Day by Day

We introduced the 100 Day Writing Challenge yesterday to mixed reviews. Each year, starting on March 1, our sixth graders participate in 3 different month-long writing assignments. There is a minimum requirement, a reward level, and then the ultimate challenge: to write every single day until June 8. Some kids love it right away, like the 4 guys who made a pact to do it together and choose matching T-shirts for their prize, and other kids are pretty skeptical.

When that second group brings up hypothetical obstacles to writing and posting every day, I share with them the experiences of past students. One guy went to soccer camp over spring break, and finding no Wifi, called his mother every night to dictate his post. Another student had a death in her family in India, but through the miracle of the World Wide Web, she too posted every day she was away.

I also share my own experience. This post is the last of ten consecutive years of daily writing with never a miss, 3,652 days in a row. There have been some challenges to be sure. Early on I had to drive to town every day while on vacation in Maine because our rental house’s connection was so spotty. And even tonight I am composing this piece on my phone because of a cable internet service outage in our area. Somehow, I’ve always been lucky and determined enough to find a way to extend my streak.

Even so, we try to approach the experience with a growth mindset and a few safety nets to make the challenge more doable for our students. Don’t give up before you start, we say. Just try it one day at a time. This year we showed a quick video of a girl who did push-ups for a hundred days in a row to emphasize the idea that with practice comes strength. I don’t know about the kids, but I’m ready to start pushing up! In fact, I started thinking that although I always write alongside them in this challenge, maybe it would be more inspiring if I tried to do something else for the hundred days.

Put a pin in that!

Deep Bench

I may have mentioned that there is a student teacher working with me until April 5. We have reached the point in her internship where she does most of the teaching, a lot of the planning, and some of the grading. Fortunately, the soon-to-be teacher that I am mentoring is great-- smart, organized, funny, and able to manage some big (and sometimes wild!) classes of sixth graders.

I realized just how lucky I am when yesterday she was out for a dentist appointment and today I did the lesson myself to introduce the 100 Day Writing Challenge. After two full days of teaching? I'm exhausted!

Luckily, she takes charge again tomorrow, but what's going to happen on April 8? I better stay in shape!

Felix Awards

On the morning before the Oscars, Emily (segundo) suggested we all write skits and act them out for awards before the actual show. The response was tepid, especially in the over 50 crowd.

"Isn't that more like the Tonys?" someone asked.

"Let's make films then," she pivoted neatly.

And with that, some of us were in. Treat embraced the challenge right away, enlisting both his parents and Emily as cast members in his brooding black and white film. His filmmaking entertained us as we took a three mile walk around our little peninsula that afternoon. Watching him pull his actors aside and direct them in front of ruined log cabins, swamps, beaches, abandoned boats, and No Trespassing signs was hilarious. Victor's approach was more subtle: from time to time he would fall behind the group, walking slowly with his phone pointed at odd ditches and bare trees.

I think others of us had good intentions; I know I spent some time filming and dramatically reading the extremely detailed rental house guidelines, but when the award show came on, there were only 2 movies for the jury in our first annual film festival.

Oh. my. god! Did we laugh and ooh and ah!

Treat's film, Major, was a droll, tragicomic narrative of a French pirate and a devastated coastal community, poignantly punctuated by the missing title character. Victor's movie was entitled Hague after the tiny town we were in, and it was an exquisite kaleidoscope portrait of so many beautiful images that we had all walked right past the whole weekend.

When the end credits rolled, there was a moment of stunned silence, and then genuine applause. Personally, I was speechless. Made and edited in one day, the movies were rough, but they were diamonds.

Team Colors

It was in the spirit of wringing every last bit of fun out of our weekend that Treat and I dragged out the cornhole set this morning. Even though the day had dawned dry for the first time we had been down on the Northern Neck, the yard was still a soggy morass, and the wind was a little bit brisk, so we set it up on the covered back deck of the river house we were staying in.

The boards were homemade from plywood and 2x4s with a couple of bolts and wingnuts to fasten the folding legs. They were painted burgundy and gold, and we found a faded set of bean bags that matched. "Redskins colors," I noted, as we took our places.

It wasn't a competitive game. To begin with, there were only three bean bags of each color, and then when Victor wanted to join, we each gave him one of our sets, and he played for both sides.

"You said these were Redskins colors," Treat said, "but I think they're Gryffindor!"

"Or Virginia Tech," Victor added.

"You cannot distract me with this useless thought exercise," I told them through dramatically gritted teeth and then tossed my red bag way short.

"Yes we can!" Treat said, sliding his yellow bean bag over the board and off the deck. "Your brain works exactly the same as ours! You know you're thinking of other red and yellow things right now."

"No I'm not!" I replied, cheering Victor as he landed the red bag on the board. "Except... Lucy is red and Rosie and Sonic are yellow! Go Lucy!"

"Lemons are yellow and strawberries are red," Treat responded. "Go lemons!"

"I love lemons!" I scowled. "But bananas are yellow and cherries are red, and cherries are much better than bananas. Go cherries!"

"What about pineapple and pomegranate?" asked Victor, "or mango and passion fruit?"

"Easy for you," I said, "you have both colors!"

Herstory

It's not just our own history that has occupied us this weekend. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours out of the rain and into a tiny local history museum in one of the nearby villages on the Northern Neck peninsula. Upon entering, we were greeted by a women who looked for all the world like the faded hippie she later proudly proclaimed herself to be.

Wire granny glasses rounded blue eyes that wrinkled on the sides when she smiled, which was often. Her reddish-brown hair was dusted in gray, and even the earth tones of her Indian-print tunic and ankle-length skirt were muted. "Am I expecting you?" she asked. "Are you teachers? Should I recognize one of you?" When she reached out and gave me a little one-armed side hug, we knew we were in for an adventure.

Over the next hour or so, she regaled us with stories of the heroes and villains of the town, enlisting the members of our group to act out some of the more dramatic scenes. Interspersed were tales of her own life and the personal journey that led her to that place and that moment. There were props and books and photographs to enhance her version of local history. Along the way, we found out that she was an Eccles scholar at UVa, like Bill, and she actually knew Emily's brother Chris, from the days when he lived about 45 minutes north.

Before our stories diverged she gave each of us a hug and a kiss, then we zipped up our raincoats and stepped back into the present, through the mud, and out to lunch. 

Record Keeping

I don't even remember why I decided to start saving the Oscar ballots, but when I mentioned that I had them as we were cleaning up at the end of the evening last year, my brother told me I should definitely bring them next time. Last week I spent some time collecting them from the two or three different places I squirreled them all away, and carefully placed them in labeled ziplock bags, one for each year, and packed them up for our annual Academy Awards Getaway.

We spent some time this morning going over the archive. Stretching back to 2003, there was a record of all our pools and parties, with the exception of 2004 and 2011. Our initial data analysis determined that Victor is the current grand champion, with 3 wins and 2 ties, but Bill is in second with 3 wins and 1 tie. The ballots are so much more than just records of right and wrong predictions, though.

For example, they remind us of all the people who have celebrated and played with us over the years. Early on there are ballots for both of Emily's parents, Vic and Judy, who have since passed away, Kyle has joined us twice, Josh is in and out, my mom has several ballots, both in person and remote, and our friend Mary has also played along 3 times. (In fact, Bill considers Mary his spoiler-- he would have had one more win and the current overall crown, if not for the year she took home the prize!)

It is clear what a primary source these simple sheets of paper are when you consider some of them individually. Treat was 7 when he filled out his first ballot, and the tiny, lower-case scrawl of his name at the top might suggest how unprepared he felt to enter such an enormous competition. Even so, he did pretty well, out-preforming half of the adults at the party. The pages also show the transition from Riley to Victor; Heidi's have flowers and hearts on the years she does well; Josh artfully scribbles semi-solid blocks around the categories he misses; Judy primly Cs and Xs her hits and misses, Kyle signs his name "Mr. Moo" in honor of his job as the Chik-fil-a cow.

When we were finished with our artifact review, there was one ziplock bag still left on the table. Labeled 2019, it contained a crisp stack of blank ballots, patiently waiting for history to be made.

Friday Night Lights

It was crazy-hectic packing up and getting out of town for a weekend away on a Friday evening. Dashing home from school after making sub plans during the deafening din of Anime Club, we threw 3 days of clothes and toiletries into our duffles, packed the cooler with essentials (beer, coffee cream, and ragout for dinner) and then huffed all our stuff out to the car.

The map app confirmed what I already knew-- it was rush hour in DC, but I obediently piloted the car into the gleam of brake lights and stop and go traffic, along the twinkling tree-lined streets of Old Town, and under the incandescent gauntlet of lights lining the Wilson Bridge, and past the pulsing red, white and blue of the Capital Wheel, and down through the suburban glow of Fort Washington and Waldorf.

When at last the roads cleared, we found ourselves on country roads so dark we almost (almost!) missed the starless glimmer of city nights we were accustomed to. Along shadowed farm fields, over unlit bridges, and finally onto a pitch-dark rutted dirt road, we drove on. And at the end of the trip there was warm light spilling from the windows of a house and family and fun waiting within.

Fantasy Avenue

It was planned chaos in my classroom today. After analyzing and evaluating commercials, students were now ready to apply all they knew about persuasive techniques by forming groups, choosing a product to brand and market, and creating a commercial of their own.

An array of three dozen colorful, if perplexing, gadgets were laid upon a table and ceremoniously unveiled. A spin of the wheel determined when each group got to choose, and when the selections were through, trades and additions were welcome.

The kids didn't need to know what each item actually was; in fact it was better if they didn't. Imagination is a premium for this project, and so the sooner you believe a silicone dish rack is a portable grill to be sold with the slogan You go grill!, the better off you'll be.

Snow Goggles

Sometimes when I take Lucy out in the morning our one-on-one time is interrupted when she slams her nose to the ground and pulls me in the direction of some invisible trek. So single-minded is she that even treats can't break her concentration; I hop along scooping up the expensive, "high-value" nuggets that she spits on the pavement. "You don't understand!" says the look she gives me when I tug sharply on the leash, and I have to admit she's right.

This morning when we stepped out our door the world was hushed and muffled in the snow that had begun falling at dawn. No one else was about, and ours were the only footsteps in the powder that covered our way until we got to the hill in the back of our complex. This time, when Lucy's nose hit the ground, I saw what she was after. Boot prints and dog prints meandered along the edge of the woods and up to the bushes.

"Who is that?" I asked her, and she wagged her tail and came over to me.

A little further down it was a set of rabbit tracks hopping up to the pool gate that drew her attention. "Bunnies!" I said, and she was ready to keep going.

Next a bright spray of yellow snow caught her nose, and she turned to look at me. "I know!" I told her. "Someone peed!" And it was clear to both of us that we were connected by more than the leash.

President's Day

One of my favorite presidents has always been Abraham Lincoln. Before I was 9, I knew his entire life story from reading every biography in the school library. Even today, odd facts about him occur to me now and then, almost like remembering something about someone I really knew. Just last week, the path from the movie theater to our dinner reservation took us up 10th St, past Ford's Theater and the house where Lincoln died. "I wonder what the street was like in 1865," I said, looking across the 4 lanes of traffic from the box office to the steps of number 516. "Was it this wide? Were there hitching posts? Did this house have a yard?"

One of my favorite purchases in the last year or so is a cylindrical cast-iron doodad a little smaller than a breadbox. Forged in America, it has an open ring at the top connected to a sturdy base by two solid columns. Welded in the center is a fan-shaped wedge, and the idea is to put a log through the hoop on top, balance it on the wedge, and knock it straight down to the ground and split it in two.

Oh, it makes a lot of racket, and yes, you have to swing that mini-sledge like you mean it, but the effort it takes to split wood is really minimal.

But?

The satisfaction of cracking those logs in half with a single blow (or two)?

Is not. 

Out of the Office

Today was a holiday, tomorrow I'm out for doctor's appointments, and they are calling for snow and ice all day on Wednesday.

When will I ever get back to school?

(Oh, and did I mention that I am out next Monday for our annual Oscar Holiday Weekend?)

For the Record

A question occurred to me as I sat watching the five Academy-Award-nominated short documentaries this afternoon. Is the job of a documentary simply to document or is it something more?

I considered the first of the five, the story of young man of Nigerian heritage whose parents had moved him from London to a city 35 miles away in attempt to shield him from the violence that claimed the life of a child from their neighborhood. Confronted by racism in his new home, his survival strategy was to do whatever he could to get the thugs targeting him to accept him, and he was so successful that he eventually became a member of their violent gang.

The next entry followed several terminally ill patients, their families, and caretakers as they negotiated end-of-life situations and decisions with as much dignity and empathy as possible. Mini-doc three consisted of 7 minutes of archival footage of a rally held 80 years ago in Madison Square Garden where 20,000 Americans showed up to support the rise of Nazism in Europe.

The fourth was on refugees fleeing Northern Africa on perilous rafts and boats bound for Europe, a topic that has been addressed by other films, also recognized by the Academy, over the last few years. The final entry told about women in India who, held back by the inconvenience and stigma of menstruation started a pad manufacturing factory that gave them and their clients more freedom to pursue education and employment.

When the last credits rolled and the lights came up, I imagined that my fellow movie-goers were also wondering how best to appraise what these various films were documenting. Was it simply some aspect of the the human condition? Was it a problem? A solution? Or something else?

Conversational Piece

"What is that?" the cashier asked she rang up one of my items.

"I don't know," I answered.

She looked at my strangely.
I considered my reply.
It was indeed very unexpected.

"I'm a teacher," I explained, "and every year my students make commercials for make-believe product. I saw this on clearance and thought it would make a good prop."

Her confusion turned to interest, and we chatted amicably as she finished with my stuff. "My teachers never did anything like that!" she told me as I swiped my card. "Kids today are really lucky!"

"Was that oversharing?" I asked Heidi as we left the store.

"No, Babe, I think that was just right," she said.

Silver Linings Playbook

That one section of my class that has been consistently the most challenging all year is fortunately the period of the day when I have the most support. It is co-taught by me, a special education teacher, and an English language learner support teacher. Even so, that particular group gives the three of us a run for our money almost every day.

Now that I have a student teacher working with us, too, it finally seems that the adults are gaining the upper hand. Because there are so many other professionals working with the class, I am often not the one providing direct instruction. Such was the case a couple of days ago when my intern was teaching the lesson.

I was in one corner of the room using my presence to manage the 8 students over there, and my co teachers were strategically standing in other parts of the room, too. After the lesson when the students began working independently, the four of us moved through the room, helping and redirecting the kids as they collaborated in small groups to analyze and evaluate some commercials. Later, when the students had gone on to their electives, we congratulated each other on the success of the class.

"It was almost like we were choreographed," said one of my colleagues.

"No, it was more like a basketball play!" I said. "In fact, " I added, warming up to the analogy, "we should have a playbook! We can screen, pic and roll, isolate the shooter, double team, slide the zone... oh my gosh! It will be a teacher best seller!"

Power of the Pup

Lucy and I were on the return leg of our quick morning walk when we heard a mournful wail coming from down some stairs. Lucy froze, and I tugged impatiently at her leash as a young family lumbered into the parking lot. We often see these two tiny girls and their mom and dad in the morning as they head to their car to start the day, but this time the oldest little girl, who can be no more than 3, was sobbing as she walked. Spotting a floppy red dog sitting on the sidewalk with concern, she slowed her pace a bit.

"She's so worried because she heard you crying!" I said.

The tears stopped immediately. There was even a little smile across her pink cheeks as she reached a chubby hand toward Lucy's full body wag.

"It's Valentine's Day!" I told her. "Nobody should be sad today!"

As the little family continued silently toward the car, I was quite certain her parents agreed.

Operation Happy Voice

Heidi had her phone on speaker as she waited on hold for a med-tech representative to pick up and take her order. At last a chipper young man answered the call. When she stated her business, he never missed a cheerful beat. "Whoa! Tragically, my friend, you have called the wrong company! But would you like me to look up the right number for you?"

"Uh," Heidi hesitated. "Yes, please?"

"No problem at all!" he responded. "Here you go! Have a great day! Thanks for choosing our company!"

Take Note

For the second semester this year, my friend Mary and I are piloting a new kind of homework for us. Called a "Writing Log", the concept is to have students free write a page or more regularly in their notebooks, and then select an entry to turn in weekly. Because the expectation is still new, today I took the opportunity to check in with a couple of kids.

"How long does it usually take you to do your writing homework?" I asked one young man.

"8-12 minutes," he told me with certainty.

"That seems... reasonable?" I prompted.

"It all depends if I know what I'm going to write about when I sit down," he said. "If I do? Then it... just flows!" He opened his hand expansively to show me what he meant.

He needn't have. I know all too well how a daily writing committment goes. "If you get an idea during the day," I said earnestly, "you should definitely write it down."

He nodded skeptically.

I went to my desk to jot our conversation down.

Early Onset

A parent was at school this afternoon and stopped in with her son, my student, to check on a few things. His grade was a little lower than she expected, and she was wondering why.

"Well," I turned to the student, "you kind of stopped turning your reading logs in at the end of the quarter, right?"

He shrugged. To me it was acknowledgement of something he and I had discussed before. To his mom, it was something different.

"Honey?" she began, "Did you know what you were supposed to do?"

He shrugged again. I thought about ways to tactfully remind the two of them that this was the same assignment he had been completing weekly since September.

"He's never deceptive," she assured me. "If he didn't do it, there was definitely a misunderstanding."

I raised my eyebrows. He lowered his head.

"I guess I forgot," he said. "And it takes too long, y'know, to write the date and everything."

"Yes!" his mom agreed, "Writing his name and date on anything has always been a struggle."

"Well," I said, "do you know what the homework is this quarter?"

"The writing log?" he mumbled.

"Right!" I answered. "But you didn't do the writing that we checked today."

He scowled a little. His mom looked on, uncertainly.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I forgot!" he snapped.

"But we talked about it... What's wrong with you? You're never like this about your school! Is it that you love reading and writing so much that being forced to do them makes you afraid you won't like them anymore?" His mother's words hung in the air. He scoffed quietly.

I understood. Although he is a pretty typical sixth graders, he is her oldest child, and she was not expecting adolescence quite so soon.

No One Was Safe

One of the highlights of February for me is always seeing the Oscar nominated shorts-- animated, live action, and documentary. Being recognized by the academy showcases 5 of these usually low profile little films into an anthology shown in theaters. It's an opportunity to see the work of international filmmakers who are often unfettered by the expense and corporate control of the big studios, and most of these films are usually fresh and innovative and even a little edgy.

In past years there have been memorable tales of time machine builders, a pre-teen Somalian pirate, a modern-day cupid (with real arrows), a babysitting job that saved a guy from suicide, and an encounter with terrorists on a bus ride in Nigeria, to name a few of the live-action entries.

This year the subject matter of 4 of the 5 live action movies included little boys in danger, from themselves, from others, or both. They were unflinchingly grim, so much so, that the audience who sat in stunned silence at the end of the first film, giggled with gallows humor at the end of the second, and guffawed at the end of the program, a little traumatized by what we had all seen in the last 100 minutes.

Because of the similar themes and content, it was hard to consider each movie outside the collective, and I'd have to say that this year, the format was probably a disservice to the nominees. (Except for the one about the dying old woman who wondered what she missed when she didn't pursue a same-sex relationship in 1963.)

"This was our first date after our baby was born," I heard a guy behind me tell the total stranger to his left. "What the hell??"

I, personally, was thankful that the only dog made it through unharmed.

Past, Picture, Present

I was recently messing with the settings on my desktop computer and inadvertently changed the screensaver. In order to restore my previous view of the glacier in Resurrection Harbor, I had to browse through my photo library.

These days when everyone has a camera in their pocket, it's easy to lose sight of the present in an attempt to capture the moment. I know I'm guilty of that, and I try to be more mindful of when and how often I open my camera app. Even so, as I scrolled through my Alaska Album, I was amazed anew at the grandeur of the scenery, and it was hard to believe that not only had I been there, but I had actually taken the pictures I was looking at.

(This is one of the little lakes on the vintage railway line from Skagway to White Pass Summit)

Gagvertisement

This time of year our sixth graders have a unit on media literacy, where they learn to identify the persuasive techniques in commercials. One of the more engaging activities has them working in small groups to view recent Super Bowl commercials and analyze them for their strategies.

The classes usually hum along during this assignment as students huddle in twos and threes, their intent faces illuminated by the glow of their iPads, their ears plugged with earbuds. So I was a little surprised this morning when a student approached me with an urgent request to leave the room.

"I don't feel so good," he moaned.

"Do you need to go to the clinic?" I asked.

"Nah," he shook his head, "I just need to get away from the Chunky Milk commercial."

Memorable? Yes.

Effective? You be the judge.

Garth, Ruthie, and Chuck

When I woke up this morning and heard the radio guy say, "It's February 7, 2019. Garth Brooks is 57 years old today,"  I wondered, in my half-awake state, how he could be possibly be soooo old. It seemed a little sad and wrong.

A little while later, I realized it was my friend Ruth's birthday, also. Just a few months older than I am, she too was turning 57. I reached for my phone to text her my best wishes.

Here's our exchange:

42 Minutes a Day

Having a student teacher reminds me of what a complex task we tackle every day: mastering content, delivering engaging instruction, and managing a mini-mob of evolving human beings. It is a little like juggling the universe.

And, how odd it is to sit on the sidelines and observe the students in my classes being instructed by someone else! The novelty of the perspective is bright and shiny; I have the opportunity to actually look at each one of the 131 kids I teach, in real time, and see the person he or she is, with a whole world of hopes and worries and dreams and losses.

New Sheriff in Town

My student teacher has been getting her feet wet, trying a little instruction over the last couple days. Even though we explained who she was and what her role would be, the shift has taken some students by surprise. They enter the room and are astounded to find me at my desk and the intern up front by the smart screen.

"C'mon guys!" she encouraged them this morning. "You need your iPad and your writing notebook! Let's get ready to go!"

One student stood by her table, stunned. "But... where are we going?"

The Grind

What? Rising at the usual hour and working a full day, five days a week?

There must be some mistake!

Now about that 61 degrees in February...

Freewriting

"We can write about anything, right?" asked a student the other day when I introduced the new daily free-writing assignment.

"Anything," I assured her.

"Then I'm going to write about that!" she pointed out the window and up. "What is it anyway?"

I looked at the skeleton of the elementary school being built in our former parking lot. "The school?" I tried. She shook her head. "Those big wooden beams wrapped in plastic?"

"No! Those white things in the sky! There were only 2 before, but now there are six."

I looked up, way up. Six bright white contrails scored the brilliant blue sky. "Do you really not know what those are?" I asked with wonder. 

I could tell by her face that she did not. 

"They're airplanes," I explained. "It's so cold that their exhaust freezes and leaves a thin cloud behind them."

"But I see them in summer, too," she replied.

"They are miles above us!" I said. "It's always cold up there."

She was silent. We looked at the sky together. I was thinking of all the hundreds of people aboard those flights, wondering where they were going and why. I don't know what she was thinking, but I hope she wrote about it.

Good for What Ails Ya

Sometimes it's easy to focus on the inconvenience and, let's be honest, expense of having a dog. Arrangements have to be considered before spending any significant time away from the house; quality food and veterinary care are pricey. Plus, when your dog is young and energetic, she needs considerable exercise, every day.

It was this last condition that brought us to the dog "gym" at noon today. It was too cold and muddy for Lucy to play anywhere else, so Heidi arranged a crew of three of her canine buddies to meet us down there for open hours. The place is really nothing more than a cavernous industrial space with inexpensive agility equipment, rubber mats thrown on the floor, a couple of skylights punched into the 25 foot steel roof, and whitewashed cinder block walls with colorful frolicking dogs stenciled upon them, but the joy that being there gives Lucy is contagious. Watching her literally leap and bound and bounce and pounce, tail up and tongue out, is a warm remedy for any cold, muddy day.

Imagined Life

Yesterday I had an appointment at home at 3, which forced me to dash out the door along with the students a little after the last bell of the day. At 3:30, when the serviceman was finished, I started dinner. Josh and a couple of his friends were coming over at 6, and I made a hearty vegetable and shrimp posole and baked a cranberry cake with caramel glaze and whipped cream. Next, I vacuumed and set the table, then laid a fire to start a little later. Soon it was time to go get Heidi from school, so I bundled Lucy into the car, and she bounced around the frozen fields outside our building for 20 minutes or so. On the way home, we got a text from our neighbor, and ended up inviting her over for dinner, too. It was a lovely evening, enjoyed, I think, by all, and as we loaded the last of the dessert plates into the dishwasher, I couldn't help but wonder what else in the world I could accomplish if I left school every day at my contract time.