When the Spirit is Willing

For a number of reasons (no trick-or-treaters, no time, no interest) it's been a while since I've carved a pumpkin. A couple of weeks ago, I resolved that this year would end the drought, but to be honest, I've made and broken that promise to myself before. Even so, last night at around 5:30, when dinner was warming in the oven, and we were waiting for our neighbors to join us for our annual Halloween Light Crawl, it seemed like the perfect time to bring that big ol' pumpkin in off the porch and carve a proper jack o'lantern. 

It occurred to me then that I needed the right tools for the job, and I started with a Sharpie and an idea. Next came the utility knife-- the razor gave me more control of cutting than any implement I've used before. Once I had incised my design on the front, I took my keyhole saw and opened the pumpkin at the top. The insides were far stringier than I remembered, more like a spaghetti squash than a pumpkin, and I started excavating them with a big kitchen spoon like my dad used to use for the job. 

It quickly became clear that an implement with a shorter handle would give me the leverage I needed, and I tried first a rice spoon and then a scraper that fit in the palm of my hand. This last was a champ, and I soon had the insides down to a smooth shell. Then it was back to the saw to cut the eyes, nose, and mouth all the way through. A votive on the bottom, and before you could say oogie boogie, my jack o'lantern was lit and on the stoop. 

Later, as we strolled through the neighborhood admiring lights and decorations (but so many fewer than last year-- the stay at home orders really inspired folks last year, and we may never see that level of holiday decor around here again), I noticed how few real pumpkin jack o'lanterns there were. "It's a lot of work to make a real one!" my neighbor said when I voiced my observation.

"I guess you just have to be in the right mood," I agreed.

What Scares You?

In the spirit of Halloween, I asked students to share something they were afraid of. As always, their answers were a combination of predictable, cute, off-beat, and alarming. 

In addition to bugs and spiders, snakes and worms, death and the dark, jellyfish, sharks, roller coasters, heights, clowns and dolls, and their parents when they were mad, these sixth graders were also afraid of disqualifying in swim meets, having a worthless, boring life, how the universe goes on forever, the word 'moist', loneliness, no one loving them for who they are, and me (but I'm pretty sure that was a joke).

Another choice of activity for the day was to write a scary story, with the provision that it had to be appropriate for school. As she was working, one of the students raised her hand and asked if it was okay to have sex in her story.

"You want to have sex in your story?" I asked incredulously.

"IN-sects!" she corrected me with a gasp.

"Oh!" I said with a laugh. "Sure, why not? Bugs are fine! Definitely no sex, though." I wagged my finger and laughed some more.

She was not as amused as I was, though. "Ew, Ms. S," she wrinkled her nose, "just ew."

Maybe I should be afraid of losing my hearing!

Age Related

I was on the fence about dressing up for Halloween this year. I had a few options, but when it came down to it this morning, nothing really seemed right. It was just as well anyway-- at 6:45 am our friend Lauren was in the bathroom with Heidi working on the make up for her magnificent Maleficent incarnation. That being the case, I grabbed a pair of jeans, a turtleneck, some short boots, and a new sweater I bought last weekend and went over to the spare room to get dressed. 

The day was damp and gray, and I was looking forward to wearing the calf-length gray cardigan, despite the fact that Heidi had told me it was a little "old ladyish". Truth be told, I was drawn to all the long sweaters on display because they reminded me a bit of my mom, but I also thought that this particular sweater looked good on me. As it was, I was dressed and ready for some time before Heidi and Lauren finally came down the stairs. Heidi looked amazing, and I said so as I rose to go to school. 

"You're not wearing a costume?" Lauren asked.

"Yeah, I am!" I replied. "I'm going as an old lady."

I was only half joking. Last night I ran to the grocery store after a busy afternoon. After school I had walked up to the garden and worked for an hour before walking on to the house where we pick up our CSA. Loaded down with about 10 pounds of produce, I made the return trip home, and then hopped in the car to run to the store before cooking dinner. At the grocery, I filled a hand basket and quickly scanned my purchases at self-check. My four bags were ready to go when I called the attendant over. 

"I have a coupon and some beer," I told her. 

She took my coupon, but waved my ID aside. "I don't need to see that!" she assured me. "Let's make sure you get this discount, too!" she said and scanned a barcode she pulled from her pocket. 

"Thanks!" I replied and pulled the little wallet attachment off my phone to pay. My stomach twisted when I saw nothing but my driver's license and shopper's card in there. I remembered giving my credit card to Heidi the day before so she could return something, and I knew for certain that right now? I had no way of paying for my groceries.

"I'm in kind of a bind here," I confessed with more than a little embarrassment to the attendant once she returned. 

We went through my options, and she kindly agreed to take my groceries to customer service while I went to get my credit card. "You won't have to check out again," she assured me, and I dashed down to my car and sped home.

When I returned to the store about 15 minutes later, she waved as I passed and motioned to the customer service desk. But the manager there couldn't find a receipt, and it turned out that the kiosk I had used was out of paper, so they opened a register for me, and a cashier began unbagging, scanning, and rebagging my stuff. 

"I had a 10 dollar coupon," I told her, "is there any way I can get that applied again?"

She called the helpful lady over, and she brought my coupon and apologized that I had to be rung out again.

I thanked her again for all her help, and she turned to go back to her own station.

"Oh, and don't forget," she said over her shoulder to her coworker, "she gets the senior discount!"

A Wing and a Plan

I looked up from the announcements when there was a soft thump on the window during homeroom this morning. A puff of tiny feathers stuck to the glass and a cloud of the same floated, suspended on the air beyond. 

"That was a bird!" cried one of the students as the rest of us sat stunned. 

I went over to the window to see if I could triage the situation, but the sheer angle of the wall made it impossible to see anything. Still, it was all we could talk about, and a little while later, when some other birds attracted my attention, I told my first period class about it. Then I picked up the old binoculars I have sitting on the sill and focused on the roofline of the other school across the way.

"Wait!" one of the students said in astonishment, "are you actually using those binoculars to look at birds?"

"It's what they're here for," I shrugged.

"We should totally have a bird-watching club!" the student responded.

"Really?" I turned. "Would you be interested in that?" 

Several kids said that they would. "It should be Monday," one suggested, "because there aren't many clubs meeting then."

"Maybe we could get a grant for binoculars and field guides," I mused, surprised and a little excited by their enthusiasm.

"I'd love to draw birds," said the first student so wistfully it tugged my heart a little.

"Ms. M likes to photograph birds," another student reported, mentioning the science teacher. "Maybe she would teach us how to do that."

"We could ask her," I said, the tiny millet seed of an idea sprouting and taking root. I imagined Mondays spent walking through campus, starting with basic identification of common birds, maybe putting up some feeders, checking off our sightings, moving on to learning about migratory birds and their patterns.

"This is a good idea!" I clapped. "Let's see what we can do!"

Press 6 for Fresh Air and Chubby Cheeks

 There has been a professional difference of opinion around school lately as to whether the kids should *ever* be able to use their phones during the instructional day. It is our long-standing policy that phones should be powered off and put away from bell to bell, but times have changed, and attitudes have, too. 

Some of our staff feel quite strongly that it is unreasonable to ask students, especially 8th graders, to give up their phones for the whole day. These teachers point out that there are valid instructional uses of the devices, as well as the opportunity to use them as incentives and breaks as we all navigate our return to both full-time school and block scheduling. They mention that some parents, too, want to be able to reach their students during the day.

Those on the other side of the debate feel that phones are nothing but a distraction at best and opportunity for mischief and malice at worst. They remind us that our district provides each student with a device to use in school, and so phones are technically not necessary. And in the event of family emergency, they say, every classroom has a phone, and parents can call the main office at any time to reach their student.

There seems to be a generational divide on the issue. Younger teachers who have grown up with phones themselves are more likely to favor a more flexible policy. In high school, students are allowed to have their phones and use them at the discretion of the teacher, so why not have a rule more closely aligned to that one?

Older teachers seem to value consistency, especially when it comes to undercutting student resistance to any rules they don't like. They are more comfortable operating in loco parentis and setting unpopular boundaries in support of what they feel are the kids' best interest. What 11-14 year old can resist the buzz of a text?

It is a dilemma indeed, and in the midst of this disagreement the sixth grade planned a mini-field day activity for our students on early-release day today. After a quick review with administration of some school rules that have slipped a bit (phones included-- our policy still stands, for now), kids headed out into the cool morning and played a variety of old-fashioned games, then had some free time to socialize and play some more with all of their sixth grade peers. 

Because we were outside, masks were optional, and it was a wonder to see some of the sixth graders I've come to know over the last 2 months from the nose down for the first time. Another teacher and I stood marveling at their baby faces. 

"It's so weird!" she said.

"I know," I agreed, "but I sure could get used to it!"

Version of Events

As an extension to the personal narrative assignment we offered writers a chance to create a graphic version of their stories using an online app. The results have been charming-- kids are so visual and so technology-savvy, and I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the distillations of their memoirs. 

I especially got a kick out of one that featured me, in avatar form:

I feel so seen!

Bring on the Rain

 My watch buzzed as we were stepping out the door for our walk to pick up Lucy. Rain starting soon in Arlington, VA, it warned. 

"Should we drive?" I asked Heidi.

"We need the walk," she reminded me. "I'm going to bring an umbrella."

"I'm going to wear a hat," I said. "I don't care if I get a little wet. I"ll shower when we get home."

And off we went: down the winding steps, across the condo complex at the bottom of the hill, left at the corner, jaywalking (or jogging) across Walter Reed, down the bike path, up the winding hill, through the high school campus, across George Mason, around the corner, and up the street.

We heard the first rumbles of thunder a mile and a half in as we made our last turn. "I didn't see anything about thunder!" I said to Heidi. "Because that might have changed my mind."

"No kidding," she nodded as we climbed the steps to get Lucy.

"Do you guys want a ride home?" Sarah, our dog walker offered.

"Do we?" I asked Heidi.

"We need the walk," she reminded me again, and we quickly leashed up Lucy to head home.

"Call me if you need to," Sarah said helpfully.

We were just past the stadium, which had been full of athletes practicing three different sports on our way, but was now deserted when the wind almost turned Heidi's umbrella inside out and the skies opened. "Run for the snack bar!" I shouted over the storm, before my hat blew off and I had to reverse course to retrieve it.

We were both soaked by the time we got to the covered space. "I think it's going to let up soon," I said, pointing to the noticeably lighter sky to the southwest. 

We stood dripping for a while, but just when we were about to call for help, the torrential rain turned to a very manageable downpour. "Let's go!" I said, and out we stepped into the rain. 

Heidi's umbrella was fully protective, and my hat? Well, it stayed on my head, and to be honest I didn't care that I was wet. The wind was fresh and the rain was too.

Locally Famous

We decided to vote early today and headed out to a community center just up the hill from us. There was a bit of a line, but the day was beautiful, quintessentially October, golden sun, flaming leaves, luminous sky, and it was a pleasure to wait. A candidate for county board chatted us up as we stood. "I'm here for questions, or complaints, or--" he paused.

"Or votes?" I teased him. "You have ours." 

"Thank you!" he laughed and moved on down the line. 

There were several volunteers from the local Democrats, and at the top of the hour they had a mini-shift change. One young man made his way to the card table they had set up as a command center. He walked steadily on forearm crutches and said introduced himself in a loud voice. It was a name recognized from the sixth grade class 15 years ago. I turned to look at more carefully, and sure enough I could just make out the 11-year-old boy in the thin and rangy man with shaggy blond hair: the blue eyes were the same. I went back to say hello, removing my sunglasses and mask so that he might recognize me, too. 

In sixth grade, he was on our team, but not in my English class. He was in our school's functional life skills program, but he was full of personality and known to all. He didn't have many conversational filters back then, and I found the same was still pretty true. 

"How have you been?" I asked.

"Physically?" he replied, and waved his crutches at me. "I have these."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," I told him.

"That's muscular dystrophy," he shrugged.

"How's your mom?" I asked.

"She has a blood clot in her leg!" he reported. "From running."

"Well, at least she's staying active," I said, a little unsure where to take the conversation next.

"I think it's your turn to go in," he nodded to the door where Heidi was holding my place.

"I'm going to tell your teachers I saw you," I said. "They're going to be a little jealous."

"I know," he answered. "They liked me."

If I Know You

Lately Heidi has had a bee in her bonnet, or perhaps more seasonal and precise, a bat in her belfry, about her Halloween costume. This year she plans to go as Maleficent, the evil queen from Sleeping Beauty, and Lucy and the cats are going to dress as her bat minions. So yesterday as soon as our conferences were over we headed to Spirit Halloween where we found her costume, and subsequently ordered some bat wings for our pets. 

She was so excited that she tried it on this morning to preview the look. After the two of us thoroughly discussed the headpiece (cool), and cape-caftan gown (also kind of cool), and what her make up would be like, she decided to go show her friend down the way.

"You're just going to walk around the neighborhood dressed like Maleficent?" I asked. 

"Yep!" she answered cheerfully and out the door she went. 

I could hear though the kitchen window when she ran into our next door neighbor. "You look amazing!" she said, “so elegant and evil!” and then they proceeded to discuss the make up plan again.

"What about a staff?" our neighbor asked. "There's something very empowering about carrying a staff."

We had actually debated the staff situation at length, and Heidi finally decided against one because it would get in the way when she was walking Lucy.

"Well you look very elegant, and comfortable, too," our neighbor continued. "I love a caftan!"

Just then another neighbor happened by. "Why are you dressed up?" she asked.

"Who's dressed up?" the first neighbor asked and the three of them were still cracking up when yet another neighbor came upon the scene. 

"I have come to receive my punishment," she bowed to Heidi.

"Just stay away from spinning wheels," the other neighbor advised. 

A little while later Heidi came back inside. "It's a hit!" she reported.

I would say so.

Why Do They Have to Be So Good?

I confess that, despite the many years of experience I have with it, I often dread conference day. I have more than a little social anxiety about spending the day with a bunch of people I don't know, even for a good cause.

Things got a little better when we moved to student-led conferences: like so many things about middle school, the novelty of that model carries the day with sixth grade students and their parents alike. And it is true that once I shift into teacher-gear, the meetings themselves go quite well, but I am always happy when they are over.

As I am this afternoon, but I was reminded many times throughout the course of the day why we do conferences. For example, there was the student who said at least 10 times as many words today as I have heard her say all year. "She's not quiet at home!" her mother told me through the Thai language interpreter who was dialed in through the mobile phone I held close to the screen. I also learned that one of my students speaks Russian with his mother, another has 2 older brothers also at our school, and still another who is doing phenomenally academically doesn't feel like he has many friends. 

One of the kids mentioned in passing that his teachers talk too fast and that he is too shy to ever say anything when working in a group. And another said that the most surprising thing about middle school is all the profanity scrawled in the bathrooms and dropped carelessly in the hallways between class-- to her school is sort of a Lord of the Flies meets KidTown situation, but not so bad as to tell an adult about it. 

Pretty much every student had something surprising and relevant to share, and I was reminded again and again that as much as I personally dislike them, I also must admit that they are an important tool to support our students.

Titles Tell Their Own Tales

To prepare for a mini-lesson on crafting a "terrific title" for their personal narratives, I asked my students to consider the question of if their life was a book, what it would be called. I was a little surprised by how underwhelmed most of them seemed with their stories so far, giving them titles such as 

My Very Dull Monstrous Life
Sean's Unlucky Adventures
Downhill
A Boring Life
The Worst Book Ever
An Insignificant Life, or Don't Read This
A Boring, Depressing, Lazy Child
I Am Tired
The Most Unfortunate Girl in the World (But Still a Very Interesting Person)
A Bizarre Adventure
Life is Life
My Life Story
Diana's Unlucky Adventures
My Life's a Crisis
The Standard Life of Juliet
Unexpected
The Longest, Most Boring Book in the World
Misadventures of McKenna
Daily Life of a Kid
Amazingly Normal Adventures
Just ?
Never Ending

It occurred to me as we talked that the COVID crisis, which is going on 20 months now with no real end in sight, is just a little less than 15% of their entire lives, and closer to 20% of their conscious lives. Clearly it has taken a toll.

Even so, there were a few titles that might excite a prospective reader:

Talking to My Shadow
Carnival Time
Sapnap
Welcome to Jurassic Park
The Absurd Actions of Adventure Girl
Tiny Pencil Stealer
Army Brat
The Idiot of Middle School Strikes Back
A Secret that Won't Be Told

In addition to each being more of an invitation and less of a label, there's some resiliency in them, I think. 

If it's Good Enough for Superman

I haven't worn my exercise tights for a while. Back when stay-at-home orders were issued, they evolved from gym clothes to live-in clothes, and they were a go-to through virtual learning and right up to our return to school last spring. Once we were back in the building, though, it seemed unlikely that I could get a workout in on any kind of break, and as comfortable as they were, tights seemed a little too cas, even for me. 

Of course summer is too hot for any such garment, and now we are back at school full time again, so my nice little pile of tights with their practical side pockets has gone ignored, until today. A cool snap has given our area relief from some extended summery warmth, and at first the chilly mornings followed by warmer afternoons had me scratching my head for what to wear when I got home for school, but today? The answer was clear: Girl! Pull on a pair of tights! And so I did, even if it was just to walk down the big hill to the grocery and back up again with my dinner provisions.

I'm not gonna lie-- the old tights felt a little, well, tight, and after a summer of shorts I needed to make peace with just how close they were. But I did that on the walk to the store, where I filled three bags worth of groceries before hefting them back up the hill. 

On the way home I passed a neighbor. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"The grocery store," I answered.

"The one down the hill?" she replied with surprise.

"Yeah," I shrugged. 

"Impressive!" she said.

"It's not really that far--" I started.

"Still!" she interrupted. "The groceries! That's a load. And you're looking strong!"

I considering arguing, but then I thought better of it. "Thanks!" I said with a mock flex and a squat. 

We laughed, and as I strode on up the hill, the tights were feeling pretty good.

Euphemistically

Our sixth grade team is planning a little outdoor team-building get-to-know-you event for the morning of our early-release day next week. We want to get the kids moving in the fresh, October air, so the activities we have in mind are a variety of classic playground and field-day games that groups can cooperate and compete in. 

As we brainstormed the specifics the other day, someone mentioned Red light-Green light, which is enjoying renewed popularity because of its association with Squid Game, the wildly successful Netflix series from Korea. "Except with no guns, of course" the teacher added.

Through conversational free-association the game Red Rover, Red Rover was mentioned. "I wouldn't play that in this day and age," one of the team said. "Can you imagine? The kids would totally clothesline each other and there would be a law suit for sure."

We all sighed and nodded in agreement that time's have certainly changed.

"What about Steal the Bacon?" I suggested. "That's fun." I paused and considered. "But maybe we should call it Borrow the Organic Tofu Without Permission, so we can avoid any controversy!"

Re-entry Pains

There was a soft knock and a little jiggle at the door about 20 minutes before 1st period ended today. I craned my neck to peer out the interior windows and spotted a student who has been out of school for a few weeks. 

Even though she did a good job keeping up with her assignments, she looked more than a little glum when she figured out the door situation and stepped into the room. 

"Look who's back!" I announced heartily, and the other kids looked up from their writing with slight acknowledgement. Did I mention she's been out a while? 

"Welcome back!" I said to her. "I'm really glad to see you!" 

She gave me a nod.

"Seriously!" I told her. "It's been so long you forgot how to use the door!"

And that got a little laugh. I hope tomorrow will be better.

Bravo Pomodoro

A few years ago a friend told me about the Pomodoro Technique of time management. Named after a tomato-shaped kitchen timer, the premise of the method is a 25 minute-on, five-minute off routine, with a longer break after a couple of hours. She was using it to get some research done for her dissertation, and the structure of it helped her be more productive working from home. 

I've thought of that conversation more than a few times since then, but yesterday was the first time I tried the technique out. I had a lot of student assignments to grade, and I was resistant to even starting. But, I was behind on that task, and with conferences coming up next week, I needed to update my grade book. So I set the timer and then set to work. Twenty-five minutes flew by, and although the rules of the method insist on starting and stopping on time, I found myself continuing past the alarm. The five minute break also seemed a little longer than I expected, especially when I was doing kettle-bell swings or punch squats with dumbbells.

In any event, I got a lot done, certainly more than I have the past few weekends, and I would definitely give the pomodoro an encore. 

Lost Song

When I saw this morning that I had missed the news of Gary Paulsen's passing earlier this week, I took some time to mourn him,  listening to some interviews from last spring when he published his memoir, Gone to the Woods. I realized that although I've read at least 20 books by him, I had never heard him speak, and I was surprised by how soft his voice was. Not weak, no, just not as gravelly as I imagined it Having seen his picture, bearded and gruff, on the back of so many books these last 30 years. 

And then I thought how many times I had heard my own voice reading his words out loud, and I searched to see if there were any audiobooks of his that he had narrated himself. There were only three-- Woodsong, Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers, and My Life in Dog Years, all of them non-fiction, all of them about time spent outdoors with his dogs. 

I had read them all, but there was an excerpt from Woodsong in one of the sixth grade anthologies that I used with my students for years, and so I downloaded that recording and started to listen. I had forgotten how awful the beginning is, purposefully so, to make a point about what Paulsen thought he knew about nature and how wrong he turned out to be. Somehow, hearing the account of the wolves and the doe they chase down in Paulsen's own voice, was even worse than reading it; his sorrow and trauma come through so clearly.

I listened to a few more chapters and then I paused the recording. I could have lost myself all day in the woods of Northern Minnesota, but I knew I shouldn't. I had papers to grade and chores to do.

Years ago, my mother saw that Gary Paulsen was doing a reading near her home in the Twin Cities. She knew of my fondness and admiration for his work, and so she went to get a couple books signed as a surprise for me. When she and her friend got to the front of the line, Paulsen laughed as he took the books. "You girls seem a little old to be fans," he teased them.

In fact he and my Mom were born less than a month apart, and he was 82 when he died on Wednesday. The two of them lived long, full lives, but the world seems a lot emptier now that they are gone, and I miss them.

The Only Way Out is Through

 "Will you be here after school today?" one of my students asked in class this morning.

"Probably," I shrugged, since it's rare that I leave before 4:30.

"Oh, good!" she clapped. "My brother's home from college and he wants to come visit all his teachers!"

I forgot about our conversation until a little while after the dismissal bell rang, when I heard quiet conversation in the hallway. "There's yours!" my student said.

"Right there at the top!" a deep voice answered her. "That's something."

I knew they were looking at the quilt we had made of all the team t-shirts. Her brother's design had won the contest when he was in sixth grade, and that year we had all proudly worn his drawing of a dolphin.

A minute later my student poked her head in my door. "Here he is!" she announced. 

A more mature version of the intense, pink-cheeked boy I remembered stepped into the room, smiling. 

"How are you?" I greeted him.

"I'm great!" he said. "I'm doing well.

As we caught up he told me that he was an honors chemistry student at William and Mary, pre-med with his eye on cardiac thoracic surgery. 

"That's amazing," I congratulated him.

"Thanks," he answered. "I'm really happy. Things are good."

For me, talking to former students is rewarding, but it can turn awkward quickly. Once I've shared a memory or two of their time in my class, and they've told me what they are doing now, the conversation usually lags. A few months ago after one such encounter I decided that I would ask each of them what advice they might give their sixth grade selves. Today was my first chance to try out the question.

"I would tell myself to ignore all the mean and hateful things the other kids said to me," he answered immediately.

I nodded. "You always were a person who spoke your mind," I said. "I can see where that would make you a target."

"You know the story, right?" he replied.

I frowned, and he continued.

"When I was in seventh grade they made a "We hate you" club, and basically every day told me I should kill myself."

I gasped. "Did you get help? Did you tell someone?"

"Eventually I told my counselor and then my therapist, but not before I tried to commit suicide."

I shook my head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. 

"I'm fine now," he replied, and put his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Everything is really, really good."

I believed him. There was a lump in my throat when I said, "It's a terrible story, and it makes your accomplishments even more impressive."

"Thank you," he said, "and thanks for asking. I didn't expect to pour my heart today."

New Do

"Does my hair look okay?" Heidi asked this morning before we left for school. She had it in a fun, sloppy ponytail, a look she usually reserves for weekends.

"It's cute!" I told her, "totally fine for school."

I forgot about our conversation until this afternoon when the sound of running feet drew my attention immediately and I looked up from my computer and craned my neck to see if I needed to get out to the hallway. There was no need. Heidi was standing right outside my window, between her new room and mine, and the feet skidded to a halt when their owner noticed her. "That's right," she said sternly, "you better walk in this school." 

I watched the student approaching her, the expression on his face a combination of darn it and damn it, but then his eyes widened and he knit his brow. "You look new!" he said, scanning her suspiciously for a moment. "Don’t tell me— you got a haircut," he concluded and then continued past her into her room.

"At least he didn't say I looked old," Heidi said and followed him inside.

A Bit of a Stretch

"My story is too short!" one of my students announced with anguish today. 

"One strategy you might like to try to add extra detail is to close your eyes, imagine you are watching a movie of your story, and then write down everything you see and hear," I suggested.

"Well, that would be the most boring movie ever," she replied. "Can't I just leave it short?"

Give a Silly Answer

The question of the day was, "What did you do over your long weekend?" 

The answers were getting a little snarky right before lunch, so rather than call out the jokesters myself, I asked the class if they had any follow-up questions about each post. When one kid wrote that he breathed over the weekend, his classmates good-naturedly showed him how silly the answer was.

"Does anyone have any questions?" I asked after I read his post.

Several hands shot up, and so did the writer's eyebrows. He was not expecting any interest in his report.

"What did you breathe?" asked one.

"Air, duh," replied the kid.

"How did you breathe?" asked another.

"Through my nose," answered the kid.

Another student raised his hand. "How long did you breathe?"

"I'm still doing it," he answered.

"Wow," said his classmate. "You must really like breathing.

Oops! There it Is

Today was a day of learning in our district, and I'd like to hope that all involved learned a few lessons.

 First, when they were introducing the keynote speaker, the superintendent and his chief of staff were experiencing a technical difficulty they were obviously unaware of. After ten minutes with a buzzy, echoing audio feed that transformed their voices into those of TV aliens, the screen went black and a few minutes later the live event returned with all systems go. That is, until the keynote speaker tried to play a video in the first part of her presentation, and instead all we saw was her, obviously enjoying the video which we could hear, but not see. There was no chat enabled, and so she went on, obliviously, until the next clip didn't show either, and then we went back.

I extend all involved a lot of grace; in fact the next session I participated in was a straight up video call, and with no restrictions on the participants, I unpinned and re-pinned the ASL interpreter for all 350 of us at least twice while I adjusted my own view (in an attempt to clear the screen of all the people who were asked to have their cameras off, but didn't get the message.) Oh, and I'm pretty sure I stopped the recording for everyone when I tried to switch the call from my lap top to my phone.

No question! Technology is tricky. That's why we teachers always check and double check the settings on any virtual meeting we are running, because kids, people, humans, whoever! click where we shouldn't.

But it just seems like by now? 

They should have gotten that right at the top, too. 

I Must Do Better

"I'm starving!" I said to Heidi as we headed into our house after a 2 1/2 hour pet-store odyssey on a quest to find the perfect dog treats. "All I ate today was eggs, potatoes, and cookies!" I shook my head at my own indiscretion and sighed. "Shopping marathons and cookies for lunch? It's like the holidays are coming early this year."

Bumpy Transition

There were a few moments today when I was setting up my new phone that I was afraid my oldest text messages wouldn't transfer over. I would have considered that an unacceptable loss, worthy of a trip to the Genius Bar, even, because of the messages I have from my mom. And as I remained calm, trying to trouble shoot the situation, one of the things I did was to text her, in an attempt to force the recovery of that chain of messages. Miss you! I sent, and for a long while, too long, that was the only little speech bubble on a vast, empty white screen.

In the end, the issue was not technical, but rather one of patience. When at last my new phone was totally restored from the back-up I had done right before activating it, that message was just the latest in a conversation stretching back many years, much of it mundane, but all of it a treasure.

Imperfect Topic

I always tell my students that mistakes and catastrophes make the best stories. "Nobody wants to read about how you get straight A's without even trying!" I say. "Give us a little conflict! Give us some struggle!"

That's why I was kind of enthusiastic when one of the young writers in my class said that she was thinking of writing about the time she dropped a whole bowl of mashed potatoes in her friend's backpack.

This potato dropper is kind of popular, and her friend happened to be in the class, as were a couple of witnesses to the accident. They all started to recount the incident enthusiastically.

"That was soooo funny," said one.

"How did you even clean your backpack out?" asked another.

"I just scooped them out as best I could," the victim laughed. "There's probably some still in there."

"I just don't know what lesson I learned, though," the author sighed. "Don't drop your mashed potatoes? That's not very interesting."

"It's not a universal message," I agreed. 

"I guess I could make it Be more careful," she suggested with a frown, "but I don't really like that one either.

I looked at her good-natured friend and her potato-sodden book bag. "How did she react?" I asked. "Was she mad?"

"No!" said the writer. "Not at all."

"I pretty much just laughed," confirmed the other student.

"Some people might get pretty upset about something like that," I shrugged. "Maybe there's a lesson in that."

The girl thought a moment. "I think I'll just write about the perfect chocolate cake I made," she said.

October 1969

These days Halloween is a big business, with entire retail spaces devoted to costumes and decorations, but it was not always like that. Although there were several rows of boxes with thin nylon costumes and plastic masks with cheap elastic bands that always broke almost before you could wear them lined up on shelves in the discount department store near our house, when I was a kid the holiday was a little less involved, but just as exciting and fun. 

In fact, one of the clearest memories of my childhood is Halloween 1969. [Insert wavy screen and harp music here.]

The orchestra was just striking the first notes of the theme music to Bewitched on TV, and I looked anxiously at my mom. "When is Daddy going to get home?" It was the Thursday night before Halloween the next day, and our perfect pumpkin was waiting to become our perfect jack o'lantern. 

Bedtime was usually 8:30, but tonight the plan was to watch America's favorite witch at 9:00 while carving the pumpkin. Just then, the front door opened and my dad came in, smelling of smoke and cool evening air. We rushed to greet him as we always did, hugging his legs. 

It was Dad's job to use our biggest knife to cut a circle around the stem and pull the top of the pumpkin off. After that, my mom scooped out the insides with a large kitchen spoon and plopped them into a bowl. My brother and sister and I plucked the slippery seeds from the stringy, orange guts, placing them into a separate dish where we would toss them with salt and oil and roast them in the oven for a crunchy, once-a-year snack.

Next, since there was only one pumpkin and three kids, we each picked a folded slip of paper from Phillies baseball cap to see who got to create the eyes, the nose, or the mouth. We drew our shapes on the back of the paper, and my mom transferred our designs in pencil to the pumpkin. Then my dad went to work again, carefully cutting along each line.

When he was finished, he carried our creation out to the front porch, my mom behind him with a candle and the three-legged milking stool we kept as an extra seat in the living room. Outside, we set the pumpkin on the stool by the door and placed the candle inside. Then we all stepped back while my dad lit the candle and my mom turned off the porch light, revealing the glowing face of our jack o'lantern.

Before bed that night, my mom had us try on the costumes that she had made for us. We were going to be the Rice Krispies elves, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. She had a lightweight cardboard replica of the cereal box for each of us to wear over our heads. Underneath, we were in tights and different colored t-shirts. Then I, as the oldest, had Snap's floppy white chef's hat, my brother had Krackle's red-and-white striped stocking cap, and my three-year-old sister wore a yellow toque.

She pinned our hats to finalize the fit so that our costumes would be ready for the parade and class party at school the next day. Then she sent us off to bed where we dreamed of the perfect Halloween we would have tomorrow.

My COVID Bunker

I looked around our home last night to size up what would need to be done to prepare it for company. It's been nearly 2 years since we have entertained anyone other than family, and in that time, well? Pandemic. Stay at home orders. Social distancing. You know.

Like many who could, we made the best of being at home, all the time, by adapting and adopting. Unable to go to the gym, we bought a mat and some extra weights so that we could work out in front of the TV. Those are stored near the bookshelves, right next to my ukuleles and songbooks. Likewise, I took up yoga and meditation, so a sheepskin, pillow, candle collection, and a few crystals have all taken residence in the spare room. Dog and cat training? You need games and equipment for that, and those are stashed all over the house, really, since that's where you can find our pets. Rock painting, ornament making, and other such crafting supplies are packed into bins which have to be stacked somewhere. Gardening and harvesting tools and containers fit into the closet and the rear of the cars, except when they don't. Quarts and pints of preserved tomatoes and jams are packed in printed cardboard cases which are stacked in the dining room next to the vinyl records we listen to occasionally. Assorted flours and ingredients for sourdough breads, bagels, tarts, English muffins, and canele are stored in mason jars on the kitchen counter right next to the freshly-roasted coffee beans bought in bulk from the roasters in Savannah, Annapolis, and Buffalo.

We made an art of hunkering down, and now that things are [mostly] opened up? It might be time to reoganize.

Maybe.

Right There's a Gap

The assignment was relatively straight-forward: students were to work with their table groups to complete a kind of a scavenger hunt, searching through a text to find examples of powerful writing. And yet, the classroom was almost silent as I circulated through, clarifying the task, answering questions, and encouraging kids to work together.

"Why aren't you talking?" I asked.

"I'm not done yet," one student answered.

"I know," I said, "the idea is that you work together and talk your ideas through."

"But he's got more answers than I do," the student pointed out. "Wouldn't that be cheating?"

And so it went, most students preferring to complete the analysis on their own instead of collaborating. 

"I don't understand it!" I said at last to one class, "It would be so much easier and more productive for you guys to follow my directions and WORK TOGETHER!"

I looked at them. They looked back at me. We were equally bemused.

"What!" I finally asked. "Have you spent the last year and a half learning all by yourself at home?"

Turns out? They had.

That's Good Writing

Walking through the neighborhood late this afternoon, I spotted a sign tacked to a telephone pole. Composed in pencil by a young and earnest hand, it was impossible to pass by.

Come to 2416 south culpeper street to watch a show of your life time. in order to see this you will have to get ready a qourter 25¢ make sure its one coin. your host is a stuffed skeloton in the door steps. he will have a cup in his write hand. get your qourter and put it in. I hope you enjoy it!

And although the capitalization, punctuation, and spelling were imperfect, I was just sorry I didn't have a quarter!

Second Nature

While I shopped at our neighborhood farmers market this morning, Heidi walked over to the adjoining playground to get a drink for Lucy from the water fountain. She found the basin filled with plastic cups of sand and water, and as she lifted one to clear the bubbler, two tiny girls ran over from the play structure, fixin' for a fight. 

"What are you doing with our cups?" they demanded, little hands on tiny hips.

Rather than tell them off, Heidi went full-Socratic on the pre-schoolers. "Do you think it makes it easier or harder to use the water fountain when your cups are there?" she asked them in her best kindly teacher voice.

They thought about the question a minute. "Harder," older girl answered.

"Don't we want people and animals to be able to get water to drink if they are thirsty?" Heidi continued.

The girls nodded. Heidi handed them their cups, and they ran off to play while she filled a bowl for Lucy.

"Well look you just spreading social skills where ever you go!" I teased her when she told me the story on the walk home. 

"It's my service to the community," she agreed, modestly.

Name That Tune

 It was around 6 PM when we pulled up to a light beside a car that was literally rocking. The windows were rolled down and I could see a young woman in the driver's seat singing at the top of her lungs. Her eyes were reflected in the rear view mirror, but they did not meet mine; they were focused on the little girl in the backseat who was singing along. Their joy? Was contagious, and I wanted a little of what they had. I rolled down the window and listened to the song blasting from their car. "I don't know that," I confessed to Heidi. "Do you?"

She didn't, and right then the light changed, and they were gone. "Hey Siri!" I called, waiting for that amorphous purple cloud to materialize. "What song goes like this?" and I sang a few bars.

To my amazement, Siri gave us a title an artist right away. 'Wow!" I said to Heidi. "She recognized my singing! That's pretty good!"

And so I tested her again by asking her to play the song, so that we, too, might roll down our windows and sing as loud as we could to the warm October evening. But the song that came on was not the same, and it was time for us to get on the interstate, so we rolled up the windows and headed home.

Bare Faced

Today was picture day at school, and although I went after the final bell had rung I still found myself in a kind of a long line. I made the best of it by chatting up a student I had only met earlier today; she is a bit of character who carries around a tiny black lump that she has named Mr. Bean in a little plastic box.

"Can I call him Senor Frijoles?" I joked, because she is a Spanish speaking student.

"No!" she insisted. "He is not for me to eat! He is dried slime!"

As we waited, I asked her if she was going to smile for the camera.

"I'm not going to show my teeth!" she said, and explained why, but I couldn't really follow her. I was a little distracted by the site of the students on the stage; as we got closer I could see them posing without their masks. 

And although I didn't know too many of them, I was a little excited about the prospect of seeing the new pictures of the students I do teach when they update my grade book in a few weeks. Even though we're all used to seeing the masks, once in a while a kid will pull theirs down to take a sip of water and another student will say, "I did not think you looked like that under your mask!" and I'll realize that I totally agree.