Season of Light

Just as expected, with Thanksgiving 2020 in the books, Christmas lights have started twinkling everywhere. Last night on a walk through the neighborhood we saw a dad and his perhaps three-year-old daughter strolling hand in hand admiring the decorations. "I'm just so excited!" the little girl cried, dropping her dad's hand and dashing forward. "Look! There's some more lights!"

I have to admit I understood the feeling. There is something quite thrilling about colorful lights, especially as the days grow shorter. Perhaps it is the promise of Christmas and all that holiday brings, but it could also be a little more primordial: in darkness we are drawn to the light. Tonight as we walked home from picking up Lucy, the full moon rising added even more spectacle to the array of shining snowflakes, glowing candy canes, brilliant icicles, bright trees, and even Yoda in a Santa hat. Undeniably, my step lightened and my mood lifted, and the hours spent in front of the computer dropped away.

Concerned, I turned to Heidi. "What are we all going to do in January?"

The Good Genes

Richard and Annabelle had an argument while we were at the beach last week. They're teenagers and siblings, so it was bound to happen. "You got all the bad genes in the family!" Richard spat at his sister in the heat of the disagreement. 

I thought about his observation this evening when I called my aunt to catch up and wish her a belated Happy Thanksgiving. "I'm really sorry I'm calling so late in the weekend," I said. "I feel bad."

"Don't ever feel bad about that," she told me. "I am the world's worst caller! I have no place to complain."

"Well, I am the world's second worst caller, then!" I replied. "But it's nice to know that I come by it honestly."

As our conversation drew to a close I said, "Well, I'm going to let you go. I know it's your dinner time."

"That's right," she agreed. "We're having turkey noodle soup tonight."

"Does it have tomatoes in it?" I asked, because that's how my mom always made the soup after Thanksgiving.

"Oh, yes!" she answered. "It has to have the tomatoes!"

"Wait until I tell Courtney," I laughed, mentioning my sister. "She HATES the tomatoes in the turkey soup!"

"Where did we get her?" my aunt asked.

"I know," I said, "and she's a pretty good phone caller, too."

A Glass Darkly

"It's a shame we didn't do this when Mom was still around to enjoy it," my sister said to me the other day at the beach. She was rolling the pastry for our pumpkin pie. 

I swiveled the tall stool on the other side of the counter around from my ocean view to face her. "I was just thinking of Mom, too," I said.

"Well, she's never far from thought," my sister answered, and she was right. 

I had been thinking all week of when this very same group had gathered at the beach eleven years ago for my mom's 70th. It was June and the summer was young, and so it seemed we all were. My mom was a vigorous new septuagenarian, my older nephews were in their teens, my sister's kids were 18 months and nearly 4, and this blog was just a few months into its run. Despite the years in between, my impressions then reflect our experiences now.

Seaside 

This evening our dog chased a ball through the surf, leaving crescents of ragged claw-shaped prints across a field of tiny air bubbles in the flat, wet sand. Tonight the stars fill the sky in a way that is impossible in the light-washed nights of the city where I live. What will tomorrow be like? 

Seaside 2: What We Take with Us: 

I had a beach cruiser when I lived at the beach. What a ride! It was a cool black and pink one-speed Schwinn with high, padded handle bars, a wide, soft seat, nobby tires for some traction in the sand, and flat pedals so you could ride barefoot down the boardwalk. Gosh, I loved that bike. 

 

When we moved north, I brought my beach cruiser with me, but it was totally unsuited for the roads in my new town; they were way too hilly. I had been warned that I wouldn't get a lot of use out of it in the place that I was moving, but I couldn't let it go. Eventually, I bought another bike, and the cruiser decayed away in a leaky outdoor shed. The chain rusted; the tires went flat; the cushy handlebars cracked, and squirrels chewed through the seat cover and made off with the padding for their nests. I'm embarrassed to admit that eventually it ended up in the trash on another moving day, but I was glad when someone took it before the garbage truck came. 

 

It turned out to be another tragic lesson on the difference between what we need and what we want-- my beach cruiser totally deserved better. 

 Seaside 3: I Love an Ocean 

Today my nephew and I were sitting in the surf. He's almost four and has a healthy respect for the sea; in fact, he's terrified of it, so we were way up at the waterline where the waves could just reach us. I don't usually sit at all at the beach, and I'm not one to sunbathe or nap, either. I like to swim, or beach comb, or play frisbee or catch, or build things in the sand, but sitting still, not so much. Still, there we were, the outgoing tide carving little gullies beneath our heels and butts, and looking around, I noticed that we were surrounded by hundreds of tiny little clams about the size of a baby's fingernail. They were translucent shades of white, orange or blue with the finest of stripes and subtle variations in color. When the water left them temporarily high and dry, they would each extend a teeny, nearly transparent, fleshy foot to flip themselves vertical and then disappear beneath the sand in a blink. Enchanted, I showed my nephew, and we watched them together for a while. I picked a couple up and put them in some sand in his hand, and they buried themselves there. "Isn't that cool?" I asked him. 

 

He nodded. "I love an ocean," he sighed. 

Seaside 7: Sunset Sunrise 

On the east coast, the sun does not set over the ocean. There are lovely sunrises for those who get up early enough, but for a sunset over water, you have to be on a mighty big lake or bay. Tonight, as the sunset washed the sky behind a bunch of houses and trees to our west a faded pink, we bid the first farewell of our vacation. My mom has a 6 AM flight in the morning, and so she left to stay with some friends who live closer to the airport. After yet another perfect day at the beach, some late afternoon Wii Karaoke, and a great dinner of crab cakes, homemade slaw, and salads (it pays to have high-end leftovers), there were tears-- as there always are when our family parts-- and the gray light of the dusky evening seemed to reinforce the undeniable fact that all that was left of our vacation was the packing up and getting out of the rental place by 10 AM.

Adapt or...

It's a cliche to say that the beach is relaxing, and yet, being here for Thanksgiving seemed to give permission to relax some of the Thanksgiving traditions we have had for so long. 

For one thing, we started making and eating our pies and desserts early in the week to avoid that feeling of must eat, even after one of the heaviest meals of the year. The menu for our holiday feast was streamlined, a few favorites left out or simplified in the interest of saving time and being able to enjoy the amazing weather-- 70+ degrees in November! The parade was no longer de rigueur viewing-- why watch the rain in Herald Square when the sun was shining on the ocean right outside our door? And Black Friday? Well, I almost got away without spending a cent, but the seafood market was right there as my sister and I were pedaling our beach cruisers, and shrimp tacos instead of pasta night seemed like another wise modification. 

And who knows? This is our second Thanksgiving at the beach. That in itself may be a new tradition.

Thanksgivingtide

We passed what must have been a family celebrating Thanksgiving on the beach this morning. About 18 or 20 folks, of at least three generations, some dressed up, some playing in the sand, many wearing masks, and all standing a responsible distance apart, smiled and chatted in a warm November sun. A light breeze blew off the tumbling sea, the surf still up from the storm that passed through last night. There was no turkey or dressing or cranberry sauce, but their gratitude at safely gathering in these treacherous times, and in such a beautiful place, clearly matched my own.

Oysters and Pea Crabs

It started with a conversation about dinner. "Should I get some oysters for tonight?" Emily asked. From there we discussed whether they should be raw or Rockafellered. A quick call to the seafood market revealed that oysters were only available by the pint or in the shell, and for our purposes the jar would not work. 

"Let's get an oyster knife and learn how to shuck them!" I suggested. "Wouldn't that be a fun family vacation project?" 

So Emily got the oysters, and I went to ACE Hardware to get the knife and a pair of gloves. "Of course the knife will go right through these," the guy at the store shook his head as he pointed out the gloves. "They'll give you a better grip, but it's a dangerous, dirty business to open oysters. Better to go to a raw bar."

I thanked him for his help and ignored his advice. Upon arriving home I showed the new gear to Victor. "Are you up for learning to shuck oysters?" I asked, and before too long he was doing some research on YouTube. Dinner time found the two of us in the kitchen poking and prying and twisting and popping and scraping. It wasn't long before we got the hang of it, and pretty soon we had a plate of six oysters on the half shell.

"This one has a little crab in it!" Victor said as he popped open the next one. Sure enough, a tiny round crab the size of his thumbnail feebly waved its eight legs. Treat was working on his computer at the table, and he quickly searched the creature as Victor and Emily took pictures. 

It turns out that it was a pea crab, which is a parasite that invades the oyster when they are both larva and attaches itself to the gills, eating part of the oyster's food as it filters through. The crab does not harm the oyster. "Will it harm us?" we wondered.

"You can eat them, and, listen to this," Treat read, "they were said to be one of George Washington's favorites.

We set the little crab aside and continued shucking oysters. Two more of them had crabs in them, and the three tiny crustaceans wiggled weakly as we debated what to do with them. It seemed cruel to throw them away, and even though the ocean was just steps from our door, they couldn't survive alone in the sea; it was most likely they would become some other animal's meal. I sat down for a moment and pulled out my phone to read up on these pea crabs. According to my research, they were actually a sign that the oysters were fresh and healthy. Not only edible, they were reportedly delicious either raw or fried.

With that, I got a little skillet and tossed some butter in it. When it was sizzling, I apologized to the little crabs and tossed them in. They turned from gray to a delicate pink, sort of like shrimp. A sprinkle of salt a and a squeeze of lemon later, I plated them in the center of a small fiesta ware plate and showed them to Victor, Treat, and Emily. 

Treat tasted one first. "It's really good!" he said.

Victor had the next. "It is," he agreed.

Emily let me have the last one. The tiny bite was crispy and crabby, a little like soft shell crab, and actually pretty delicious. "I can see why George Washington liked these!" I said.

Later, as I rinsed the gloves and washed the oyster knife, I thought of the guy at the hardware store and shook my head. No way any raw bar could have been better.

Teach from the Beach

Ever since we have started working from home we have been tempted to relocate temporarily and carry out our virtual duties from somewhere fun and beautiful. Today I finally got to try that model out. 

On the day before Thanksgiving Break, no teacher plans a serious lesson, and with the added complication of only teaching one of our two block days, my plan was to log on, take attendance, and direct the students to a light activity, leave the call, and enjoy the ocean view from my window. 

It didn't exactly go that way... the beach house where are staying is lacking robust wifi; so much so, that the only place I had a reliable signal was next to the router. So I scooted a tall kitchen stool over to the nearest chair in the living room, plunked my lap top onto the seat and spun it around to face me. At 7:45 in the morning, the sun rising over the ocean created a glare on the screen, so I pulled the blackout curtains, placed my iPad on my knees, held my breath, and joined the call.

And everything went just fine!  Neither the ambient conversation of my non-working family, nor the barking of four dogs impeded my instruction, (although my empathy for the kids who work in such conditions every day increased a hundredfold) and I knew at the end of every class that I?

was still at the beach.

Late Autumn Dip

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how cold would you say it is?" Annabelle asked me as I shivered in the outdoor pool at our beach house this afternoon. When we arrived, it seemed amazing that the pool was still open so late in the season, even here in the Southern Outer Banks of North Carolina. And yet? There it shimmered two stories down, deep blue and inviting, rivaled only by the wide sky and the ocean just beyond. And today was the day, nearly 70 and very sunny, that I decided to take the plunge, literally. To be fair, I was egged on by Annabelle, and the two of us stood first ankle deep in the frigid water and then up to our knees. I might have changed my mind and said no, but I did not. Punching the swimming workout on my watch, I listened to it counting down and 3-2-1 dove in. The cold water took my breath away, and even though I could easily stand, I lifted my feet and began treading water to stay warm. 

"An 8!" I answered. "Are you coming in?"

EUI

I glanced at my watch before taking it off for the night and noticed that I only needed 35 calories to close my activity ring. "I'll be back!" I told Heidi and headed for the spare room and the Bosu ball. I had enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine, but it seemed like a great idea to do a little vigorous step activity to meet my goal. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if...

Well, maybe I wouldn't have gotten away with it, because about 2 minutes in, I stepped down from the bouncy Bosu and felt my ankle roll. I heard it crackle, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor. Miraculously, it was a soft landing, and although my ankle was sore, I could stand. A couple of ibuprofen and a compression brace later, I was in pajamas and off to sleep, 10 calories shy of my daily goal but feeling fortunate and a little wiser for the reminder that at my age? I need to be careful! 

Tales from the Chat 2

Because of the way block scheduling works at our school, I teach four of my five sections alternating two and two every other day, but there is one class I see every day for half a block. Splitting the lesson and activities in a way that makes sense adds an extra layer of planning, but so far it hasn't been too bad. I do have to give that group two additional chat snaps every week, though, and that has led to some interesting conversations. 

For example, yesterday, since we were working on character traits, I asked them if they would consider themselves extroverts or introverts. I happen to have an assistant working with me in that class, and she and I have known each other for at least 20 years. She is an extrovert, and I am an introvert, something we have joked about a few times over the years. Before we read the answers, I asked the students to guess what we were. They knew Ms. P was an extrovert right away. "She's so smiley and friendly," one student said, "you can just tell!"

"What about me?" I asked. 

"You're definitely an extra!" one kid said. "You do everything in this class, and you are definitely always talking!"

"That's funny!" I said, "because that's just my teaching personality. Right Ms. P?"

"Oh yes!" she told them. "Ms. S is very quiet!"

Maybe because they've never met me in person, they were unconvinced. 

"Let's try to guess what the students are," I suggested to Ms. P. and we went down the list, making our predictions. Believe it or not, we got every single one right. I'd have to say we aced that formative assessment.

Sometimes it seems hard to believe that we are really reaching the kids we are teaching from a distance; getting to know them, making connections, and building bonds from so far away seems impossible. But there are small signs everywhere, you just have to check for them.

Tales from the Chat

When did we become such a people of indecision? Lately it seems that every answer the students give me begins with "It depends" or ends with "some where in the middle." It's so wishy washy!

For example, before we started our lesson on organizing an argument essay this week, I asked the kids to reply in the chat whether they thought they were organized or disorganized. A few students were willing to commit quickly and succinctly with one choice or the other, but most of them wanted to split some hairs, equivocating along the lines of what the situation was or how long it would take to become and/or stay organized. 

There were a couple of great answers though. One kid confessed that he was extremely disorganized, but he could always find whatever he needed. Speaking as one with a similar approach, it sounds like he has system, whether he knows it or not. 

Another boy wrote that he used to be disorganized, but that had changed. 

I asked him to unmute and elaborate. 

"Well," he started, "at the beginning of the school year everything was new and confusing." 

I nodded sympathetically. 

"Distance learning was hard," he continued, "and I lost track of some things. But now I'm really organized!"

"Wow! What changed?" I asked, impressed.

"I have some folders," he explained, "and my mom sits right next to me."

Now, she seems like a resolute person.

A Couple of Shakes

Just when I was feeling kind of low about the limitations of distance learning, a couple of genuine connections with kids grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. 

With block schedule, I teach 2 1/2 classes a day, the same lesson 5 times, but one of those sessions is split over 2 days. I'm really lucky that the first group I have most of the time is very high functioning and pretty small. They are the perfect trial subjects, and I often tweak the plans when their class is over. That's what happened today-- I realized that an opportunity for collaboration would improve the assignment, and so I quickly set up breakout groups for the next class. 

Many of those kids are English language learners, but again, they are very compliant and generally hardworking, and hopping in and out of their small groups as they worked together to complete their assignment was amazing. Not only were they helping each other, but when I was there they were also asking questions and interacting with me; it was a refreshing break from the radio silence that I hear so much of the time. 

In the next class, My trusty teaching assistant was running a bit late from her earlier class, and so I asked for a volunteer to read the chat as I checked the students off for attendance and participation. There was a moment of awkward silence, but then one girl, who is usually pretty shy, unmuted her mic and accepted the job. It was so great to hear a new voice transforming the monologue to more of a conversation, and what was even better? The other kids posted much more quickly. I think we might be on to something there!

And honestly? I'm willing to give almost anything a shake to help these students engage a little bit more with their learning.

I Wash My Hands

The latest update for the Apple Watch OS has a hand-washing feature. Any time my watch senses enough back and forth motion of the hands a little chime sounds and a timer counts down to 20 seconds. When all is done, and my hands are clean, a little message of congratulations glows on the tiny screen. It's silly, but after a day spent in front of the computer, when my exercise and move goals seem almost certain to be unattainable, it sure is nice to know that I can wash my hands like nobody's business!

Goodnight Garden

There's a frost warning tonight, and so when I hung up from my final meeting of the day, I laced up my boots and walked up to the garden this afternoon. The day was sunny, but blustery and kind of cold; dark and light clouds raced across the sun, and it felt like the forecast was right. Two hours and twenty pounds of green tomatoes later, our plot was cleared out. Cages stacked and compost bin full, I hefted that last bag of bounty onto my shoulder, closed the gate for the season, spun the combo on the lock, and headed home.

Say Yes to the Turnips

 What does Thanksgiving look like in 2020?

Not sure, but I did get the rutabagas today!

The Will and the Way

I woke up stressing about the plants on my deck and the next unit in my English class. 

I usually bring my plants into my classroom for the winter: the wide windowsill and western exposure provide a perfect home for them in the cold, dark months of the year. Our house already feels stuffed to the seams with the addition of two working spaces and everything else we think we need to survive 2020, and I have been wrestling with the plant situation since September. And as an extra complication, our cat eats any non-toxic plant within her reach. Given those restrictions, where could they possibly go?

Fortunately, we have had a splendid fall, but rain tonight and the threat of frost on Tuesday forced my attention on finding the solution today. As it turned out? I simply needed to start carrying the smaller plants inside to find that we do actually have a place for them on the high shelf in the spare room. Once they were squared away, finding space for the larger plants was a bit more challenging, but manageable. I have great hope that all will successfully overwinter, surviving until we can move them outside again. And to be honest, their green is a vibrant addition to our indoor time. 

If I could only figure out how the students can team up virtually to make commercials in January, I might be able to sleep in a little tomorrow.

The New Necessary

As winter approaches, we usually deposit a pair of gloves or mittens in the pockets of each coat or jacket so that we are never caught without them on cold days. Last evening, as we headed down the street to an outdoor birthday party for an 8-year-old neighbor,  I dug my hands into the pockets of my vest and was pleased to find the gloves I had stuffed in there last year. The weather turned a little nippy after the sun set, and who wants cold fingers at a party? 

It turned out, I didn't need them. There were a few logs crackling in a portable fire pit in the center of the gathering. What I did need, though, I didn't have. Despite keeping social distance of six feet, everyone was wearing a mask. I had a gaiter around my neck, and I pulled it up over my mouth and nose, but it was rather uncomfortable for the length of time we were there. 

It had simply never occurred to me to grab one of the many masks we have in a basket by the door; even after six months of masking, some part of my reptilian brain must still be in denial. 

But when I got home? You can bet I added some masks to the mittens in my jackets.

Another Sorrow

A good friend of my mom's passed away last night. June was 88, but more active than a lot of people 10 or 15 years younger. She was a part of my mom's gym and coffee group, and with their friend Barb, they traveled all over, most notably to Europe, and China, and Vegas, and Florida every February. The three of them had a standing date for the Minnesota State Fair the last week of every August, and until the last week of my mom's life, they emailed each other every single morning to check in and make sure that each of them was safe and sound and ready to see another day. My heart goes out to Barb; how empty her inbox must feel.

June had been feeling a little off and then progressively worse for months, but like what happened to my mom, her doctors brushed it off as one minor thing after another until she reached a crisis and went into the ER three weeks ago. There a CT scan suggested advanced cancer, a diagnosis which was confirmed a short time later. She spent her last days at home, surrounded by family and friends. 

As her daughter wrote this morning, "She had 88+ good years and three bad weeks," and when you put it like that? It's hard to imagine asking for much more. But she will be missed by those of us she leaves behind, one more loss in a terrible year.

Why I Can Never Have Chickens

"I'm thinking of making something with pumpkin for dinner tonight," I told Heidi this afternoon.

"Great," she said. "I'm sure it will be good if you make it!"

I walked over to the sideboard and looked at the 4 remaining pumpkins from our garden. "Which one should I cook?" I asked.

"Does it matter?" she replied.

"Not really," I shrugged, "but for some reason? I feel a little bad about chopping them into pieces, throwing them in the oven, and eating them!"

Blah-liday

 It was not a jolly holiday around here today. A muggy, overcast morning gave way to a drenching, tropical afternoon. After working for most of the gray, gray day, I had to get out of the house, so at 4:30 I pulled on some boots and my raincoat, leashed up the dog, and headed out for as brisk a walk as we could manage. Lucy is a sniffer, she never met a patch of grass or invisible trail along the side of a fence that she didn't long to lose her nose in. Such aromatic shenanigans make it challenging to maintain any speed, and so we traded off jogging and meandering, eventually compromising our way down to the local shopping district at the foot of the hill. I was surprised to see a few hardcore restaurant patrons sitting at somewhat soggy tables beneath dripping awnings, but aside from them, the sidewalks were mostly empty. Rounding the bend to the library square I did a double take at the Christmas Tree, all set up and decorated. And although Veteran's Day is mighty early for that kind of cheer, I do confess my spirits rallied just a bit at the sight. I snapped a quick selfie and then off we trotted toward home.

Small Victories

Today was the day when it finally fit in the curriculum to have the students enroll in the online app for writing skills that our school system subscribes to. It's not super complicated: I log in and create classes, and then the students follow a link to set up their accounts and join my class. 

And yet... 

Over the four years that we have been using this platform, even as I give directions and circulate throughout the classroom, somehow there are always one or two kids who get into the wrong class, or worse can't join at all, and I never know until the first assignment is due. So I was prepared for problems when I added this activity to my plans, and I built in some time to resolve them.

And yet...

This time

every

single

student

joined our class and started the assignment! 

Oh, sure, there were a few kids I had to talk through the process. Click on that big blue button under the pink person in the weird desk. Do you see it? Do you see it?  Now log in with your school Google. 

But at the end of the day, I gave the assistant in my class a virtual high five. "They are all in!" I told her. "That never, ever happens, even in person!"

"I know," she said. "We must be getting good at this stuff!"

Having Written

I have my writing group tonight. When we started 14 years ago, the four of us met every month, almost without fail. Back then, I was fresh from the National Writing Project Summer Institute for teachers where the writer within me had awakened. Having the chance to write every month for an audience was intoxicating and fun, and the food, wine, and company were just as potent. 

Since then, our meetings have become a little less frequent, perhaps six or seven a year, and of course this year, the COVID crisis has curtailed our gathering even more; we met once in February and were all set to meet at the end of March when social distancing and lock downs upended that plan along with so many others. We were able to find time to meet outside in late July, though, and this mild November weather has offered the chance to meet outdoors one more time this year.

Over the years, the food, fun, and fellowship haven't lost a glint of their luster, but writing? Well, that's a different story. Obviously, I write regularly, in a few weeks I'll hit 4,000 posts on this site. But while writing every day does build my fluency, I sometimes wonder what the trade off is, and I often ponder that very question in the days leading up to my writing group. The empty screen illuminates my doubts. Where's the passion? What's the point?

But tonight, after a nice dinner and a glass or two of wine, when I pull out whatever I bring to share with the group, and we all adjust the reading glasses that none of us wore when we started, I'll take a deep breath, start to read the words that I put on the page, and I'll remember.

Birthday Wishes

Twenty years ago , on Heidi's birthday, the election between Gore and Bush went into overtime. It was a first for modern history, and definitely nothing we expected as we celebrated both her birthday and what we hoped would be four more years with a president we had voted for. We left my brother's house that evening kind of stunned and unsure, and the disappointment with what happened several weeks later has hung vaguely over every fourth birthday for Heidi ever since.

All that was washed away yesterday afternoon when this election was called for Joe Biden. The birthday texts came pouring in, all with a similar sentiment. "Happy Birthday! Enjoy your new president!"

I think she will.

On the Face of It

We had the annual meeting for our community garden this morning, and like most large gatherings safely should be, ours was held virtually. So, at a little before 9 AM, I dutifully clicked on the link to the Zoom call, joining 65 other gardeners as we conducted the business of approving the budget and electing a slate of officers to lead the community through the next season. And I participated in the way I have become so familiar with over the last 8 months-- I replied in the chat and reacted with the built-in emojis. 

Here's what I didn't do, though; I didn't turn on either my camera or my microphone. I wasn't alone, and of course, I couldn't help but think of my students who never show their faces. For this meeting, the organizers actually requested that we keep both off, unless we were speaking, so I didn't feel bad at all about lurking behind a simple black square with name on it. 

Truth be told, I am a an immigrant to this land of virtual interaction, such things were literally science fiction when I was in school. That's my excuse, but the fact of the matter was, I didn't want to turn my camera on, and the people who had theirs on looked odd in that weird video call way: the awkward camera angle, the strange lighting, the distracting background. I didn't want any part of that. 

And although my students are digital natives-- the first iPhone is older than most of them-- they still resist turning the camera on. I guess some things cross generations and citizenship, but it's really hard to teach those little glowing circles!

Ailing Debate

 Another sign of the times...

As the kick-off to our persuasive writing unit, I always ask students if they like arguing. In the past? I have found that sixth graders generally love to argue, and any assignment with the word "argument" in the description or directions at least sounds kind of fun to them.

Today, though, when I posed the question Would you rather argue or walk away? in the chat snap the vast majority of students chose walk away. And when asked why? Well, one student put it like this, "I don't like to waste my time on idiots."

"It is possible to disagree respectfully," I said to the little round circles with their initials in them, but, and I know this anecdotal...

Crickets.

What They'd Rather

One of my online teaching hacks is to give the students a "chat snap" at the beginning of every class. This quick question is posted at the top of the agenda in our Learning Management System, and so students have to navigate from our call to that site, which is where I want them to end up anyway. Then they post their reply in the chat, so I know that they are both present and engaged. As they post, I or my co-educator reads the answers out loud, and we often ask follow-ups to make a connection with each student before the instruction begins. 

I try to make the question fun, but also relevant to the lesson in some way. So, for example when we were working on leads to hook their readers, the chat snap was to post the first sentence of their independent reading book. And when we were looking for topics for their food narratives, the question was, If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Yesterday and today the assignment was to begin the second quarter by reflecting on their writing from the first. The chat snap was, Would you rather be able to know the future or change the past? Why? My hope was to use our conversation as a hook for the notion of reflecting and setting goals, but also to be able to manage any anxiety about current events by saying, "Who doesn't want to know what's going to happen in the election?!"

Their answers were mostly of either the I'd go back and fix my mistakes variety or the I just want to know what's going to happen sort. The replies of the students in one of my sections, however, were notable in their responsibility and altruism. I'm not sure if it's relevant, but all but one of them were from families with parents who had moved to the United States from another country. 

Here's what some of them said:

change the past, so I can make peace and stop war

change the past and stop corona

know the future, because I want to see what the James Webb telescope can see in the universe when it launches next year

change the past and make COVID go away

change the past, because I can redo all the tests

go to the future and see what will happen to humanity and the earth

But don't worry! At least one of those writers had a very kid-like caveat:

also, stop homework from being invented.

Gee, Mrs. Cleaver

I watched my share of 50s and 60s TV when I was a kid. Back then, shows like I Love Lucy, Gilligan's Island, and I Dream of Jeannie ran in continuous loops in the afternoons. We knew their stories so well that we called them, The one with...

One show I never really watched too much was Leave it to Beaver. I don't know if it was programming or content, but it seemed like the show was never on enough to get us hooked. I could say the same about Dennis the Menace and The Donna Reed Show-- they were around, but they just weren't on when we watched.

Even so, I recognized an Eddie Haskell when I was confronted with him this morning. "Let me take a look at your reflection before you leave the call," I told one of my sixth graders near the end of class.

"Go right ahead," he answered brightly. "And may I say? I want to thank you for bringing it to my attention that my writing could use more detail! I truly never thought of that before!"

I pulled up the image of his assignment. It was a scribbly mess. "Do you need to type your work?" I asked him.

"What a great idea!" he said. "Can I have a little extra time?"

Around the Bend

In addition to consciously not worrying about the election results, I spent a big chunk of the last four days grading and commenting on the first "big" writing pieces that my sixth graders have composed. As such? It's been a bit of a slog.

But reading my friend Joanne's blog post about hope and the election reminded me this morning that Martin Luther King said "the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice," and her optimism, and his, made me feel a little better.

And at the end of reading all that earnest, sloppy, wonderful, imperfect writing I was reminded that, in my experience, the arc of sixth grade is also long, but it bends toward literacy. 

Onward!

Tired Truth

"Who do you think will win the election?" my sister asked me as we FaceTimed yesterday.

"I refuse to say," I answered. "I just don't have it in me to speculate. It would make the outcome even more disappointing. I just want it to be over."

"I know," she said and held up her phone to show me a meme that a friend of hers had shared. 

Yah. 

In the Ring

As I mentioned, one of the decluttering chores I did yesterday was to install the Ring doorbell I received for Christmas. For the last 10 months it's been languishing in its box as I wrestled with whether or not to keep it. For while I am kind of interested to catch a glimpse of the fox and deer that are rumored to pass by here, I liked the doorbell we already had, and I wasn't sure if the time and hassle of installing the ring would be worth it. So, the box just became one of those things that got moved when it was time to tidy up-- from the side board to the desk to the sideboard again, always placed somewhere that I would see it so I wouldn't forget about it and find it 15 years later. (I'm talking to you evaporated milk!)

Yesterday I made up my mind and reclaimed that 72 cubic inches of real estate. The installation, while not the snap they portrayed it to be in the directions, was not as complicated as I feared, and within 45 minutes my Ring was ringing and recording and reporting it all to the app on my phone and watch. 

No doubt the novelty will wear off, but every couple of hours I feel the need to check the footage and see who's been passing by. And while there has been no wild life, I have found cause for alarm. 

"Who are these sketchy guys lurking in the courtyard at 12:34 at night?" I asked Heidi, indignantly thrusting the phone over to her. 

"Um, isn't that our next door neighbor and the guy who's been staying with them?"

"Oh, yeah," I agreed, "that is them. But look at this! They delivered the paper at 3:11 AM! Why so early?"

"So it will be here when you get up?"

"Fine! but who's this guy in slides and bath robe?"

That stumped her for a minute. "Is he smoking?" she asked, squinting at the tiny screen.

I looked, too. "I think so."

"He's the other neighbor, all the way at the end. He must have gotten up and gone out for a smoke."

But mostly, the camera just captures us: me running out in the rain to rescue the pumpkins and the Halloween decorations, Heidi taking Lucy out, me locking the door before we go walking, us carrying groceries up from the car, mundane actions somehow elevated by the simple fact of their recording.