“So, I’ve got a question for you.  It’s not a hard question, but it’s still a question.  Are you ready?”

As I spoke, the two students I was learning with looked back at me through the screen of our video conference.  Their faces showed apprehension and curiosity, and I had to imagine they were wondering what kind of question I might ask on this, the first day of our ad hoc quarantine-distance-learning-wish-we-could-meet-in-person writing workshop.

I continued: “Why do we write?”

Both girls, sisters, had looks on their faces that said, “Huh?”  

I leaned just a little bit closer to the screen and asked again, “I know it’s a simple question, but why do we write?  Why do we write?” I spoke slowly as I asked my question the final time. I know it’s not a hard question, but it’s not one that’s always easy to answer off the cuff.  I knew that.

The younger sister spoke first.  She started slowly, but over the course of just a few words she gained confidence.

“So we can talk to people, and answer questions,” she answered.  Looking back, I think that’s what she said. Honestly, I was a little bit nervous too.

I waited, and the older sister gave her answer shortly after.

“To express our feelings,” she said, also gaining confidence.

“Okay, I can go with that,” I said. “So, when we express our feelings, is that like what we might write in a diary?”  

She thought for a second, then answered that it was.

I turned, if that’s possible in a video conference, to her younger sister. “So, let me ask you this: If I was writing a shopping list, would I be expressing my feelings?”

Realizing where this was going, the older sibling quickly chimed in, “Yes, you’re expressing how you feel about what you want to eat.”

Sigh and smile.  You know, it seemed like a good idea at the time, this whole teaching writing thing.

After a laugh, the younger said no, a shopping list wasn’t expressing our feelings.

I know there are a lot of answers to the question, “Why do we write?” and I shared my own.  “The reason we write…the whole reason we write…is so someone can read what we wrote.  That’s it. That’s why we write. The someone might be ourselves, if it was a grocery list, but that’s why we write.  We write so someone can read it.”

Now, I’m a basics kind of guy.  There’s a lot to writing, and it takes a long time to even come close to mastering the art and skill.  There are many reasons to write, but ultimately we write to make a record that someone is going to read.  We write for an audience, even if it’s ourselves. At least, that’s what I think.

For better or worse, my two writers didn’t argue, and both seemed ready to move on.  I’m looking forward to seeing how the next few months go, and I’m pretty sure we’ll all be happy with the outcome at the end.

—

A quick word of explanation: During this quarantine, I’m learning alongside two sisters whom I’ve known since the older one was a student in my third-grade class, some five years ago.  I like to write, they want to learn, so it’s a good thing for all of us. I think so, anyway.

If you want to, I’d love to see your answer to the question: “Why do we write?”

On days like yesterday, I think about growing up in the southeastern part of Ohio, just north of Dayton and about 30 miles from the Indiana line.  Lots of flat land, lots of open spaces, and lots of potential for what we now refer to as “severe weather.”

I don’t know why, but I don’t think I remember ever hearing the term severe weather.  We just–as I remember it–called it thunderstorms and, of course, tornadoes.

Twisters, sometimes, but usually tornadoes.

In the mid-seventies, when I was still fairly young, a devastating tornado hit the nearby city of Xenia, some 30 miles southeast of where I grew up.  Not too close, but close enough that the “Xenia Tornado” was the measuring stick with which all spring, summer, and fall weather events were measured.  

Even though the area where I now live suffered massive destruction during a “super outbreak” of tornadoes in 2011, Xenia still comes to my mind on days like yesterday.  With today’s technology, tornadoes are still unpredictable, but only in that we don’t know specifically where they’ll hit.  

On days like yesterday, we’ve known about the danger for a while.  Three or four days earlier we knew the conditions would be right. Cold air moving in from the north, warm moist air moving in from the south, and a pretty good idea of where the two would collide.  We knew.

We nervously move through the early hours of the day, on days like yesterday.  The air is calm, almost peaceful, as if the local atmosphere doesn’t know of the pressure changes that would soon pull it away.  Without an apparent reason why, though, clouds start to form by mid-morning, thunder is heard in the distance, and the leaves begin to rustle.

Some folks like me start to feel an urge to turn on the TV, comforted by the broadcast of benign programming, anything other than the local meteorologist providing play by play as the weather marches in from the west.  Here in north Alabama, it’s almost always from the west, especially on days like yesterday.

We knew it was coming, and it did.  When it was all said and done, my immediate area, just south of the Tennessee line, suffered nothing worse than nearly four inches of rain falling in just a few short hours.  Some broken branches, a few power outages, and we were able to sleep soundly by ten o’clock.  

After days like yesterday, one looks to the news to find out who wasn’t so lucky.  Six tornadoes, ranging in strength from EF-0 to EF-2, all within 100 miles of where I live.  More than 60 tornadoes across the south stretching from Texas to the Carolinas, millions of dollars in damage, and at least 32 people who’ve seen their last severe weather event.  May their families find peace and comfort.

That’s what it’s like, after days like yesterday.

That bird call…there it was again.  

And again.

Six notes, a three-note phrase repeated twice.  Argh. I knew what it was, but I didn’t. Three notes, the second lower than the first, and the third higher than both of the others.  

Was it a robin, claiming its territory from high atop the neighbor’s house?  Or the mockingbird, who oftentimes sits at the same perch, sounding just like, well, a bunch of different birds?  No, I didn’t think so.

I knew it wasn’t a cardinal, as a cardinal’s voice is just a touch deeper.  Maybe a wren. We have a lot of those, and wrens are possibly the loudest tiny bird in the world.  But, no, I didn’t think so.

I knew what it wasn’t.  It wasn’t a jay, loud and obnoxious, its beauty–in my opinion–more in its appearance than its song.  It wasn’t a brown thrasher, rarely seen above knee height as it races across open spaces. 

Not a mourning dove, and not one of the ubiquitous sparrows whose specific species I’ve never been able to identify.  Not a titmouse, with its peter peter peter call, and not a towhee, encouraging me to drink my tea.  

Not a grackle or a starling, as it was a solitary voice.  Bluebird or house finch? No, I didn’t think so.

I’ve written before about sitting at my kitchen table, watching the birds that occupy the area around our house, and that’s where I was, listening to the birds.  The particular bird whose song I was enjoying was just above the line of vision allowed by the window. Singing, and singing.

I knew I would feel foolish, but I had to go and look.  Pushing my chair back in, I slowly walked out the back door so as not to scare my avian vocalist.

Doh.  

A chickadee.  Most likely you’ve already been saying that, reader of mine.  Chick a dee chick a dee.  Chick a dee chick a dee.

I knew that.