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I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slow Down. My maternal grandmother, the matriarch of our family, died 25 years ago this year. She still visits me in dreams now and then. Her name was Elizabeth, but everyone called her by her middle name, Anne. Her grandchildren did not call her Grandma or Mimi or one of the more conventional titles. No, we called her Dabble, and I was to thank or to blame for that name. It was something I'd babbled as a baby and it stuck. My memories of Dabble are still as crisp and as pigmented as ever. All these years later. She drove a gold Datsun. The radio station she preferred played what I would now call elevator music. Instrumental, but not classical, more like easy listening, like Muzak. Dabble, driving around in her dachshund, whistled like a warbler. She whistled more musically than anyone I'd ever heard. She could bake and she gave great hugs, but in many ways she wasn't your typical grandmother. She was divorced, living in her own apartment alone. She worked out of necessity in a men's store in a nearby mall. My mother would take my sisters and me to visit her there, and I remember walking among the racks of suit jackets and pants and shirts, like walking in grass as tall as I was. Sometimes we would hide in the racks. I remember the smell of wool. It was a special treat when she would walk us down to the cookie shop in the mall and buy us M and M cookies as big as our heads. Or she would take us to lunch in the cafeteria of the Lazarus department store. Grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk never tasted so good. Today's poem touched me because it made me think of my grandmother. It made me think of her care, but also about the life she had after her marriage ended. I know her life didn't look the way she'd expected it would. I wish it had been easier still. She could whistle like a songbird. Country Night by Laura Newburn My mother's father was cruel to my mother's mother. I know this, but knowing means nearly nothing. The man seen by me was a tall man who beautifully wore a hat in the old way, standing beside the door of a car on a dust road. Like a sentence, the poem is half in sunlight, half in shadow, sometimes cloaked in a dark night, my grandfather driving Nat King Cole on the radio and my grandmother humming along. I'm in the back, little and deeply in love with him and with her and the pines rising up and away from the world on either side of the car. And how, he would say, as we rode through the dark, a wolf is going to come out of those trees and eat you. I know that is a story for children. I know. My grandmother hummed like a warbler yellow glow in the deep wood for most of her life. The poem, like a sentence, is sometimes in sunlight, even at night the bird will sing. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. And find us on Instagram at slowdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org.
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The Trump administration is making deep cuts to education research.
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The cancellation notices started coming when the.
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Contract is cut, the study just dies.
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It's all happening. Just as schools are trying to make use of research to improve reading instruction.
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There would not have been a science of reading without the federal funding. It wouldn't have happened.
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I'm Emily Hanford on our new episode of Sold a Story, what the Trump Cuts mean for the science of reading. Go to your podcast app and follow Sold a Story.
Host: Maggie Smith
Date: September 22, 2025
In this episode of The Slowdown, host Maggie Smith guides listeners through a heartfelt meditation on memory, family, and the lingering influence of our elders. By reflecting on her own grandmother and then presenting Laura Newbern's poem “Country Night,” Smith explores how poetry can illuminate the complexities of familial love and the shadowy truths we inherit. The episode invites us to reconsider our own histories and the ways light and shadow coexist in our memories.
"She wasn’t your typical grandmother. She was divorced, living in her own apartment alone. She worked out of necessity in a men's store in a nearby mall."
— Maggie Smith, 02:40
"Today's poem touched me because it made me think of my grandmother. It made me think of her care, but also about the life she had after her marriage ended."
— Maggie Smith, 04:50
“My mother’s father was cruel to my mother’s mother. I know this, but knowing means nearly nothing.”
— Laura Newbern, 05:16
“The poem, like a sentence, is sometimes in sunlight, even at night the bird will sing.”
— Laura Newbern, 06:50
“My memories of Dabble are still as crisp and as pigmented as ever, all these years later.”
— Maggie Smith, 01:55
“The poem is half in sunlight, half in shadow, sometimes cloaked in a dark night.”
— Laura Newbern, 05:30
“Even at night the bird will sing.”
— Laura Newbern, 06:55
The Slowdown maintains a gentle, contemplative atmosphere. Maggie Smith’s narration is intimate, respectful, and quietly celebratory of small histories. By pairing her own evocative memories with Newbern’s nuanced poetry, she invites listeners to hold complexity, acknowledging pain but foregrounding moments of beauty and songs that get us through.
For Daily Poems and Reflections:
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