Snowball Effect

The plush snowballs I ordered to use as a brain break arrived right on time yesterday, and I couldn't wait to try them out today. Unfortunately, we had a testing schedule that only allowed for homeroom and a 4-hour testing session before lunch. Fortunately, there was no better way for 17 kids to blow off a little steam before going off to the test than winging 50 snowballs at each other for five minutes or so. 

At one point, the printer came to life and we knew someone would be at the door any minute to pick up their printing. "When they open the door," I suggested, "let's nail 'em!" 

We waited breathlessly for the handle to turn, and when it did? "Fire!" someone shouted, and we pelted the science teacher with the soft little balls.

She quickly recovered from her initial shock, and then picked up a few snowballs and tossed them right back. 

The kids' laughter alone elevated my mood, and maybe, just maybe, their performance on the test improved as well.

Bean There, Done That

When I was in fourth grade my mom helped me with a science fair experiment. We wadded up paper towels, dampened them, and then stuffed them in an empty peanut butter jar. Next, we carefully tucked dried kidney beans into the folds and then set the jar on a windowsill. What followed was miraculous to my nine-year-old brain: the beans sprouted, sending roots toward the bottom of the jar and emerald green shoots toward the top. I hadn't realized that beans were seeds, and seeing them grow was an awakening for me.

I hadn't thought about that experience in decades until last weekend. I was feeling bummed that I hadn't planted any shell beans. My students and I had several little plants growing on the window sill in our classroom, but I wasn't sold on just dropping a bean in a dixie cup full of soil. It occurred to me that there was a way to give them a head start, and so I grabbed a mason jar and some paper towels. Next, I pulled the yellow-eyed beans I ordered from Maine from the pantry, and just like my mom and I had done all those years ago, I placed my beans in the damp folds of the paper towel.

I brought the jar to school and placed it in the sun next to the little plants. By Friday? The beans had swelled and opened, tiny roots clinging to the paper towel. I carefully placed each bean in a cup of soil, watered them, and went home for the long weekend hoping for the best.

Oh my! The six-inch plants waiting for me this morning surpassed my wildest dreams! They were actually ready to be transplanted into the garden this afternoon. Where two weeks ago I was beanless, today I have the promise of several quarts to shell, if the garden gods will it so. 

As It Flies

We were playing pickleball yesterday with friends when a crow swooped down and landed on the baby stroller. Thankfully, their 15-month-old was occupied with Heidi and the dogs, because the bird pecked around in the diaper bag and then flew off with a protein bar that had been in the pocket. Stunned, we watched the crow as it landed first on a nearby chimney, and then next in the shade of a tree off to the far corner of the court.

"I can get it!" promised another friend, and he took off running toward the crow. 

Overconfident, perhaps, or possibly preoccupied with getting its prize out of the wrapper, the big black bird had no defense, and AJ nabbed the stolen snack back just as quickly as the crow had grabbed it a few moments ago. 

The game was, of course, at a standstill as we laughed about the turn events. "Who wants it?" called AJ, jogging back to the court.

The answer was no one-- everybody was just a little skeeved about eating what we had to start calling "the crowtein bar".

Weren't We All

My dearest friend from high school is in Lugano, Switzerland, where we went to school, right this minute. How miraculous it seems to see the pictures she is texting me! 

Here is the hotel by the Funicolare, there the department store where we spent our pocket money on weekends, here the piazza we called Federale Square, and there the arcade of the Salumeria, still festooned with huge, hanging salamis. 

Modern technology allows me to see, almost in real-time, the place we lived and graduated from, a few days shy of 44 years ago. 

Downtown looks so different to me, even though the buildings are old, my friend texted. Basically, I didn't observe or appreciate the amazing surroundings here as a youth.

Don't be too hard on yourself, I responded. You were a great kid!

Still No

There is a particular fence post on a certain little walking route through our neighborhood that our first dog, Isabel, could not pass by without pausing to sniff. Once she had filled her nose, she always broke into a happy little trot along the fence line. For years, this was part of our morning routine. 

I clearly remember the first time I walked Lucy past the same spot: I was dismayed when she never even hesitated, just kept on her way as if there was no reason to pause. I guess I took it as a clear message to vary the route because it's rare that we find ourselves there. 

Today was an exception, though. I took Lucy for a little afternoon jaunt in the glorious weather, and as we meandered through the neighborhood, that fence post was on the way home. Even after seven years, I slowed my step in anticipation of a sniff and a trot, but of course, I was with a different dog, and she passed right on by.

As it Should Be

Maybe it's the fair weather, or perhaps it's the bond I am feeling with my students, but my realization this morning that there are only two more Fridays left in the school year was bittersweet. And as much as I am looking forward to a three-day weekend, this traditional start to summer seems almost too early. Could it be I'm not ready?

As I write, I am sitting in the sun shining through my classroom windows, watching the colleagues that can duck out a little early heading to their cars, and admiring the seedlings that the kids and I have planted over the last few weeks. The little plants are taking root and growing tall, and they are almost ready to be moved out to where they can spend the summer growing on their own. 

A Day in the Life

In the ever-evolving battle to drain some of the energy from my nutty 5th period class, I have alternately allowed puppets, soccer balls, wobbly stools, standing, and all manner of movement breaks. And yet, they persist in their good-natured rowdiness. 

When it is productive? I'm okay with the barely managed chaos, but when it is not, I move about the room corraling wayward writers and doing my best to refocus them. 

Today, a few kids noticed the seedlings on the windowsill that my homeroom had planted. "Can I plant something?" one asked. 

"Sure, as soon as you finish the lead paragraph for your profile," I told him, and he set to work immediately. Not too much later he was back and filling a small paper cup with soil and cilantro seeds. After watering it thoroughly and placing it on the window sill, he returned to the table where I was working with another student.

"What can I do now?" he wanted to know.

"Write your alphabiography," I pointed to the agenda on the screen. "How about 'S is for Seed'?"

His eyes lit up and he literally hopped up and down. "Yes!" he agreed and ran off to write his 100 words. 

I turned my attention to another kid who held up the hand exerciser that was part of the commercial production unit. "Can I use this?" he asked.

"As soon as you have three more sentences," I said, pointing at his lead.

"I'll do it right away!" he replied.

Fortunately, my room is full of little things my students often find fascinating, which another student in the class remarked on a little while later. "I'm going to walk around this room and find the most amazing thing in it!" he declared.

Since he was mostly finished with his work, I shrugged my permission. "That's a matter of opinion, though," I pointed out as he roamed the room.

He turned and nodded, then came back over and patted my shoulder. "I found it!" he called out to the class. "The most amazing thing in here is Ms. S!" He lowered his voice. "I hope I didn't offend you by calling you a 'thing'," he said.

"Not at all," I told him. "And thank you! I think you guys are amazing, too."

Top Dog

We were standing at Lucy's dogsitter's chatting when I noticed that her puppy, Teddy, was on the back of the couch staring intently out the front window. His tail was thumping, and he kept looking from the window to Marley, one of the other five dogs present, who was lying on the floor. 

At last, because Teddy so obviously saw something that he wanted badly to communicate, I stepped over to the window and crouched to his eye level so that I could see it too. There was Marley's person, walking from her car to the gate! 

At seven months? Teddy could recognize vehicles and people, and connect them to his canine buddies. 

How long will it be until he rules the house?

Aftermath

My afternoon class was antsy and unfocused today. The situation was hardly surprising: there was a new desk arrangement, a modified schedule, they were just back from lunch, and oh, yes, this morning was the state reading test. 

As such, I moved around the room as I taught and struck an even more animated demeanor than usual. At one point, after using my signature wolf whistle to refocus the group, I said, "Geesh you all! You act like you spent the whole morning sitting quietly and taking a state reading test!"

"We DID!!!!" they howled.

"Well," I opened my hands in an exaggerated shrug, "what about me?"

They looked blankly at me.

"That's right!" I told them. "You think it's bad to take that test? At least you had something to do! How would you like to spend all that time just watching other people take the test?"

At least one student laughed, and I knew they saw my point. 

It sure didn't matter though; they were ruined for the day. Which? Was hardly a surprise.

Mightier than the Sword

Back when I was in high school, I wrote everything in fountain pen. Call me pretentious if you will, but we were in Europe where they sold all manner of fountain pens from a twirly rack in every department store. 

My friend Amy shared my affection for that implement, and our pen of choice was a work-a-day model from Pelikan, the German factory. It was lightweight and inexpensive and made for students. The basic options when it came to ink cartridges were black and blue, but we sometimes entertained ourselves with turquoise and Fuschia. 

When we graduated, we both got fancy Mont Blanc fountain pens, which were heavier and of course, more expensive. Those pens also took a different-sized ink cartridge, one that was a little longer and that you could refill yourself from an actual bottle of ink. But the trade-off was that the smaller cartridges fit neatly two to the barrel, with one always in reserve for when its mate ran out. 

You can probably tell that I never did cotton to that fancy pen, but back in the States for college, I couldn't buy the right ink cartridges for my Pelikano, either, and so both pens ended up dry and in the back of my desk drawer, and over the years, I've lost both of them. 

Oh, I've found other stand-ins, and to be honest, I own three inexpensive fountain pens. The cartridges must be easier to come by now, in this age of easy, global mail-order. Even so, I never use those pens, and in fact, the ink cartridges I have are all filled with dried-up ink. It's hardly surprising: I think I probably purchased them when I visited Paris in the year 2000.

When Amy came to town for a visit back in April, she whipped out her fountain pen to sign the credit card receipt for her part of our "Raclette Experience." 

"You have to try this," she told me and handed it over. 

The thin and easy flow of ink on paper stirred a muscle memory in me, and I smiled in total agreement. 

Since then, she has sent me two handwritten letters, one of thanks for the small bit of hospitality I showed her when she was here, and the other a proposal that we hearken back to our younger years and become fountain pen pals. I do like that idea-- so much so that I dug into the back of my drawer and found those fountain pens, along with the one cartridge that still has liquid ink. Then I popped it in, wet my thumb and forefinger, and primed the nib, scribbling a bit back and forth on an index card until I was rewarded with a continuous flow of blue ink.

Look Out, Worms!

It was cool and breezy when I took Lucy out this morning, and at 7:30 on a Sunday we had the complex all to ourselves. 

Except for the birds, that is. They, too, must have been invigorated by the sun, the breeze, and the blue sky, for they seemed to be singing their little avian hearts out. On a lark (see what I did there 😉) I pulled out my phone and launched the bird identification app, then hit the sound i.d. button. The program disaggregated the chorus into the songs of a Mockingbird, Brown Thrasher, House Sparrow, Red-bellied Woodpecker, House Wren, Crow, Robin, Mourning Dove, Blue Jay, Cardinal, House Finch, Cedar Waxwing, and Rose-breasted Grosbeak. 

Who knew we had so much company?

Monkey Business

In case I needed a reminder of the whimsy of sixth graders, a student walked into class yesterday with a stuffed monkey in her pocket. I wouldn't have known, but for the fact that she made it peek out and talk to a friend across the room. "Why don't you go put that in your locker?" I suggested firmly, "So that it doesn't become more of a distraction."

"No! Please!" she cried, "I won't take it out again."

"How about I put it on my desk for the rest of class?" I offered and she agreed. As she handed the stuffie to me, I flipped it over to take a look at it. I held in my hand an 8-inch monkey wearing pink and blue pajamas.

"That's child abuse!" she said. "You made the baby's head shake."

"This 'baby's' pajamas are filthy," I responded. "That's neglect." 

"It was her fault!" she pointed to the friend across the room. "You were supposed to keep the baby clean."

I shrugged. "Listen, ladies," I advised them. "Do your work today--" I met both of their eyes, "or the monkey gets it!"

Everywhere We Go, People Wanna Know

 “Is it the Dolphin Team?” I heard a voice ask as the 30 of us, middle school girls and their mentors, entered a neighborhood restaurant for our end-of-the-year celebration.

“It’s Jefferson,” said the assistant principal, but if you want a Dolphin–” she gestured to me as I turned around. 

A young man of about thirty was standing by the bar. “Nam?” I said as he came forward and embraced me in a huge bear hug.

“I can’t believe you remember me!” he laughed. “It’s been at least 20 years!”

I wasn’t surprised that I remembered him, but I was kind of surprised I recognized him. It turns out he bartends and is one of the managers of the place, so he was in and out checking on our party as the girls ate cupcakes and sliders. The food was plentiful, though, and when they brought in the leftover containers, there was a rush for the buffet.

I looked up from my seat at the now nearly empty table, shaking my head, and caught Nam’s eye. “Are you sure you don’t need a drink after this?” he literally winked. “If you stay, I can hook you up!”

Energy Crisis

It was all a little too much this morning when my smallest, but definitely most energetic, class arrived in the room. Before the bell rang, they were pulling out puppets and soccer balls, and rock-paper-scissoring to determine who got the rocking chair, the wobbly stool, the bungee chair, and the swivel stool. 

And while I am way more liberal than I used to be in terms of non-traditional methods to keep students settled and focused, the ruckus that the 14 of them made in the early moments of class was way more than I could handle. 

Plus? They weren't calm or focused. So I stood and whistled and waved my arms, removing special seating and sports equipment as I made my way through the room. 

Did I stun them into silence, or was it the shock of having all their toys taken? Whatever the cause, the room was silent and the students were seated and attentive.

For about 3 minutes!

Sticking to the Plan

Today was the day when the young journalists in my class conducted their first interviews for the personal profile piece they will write. In classes where there are an odd number of students or an absence, someone has to interview me, so that happened 4 times today. 

Before they begin, I explain that an interview is more of a conversation than an interrogation and that it's essential to listen to the answers and perhaps even diverge from the planned list of questions, especially if the subject says something interesting. Despite modeling and examples, it seems as if that's a hard lesson to learn, though, especially if you are interviewing your teacher. 

That must be why I had several interactions today that went something like this:

Reporter: Where did you go to high school?
Me: Switzerland!
Reporter: How tall are you?

Or this:

Reporter: Have you traveled a lot?
Me: Well, I've been to 48 states and 20 countries.
Reporter: Do you have a nickname?

Empty Threats

"I'm going to blackmail you with this picture," a student threatened me today. 

He was only joking, but he turned his iPad around to show an image of me with my hood up and my phone out. It was taken a couple of weeks ago during a class discussion on rules; I was playfully demonstrating what our class might be like if we eliminated the regulation against hoods and phones.

"You know what?" I said. "I think you should show that picture, which you took of me without my permission and then threatened to blackmail me with, to the assistant principal right away," I looked at him over my glasses. "Should I call the office?"

"I'll just delete it," he said.

"Make sure you remove it from the recently deleted file, too," I advised.

"Got it," he nodded.

It Happened in English Class

I was working with a student when the door to my classroom burst open and a student entered the room. Without so much as a glance toward me, she marched over to another student and thrust a note in her hand, then she turned on her heel and left. It all happened so quickly, I didn't have a chance to react.

"Is that allowed?" asked a student, and his question brought me to my senses.

"No!" I answered and, looking at the student who had received the note, held out my hand.

She knew what was expected, and handed it to me without surprise or complaint. "What was that about?" I asked, and she shrugged in a you-know-her type of gesture, which was pretty accurate considering the personality of the kid who had delivered the note.

"Read it to us!" someone called out.

"No!" I answered, "That would be mean."

"Some teachers do," another student pointed out.

"I can't imagine that many do," I replied, and their silence told me that the request had been wishful thinking. I turned the note over and saw that it was addressed to someone else altogether, and I looked at the kid who had handed it to me. "Why did she give this to you?" I asked.

"Because I'm better at writing and proofreading," she told me, "and she wanted to make sure it was good before she gave it to him."

I laughed. "Good instincts, bad timing." I shook my head and set the note on my desk. "Tell her to come get it from me after school."

Seize the May

When we were kids, every neighborhood in our Levitt-designed township had a pool, right next to the elementary school. The pools opened the day after school got out for the summer, usually sometime in mid-June. My mom had a rule that it had to be at least 70 degrees to go to the pool, which made sense,  considering we were living in New Jersey where the average temperature in June could be a bit chilly. 

I thought of those days today as I walked throughout the neighborhoods around here, noting the progress each was making on readying its pool for our traditional Memorial Day opening. And I remembered the rule again when a friend remarked on how much she wished the pool was open after we had just finished some competitive pickleball playing, but I could not agree.

Oh, Mom would have let us go-- it was close to 80 today, with clear skies and low humidity-- but this spring has been so wonderful, mostly sunny, but cool, the kind of weather you can throw your windows open to, that I am in no rush to welcome summer just yet. 

Especially since we still have five weeks of school left!

Whaaaaaaaat???

Call me jaded (or old), but I can't remember the last time I saw something that truly surprised me. People, places, and situations of interest? Sure. Something unexpected? Maybe.

But this evening when I was running errands, I had a hold-the-phone!!!, what. is. that??? moment. So much so? That I whipped out my phone to take a picture.

Yes! 

That is a neon orange car. 

Way Back

 "You've been teaching here a long time, haven't you?" asked the guy at the desk when I checked into the rec center. 

"Thirty years," I told him.

"My name is Danny," he said.

"I recognize you," I replied. "You've been here a while, too."

"My kids went here way back," he said. "Brandon and--"

"Breaana!" I finished. "Wow! I taught Brandon and coached Breeana!"

"I knew I knew you," he smiled.

"You know what's crazy?" I said. "Brandon was actually in the first-grade class at Drew where I did my student teaching. I still keep school pictures of all those kids in my desk upstairs, because they were the first I ever taught."

"Oh let me see," he looked thoughtful, "that must be Lorenzo, Nikko, John,"

"Deonte, Charmaine, Akeyla," I continued. "When I started teaching here I couldn't wait until they got to sixth grade!"

"Well they're all 35, 36 now," he told me, "and a lot of them are still in the neighborhood and doing good."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said. "And the next time I come down, I'll put those pictures in my gym bag to show you!"

6-8 Who Do We Appreciate?

A colleague stopped by my room on her way out this afternoon. She recently announced she was retiring, and I congratulated her. What followed was a conversation I'm sure many teachers are having all over the country about the needs of the kids, their lack of attachment and social skills after being out (on top of the challenge of early adolescence!), and the dearth of support from administration and the community. 

This particular teacher moved from sixth grade to eighth grade last year, and since then she has faced two very tough classes of kids. Where sixth graders are still mostly sweet, eighth graders can bit a bit surly and rude, even in the best of times. Added to that, the eighth graders last year and this spent a considerable portion of middle school learning from home, and so their connection to the adults here, which can be tenuous at that age, is frayed and in some cases broken.

The behaviors she described were appalling: openly rude, physically threatening, and academically disengaged. Of course, I had heard the stories, but it was disheartening nevertheless. I tried to be optimistic-- the kids in seventh and sixth grade who have been with us full-time, seem much more like their pre-pandemic counterparts I remember. 

She nodded as she turned to leave, and noticed the teacher appreciation pennant on my door. It was covered in notes of gratitude from sixth graders. "I saw these as I came down the hallway from eighth grade," she told me. "There are more and more signatures on each one as you get closer to sixth grade. It reminds me of how different the younger students are."

She pointed to a note at the bottom of my pennant and read out loud, "English is amazing!" She laughed and added, "said no eighth grader, ever!"

Small Victory

I have a student who has been a reluctant writer this year. Unlike many of his peers, his sticking point is not a lack of know-how, for he writes beautifully whenever he chooses to. For him, it seems like more of an inability to engage with any task that is not somehow pleasing to him. His pleasures are not superficial or facile, and his insight and analysis are very astute and comprehensive, but he is eleven, and his refusal to even attempt a simple assignment (or at least look for its small advantages) often devolves into a confrontational tantrum.

BUT, this young scholar happens to love poetry and figurative language, and he also came up with a plot and illustration style for his children's story that he does find pleasing. This happy confluence of events has meant that, although the story was due nearly three weeks ago, he has willingly come most days at lunch and after school to complete the project. (Let's not get into why he won't work on it at home.)

AND, this afternoon at 4:15, he pushed back his chair and leapt up with a whoop of joy. He was finished, and he was pleased with the product, a first for this school year. "I have never been so happy to write one single sentence!" he proclaimed, beaming. Then he turned in his truly charming story (one of the best of the year) and packed his things to go.

I'm not sure if I have been happier to see a single sentence written, either. 

Educatorial

The brain break today involved chopsticks and superballs, a throwback to my graduate school days. Back then, I shared an office with 3 other MA candidates at ODU. We were all teaching Freshman Composition, and we had a lot of ways to avoid grading the awful essays we assigned. In addition to going out to lunch and drinking beer and shooting pool, when we were actually in the office, we often ordered takeout. 

It was one sleepy afternoon, after a heavy Chinese meal, when I plucked a superball from the junk bowl on my desk with an extra pair of chopsticks and bounced off the tile floor, trying to catch it. My colleagues, at first amused by my ridiculous attempts, were both amazed and delighted when I managed to pluck the ball from the air. 

After that, everyone was armed with chopsticks, and our superball collection grew every time we passed a gum machine with a quarter. It turned out that catching superballs with chopsticks was not a one-off, and we experimented with different game rules for Chopball, as we called it, throughout the semester, as well as gifting each other several sets of fancy chopsticks from Pier 1. For years I always had a tin of high-bounce balls and a bunch of chopsticks, but also for years, I have not owned either.

Until this week! Something reminded me of those Chopball days, and I was inspired to order a couple dozen superballs and sets of chopsticks. For under 20 bucks, I was up and running, but without a consistent game framework. Over the weekend, it occurred to me that we could adapt the rules of "Rob the Nest" and that is what we did. The quick little game was a big success, and I'll definitely add it to my collection.

Who says grad school doesn't prepare you for life?

Self-Care

It is mental health awareness month, and this morning's homeroom lesson was on stigmas: what they are and how to avoid them, especially where mental health issues are concerned. Our conversation turned to the recent tragedy in NYC where a man with a history of mental health issues was behaving erratically on a subway and one of his fellow passengers put him in a chokehold. It was a lot for sixth graders, but they were thoughtful and respectful.

Even so, I was relieved that we had also planned to plant some seeds this morning. It was an activity I had been promising for a couple of weeks and I finally had it pulled together today. The kids were excited as we filled small paper cups with soil, and they chose from pumpkin, sunflower, cilantro, beans, and peas. Then they wrote their names on popsicle stick markers, and we watered the cups and placed them on the windowsill in the strong spring sunlight.

In the final moments of the class, we all kind of stood there looking at our plants and perhaps reflecting on that simple act of placing seed in soil.

"I think this was good for our mental health," one student said, and I couldn't have agreed with him any more.

Mindfulness Exercise

"I ordered some pink pickleballs, because I like yours so much," I told my brother Bill today. We were in the middle of a match at the time.

"We can play with the pink one," he said. "I have it with me."

"That's okay," I answered. "I don't even know what made me think of that."

He missed his next serve and cussed. "I need to stay focused!" he said. "I was thinking about the pink pickleball and a whole story I was going to tell you." He shook his head.

I knew exactly what he meant. I, too, have found how easy it is to lose focus on the game! I will see someone I think I know, or notice something on the next court, or wonder what I'm going to make for dinner, and with my mind off the task at hand? I will make a dumb, unforced error.

"I just don't remember the same problem when I was younger," I laughed and then noted, "Yet another reason this game is good for us: it forces us to be present!"

Hangry

"I'm starving!" Heidi stomped down the stairs and grabbed a bag of popcorn. "Tracey never feeds me anything!" she said to our friend Lauren.

Lauren laughed knowingly. "What are y'all having for dinner?" she asked.

"Fried shrimp and salad," I reported, "and there are chocolate chip cookies in the oven."

Lauren turned to Heidi. "You are so neglected!"

KO-ed

"How many times have you been knocked out?" I overheard one student as another the other day.

"Knocked out?" his friend replied. "Do you mean actually unconscious?"

The other kid shrugged. "Yeah. That's what it is."

"Um, never," said his buddy.

The other kid looked bemused. 

I stepped over to them with a bit of concern to investigate. "How many times have you been knocked out?" I asked.

"Just twice," he replied, and he seemed relieved that someone understood that such things happen from time to time. "Once I went over the handlebars of my bike and landed on my head, and the other time I was skateboarding and I crashed into a pole," he willingly elaborated. 

His friend and I nodded thoughtfully.

"You know that doesn't happen a lot," his friend said.

Again, there was confusion in his face. Then he turned to me with a help me out kind of a look. "How many times have you been knocked out?" he asked, perhaps confident that a person of my age must have hit her head a little too hard a few times.

"Never," I told him.

He sighed in disappointment.

"Dude!" his friend said. "You probably should be a little more careful."

School Rules

As the warm-up for a lesson on Freeverse Poetry, I asked students if they could be free from one school rule, which rule would they choose. Predictably, many wanted to be able to use their phones at will, but none could justify their desire academically. Some wanted to carry their backpacks, some to eat in class, and others to chew gum.

To this last group, I simply said, "Look under the table."

"Ewwwww!" was the common reply, because their illicit gum-chewing peers have left wads on the underside of almost all of the tables. Jerks!

One kid wanted to bring her dog to school, which is a sentiment I could behind, but not as enthusiastically as I could support the suggestion that we should allow cussing. "Hell yeah!" I agreed, before taking it all back.

"You know I really love the rules," I told each class.

"That's easy for you!" one kid responded. "You get to enforce them."

Slow on the Uptake

I've been reading Hang the Moon by Jeannette Walls, and it wasn't until Eddie, the frail, young heir to the larger-than-life, red-haired, and bearded Duke Kincaid, died, and his eldest sister Mary and her husband Philip came to town to take over the business that I got it. 

The story is set in rural Virginia during Prohibition, and it just so happened that Mary's mother was briefly married to the Duke's older brother before he died, and then later Mary and her mother were sent away by the Duke so he could marry his second wife, Annie. 

Now Annie is the mother of the main character, the Duke's second daughter, and rumor had it that the Duke killed Annie for infidelity, and shortly after that, he married, Jane, Eddie's mother.

Do you see what I missed?

Maybe the fact that one of the epigraphs is a quote from Queen Elizabeth I is a hint I should have caught. Or perhaps knowing the Duke's given name was Henry? Or that his next wife after Jane died was Katherine? 

Don't worry, though, I've got it now, and spoiler alert! I don't think Mary is long for this world.

Better than Best

Our principal likes to tell the students that "We are the best of the best, better than all the rest." While I don't appreciate the idea that quality must be comparative, her turn of phrase is catchy and memorable, and the kids often chant the ending with her in assemblies.

Today and yesterday as the hook for a lesson on hyperbole, I asked students to post something they thought was the greatest thing ever. On Monday morning, it was hardly surprising that many kids mentioned sleep and food as it got closer to lunch. But other kids also mentioned the sound of Christmas carols, or birds singing in the morning, video games (of course), talking to their friends, going to Chik-fil-a on Friday after school, the moon landing, science, the beach, and the 100-day writing challenge. 

Then there was the kid who simply posted "You guys" meaning all of us in her English class. "Awwwwwww," was the collective reply, and for me, her words cast a much warmer light on what it means to be one of the best.

User Error

 More often than seems possible, a student will be working furiously on some writing assignment they need to post online using our LMS when a loud cry of distress rings through the room. "I just lost everything I wrote!" they will groan. 

I confess that I am not always very sympathetic in these situations. For one, I always advise them to use the browser version of the site rather than the app, because it has more functionality including an autosave feature. For another, they usually don't have that much to write, and it seems like little more than an aggravation to have to recreate their thoughts.

Yesterday, I was pushing an end-of-month deadline to get some professional learning done when I was interrupted by something. I returned to the task, a couple paragraphs written in response to a book I had read, after dinner and carefully crafted my reply. When I clicked the post button, I got a message that I had been logged out of the site because of inactivity. 

You guessed it! I lost all my work.

Maybe I'll be a bit more empathetic with the kids in the future.