The Songbird Knows the Score

I was saddened by the news today of the death of Christine McVie. I had actually been thinking about her over the last week or so, her talent and songwriting, and especially her role in making Fleetwood Mac one of the great bands of the late 20th century.

McVie came to mind when the family gameplay over Thanksgiving took a bit of a nasty turn the night it was me, Heidi, and Emily against Bill and Treat. The game was Mind the Gap, which is trivia played on a Monopoly style-board, each of the four sides comprised of questions from a different generation: Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, and Gen Z. As teams make their away around the board, they must answer questions from each generation. There is also a challenge component, which can get really messy.

At any rate, when we were playing that night, Bill and Treat chose to start out on Gen Z and get those questions behind them. Their first category was music; "Name 3 of the 5 members of One Direction," I read.

"Harry Styles," started Treat, and there was some discussion as they tried to come up with two more of the guys. Finally they settled on Harry, Liam, and Zane.

"I'm going to say no to that," I told them. "The card includes their last names."

Well, there were some hard feelings about that call, and in truth I questioned whether I was being overly competitive, even after the game was over. Treat had made the point that boy bands are marketed by their first names only, but laying in bed that night I thought of other bands and their members. Would I have accepted Don, Glenn, Joe, and Randy for the Eagles? How about Stevie, Lindsay, Christine, John, and Mick for Fleetwood Mac? In the end I decided it was fair, if not exactly friendly, to insist. I also thought that performers deserve that respect: a great band is a combination of talent and chemistry.

Over the years, Fleetwood Mac has played with and without some of the key five musicians who wrote and recorded classic albums such as Fleetwood Mac, Rumours, Tusk, and Tango in the Night, but without Christine McVie's piano, vocals, and harmonies? It can never be the same again.

It Was Worth a Try

"Can I charge my iPad? It's only at 5%" a student asked this morning gesturing at the bright red cable by my desk.

"I'm happy to cooperate with you," I answered him, "but I'm going to need some cooperation from you, too."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Well," I continued, "I'd like you to do your assignments and participate in our class."

"I can't promise that," he told me dismissively.

"Why should I let you use my charger then?" I asked him.

"Isn't that your job?" he replied.

"Actually, charging your iPad is your job," I said. 

He shrugged.

"Give it some thought," I told him. "The charger is right there."

Turns out 5% charge is plenty when you don't plan to do much of anything.

When in Doha

To be honest, the World Cup has hardly been on my radar screen. Sure, I know it's the most watched sporting event in the world, and I had followed with mild interest of the controversial no beer in the stadium policy imposed by the host country, Qatar, at the last minute. I also read the darker reports of the exploitation of foreign workers in the push to get the venues built and running, which was not surprising to me, having lived in Saudi Arabia in the mid-70s and seen first-hand the poor treatment of Pakistani, Korean, Phillipino, and Yemani laborers.

But the competition itself? I had no idea of the groups, let alone the standings in the first stage when I got to school this morning. My mind was on catching up with what I had missed by being out for two days and planning for the formal observation my evaluator had scheduled for third period today.

As soon as the kids came in, though, it was clear that FIFA Fever had swept the school. Instead of sneaking onto game sites, they were checking scores and streaming matches, whispering updates like gossip. 

"Can we watch soccer for our brain break?" one kid finally asked, and I had to agree it was a good idea. Plus, Switzerland and Brazil were scoreless at 63 minutes. Hopp Schwiiz!

Dear Bill

Dear Bill,

By the time you read this, some of the work will be done. You will have made it through without ever having read whatever words of motivation I might muster, because you could. 

Like always, you could. 

Like always, you did.

What Are the Chances?

Three cars left East Market Street at the same time headed for the same destination. One pulled over a few miles later. Another stopped at a light to make a left turn. The third whizzed by while the second was waiting.

The second car encountered an obstacle and rerouted. One of the passengers wanted to stop for water. A few miles later a convenience center appeared on the left. The driver decided to turn. Pulling in they saw the first car.

Three siblings were reunited at what turned out to be a crucial moment.

Surely, this was more than coincidence.

Cold Feet

We walked down to the sandy beach at the end of our street in an effort to beat the rain yesterday afternoon. An unseasonably fair breeze met us as we crested the dune, and both Victor and I kicked off our boots and socks and left them by the picket fence.

"I'm a little worried it's too cold to go barefoot," I said. "I know it's almost 60, but it's still November."

"It's warmer than Iceland in July," he said and headed toward the water.

True enough.

Non-Traditional

Spatchcock the turkey? 

Roll the stuffing into balls?

Mash baked potatoes?

Bake pumpkin cheesecake

and apple-cranberry pie-cake? 

But still: be thankful for all we have.

That's Quite Enough Already

"Should we go to that meat market we saw yesterday?" I asked Emily as we out running errands this morning. "They'll probably be lonely on Thanksgiving," I laughed.

When we arrived a tall burly man in a bright red knit cap was standing outside the door with a clipboard. "Do you have a preorder with us?" he asked officiously.

"No," I shrugged. "Is that a problem?"

"It depends what you want," he said.

"We're just here for some steak," I said.

"I am totally sold out of filet," he informed me.

"Filet?" I laughed, for that is not what I had in mind. "How about rib-eyes?"

"We have those," he nodded and peered through the glass door. "That guy in the gray hat will help you."

Inside it seemed like a normal butcher shop. Maybe employees were hustling a little more than usual, but the case was full of beef, lamb, and pork. "What can I get you?" asked the gray-hatted man.

"Strip steak?" Emily suggested. "But what are those?" she pointed to the tray to the right.

"Rib-eye," I answered. "I love rib-eye! Let's get those." 

The steaks were thick, so I asked for two. The counter guy pulled out the tray and slid it in front of me so that I could choose my steaks. I selected a couple with nice marbling, and he tossed them on the scale. "Anything else?" he asked, and I shook my head no. "$96.08," he shouted to the cashier and handed me a white-wrapped package. It was then that I noticed there were no price tags anywhere.

Wide-eyed, I turned to Emily who was holding a small wheel of cheese and a bag of olives in her hand. "Those steaks were a hundred bucks!" I told her.

"I wonder how much this cheese and olives will be," she laughed.

"We're already in for a hundred," I said, "might as well get those, too." 

I placed the cheese and olives on the counter and pulled out my credit card. "That will be $140.47," the cashier said. "will there be anything else?"

Trivialists

When at last my sub plans were complete, my classroom straightened, and desk clear, I had some time to poke around into what we might do in our week away at the beach. It tickled me that the house we had landed on was right across the street from Fisherman's Wharf (Lewes version), the very scene of ten years of the end-of-the-year sixth grade dolphin-watching field trips, and I eagerly explored the local entertainment opportunities. 

Well! I literally gasped when I saw that the restaurant on the dock offered Monday trivia night. Such an event was perfect for our group, and once I broke the news on Saturday afternoon, we set to trivia training. The five of us seemed ideally suited based on our ages and knowledgability, but still we drilled, discussing strategies for both answering and consensus building.

At 6:30, we walked across the street, ready to eat and compete, but there were no tables left in the bar. Undaunted, we accepted their offer of a close-by table in the next room. Treat and I reported dutifully to the trivia master to receive our directions, and once I texted him our team name, Intelligent Instruments, we were dismissed to our table until the contest began at 7 PM.

Our outpost proved to be an advantage, as we freely discussed the answers with no fear of being overheard, and we were tied for the lead after a perfect first round. We were 4 for 4 going into the last question of round two, but too late we realized that the Bennet sisters were from Pride and Prejudice, not Sense and Sensibility. Not to worry, though! In the event of no correct answers, the rules provided a do-over. Treat confidently identified Revolver as the Beatles album with Yellow Submarine and Eleanor Rigby, and we were ahead by 3 at the end of the round.

We aced the final five questions, and went into the final wager round with a lead of five points. Unfamiliar with the local customs, we bet 15 points Jeopardy-style, trying to edge out our nearest competitor should we both get the correct answer, and even though we stumbled on that question, so did every other team, and we were crowned champions and awarded a fifty dollar gift card.

Yes, this really happened.

A Day at the Beach

It was a cold day here at the beach, 31 degrees when we woke up, but the winds that were gusting from the west all day yesterday had subsided, allowing the weak November sun to warm us ever so slightly. We decided to seize the opportunity and all five of us bundled up and, along with the two dogs, piled into the station wagon and headed to Cape Henlopen State Park. 

When we parked at the first lookout tower, the one that visitors are allowed to climb, a young doe and a fawn were feeding on the scrubby grass. They were unconcerned by us, and out of deference to them, we left the dogs in the car for this bit of our adventure, and trooped up the spiral stairs, the clanging of our feet on the metal steps echoing off the the bricks as we climbed. 

When at last we made it to the top of the 75-foot structure, the 360 view was worth the climb. With only the deep blue sky above us, we could see the tops of even the tallest Loblolly pines growing in the sandy soil to our west, and beyond the dunes to the east there was the little light house at the point of Cape Henlopen where the Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean.

Our next stop was at the beach access at Herring Point, and we walked south along the shore which seemed scrubbed clean. Last year at this time, our first walk on the beach turned up dead sharks and cormorants, tiny sand dollars, a feisty little crab, and a handful of sea glass, but this time there was only a sparse collection of broken shells and pebbles. Even so, sheltered from rising the wind as we were, we walked a couple miles on the beach as the dogs ran and swam. We did come across a couple of live horseshoe crabs, one scuttling slowly toward the sea, and the other somersaulting in the breaking surf, using that spiny tail as first a vaulting pole and then a rudder.

As we turned back towards our car and home, a couple of huge container ships sailed lazily south on the horizon, on their way to who knows where.

Mind the Rules

It's a family getaway, and so for us? That means playing games! So far on this trip our games have been mostly been trivia related, which is no coincidence, because the restaurant across the street is hosting a trivia night tomorrow, and the five of us are in training. 

Conveniently, the rental house came with a pub-style trivia game, and we have played a few rounds while cooking and after dinner. Our average hovers in the 7th percentile, a solid pass on the SOLs, and a score we're hoping would be locally competitive.

We also have another Q and A game called Mind the Gap, which has four sets of trivia questions based on the four recent generations, Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, and Gen Z. Last night, despite its rules and design, we played the game as individuals, an approach which was not entirely unsuccessful, although it did provide a few moments of unintended hilarity. At one point, I was trying to hum the theme song from a popular 80s sitcom when I dissolved into laughter.

"Can you hum and laugh at the same time?" my brother teased.

I tried unsuccessfully to get myself under control. "No," I gasped, "no, I cannot." I held my breath for a minute. "But I can laugh and pee my pants at the same time! I'd just rather not."

This evening? We played in teams.

Special Occasion

Lately, as I stand outside my classroom each morning, I've noticed an increase in the number of kids wearing pajama pants to school. These days, fuzzy fleece and flannel in fun florals, plaids and patterns, emojis and cartoon characters are a common sight in school.

As for me, it's a rare occasion that I leave the house in my pajamas, but this morning we were busy getting organized and packing for the beach from the time we got up. When 9 am rolled around and the dog needed to go out, I pulled on my warm white buffalo plaid jacket over my red buffalo plaid pjs and leashed her up. 

Imagine my surprise as I rounded the corner of our quiet complex and ran into one of my students and her mom. "Oop," I laughed, "you caught me walking the dog in my pajamas." In truth, I knew that her best friend from elementary school lived in our neighborhood, but the encounter was still unexpected.

"I need a cozy outfit like that to walk our dog," her mom told me graciously.

The next folks I met were a neighbor, who is also a teacher, and her kids. "You look nice and warm on this cold morning!" she said.

"I used to have a just shirt like that," her son pointed to my pants.

She's an elementary school teacher, so I said, "I don't know about your students, but in middle school they are wearing pajamas on the regular. Soon, there won't be any point in having pajama day!" 

"Maybe we should change it to wear regular clothes to school day," she laughed.

No Need

 "We need lip stuff," Heidi told me yesterday on the way to school. "It's getting colder and I can't find any."

Rather than answer directly, I told her about an essay by Ann Patchett I had just read called "My Year of No Shopping". In it, Patchett writes, My first few months of no shopping were full of gleeful discoveries. I ran out of lip balm early on and before making a decision about whether lip balm constituted a need, I looked in my desk drawers and coat pockets. I found five lip balms.

"We probably have a bunch of lip balm all over the house," I laughed. "I can't remember the last time I actually finished one, can you?"

Heidi shrugged, unconvinced. Perhaps she sensed that I was considering a year of no shopping myself and was bracing for it, or maybe she was just thinking we should buy some damn lip balm.

I thought of our conversation this afternoon after a day spent in my warm and dry classroom. My lips were stinging a bit, and I knew I needed to be mindful not to lick them into an angry, red mess. After the last of the kids had headed off for PE and electives, I opened the top drawer of my desk, certain I had some chapstick in there. 

Did I ever! I hit the jackpot with three little pots of our favorite lip balm as well as a couple of sticks of peppermint. I guess we won't be shopping for lip stuff after all!

This Is Not Going to Be Easy

Two students stayed after school with me today, one by choice and the other by coercion. The one who chose to stay retook a test and improved his grade from a C to an A. The other moped and refused to work despite the expectations of his parents and the cajoling and offers of support from me. 

"No one can make you do your work," I acknowledged at one point in our conversation, "but wouldn't it feel better if you did?"

In the end he turned in the incomplete (but well-written) narrative he had, and I called it a win, since he complained about the effort of tapping his screen the entire time.

This kid has been on the team's radar since day one of the school year. "I think he might be my future favorite," I have joked with my colleagues at lunch, even after told me how much he hated my class. Maybe? I thought today when he left without saying good-bye, he's not a problem to be solved, but just a kid to accept for who he is.

The Oven Ordeal, Finis

 The technician arrived shortly after I did. He seemed very professional and quite competent, and I gave him the pre-shipped parts that had arrived earlier in the week then sat down to wait. I heard the whirr of his drill as he opened the back of the stove, and then a melodic beeping that I recognized as my oven in working order.

"Is it fixed already?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes," he said. "It was only a loose wire ribbon. Have you had anyone else out to look at it?"

"No," I answered honestly, omitting the truth of my tinkering.

"Well, it's fixed," he shrugged and then went on his way. 

I was happy enough to have the oven working that I resolved to give myself some grace. I had, after all, almost, repaired it. I considered giving the extended warranty company some grace, too, even after all the screw ups. 

Just then, my phone rang. "This is Company X," an urgent voice reported. "I got your message about the stove, and I'm returning your call."

"Someone was already here," I told him. "He fixed it."

"Another company came?" he replied in relief. "Okay then," and he hung up.

Seriously, WTF? 

I put my phone in my pocket and turned the oven on. It was definitely time to bake something.

Ask Me Again Later

I always say a good seating chart is among the most effective of classroom management tools, at least in 6th grade. Combining personalities and academic strengths in an engaging, but not overly socially stimulating, way can make a class both fun and functional. 

In general, I think I have knack for effective grouping; whether it's from experience or intuition or a combination of both, I can't say. Even so, I do have my rare failures, and first period yesterday was definitely one of them. 

Rather than the subdued quiet that usually follows a seating change as the students get acclimated to their new group, the class came in raucous and stayed that way despite several sharp redirections from me, and eventually only buckling down under threat of losing their brain break. 

In between the wrangling and the warnings, I stepped over to my desk and scribbled a reminder to try again before our next class. One of the students followed me to fetch her iPad which was charging nearby. "Are we your favorite class?" she asked with a giddy grin.

"Sometimes," I answered, and it was true.

But not that day.

The Oven Ordeal Continues

It was a maddening conversation. 

"I know you received an email saying the appointment was confirmed, but that was only tentative," said the operator on the call I had made to avoid a cancellation of my oven service appointment. I had hastily contacted her company after checking my home phone messages, even though I had updated my contact information twice to my mobile number and explicitly stated that the home number was not monitored.

"But tentative and confirmed are opposites," I pointed out with irritation.

"You confirmed with X company," she answered, "but we are Y company," she finished, as if that was obvious and therefore explanation enough.

In the end, I really just wanted my stove fixed, and even though I postured by asking her if the call was being recorded, and later, her name, I accepted the appointment she "confirmed" even though it was 5 days after my other confirmed appointment.

"What if they cancel the appointment?" I asked.

"They won't," she replied, "because it's confirmed."

"But it was confirmed before," I pointed out, "and it was canceled."

"It's confirmed," she insisted.

"What if it's not?" I repeated.

"It is, because I confirmed it," she told me.

"But that's what they said before," I replied petulantly.

"That was Company X," she answered impatiently.

And so I let it go.

Over the next 10 days I received many communications reminding me of the service appointment scheduled for today betwee there, tooen 1 and 5, and I organized my workload to be able to book home and meet the technician. By 2:30, I hadn't heard a word, and so I packed my things and prepared to leave school. 

Before I did, though, I thought to check the home phone. Sure enough, there was a message from someone at 10:30 a.m. saying that they would be at my home in 20 minutes. Fuming, I called the number back, but it went straight to voicemail. In essence, I said that I expected someone at my house before five, and then I headed out to my car.

I hadn't gone three blocks when the phone rang. "This is your technician," said a voice way too friendly to have received my last message. "I'll be at your house in about 20 minutes."

"I'll be there, too," I said skeptically. "See you then."

and Local

The cashier smiled at me as I set my purchases on the scale of the produce stall at the farmers market this morning. "Oh you have some dried apples!" she noted, and then looking at the rest of my selections added, "and some wet apples, too!"

We both laughed and wrinkled our noses. "Somehow, that doesn't sound very appealing," I said.

"Right," she agreed, "let's just call them fresh."

It Takes All the Kinds

After we did a few errands, we headed down to the Tidal Basin to enjoy the sunshine after Hurricane Nicole dumped a load of rain on us yesterday. Many other folks had the same idea, and there were loads of people out and about downtown, strolling and jogging and biking and playing ultimate Frisbee and kickball.

As we circled the basin looking for a parking spot, we passed a dapper young man extending his selfie stick with a big cheesy grin above his bowtie and plaid suit. He was posing on the bridge over the inlet gates with the Jefferson Memorial behind him and his pet rabbit on the railing. Heidi and I both giggled as we drove by. 

"That was worth the trip down here!" I said.

"It sure was," she agreed.

The walk wasn't too bad either.

Thank You for Your Service

On a rainy holiday after all the puzzles are done, if the movies are sold out, and the oven is still broken, there seems to be only one thing left to do: clean out the attic.

Or, rather, begin to. There's a lot of junk up there that was once treasured possessions, but somehow I felt it was very easy today to part with many things, especially if they haven't been used in years. So I thanked an entire carload of crap for its service and sent it on its way to spark joy in someone else.

The Spirit of the Assignment

 It was a mystery.

A student claimed to have written 500 words, and Google word count confirmed it, but there just wasn't enough on the page for it to make sense. "Come over here," I invited the young writer, a squirrely and mischievous sixth grade boy whose angelic appearance belied his naughty behaviour. 

He beamed at me and happily complied.

"Share your document with me, and let's take a look at it," I told him.

Soon I was looking at the loaves and fishes of personal narratives: three short paragraphs that were somehow comprised of exactly 500 words, which happened to be the minimum for the assignment. "Well," I said, "your narrative is not really complete."

"But it has 500 words," he insisted.

"I know," I agreed, "but that's the minimum. If you can't write a whole story with that many words, your narrative will have to be longer."

He slumped in his chair. "I can't think of anything else," he sighed.

"Well, let's work on it together," I offered. "Tell me about this car trip-- what were you doing? What did it look like out the window?"

He gave me a few details, and I showed him how to expand and elaborate on his minimal description, and we took turns adding to his story, he on his iPad and I from my computer. 

"Now let's look at the end," I said and scrolled to where the story abruptly stopped. I noticed that his document went on to the next page, which is not unusual for kids who are learning to type their drafts: they often inadvertently hit return when they are editing and revising. I clicked my cursor to the end and swept it up, intending to delete the extra white space. Imagine my surprise when 200 or so words of gibberish, typed in white, were revealed as I highlighted them.

"What's all that?" he asked innocently.

"I think you know that's how you got your 500 words" I answered. The bell rang then, and he rose to pack his books and rush out of the room, but we weren't finished yet. Let's just say there were tears in his eyes when I handed him the late pass 10 minutes later, and I'd like to believe his remorse was more than invisible words on the page.

Who Knows?

"Next year I think we should go through the checklist with our own writing pieces to show the kids how to do it," I said to my friend and colleague, Mary, today. Then I paused. "I mean, if there is a next year."

She nodded. the two of us are on year 30, and the psychology of being able to retire but not being sure if we're ready to retire has been intense. Thank goodness I have someone trusted to work this through with.

"Is there going to be a next year?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Lately it seems increasingly unlikely."

She shrugged.

I laughed.

We continued our conversation about tomorrow.

States of Blue and Red

Blue and Red for the Buffalo Bills

Blue for Kathy Hochul

Red for Dr. Oz

Blue for F*ck Biden flags

Faded red for Trump flags

Bright blue for the November sky

Red for the brake lights on the Beltway

Blue for the walls of our bedroom

Red for the welcome home pasta sauce

V̅

A former student stopped by the other day to say hello. As we chatted, she mentioned that her 9th grade sibling was still doing the daily writing they started during our hundred day writing challenge back in 2020. I was impressed, and I did a quick calculation. “They must be getting close to a thousand days,” I remarked. 

“Really?” she said. “That is impressive.”

When she left, I pulled up my own blog to see what day was 1000. On November 25, 2011 the title of my post was M, for 1000. (Little Cats Drink Milk is the way I always remember the Roman numerals for 50, 100, 500, and 100.) 

I finished that post with the suggestion that I stop counting and keep writing, and for the most part I have, but that conversation made me wonder how many days I’ve written, and so I did another quick calculation. Today, November 7, 2022 is day 5000 for me. 

Wow. 

I wonder how you write that in Roman numerals?

One for the Visitors

The Buffalo Bills are having a pretty good season and their town is full of die-hard fans even in the worst of times. I happened to be out running errands when the game kicked off at 1 PM today, and the streets and stores went from bustling to abandoned. 

Unfortunately for the hometown crowd, the Bills fell to the Jets 17-20, worsening their record to 6-2. It worked out great for me though; I had the shops to myself and was able to check out without waiting, even at Wegmans.

Let's go, Buffalo!

Crossing

At its southernmost, the road to Buffalo this morning was bright with autumn foliage; sun filtering through thin clouds made the oranges, reds, and yellows sing. But as we traveled north, the journey seemed to somber as the day grayed and the leaves browned and then disappeared all together. 

Perhaps contributing to the mournful mood was the abundance of roadkill: we passed at least a dozen dead deer, five foxes, plenty of porcupine, several skunks, and two turkeys. Each one made me sad for the life lost, but it was probably the two dead bears that cast the most profound pall on our progress: I'd never seen such carnage.

Night had just fallen as we pulled into the driveway of Heidi's parents' house, and I was relieved to be off the road and here at last.

Okay, Alpha

To kick off a mini-lesson on adding thoughts and feelings to a personal narrative, I thought it would be fun to ask students what their favorite emoji is. And it was fun, but it also provided more anecdotal data for the question we are all asking, What the heck is up with these kids? 

I was curious about their interpretation of the emojis, and when they used them. As usual, one student tallied the responses on the whiteboard (creating a huge tally grid with lots of single hash marks), and another student read the replies from the chat, in this case translating each emoji into a word or two. The interpretation of some of the emojis was fascinating. For instance, they thought the raised eyebrow (one of my favorites) was confused, not skeptical. They also used the tears streaming emoji to show extreme amusement, choosing it over its actual laughing/crying kin. And they love the see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil monkeys, even though they have never heard of the original trio. And Groucho Marx? Well, he's called the "uncle emoji". 

I couldn't resist that teachable moment! In every class, I pulled up pictures and cartoons of Groucho to show them the origin of the image. They saw the connection, but they didn't get its meaning. "But why is he an emoji?" someone asked. "And where is his cigar?" 

I didn't have a good answer.

But perhaps most notable is that over the two days I taught this activity, there were no trends. Out of the 90 sixth graders surveyed, the most popular emoji was the skull with 4 fans, but there must have been 65 other contenders with just a single vote. Maybe it's because there are so many images to choose from and we use them so frequently. 

Happily, though, the students were appreciative and accepting of each other's choices. I would almost say that they preferred novelty to consensus, which is an interesting concept when sharing one's opinion, unless kids just want to be unique in their signature response. Maybe they don't value precise communication as much as their brand.

At any rate, I'll keep collecting this data. With 30 years of field work, I might be just be among the more qualified anthropologists of the American tween. Plus? These kids are the vanguard of our latest generation: the first Alphas I've ever had the pleasure of getting to know.

Share and Share Alike

I have a couple rules about eating in my class. If I provide the treat, then all are welcome to eat it, right there and then. if it's an outside snack, then I usually default to save it for later, mostly on the basis that eating it will be a distraction. Trust me, it is nearly impossible for sixth graders to eat anything without a big production and a lot of detritus.

Post Halloween candy consumption adds another layer of complexity. Many kids have something in their pockets, but not everyone. So today, when a student was eating candy, I reminded her of the rules. "What if I have enough for everyone?" she asked, and I agreed that it would be fine for her to share. 

She ran out though, with a couple of students to go. "Can I run to my locker for more?" she asked.

I told her no, planning to supply the extra candy myself, but two kids who had their treat willingly gave theirs to the two who had missed out.

"Wow!" commented one of the beneficiaries. "Chivalry sure is not dead in here!"

A Hit and a Miss

"Wow!" one student exclaimed as she sat down for her writing conference today. "Look at this!" She flipped her iPad around so I could see the 400 words she had already written neatly divided into paragraphs. "I never knew how to do paragraphs until today when you taught us!" she reported with pride.

I felt a little proud, too. "Thanks!" I told her. "It's always nice to get positive feedback."

Overhearing our conversation, another student joined in. "Look at mine!" he said. "Paragraphs are so easy now!"

But before I could congratulate myself further, he continued, "I just count five sentences and hit return!"

Mmmm, No. No, I Do Not.

The young writers in my class spent a good chunk of the last couple of days in a writing workshop-style class. There was dedicated time set aside for them to work on first drafts of their personal narratives, and as they drafted, I met with each student for a 3-5 minute conference.

It felt good to talk to each of them as one writer to another, both from the perspectives of making a personal connection and demonstrating my credibility as a coach. (I'm pretty good at this writing stuff, y'know!) As expected, though, there were kids in every group who raised their hands 10 or 15 minutes into the writing time to ask, "What do I do if I'm finished?" and so I made the declaration that every draft had to be at least 500 words.

Eyes widened throughout the room every time, and I gave a quick tutorial of the word count feature on Google Docs so they could monitor their progress. Soon writers were checking their word counts frequently, but they were also using the guidelines and checklist to add to their writing. 

Even so, there was know-it-all in every class who waved a hand when I issued the 500 word challenge. "Don't you mean 500 characters?"