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Michelle Rogge Gannon

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Sharing the digital story I put together about my mother's profession as a hairdresser and business owner. I would appreciate comments and suggestions for improvement. Thank you.

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Connie Krueger writes here in the NWP E-Anthology about being in the first Dakota Writing Project Invitational Summer Institute back in 1981. Here is a picture with the participants. Connie is in the front row, second from the left.

Howdy. We are beginning the second week of the Dakota Writing Project Summer Institute at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion. I direct our site; I also teach English courses at USD and direct the University Writing Center at USD.

Hello from the Dakota Writing Project at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion! We're finishing up our first week in the DWP Invitational Summer Institute. We've got a variety of educators from elementary through college level in our institute. We're looking forward to another three great weeks!

Has anyone put together an employee handbook and/or tutorials for Writing Center consultants (tutors)? I'm working on crafting a combination employee handbook / tutorial using iBook Author for the Mac. I'd like to know if you are creating a digital version like this as well. I welcome suggestions and comments, too.

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Log onto this space and click on the special Neat Chat link. We'll discuss the tutorials and preparation for the Marathon.
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A Recipe for Everything

A Prose Poem

Homemade oysters are not actually oysters but noodles and hamburgers squished into pillows, boiled and spread with buttered breadcrumbs. Roll the dough on the kitchen table, EVERYONE (yes, you!).

You won’t get out of the house on St. Patty’s Day if you’re not wearing green—at least, not without a lot of black and blue pinch marks. You’re IRISH, you know (and German). Related to that, when Dad yells, “I told you girls not to sit on the sink when you put on your make-up—you’ve broken the sink!” And you rush, rush, rush to the bathroom to see what your older sisters did—only then to remember it’s your father’s other favorite holiday, April Fool’s Day. He giggles, the rest of you groan.

Sit up straight, be quiet, LISTEN, bow your head, straighten your veil (that reminds you of your grandmother’s doilies), show respect—Father Bob is talking.

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And, when you feel the urge to run, to wander off, to explore, Grandmother will tell you about the family’s pioneer tragedy: the little girl whom your family was forced to leave behind in Oregon in the early 1900s, lost in the wilderness forever. She is your great aunt-somebody, and when your mind wanders during Father Bob's homily, as it inevitably will, you are right there in the Oregon wilderness with her. She is still a little girl like you, and so you tell her about the homemade oysters—the rolling, the squishing, the boiling—the Irish pinching, the April fooling, the doilies you must wear on your head. She smiles, then cries when you leave.

NOTE: The poem evolved from an interview of another teacher, moments from her life.
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