next, a sheepish grin on her face. “Sorry, Mommy.” We both laughed.
I gave Sara Jane a bath. The pink chalk came out far easier than the green. We had a white dog with stripes of green for weeks. Not everyone can say they have had a striped dog.
I always liked this photo my brother took of me at 15. All my journals are displayed on my coffee table.
When I was 15 years old, and a teenager, I felt strongly that grown-ups did not understand me. I resolved to make sure I understood teenagers, and some of the aches of growing up, so that I would be a good teacher and mother someday. So I decided to keep a journal – to remember.
Journaling wasn’t so popular in 1967. It was difficult to find something other than a school notebook to write in. But, in a stationery store, there were blank black books called “records.” The paper was lined, they came in sizes, and so I used my allowance or babysitting money to buy one. We were vacationing in Vermont at the time at a home my parents and grandparents jointly owned. Here is exactly what I wrote back then.
August 24, 1967 (age 15) Stannard, Vermont
This book is my teenage journal. Let the purpose of this book be remembered as a memory of that “precious period of frustration” which we call adolescence. Here I shall record that which I learn as well as that which I treasure. This way, I hope, all that I learn may be permanent.
Today I realized it was important to record this period of my life so that I may never display ignorance to someone I love. Teenagers are a distinct breed. They are all occupied in finding themselves and their way of life. However peculiar this process may seem, it must never be disturbed without marring their future, breeding some resentment.
Too many parents try to live their children’s lives. If I can’t live my own life, and believe me I will, then it is hardly worthwhile. I don’t want to just survive or vegetate. I want to live. I want to fulfill my life with exciting things worth remembering. Parents often blindly deprive their children of learning by doing rather than teaching.
Odd. I wrote this in 1967. Now I am 67 years old. I hardly know the girl who was me. But, I can find her in the pages of the many journals I kept then, and throughout my life (so far).
Me and My Cat
2 C
I had this cat for 16 years. We were close friends. I think about her every day.
Me and My Cat
It’s 7 am and I need my rest
I’m ignoring a ten pound cat on my
chest,
I can hardly breathe,
But I’ll try and stay put,
It’s Sunday today
I don’t want to get up.
It’s 7:05, and I’m staying in bed,
I’m ignoring a large fluffy cat on
my head.
She’s purring loudly,
it’s tricky to sleep.
Something tells me that kitty is
wanting to eat.
It’s 7:15 or more I suppose,
I’m ignoring the cat
who is picking my nose.
She’s persistent and starving
in dawn’s early light,
She hasn’t a morsel
since Saturday night.
It’s twenty past seven
I hold fast my warm place,
I’m ignoring the large furry paw in
my face.
She’s prodding so gently
As loving can be
Breakfast for her would mean
peace for me.
It’s half past seven
I’m down under the sheet,
I’m ignoring the ten pound blob on
my feet.
Still purring loudly,
she might go away
If I keep on sleeping
the morning away.
It’s 7:40 and resistance is thin
There’s a purr-furry head
snuggled under my chin.
I have to admit, that this cat is
sly
She gets prey with honey
Or at last it’s a try.
It’s 10 til eight and
the cat has prevailed
I will feed the big ball
of fluff with the tail.
I’ll go back to sleep,
I can if I wish,
If only I’ll open the
liver and fish.
I live by myself,
I do as I may,
I sleep when I want
And have things my own way,
I do what I want,
and I mean that is that!
As long as my schedule
conforms to my cat!
W.C. Kasten, 1985, all rights
reserved.
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Residents of Attic City
Attic City
2 Comments / Blog /
By admin
The house Tom and I grew up in was
tall and narrow, with two regular floors and then a basement and an attic. Our
bedrooms were small so the attic became our place to play as younger kids. Mom
put a linoleum rug on the floor to keep us from getting splinters in our feet,
hands, and knees from the wooden planks of the floor. The red flowered
linoleum became Attic City.
Between the two of us, we had quite
a few dolls and stuffed animals. Dolls, all girl dolls, were then married off
to various stuffed animals who we made all boys. Bookshelves with the
books removed were apartments for couples. We had a sort of real-sized wooden
dog house that had been made in Dad’s shop at school, and this became the home
of the mayor of Attic City. The mayor, named Happy, was a stuffed beagle toy
with open and close eyes, and a toy Tom really liked. A small child sized
table became a home for my entire family of Ginny Dolls (before Barbie was
invented). I had sisters Mary and Muffy, three teen dolls named Sharon
and Jill and Marian, and a baby doll named Ginette. They all had real wooden
beds, with pillows and blankets. Marian was the Mom of this little family. Jill
was nice. Sharon was always getting in trouble.
On rainy days, we played Attic City.
We would make up stories for the characters in the town. Tom always wanted
there to be a robbery or a murder. I never wanted anything bad to happen. I
preferred stories with weddings, or going to school, or playing games.
On the other side of the attic, Tom
had his Lionel Trains set up. Two big tables in the shape on an L, one table
being the city with little houses and trees, and the other table being the
country with barns, cows, and fences. The best part, in my opinion, was the
train whistles. Tom had two. Sometimes we would blare both of them.
We played Attic City for years. Our
last game, we had made our town its biggest yet. We thought Attic City needed
lights, so we got into the boxes of Christmas ornaments. Tom strung 6 strands
of lights back and forth across the attic ceiling, then did something to make
them all blink, and then added the blaring train whistles.
Right about this time, probably
responding to the noise, Mom came up the stairs. She was not pleased. She
made us take down the lights, put them away, and clean up Attic city.
That was the end of it. But then Tom was getting too old to play with a little
sister anyhow. Tom still has Happy, the mayor of Attic City on a bookshelf in
his home. I visit both of them at his house each year.
Dr. Wendy C. Kasten, Writer 