And Will Suffice

Years ago I made the decision that I would never say no to a student who asked to go to the clinic, even if I considered the request unnecessary or flagrant avoidance or attention-seeking. I figured that's why we have medical professionals in the building, even if the only thing they can prescribe is ice in a baggie with an institutional paper towel wrapped around it. 

Since then  I've seen little bags of ice held over eyes and on top of heads, tucked into socks and waistbands, and ultimately almost always abandoned. And I've chosen to overlook the inevitable puddles on the tables and floor, as well as the students who bite a little hole in their bag and suck on the cold ice melt before discarding the panacea altogether. 

And although it mystifies me why kids still want to go there for maladies that ice won't help, they continue to ask. "They're only going to give you ice," I warn as they grab the pass and go, limping or grimacing or groaning only to return a short while later with a couple of neatly packaged cubes, born like badges of honor. 

I Kid You Not

For the warm-up to a lesson on hyperbole, I asked students to choose a category and identify their G.O.A.T. Their answers were predictable but still fun. For example, Takis was named the greatest snack of all time. Messi and Ronaldo were both G.O.A.T.s of soccer. Some kids chose themselves as the greatest person of all time. We let them all pass without judgment. 

I offer a little guessing game for those who finish to encourage kids to answer quickly and avoid dragging out the warm-up. Sometimes it's guessing whose name I drew to lead the discussion, sometimes it's guessing the card from Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, or Pizza, sometimes it's something else, anything to speed them along. Today, I got all the goats from Taco, Cat, etc, and an equal number of other cards and we played "Goat or No Goat?"

It was a fun variation, but I was surprised that it took until the last class of the day for someone to notice the connection between our game and the Chat Snap question. "I see what you did there," she nodded appreciatively, and I laughed, because as much as I'd like to think that happens all the time?

I'm afraid it really doesn't.

Put Up Your Dukes

A few sixth graders were suspended today for fighting. 

There was a time when I could have said such an occurrence was rare at our school, but that hasn't been true for the last few years. Even so, these sixth graders fight and talk about fighting more than any group I've ever taught: it seems like their go-to when it comes to resolving differences outside the classroom.

When I think about recent history, this uptick in physical conflict makes some sense. These kids lost one-third of second grade and most, if not all, of third grade was either virtual or heavily reliant on social distance. They lost a lot of in-person socialization opportunities over that time, and it shows. 

There Once Was a Contrary Poet

"I think I'm done with the writing challenge," a student named Ben told me this morning.

I looked at my watch. "You wrote a limerick in 3 minutes?" I asked him. "Let me hear it."

He read me his poem.

I shook my head. "That's not a limerick." 

"Why not?" he asked.

"It has six lines," I started, "and the rhyme scheme is supposed to be AABBA, not to mention your syllables are off."

"Oh," he sighed. "Well, I don't think I like limericks. I think this poem is fine. I like these rules that I followed."

"What rules?" I said.

"Mine!" he laughed.

"Are you saying you wrote a Benrick? I teased him. "Unfortunately, that's not the assignment!"

Arts and Sciences

As we near the end of our annual poetry unit, my colleagues and I have noticed that our students know very little about poetry. Where in past years, discussion of simile, metaphor, and personification would be mostly review, this year it seemed to be new material for the majority of kids. Haiku was also new to many, as was Cinquain, Limerick, and other common forms. 

It's hardly surprising: the pandemic left educators scrambling to fill essential gaps in our students' skills and knowledge, and I guess poetry and figurative language were triaged out for a few years. Even so, I was a little shocked today.

The lesson was simple: review rhyme, write a 12-line rhyming poem, and label the rhyme scheme. Or it would have been if most of the sixth graders could actually rhyme. I started to get an idea about this gap in their skill set during the warm-up question which was to add one more rhyming line to this couplet:

If you're feeling down and blue
here is something you can do...

Have some tea wrote the first person.

Take a deep breath wrote another.

Try to be cool was a little closer.

You have nothing to lose was also arguably slant.

Chew some gum and have some fun. I could see where they thought that might work.

I gave examples, they made some quick edits, and then we moved on to the lesson. Some were getting it, others not so much. Able to write anything at all, they were composing lines such as this:

I like winter
because it is thinner
the smell of hot chocolate
and roses, not violets

or

My dog is fat
my mom slapped
the bat is flat
I got smacked

or this:

I love my dog.
She is the color of cream.
My dog is kind.
She likes running.

Clearly, the deficits run deep.  Maybe if we called it the "science of poetry" it would get a little more attention!

Embrace the Ride

I knew what was about to happen, and I laughed as we crested the hill and the car caught a little bit of air before bouncing onto the downslope. Everyone's guts flipped, and we sped down the incline toward the valley, the next summit looming ahead. 

We were on our way to Carlisle on PA-94, a road that runs like a roller coaster track straight up and over South Mountain, a peak that ironically forms the northern end of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Heidi gave me a look and reminded me that our dog was not always the best car traveler, especially in hilly terrain, but the road was as it was, and short of slowing down well below the speed limit, we were in for a ride. 

I was reminded of the roads in rural Maryland that we drove on as kids with my Aunt Harriett. Despite our cries for moderation, she embraced the ride, and our stomachs did somersaults as she barreled along in her white station wagon, five screaming kids bouncing in the back, long before the days of seatbelts.

Surely, it was the screams that saved us. I always hated roller coasters and rode them my body tense with dread trying not to scream. Years later, when Heidi told me that you have to scream to release your body's natural fear and thus enjoy the ride, I sort of got the point of those terrible contraptions. 

I laughed again as we neared the top of the next hill. "Sorry, Lucy," I said over my shoulder, "but here we go!"

My Year of the Theater

Whenever the goddaughters are here, we try to find something special and fun to do. Over the years it's been a variety of activities: geocaching, petting zoos, and duck tours when they were little, shopping, movies, fun restaurants, donut crawls, and magic shows when they were a bit older, and recently it's been road trips and musicals. For this weekend, though, we were kind of stuck. Nothing seemed to be going on that might fit the bill.

But this morning, as I clicked around a bit, I decided to check the Kennedy Center and see if there was anything new or something I may have missed. That's when I found the listing for Message in a Bottle. 

The peaceful village of Bebko is alive with joyous celebrations. Suddenly, under attack, everything changes forever. Three siblings, Leto, Mati, and Tana, must embark on perilous journeys in order to survive. Message In A Bottle is a spectacular new dance-theater show from five-time Olivier Award nominee Kate Prince, inspired by and set to the iconic hits of Kennedy Center Honoree and 17-time Grammy® Award–winning artist Sting.

Dancing and Sting? I knew Heidi would love it, so I ran it by Laney, checked for tickets, and a couple of hours later we found ourselves seated in the opera house. As the lights went down, I was prepared to tolerate whatever was on the stage for the good of the group, and so as shadow dancers moved to soft strains of Fields of Gold, I crossed my arms and settled back. 

I was wrong though. The tale of family, war, and refugees told completely in dance and with new arrangements and recordings of the music was very moving. I was reminded that I know Sting's entire catalog and love it. I spent the show thinking of my own siblings and the time we spent listening to Sting and the Police, and I wished they were there to share the experience and their thoughts on the production.

As it was, we all loved the show, and I'm going to make it a point to see another one soon.

19/24

We rose at the usual 5:15, completed our morning routine, and headed off to work at 7:15. Seven hours later, after a full school day, we dashed out the door at the bell and drove north to pick up our goddaughter from college for a weekend visit. Six hours later, we turned the key in the lock and were greeted by Lucy. We unloaded the car and started dinner. Four hours later, we headed off to bed, but only after a good meal and a few rounds of card games.

I'm pretty sure I'll sleep well tonight!

Yielding to Circumstances

Today is National Poem-in-your-pocket Day, an occasion I have enjoyed celebrating with my students for nearly 20 years. In that time, we have done some pretty amazing events, including recorded interviews, choral readings, and other performance opportunities. Mostly, though, we just give kids a chance to select a poem they love, write it down, carry it with them, and share it with others.

Our school moved to a block schedule in 2021, and as positive as it can be, it does put a crimp on our usual revels. Since I only see half of the students on any given day, I don't get to mark Poem-in-your-pocket Day with the classes that are not scheduled. Oh, we can celebrate it the next day, but the unity of having the whole sixth grade do the same fun poetry thing is lost, and I miss it.

But, in the spirit of doing the best we can with what we have, I just tell the kids on the off day that we are celebrating Orthodox Poem-in-your-pocket Day. They don't get it, but it amuses me.

Here's a poem for today:

The Milkweed
By Richard Wilbur 

Anonymous as cherubs 

over the crib of God 

white seeds are floating 

out of my burst pod. 

What power had I 

before I learned to yield? 

Shatter me, great wind: 

I shall possess the field.

Location is Key

We gathered in the library for what was billed as a brief staff meeting. It wasn't, but it was the first time our staff has met in the library since COVID. Up until now we have maintained the option of distance by meeting in the theater. 

Except? 

That's not really a meeting. 

Maybe it's my 30+ years in the building and the fact that we always met in the library, but being there made sitting on my ass at the end of an already long day listening to information I have heard a million times almost a pleasure.

Almost.

No Worries

Unlike many people, I have no fear of the dentist. Maybe it's because our mom took us every six months from the time we were very young, or maybe it's because I have never had any severe dental issues, or maybe it's both. 

At any rate, the current practice I patronize makes it a point to never shame you for any perceived dental hygiene failure, and they have much of the latest equipment, which makes even X-rays quick and painless. And so I arrived serenely for my semi-annual cleaning this afternoon and willingly followed Danny, my regular hygienist back to his cubicle. As always he gave me a quick precheck and warned me that he'd be using the water scaler. 

"Go ahead," I agreed, slipping on the protective shades and relaxing back into the chair. "It won't bother me."

"I always forget how chill you are," he replied, "because, believe me! Most people are very tense!" He laughed. "I think I'm an empath or something because they make me feel stressed."

I nodded sympathetically, unable to talk because of the suction tube in the corner of my mouth.

"I do notice a really calm energy whenever you are here, though," he continued. "It's a good way to finish my day!"

2020 Vision

It was a busy weekend full of family and fun, so I welcomed our teacher planning day this morning as a chance to finish some of the work I didn't even touch on Saturday and Sunday. At 7 am I set up on the dining room table, a throwback to COVID times when every day was spent working from home. Upstairs, Heidi did some laundry while she worked, and down here, of course, I made some sourdough in between stretches of planning and grading.

It was delightful.

Frances

We were shopping for Bill's birthday yesterday when we came upon a small shop at the foot of King Street in Old Town Alexandria called "Fat Face". The place turned out to be a brick and mortar location for a British "lifestyle brand" that is self-proclaimed to "reflect the happy, healthy lifestyle of our customers." Slogans aside, the place had some cool stuff, and a gift was procured. 

On the way back to our car, Courtney and Heidi and I bantered about the name of the shop, until my sister and I made the connection between Fat Face and a song my mom taught us when we were kids. The song was aimed at a classmate of hers that she and her friends considered to be condescending, mostly because her father was the mayor of their town. This girl also boasted about their summer home, which chapped my mom and her friends so much that they gave her the nickname Fat Face and sang mockingly about her behind her back.

It is a terrible ditty, bur my mother would laugh uproariously every time she belted it out it, and the three of us can sing it to this day, which we did this evening at Bill's party. Could there be any doubt who was there in spirit?

Get Over It

My brother is turning 60 and our little sister flew up from Atlanta so that we could all celebrate together. And the party started last night with takeout, games, and a lot of laughter. 

One of the old family stories we revisited was when about the time Bill and I ate the neighbor's strawberries. When she discovered the larceny, my mother sent the two of us, just 4 and 2 years old, next door to apologize, but we never made it. A little while later she found us crying on the tiny hill that separated our yards, and so she personally marched us over to confess our theft. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable at that moment: me and Bill or Mrs. Huddleston.

Every year during April my students write parodies of the classic William Carlos Williams poem This is Just to Say, and having read 30 or so over the last week, my response to the tale of the stolen fruit was such:

This is just to say
I have eaten
the strawberries
that were
in your garden

and which
you were probably
saving
for shortcake

Forgive me
they were delicious
so warm
and so sweet

Circles

My classroom phone rang and reaching for the receiver I saw on the display that it was the principal. As I answered, I felt more curious than anything else, especially since she's called me perhaps twice in the 11 years we've worked together. 

"I'm looking at your intent to return form," she told me.

"and I wrote that I'm not sure," I finished for her.

"Right," she agreed. "I was hoping you might be a little more sure now?"

I took a sharp breath. The conversation was unexpected, and I felt put on the spot. "Um," I hedged.

"There is paperwork we have to do if you're not," she continued, "and I'm really hoping we won't have to do that paperwork!" 

"I'll be back," I said. 

"I'm so glad," she replied.

"I guess I just needed a personal invitation," I laughed awkwardly.

But after we hung up, rather than feeling relieved that the question of next year was settled, I had that sense of remorse that comes with choosing too quickly.

And, since my verbal agreement is not binding, I'm right back to where I was before the call.

Candid Camera

I was looking out my classroom window at the end of the day, watching the stream of students and their families pass by on their way home from school when one of my current students joined me. She was there to make up a test, but like me, she was temporarily captivated by the people outside. 

Our attention was drawn to a student and a man who I knew to be his parent. The boy was agitated and the man quickened his pace and stepped in front of him several times in an attempt to slow him down. At last, they stopped right in front of us, and it was clear that there was some conflict between them.

"Should I record this with my phone?" my student asked in all sincerity.

"No!" I answered. 

Outside, the two came to some uneasy agreement and hugged briefly.

"Awwww," said my student. "That was one of the most touching things I have ever seen. I wish I had it recorded!"

"But that would be an invasion of their privacy," I pointed out.

"True," she shrugged, "but they are right there in front of everyone."

She was right, of course. In public, we should have no expectation of privacy. Even so, our conversation stuck with me long after she was gone. Recording people, especially strangers, without their consent never occurs to me, but it was this youngster's first thought. 

Of course, it's generational, but it's also a huge paradigm shift.

Validation

I'm one of those people who put off having my hair cut. I go faithfully to the dentist every 6 months, and I have my physical annually, but haircuts? I postpone as long as I can. When I do go, I generally get a pretty short clip, and then let it grow out. The change is so gradual, that it hardly seems necessary to take any measures.

Recently my scheduling situation has been further complicated by the fact that my regular stylist has moved away, and so I don't even have a go-to. My last haircut was months ago, and both the person who cut it and the style itself were nice enough, so I decided to go back for a second time. The new stylist greeted me warmly when I arrived and showed me to her chair so that we could discuss options. "You're hair looks great!" she told me. "Who cut it last?"

"You did!" I laughed as her eyes widened in the mirror. "I haven't had it cut since October! That's how I always do." I shrugged.

"Well," she nodded, "it works for you!"

Of Carrots and Sticks

I heard recently of some teachers so frustrated by their charges that when the guidelines for participating in a special event were issued stating that any student with three or more referrals would be excluded they sat down and referred the most troublesome kids three times. 

As veteran teachers, we sigh at such folly: those students have nothing to lose and we have 2 months left in the school year. "They have to at least give them a chance to earn it back," one of my colleagues commented today.

"And a little support to do that," another added.

"Right! It's all stick and no carrot," someone else concluded.

I agreed. It wasn't until I realized that the stick should be a lever rather than a lash that I (pardon the pun) got a real handle on classroom management.

Turn Around Bright Eyes

I was almost 8 in March of 1970 when a total eclipse was set to obscure 95 percent of the sun over our home in South Jersey. The details are vague, but I remember they involved shoe boxes and pinholes, and stepping not even one foot outside. My parents closed the living room curtains, leaving a slight crack through which a ray of sun shone through the tiny hole in the viewing contraption they had rigged. I don't recall being particularly awed by the actual eclipse, but the precautions for it made a huge impression on me.

When I talked to my younger brother about it a couple of weeks ago, his recollection confirmed mine. "All I remember is being terrified of going blind," he said. "I thought even one little look would burn my eyes permanently!"

Times have changed. I was at the grocery store 7 years ago when an 80 percent eclipse passed overhead. Then, I looked at it in the reflection of the dark tinted windows of my car until a kindly stranger offered his eclipse glasses for a moment so I could see the bite the moon was taking from the sun.

And today, our school system distributed free eclipse glasses to all students and staff, and I was able to track the progress of our 87 percent obscuration during my planning time, from the comfort of my classroom. Then, at around 3:15, I stepped outside with some friends and colleagues and peered at the peak of the spectacle, the sun a glowing claw in the amber sky of my glasses.

Without the protective shades, the light was strangely dim and golden, the shadows oddly short given the gloam we stood in. It was magical, and I wished our family had ventured outside for just a moment or two all those 54 years ago.

Jumping the Gun

The other day I was talking to my lunch buddies at work about retiring. "As much as I'm ready to let go of all the work," I said, " I could live 20 years or more." I knocked on wood. "What am I going to do all that time?"

They nodded, sympathetically. "What about Heidi?" asked one. "How much time does she have?"

"To live?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"No!" she laughed. "Until she retires!"

Whistle Stop

Before she headed off to school yesterday, Heidi modeled her wardrobe choice for me. It was a T-shirt that always makes her giggle because it reads, Hey Trainwreck! This ain't your station. 

"You know what the funniest thing about this shirt is?" she asked me.

I laughed because she had read my mind. "Yeah," I told her. "It really is their station. With you? It's always their station."

Slapstick Humor

Despite the blustery cold, there were a bunch of kids hanging around the soccer field when I left school this afternoon. Just as I rounded the corner to start down the sidewalk toward them, I saw a ball fly through the air and bop one kid on the head. I laughed as he shook it off like a cartoon character, clearly now the worse for the unfortunate kick. 

As I continued on, I saw that several of my current students were in the group. They waved and trotted down, excited to see me outside and after hours. We exchanged greetings and a bit of small talk. "Did I see you laugh when that kid got hit in the head?" one girl asked, wide-eyed.

"Well, yeah," I shrugged unapologetically. "He was obviously fine, and? It was funny!"

"You're so cool for a teacher," she said.

"Just human," I laughed. "Have a good weekend!"

Being and Raininess

I always forget how much I love the poetry unit every year. Kids have such a fresh and quirky take on the world, and poetry is just concentrated enough to showcase their creativity and fresh perspective. Even a form as brief as haiku can be stunning or hilarious or both. 

The rain yesterday inspired many of the young poets in my class, among them this writer:

It rains heavily.
The children are not playing.
I don't like the rain.

I laughed out loud when I read it. "That's so existentialist of you," I told her, "to recognize the absence of the children!" I knew she was one of the few 12-year-olds around who would understand my point.

She brightened at the comment. "I do like considering existence," she confirmed, "but I was kind of thinking of The Cat and the Hat when I wrote that!"

Keeping it Moving

Today was an Anchor Day at school when the schedule has us seeing all of our classes for a quick 42 minutes. Today was also the day when students received their March writing challenge prizes, AND the day when I introduced the April poetry challenge AND taught a lesson on syllables and Haiku.

To say it was busy? 

That would be an immense understatement. There was applause and candy and wheel spinning. There was a little commercial I made for the poetry challenge that had students calling out its virtues. There was clapping out syllables of one's own name, and then the actual composition of the poetry, all compressed into a little more than half an hour.

But it was fun! 

There happened to be a substitute for the co-teacher in one of my sections, and as the bell rang and she filed out with the students she stopped me. "That was the most interactive class I have ever been in!" she gushed.

I thanked her kindly and said, "Well, you came on a good day!"

Rising Costs

Of course, I know there's been inflation over the last three years or so; it's obviously been a significant economic and political story. Even so, I am fortunate enough that the news has only had a tangential impact on me: Although we have a loose budget, I can easily afford to buy our essentials without carefully tracking the cost.

Recently, however, as I have shopped for the monthly prizes for our annual writing challenge, inflation has become glaringly apparent. For example, candy that used to cost 99 cents not so many years ago is now 1.39 on a good day. And other items have risen by more than that 40 percent, so our expenses have nearly doubled. In fact, the grand prize t-shirts' price has literally doubled in the last 5 years. 

Oh, in the larger scheme of things, the money for these purchases, whether subsidized by a PTA grant or a GoFundMe campaign, or not, is little enough, especially for someone who can buy whatever she wants at the grocery store. But I know that not everyone is as advantaged as I am, and I'm sorry I haven't been more empathetic.

In Training

"Are your shoes untied?" a student asked this morning.

"No," I said.

"April fools!" he shouted.

"That's not how it works," I shook my head.

"I tried," he answered with a shrug. 

A little while later the same student approached me again. "Is your hair made of metal?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"April fools!" he tried again.

"That's still not how it works," I told him. "What's that on your shoulder?" I pointed.

He looked down.

"No, over there by your neck," I said. "I don't think you can see it, but it's like a big... thing!" 

I threw up my hands and he did, too, brushing off his shoulder.

"April fools!" I cried.

"Oh," he nodded. "That's how it works."

Everyone's a Winner

We spent a sunny early afternoon in the company of a couple of toddlers on their first-ever egg hunt. The day was warm as the little girls in their Easter finery scampered about the courtyard looking for the colorful plastic eggs their bunnies had hidden and depositing their treasures in little baskets they carried over one arm. 

Oh, they relished the hunt almost as much as the tiny handful of cheerios they discovered within each egg. They were grateful for the challenge and happy for the rewards.

Me, too! Thanks to the folks at Two Writing Teachers for sponsoring another March writing challenge. It's been fun and inspiring, as always.

The Ice Boom

Every spring my father-in-law would send me a newspaper clipping with a quick, handwritten note: The ice boom is out!

He was referring to the apparatus which is installed each autumn where Lake Erie meets the Niagara River. Its purpose is to limit the amount of lake ice flowing into the river which can damage not only shoreline property, but also the hydroelectric works that power Western New York. The ice boom is a harbinger of winter, and its removal is a sign of spring.

My father-in-law passed away last fall before they installed the ice boom, but I'm pretty sure he was around when I happened to flip open the newspaper the other morning on our visit to Buffalo.

Dead Reckoning

Suddenly, a traffic sign blinked its warning: despite the clear road we were enjoying, just a few miles ahead there was major congestion. The angry red line on our map app only confirmed the bad news, and our ETA was rising like a fever. Despite limited knowledge of the area, I made a spontaneous decision to bail out onto a secondary road that seemed to go in the right general direction.

Immediately I felt my blood pressure lower. Ahead was a rolling two-lane road flanked by century-old brick homes and barns, and cutting a clear swath through woods and farmland. The sun was setting behind us as we headed east and south, bathing the entire landscape in golden light. 

Oh, my navigation app was not happy-- it advised us to make a U-turn, then make a left turn, then make a right turn, all suggestions I ignored. And I could almost hear it sigh with annoyance and then, was that surprise? As it re-routed us and took 15 minutes off our arrival time.

Wish Come True

It was a happy coincidence that our spring break fell the week of my mother-in-law's birthday, the first since her husband had passed away. We planned a low-key celebration: homemade biscuits for breakfast, an outing with the dogs, dinner at a favorite restaurant, ice cream cake for dessert. We also picked up a hand-sander, a tool that she mentioned needing for some small home improvement projects she had planned and wrapped it up with a pretty yellow ribbon.

These were small enough gestures, but it turned out to be a really good day. So much so that my mother-in-law, not the most demonstrative of folks, gave each of us a big, spontaneous hug, before heading happily off to bed, where she slept soundly through the night, another unusual occurrence around here!

Why We Have Dogs

We tried to take the dogs to walk in a park we often enjoy in the summer, but when we arrived it was closed for construction. The dogs were more than happy to ride over to the cemetery where we could pay our respects and also walk the winding paths, but when we got there, it was too muddy to enjoy. The dogs didn't complain at all when we continued on our way to the trail that runs along the creek and through the university, and they were pleased to jump out of the car and trot merrily along the path. But there were a lot of joggers and bikers whizzing past us and some nasty goose poop, too, so we cut that outing short and headed home, which the dogs were fine with. And the dogs loved it when we finally took them for a nice walk around the neighborhood. Their pink tongues and wagging tails told us that today? Was yet another amazing day!

Beauty All the Way

Blossoming trees lined the way as we drove north yesterday. "Don't get used to this splendor!" I warned my spouse with a laugh, the further we drive, the barer the trees will be."

And of course, I was right, but the day was beautiful even so: warm spring sunshine, clear blue sky, dove-gray mountains, and evergreen forest. Six-and-a-half hours rolled by as easily as the two-lane roads we drove. 

And, arriving in Buffalo, we were pleasantly surprised to find that the temperature was warmer up here than at home. We couldn't have asked for a better trip than that!

Safe Travels

The sun is shining and our bags are packed. The audiobook is chosen, the snack bag is loaded up, the car is full of gas, and the road to Buffalo stretches ahead. Once that rush hour traffic clears? We will be on our way.

After reading about everybody else's vacations all weekend, it's time for our own road trip.

After I wrote this, I searched my blog to be sure I had a unique title, (which can be a challenge after 15 years!) Never have I called a post "Safe Travels" but I was taken by the other times I've used the phrase:

Saturday, May 21, 2022 

E is for Extended 

We gathered today in Lynchburg for the high school graduation of Heidi's goddaughter. The last time we were in this little city on the James River was nearly 18 years ago when the same child was born. Shortly after that, her family moved to New Jersey, and over the years, we've attended christenings, first communions, and other milestone events of her and older sister's where we have met her grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and other close family friends. It's been about 10 years since the last celebration, though, and in that time the family has returned to the same private school where her dad worked when she and her sister were born, and it was from that school that she graduated today. 

How strange it is to spend the day with people we know and keep up with through our mutual acquaintance but have only met a few times and haven't seen in ten years. Dining on sandwich wraps and cookies, the quality of interaction shifts from superficial to friendly to almost intimate. But then the conversation flags and we stand awkwardly to throw our paper plate in the trash, refill a solo cup with iced tea, and repeat the ritual with another partner until it's time for goodbyes. There will be the decision to hug or not to hug. "Safe travels!" we will say. "It was so good to see you again." 

"Until next time!" they might answer, And because it occurs to us that these meetings are most definitely numbered, we nod and lean into that hug. 

Life Lesson: Live in fragments no longer. Only connect! ~E.M. Forester Saturday, 

November 17, 2012 

Some Habits Die Hard 

This morning I was facetiming with my mother. She's coming to town tomorrow for the holidays, so I wanted to get her flight info and wish her safe travels. I was sitting in an easy chair by the window during the call, and rather than allow my face to be darkened by backlighting, I turned sideways so that my folded legs were against one arm and my back rested against the other. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, so I was wiggling a bit to find a sweet spot as we chatted. 

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" my mother asked me. 

(Full confession: As a kid, I was notorious for getting caught up in something and rather than pausing, I would just do a little dance until the moment was more convenient to visit the restroom. My family might say that I never outgrew that particular quirk. Whatever...) 

"No!" I answered, and started to explain, but then I stopped and said, "Mom! I think now that I'm fifty you can stop asking me that question." 

"No I can't," she replied. "You'll always be my little girl." 

Tuesday, June 15, 2021 

Non-stop 

The question of the day was What are your three road trip must-haves? 

First answer? 

Food, phone, and a bottle to pee in. 

Well. 

Safe travels, kid. 

Sunday, April 14, 2019 

Wardrobe Change 

Many of my friends and colleagues are headed south and west to warmer weather for spring break this week. We are headed north to Minnesota for a visit with my mom. And to tell you the truth? The weather here has been pretty mild the last couple of days, and after seeing myself in shorts-- another week of cool weather might not be too bad! 

Safe travels to all!

All the Time in the World

We had to drive to Georgetown for an errand yesterday afternoon, and it was expectedly bustling with cars and shoppers jamming the streets and sidewalks. Rather than irritated, I found myself charmed by the boisterous energy, and I took the time I had to wait at each light cycle to look around with interest at what had changed since I last ventured to that part of town. 

Soon enough we had what we needed and we were headed back across the bridge to run a few more errands on our side of the river. Rather than get right on the main artery, I leaned into my curiosity and drove through a few neighborhoods to check out some new businesses and buildings over here. 

Our exploration added some time to the outing, of course, but who cares? We're on spring break!

When Life Gives You Raindrops

Our two cats enjoy going out on our little deck, especially since I grow wheat grass for them to nibble on when the season allows it. I sowed the latest crop during the warm spell a couple of weeks ago, and they know it's out there-- first thing in the morning they tear over to the sliding glass door and meow to be allowed out to chew on the tender blades of spring green. 

Despite the cold, drenching rain, they dashed over this morning, as usual. Ignoring my warnings, they insisted on seeing for themselves, so I let them out. Both were splatted with enormous raindrops before they could even get one bite, and they returned to the house just as quickly as they had exited. I laughed, but feeling bad for their disappointment, I built a fire where they could warm up and dry off. 

I think we all agree that it turned out to be a pleasant morning after all.

Reporting Live From...

My sixth-grade students, it seems, are living their best lives. Spring break started today and one is already in Paris, another in Puerto Rico;  one is on the way to a castle in England, and another en route to the Bahamas. One student is flying to Hungary on Monday and somebody else is skiing in Colorado while their classmate is on the beach in Malibu. Other students are headed to Florida and the Carolinas, and many have day trips and other fun activities planned for the break.

Fortunately, most have eagerly agreed to keep posting their slice of life writing from their vacation destinations, so at least the rest of us can live vicariously!

Excuse Me

I was working in my classroom in the quiet after hours of the school day when the night custodian walked in and burped loudly. I sat in surprised silence at my desk, until when he noticed that he was not alone, he sighed heavily and rolled his job cart to the next room down, as if I had offended him.

It's a truism to point out that the nature of teaching is such that, as long as school is in session, your work is never really done: there's always one more lesson to tweak, a few more writing pieces to read, emails to send, forms to fill out, you know. Even so, I took this little interaction as a sign, and so I shut down my laptop, packed my bag, and headed out into the late afternoon.

Not too Shabby

Today was the first "Wacky Wednesday" of our sixth-grade 100-day writing challenge. After they posted their 100-word (or more!) slice of life, students were invited to click on a secret link that took them to a list of crazy options which, if performed successfully, could lead to a modest reward. (Okay, it was a Jolly Rancher.)

The first rule of Wacky Wednesday is you had to follow the rules of Wacky Wednesday, (see what I did there?) which included when you could and could not do your wacky act. The second rule of Wacky Wednesday was we don't talk about Wacky Wednesday-- other people have to figure it out on their own, do their writing, and join the fun.

It was a perfect activity for an anchor day before spring break. Most students worked diligently, waiting for that moment when all wackiness would break out, and it did! Kids were swatting imaginary flies, adding "hold the pickles," to anything they said, galloping around on imaginary horses, pretending to be a mime in a box, and raising their hands ever so politely to share that they "always thought broccoli was little trees," among other wacky challenges.

We laughed our way through the day, and much good writing was done, too.

Mother of Invention

Every year it's different. 

The structured group "brain breaks" that have been successful with other sixth grade groups in the past have this year given way to timed instructional and work sessions or stations punctuated by brief (also timed) breaks. So where in other years kids would compete in fun minute-to-win-it type activities, now my classes have five minutes to move about, get water, use the restroom, talk to their friends, and play with the toys and fidgets I have in my room.

The structure works for this group, who struggled early on with finding a successful cooperative dynamic for mini-competitions and challenges, and it's kind of fun in its own way. Plus, I don't have to have a yo-yo for everyone, a couple will do for those who choose to use them. Likewise, 3-4 kids will play a round of magnetic darts, while another might solve the speed cube. There are puppets, a headband with a punching ball, chopsticks, bouncy balls, a foam football, mini golf clubs, juggling balls, and more. The only rule is that all electronic devices have to be closed. 

I was worried that if everyone was doing their own thing, we would lose some of that sense of community that a group activity can build, but I have found that not to be true. Even in the short time they have, small groups form and reform, and many kids seek me out during those breaks, too, either to play with them or witness their amazing accomplishments. 

All in all, what started out as a concession to what I considered a gap in this class's social skills has turned into a net positive. I can add the concept of self-directed free time to my list of breaks, and it might even end up near the top.

There's a Word for That

"No games on your iPad," I reminded a sixth-grade student returning from lunch. She was walking down the hall with her nose practically glued to the screen.

"I just had to finish something," she shrugged and snapped her case shut.

"Let me guess--" I responded. "Was it a... game? Because those aren't allowed."

"Yes," she admitted, "but do you have to be so condescending?"

"Great adjective!" I laughed. "Do you have to be such a scofflaw?"

"I'll let you know," she said, "when I find out what it means."

Mysterious Mouse

I opened my eyes this morning and spied something odd on the floor. I poked my spouse. "Did you give the cats some kind of hyper-realistic mouse toy last night?" I asked.

The answer was no, and so that really was a dead mouse on the carpet. As I examined its lifeless body, gathering the energy to rise and dispose of it, I remembered one of our cats jumping excitedly on the bed the night before, leaping from one of us to the other. I had given her a dismissive pat and shooed her away so that I could slumber on.

I saw the same cat, Tibby, looking now upon the dead mouse from the bathroom with what I took as a satisfied expression. Just then, her partner, Milo, approached from the other side of the bed. He literally jumped straight up in the air when he saw the mouse and made a hasty retreat. In a moment he prowled carefully closer to sniff the poor thing. Milo kept looking from the mouse to Tibby, clearly asking her how this could possibly have happened.

I'd like to know the same thing! We've lived in our house for 25 years, and this is only the second mouse we've ever seen. Always having a cat or two might explain how we keep the place rodent-free, but where did this dumb mouse come from? How did it get in? Should we be concerned that there will be others?

Only Tibby knows, and she's not talking.

Let It Be

On this beautiful Saturday afternoon, we took a long walk with the dog and our route took us through a schoolyard playground. There, we saw a group of five elementary-aged school children in deep conversation. Two girls sat on a tree stump while three boys jostled and bickered around them. 

At last, the biggest boy made a proclamation. "There's only one solution," he told the group solemnly. "James-- give me a wedgie!"

My eyes widened and the teacher in me was reflexively ready to intervene. I could tell that Heidi felt the same way, but she shook her head. "There's only one solution," she said. "Keep walking!"

Not Lost in Translation

Today was student-led conference day at our middle school, and so I spent the day facilitating conversations between sixth graders and their parents concerning grades, study skills, and school involvement. For the most part, I love this model-- it empowers and engages students to consider their learning and begin to take responsibility for it. 

In theory, I am present only to clarify, answer questions, and offer a teacher's perspective on what the students report, but in practice, I must also call the language line when a parent needs an interpreter, and that's where the model gets a little clunky. The person on the other end of the line can't see the slide deck that the students have prepared to guide their presentation, and sometimes they can't hear the students either, especially if the kid is soft-spoken. Together we have to chunk the conversation so that they can keep the parent caught up with what we are saying.

Even so, most of the interpreters I have worked with have done the job with patience and grace, and it's worth a little awkwardness to be able to get someone on the phone whenever we need it. And today, I had a very human moment with one of the folks on the line. A student was explaining to his dad why he sometimes struggles to work successfully in groups. 

"People are always talking to me," he said, and sat back as if that cleared it all up.

I raised my eyebrows. "They're just talking to you?" I pushed back. "While you sit there silently?"

Perhaps it was my tone of voice, but the interpreter snorted and laughed before she translated my question. Then she apologized. No worries, though. She couldn't see it, but the kid and his dad were laughing, too.

Study Skills

My sixth-graders collectively bombed a recent vocabulary test, and their poor performance had me scratching my head because they have done pretty well on similar assessments in the past. The vocabulary lessons are structured to allow students to uncover the definitions of prefixes, suffixes, and affixes. There is also ample opportunity for them to apply the information to both familiar and unfamiliar words, but when it comes down to it, there is a necessary element of memorization.

As such, these kids had access to several online study tools, including slide decks, practice quizzes, and games, some of which we did together in class. Still, the results were disappointing, and reviewing and reteaching were necessary. It occurred to me while planning that maybe we should set the devices aside and go old school. Each student got 9 cards, one for each suffix, and then they consulted their notebooks to find the verified definition. After that, they quizzed themselves and a partner, played matching and concentration, moving, viewing, reading, and hearing the information on those flashcards until they were ready for a retake.

Which? Many of them aced and all of them improved upon their former grade. After celebrating our group victory, I addressed the class."You know what we just did to prepare for the test?" I asked and there were nods all around. "That's called 'studying'!"

Plus ça Change

"Leadership team looked at the survey results and we decided that every student will have a binder next year," our team leader informed us at our weekly meeting today. "Dividers for all seven subjects AND a paper agenda," she continued.

Her report was met with silence; everyone present agreed that, even in this oh-so-digital age, a binder is a good organizational tool for students. The agenda? Not so much, but we can work with it. 

"They're forming a committee," she laughed, "to formalize the binder expectations. In case anyone feels strongly enough to join."

There were no takers, but the offer reminded me of something. Our school building is 50 years old. Having spent my entire career there, I am rather fond of the sprawling old brick fortress it is, but I am a minority. Many others have good reason to wish that our district will finally earmark the funds to tear the place down and start again. 

From the mice in the ceiling, to the lack of windows and ventilation, the leaks, the mold, the foundation repairs, the place is showing its age, but when I first started, it was still a sprightly structure of just 20, one of the newer buildings in the system. Ten years later, when the place turned thirty, we created a time capsule to commemorate the event. Each team was asked to choose or create an artifact that would show the world thirty years in the future what middle school was like in the early years of the new millenium.

Our sixth grade team? Put together the best binder you could ever imagine! Surely this will be a thing of the past, we thought. But twenty years later, despite iPads and smart panels and mobile phones in every pocket, here we are talking about the same things. 

And? Unless something huge changes, when they open that time capsule our artifact is going to get a great big yawn. Except, it is a really great binder-- there is that!

The Devil You Don't Know

Over the weekend my brother and I were talking about the tricks of time. He will be 60 in a month. "It seems crazy," he said, "that 60 years before I was born was 1904! That has always seemed so long ago, but now I have 60 years of memory myself."

Perhaps I was subconsciously thinking of that conversation when today I asked, as a warm-up question, if the sixth graders in my class would rather live 100 years in the future or 100 years in the past. 

I'm not sure what I expected, probably an attraction to the future and its promise of new technology. To be sure, a lot of kids mentioned just that-- new games, no question, and some are actually holding out for flying cars (although they quite clearly specified that theirs will be electric). 

What I did not anticipate were the many students who chose the future because of our racist past. "Look at me," said one girl in a head scarf, "people probably would not like me or trust me." 

Others were familiar enough with history to know that they wanted to avoid both the Great Depression and World War II. And one boy had a very personal reason for his choice. "They never could have cured my cancer back then," he told me matter-of-factly.

I was surprised that not a single kid expressed concern about the challenges of the future, like climate change, the end of democracy, pandemics, or war. "We'll figure it out," shrugged one.

I'd like to think they will.

Not Even Close

I read somewhere that today, the Monday after DST begins, is National Napping Day, which makes sense, even though I'm not really a napper. I do hate Daylight Savings Time, though, as almost anyone who knows me can verify.

This year, I didn't even have to go to work today. Many of my friends congratulated me on having the luck to be out of town for a family gathering on the shortest weekend of the year. "Maybe when you get back on Tuesday, losing an hour won't bother you at all," they said.

I was skeptical.

And as it turns out, staying up late playing games with your nephews because your body thinks it's an hour earlier, and then getting up to pack the rental house, load the car, drive home, unload the car, unpack, and then sit down to catch up on schoolwork is not really an ideal way to ease into the time change.

In fact, I almost took a nap.

Lose Some, Win Some

When we woke up this morning (minus our stolen hour), the torrential rain of yesterday had given way to cold, blustery sunshine, so we took a ride down to the Eastern Neck National Wildlife Refuge, known for its resident bald eagles. 

We were disappointed in our efforts to see eagles or any wildlife, with the exception of vultures, though. It seemed like the other animals were smarter than we were, and they sought shelter from the gusty winds. So, after a windblown hour or so, we headed home.

Not to worry, though. This afternoon, we watched four eagles ride the turbulence, diving into the creek and flapping away with small fish, all from the comfort of our living room. 

I still want that hour back, though!

Here's Lookin at You, Oscar

For many years, we used to gather with my brother's family to watch the Oscars in one of our houses or another. We would have a delicious potluck meal, everyone contributing something amazing to share; we would fill out our predicted ballots and throw a few bucks into a pool, and since it was always so late on Sunday night when it ended, we'd take the next day off. 

One year it occurred to us that since we were taking off, we might as well take off for somewhere fun, and a tradition was born. In the decade-plus since that realization, we have spent long weekends in many amazing waterfront homes in places like Hague, VA, Scotland, MD, Dewey Beach, DE, and this year, Rock Hall, a tiny Eastern Shore port on the Chesapeake Bay.

In our part of the world, the weather in March is unpredictable, and so those weekends have been a mixed bag of days when we could hunt barefoot for sharks' teeth and fossils to times when we needed our warmest gear as protection against a howling Nor'easter. Through it all, we've explored tiny towns, nature preserves, parks, and history museums, enjoyed local restaurants, patronized artists and artisans in their galleries, fishermen on the wharf, farmers' markets, and country stores. 

In these homes away from home, we've cooked and laughed and played games. We've seen over 200 awards handed out and heard countless speeches. We witnessed Faye Dunaway accidentally announce LaLa Land as best picture and Will Smith slap Chris Rock. One year, my nephews each made their own short film over the weekend, which they premiered before the ceremony began. (Of course, those were the real best pictures that night.)

Other family members have traveled from Minnesota, Florida, and Colorado to be part of the fun, and one nephew has joined virtually from Western Massachusetts and another from Iceland. 

And here we are again. Cue the orchestra, and... Action!

Off the Market

Like many teachers these days, I have a basket of fidgets on my desk. Although it is ever-evolving, lately, my collection includes an assortment of stress balls, yo-yos, poppers, puzzle cubes, hand grip exercisers, and a boxing ball headband. There is also a Wiz-z-zer.

For those who are unfamiliar, Wiz-z-zers are gyroscopic spinning tops that were popular in the 1970s. Unlike their predecessors, Wiz-z-zers did not use a string to start them spinning. Instead, you swept them at an angle across a plain surface (like the bare floor), revving them up, and then dropped them lightly to spin really fast for what seems like a very long time. 

When we were kids, Wiz-z-zers were a staple stocking stuffer for my brother and sister and me, and we each had several. When we got bored of spinning them, we battled them, and when we tired of that, we held them, buzzing, up to our cheeks, pretending they were electric razors.

Anyhow, it must have been over ten years ago that I saw one for sale in a clearance bin somewhere, and of course, I bought it. I realized then that I hadn't seen one for decades, and a little research revealed that they had been discontinued in the 80s, revived in the mid-oughts, and then discontinued again. My Wiz-z-zer languished in a box of toys in the attic until a recent purge when rather than give it away, I brought it to school.

Oh my! If I had known how popular it would be, I definitely would have dug that spinning top out sooner. Undoubtedly, its novelty contributes to its allure; no one who plays with it now has ever seen its like. In fact, several kids have offered to buy it from me.

"It's not for sale," I rejected the latest request yesterday.

"Not for any price?" replied the interested party.

"Nope," I confirmed.

"You're telling me that if I gave you a million dollars here and now for this thing," he held up the toy, "you wouldn't take it?"

"Maybe a million dollars," I shrugged, "but not a penny less." I laughed.

"How about a million dollars in pennies?" he countered. "By the time you finished counting them, would you even know if you were missing one?"

Trial and Error

A colleague came into my room with a frustrated look on her face. "Do you have a minute to help me?" 

"What's the problem?" I asked.

She had copied a Word document with a data table, and she was having trouble removing the information so that she could reuse the table. "Can't you just highlight it and hit Delete?" I suggested.

"You would think," she sighed.

I went to her laptop and tried it myself, but she seemed to be right. "Hmmm," I said as I thought about the possible causes of the issue. I like to think of myself as pretty tech-savvy, but my know-how is all experiential: I figure it out as I go, building on whatever skills I've developed along the way. This particular problem-solving was slightly complicated by the fact that she uses a PC and I am team Apple, all the way. Even so, solutions to those kinds of things are usually pretty intuitive. 

Of course, my next move was to search it up, and I found loads of fixes, none of which made any sense. They all involved Function this or Shift Left that. Finally, I approached her keyboard myself to examine the situation, and scanning the top row of function keys, I noticed a tiny one labeled "Delete" right next to F12 and above Backspace. I tapped it and all the onerous old data disappeared!

As it turns out? Delete and Backspace are not the same thing. (Except on an Apple keyboard!)

Twenty Questions

"I met someone who knows you," one of my colleagues told me today.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"You like games," he shrugged, "let's see if you can figure it out."

I laughed because I do like games. "Let's go!"

"She taught math here about 12 years ago," he started.

"That's it?" I said. "That's the only clue I get?"

"She knows you, and she used to teach with the assistant principal who moved to the other middle school. They were on the same team."

"Does she know me?" asked another veteran teacher who happened to be listening.

"She didn't mention you," he reported. "Or you either," he bobbed his chin at another longtimer.

"Hmmm," I thought for a minute. "Was it--?" I mentioned a name, but my colleague's face went blank, and he furrowed his brow. 

"I don't actually remember her name," he confessed. "That's why I wanted you to guess."

"Okay, then," I shook my head, preparing to approach the third rail of interpersonal relationships in the workplace. "What did she look like?"

First Shift

I took my car in for some minor repairs and a safety inspection, and rather than shuttle back and forth, I decided to wait in the dealership lounge. The wifi was good, and I was able to get quite a bit of planning and some grading done in the couple of hours I was there. When at last the service advisor came to fetch me, I was feeling pretty good about my productivity; revising a rubric seemed a much better way to spend my time than watching game shows on their giant flat screen, or reading a magazine, or scrolling through my phone. Doing schoolwork gave meaning to waiting around. 

As I ponder when and if I should retire, it's considerations such as this that give me pause: what will define my down time if it's not my on time?

Editorial

In a light-hearted attempt to re-introduce the topic of editing for correct punctuation, today I asked the sixth-graders in my English classes what their favorite punctuation mark was. 

The results of my poll were unexpected. The question mark was very popular not only because many of these young writers consider themselves curious, but also because of its fun shape. The exclamation mark was shouted out for excitement, which was emphatically its greatest strength. Some loved the comma for its ability to join things clearly, and others appreciated the ellipsis for its mystery and promise of more to come. A good number recognized the period as the workhorse of punctuation it is, even while they acknowledged that it wasn't very exciting.

The semicolon had one fan whose reason was "because nobody knows how it is used, and whenever I see it in the wild I feel fancy."

"I love the semicolon; I use it all the time," I replied.

The Fix Is Not In

Recently I've noticed that when things don't go their way, many of the sixth graders in my class complain that, "It's rigged." 

Their team lost the Super Bowl because of a conspiracy. That B on the science test? Obviously, the test wasn't fair. Our homeroom didn't win the door decorating contest because it was rigged against us. That soccer or basketball or baseball or lacrosse or hockey official was biased toward the other team, otherwise their team easily would have won. Didn't guess the color of the Jolly Rancher to win another? Rigged! Lost at Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza? The other kid was cheating!

Of course, I have a hunch where they got this notion; it is certainly not a concept limited to 11 and 12-year-olds these days, but maybe we should all remember that, sometimes?

We don't get our way, through no fault of anyone else. 

And that's okay.

Bargain Trapper

I'm not a big fan of shopping in general, but I sure do love shopping a clearance section. There's something about the prospect of finding unexpected treasure at a bargain price that hooks me every time. 

Today, for example, when I stopped at the card shop for some gift wrap, I found myself in the back of the store poking through the 75% off items. I couldn't resist buying a couple of canvas and faux fur trapper hats for my nephews; one of them lives in Iceland, and the other is a dedicated outdoorsman. At $4.50, the price was right, and I'm sure they will be great Christmas gifts if only I remember I have them-- December is a long time away! 

Even if I forget, though, I feel like I've already gotten my money's worth, because when I got them home and took them out of the bag, my dog was very interested in the furry items, thinking they were dog toys. Noticing her attention, I put one on, snapped it under my chin, and turned around with a playful growl. My dog started jumping and barking at the fearsome creature I had become, and I laughed as we wrestled around. 

Now she's sound asleep on the floor beside me, and I'm thinking of going back to get one of those hats for myself, or at least for my dog!

It's What I Do

When I was in sixth grade, yo-yos were a big thing. We all brought our Duncan butterflies to school every day and kept them in our desks or pockets, ready to loop-de-loop, around the world, rock the baby, walk the dog, or sleep our yo-yos at a moment's notice. These days, I can't do all the tricks I once could, but I can yo-yo decisively, and most of my sixth-grade students find that pretty impressive.

I keep a couple of yo-yos in the fidget basket by my desk, and kids are welcome to borrow them during breaks. Today one girl grabbed the bright-blue butterfly eagerly and slipped the loop of its string over her finger. Then she lifted her hand and dropped the yo-yo, but her face fell faster than it did when she couldn't get it to return to her palm. I watched her roll the yo-yo over the string to try again, but the toy just jerked a bit downward and stopped again at the end of its string.

"Wind the string around the yo-yo," I suggested, "instead of the yo-yo around the string."

"Why?" she arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"It's faster and tighter, and you'll have better results," I replied.

She was skeptical, but she tried it my way.

"Now turn your hand over and roll the yo-yo off your fingertips instead of just letting it go," I told her.

She sighed but flipped her hand. 

 "When it gets to the bottom of the string, turn your palm over and give a little jerk up with your wrist," I coached her.

"Okay, here I go," she announced and did a pretty good job executing my directions. The yo-yo made it halfway up the string and her jerk made it fly into the air where she caught it. "I did it!" she cheered, wrapping the string for another try. "I can't believe you taught me!"

"Well "teacher" is my job title," I laughed.

An Education

When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. ~Mark Twain

A few weeks ago I ran into a former colleague who had retired back in 2010. Eleanor was the team leader of the sixth-grade interdisciplinary team I was assigned to when I first started teaching; she was social studies, I was English, Cheri was science, and Wes, another new teacher like me, was math. Eleanor was a veteran of the classroom, and she was gracious and supportive of the two newbies she was charged with leading, but she was older than we were, and we found some of her ideas old-fashioned and rigid. For the most part, though, we all worked together well. 

Although Wes left the team first to teach social studies on another sixth-grade team and then to teach at a DOD school in Iceland, Eleanor and I remained teammates until 2000, when I expressed an interest in taking on the leadership role. Initially very supportive, she ended up leaving the team to take another position in our building. To be honest, it was probably easier to be the team leader outside of her shadow, and it was a job I kept for 20 years, perhaps pissing off my own fair share of new teachers along the way.

Waxing Cranky

Sometimes there's no explanation for why a lesson or activity falls apart for a group or individual. Maybe the moon or the planets were in an unfavorable position this morning for one particular group of four boys, who are usually pretty good friends.

The class was working on a collaborative assignment analyzing a model narrative, of the type they are writing, written by a former student. In front of the four boys was a large sheet of paper with a grid of 16 elements to look for in the story, and each student was supposed to fill out four boxes, in consultation with the other members of their group. 

It was an assignment that had been and would be successfully completed by 29 other groups of students over the course of the day, and based on their collective aptitude and achievement, they should have been a dream team, but they found themselves lagging way behind everyone else, because these four guys just could not get their act together. 

In between insulting each other only half playfully, they bickered about which chair at the table they wanted to sit in, whose handwriting was better, which detail they should include, and whose turn it was to write. "What is going on here?" I asked, and four fingers each pointed at a different member of the group.

"Can I get some water?" one guy requested. "I need to get away from them! This group is really stressing me out!"

Jamming

I was just about to close the door to the classroom when I saw one last student hurrying down the hallway trying to make it to class on time.

I gave her an encouraging smile and waved. "C'mon! You can make it!" I said, and I could tell that she was doing her best to get there before the bell because she was weaving in and out and around all the other kids who were in her way.

She slipped in the door and sat down in her seat just as the bell rang. "Sorry I was almost late!" she apologized. "Traffic!"

Spirited

To mark the last week of the month, we are having a Black History Spirit Week here at school. Initially, I was excited when I heard about it; mostly because the last couple of events, Secret Spirit Week and Kindness Spirit Week, have been fun. But when the list of days came out last Friday, I was at a bit of a loss.

As a person who is white, I'm unsure how to participate appropriately in some of the activities. For example, today was Dress Like a Black Activist day and tomorrow is Dress Like a Black Icon of Art. It's unclear to me how I could do that without cultural appropriation. Wednesday is wear HBCU gear, and so I ordered a Howard t-shirt for Heidi and a Spellman shirt for myself, but Thursday is wear African Garb, and I'll be sitting that one out. Friday takes the colors of African Unity and distributes them among our community: teachers wear gold, 6th grade, red, 7th grade black, and 8th grade green. That one, I can do.

Please understand; I am not complaining. In fact, I think it's good for me to be uncomfortable. Who knows how many other Spirit Week activities we've had in the past have been inaccessible or unfathomable to others, students and staff alike? 

Moments, Not Milestones

We have long had a CSA farm share, but if you asked me how long, I'd be hard-pressed to say. It's been more than a few seasons of greens, sweet potatoes, radishes, turnips, tomatoes, peppers, and wonderful eggs, but the exact number? Not sure.

Tonight at the grocery store I saw some pussy willow branches in the floral department, and they reminded me, as they always do, of Josh. He couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 when visiting us one spring. It was early in the morning of his first day here and I was in the kitchen making breakfast when he came downstairs. He had been sleepy the night before when he arrived with his mom, and she had put him right to bed. Now he was sitting on the couch waiting for some waffles when I heard him softly say, "What are those things?" his nasal drawl filled with wonder. 

I thought a moment about what he might be talking about, and I remembered the pussy willow branches that had come with our farm share a couple of days before. As I stepped into the room to explain, I saw Josh reaching out to touch the velvety flowers, which were standing in all their fuzzy glory in a pewter pitcher by the fireplace, amid a few curly willow and slim forsythia cuttings. I'll never forget the look of enchantment on his face.

I know that had to be 20 years ago, although it sure doesn't feel that long. And that means that we've been getting that farm share for at least 20 years, which also seems impossible. Oh, Time! You are such a trickster.

Double Dipping

In case you were wondering what type of stuff I'm writing with the kids, here's what I wrote for my school writing challenge today:

This morning I read in the paper that Flaco, the Eurasian eagle-owl that escaped from the Central Park Zoo last year, died when he flew into a building. I remember when he escaped last year, a vandal tore open the screen on his enclosure in the middle of the night, but I hadn't followed his adventures very closely after that. 

Evidently, he became somewhat of a celebrity in New York City, and there are hundreds of photographs of him all over the city. Everyone was hoping he would find a way to survive while he was free, and he did! Even though he had been hatched and raised in captivity for all of his 12 years of life, Flaco was able to hunt and catch rats and pigeons to feed himself. Eventually, zoo officials decided to "monitor" him instead of actually trying to recapture him. They always knew that his biggest dangers would be cars and tall buildings. Hundreds of thousands of birds are killed every year in NYC by those things, and last night Flaco, who had beaten the odds for over a year, joined those other poor birds. 

Reading about his life made me sad that I hadn't paid closer attention when he was alive. He was only 13 when he died, and his species can live up to 40 years in captivity. I wonder if Flaco would have chosen his shorter life of freedom, even if he knew how it would end. 

What do you think?

If the Shoe Fits

I was near my wits end this afternoon with my last class of the day. 

Despite 4 adults and short, well-defined activities with clearly scheduled, generous breaks, there were a few students whose behavior was derailing the whole class of 22. One student in particular was being openly defiant. He shouted over me and other kids, was out of his seat posturing and dancing, and refused to comply with any redirection until we were forced to remove him from the group.

After the lunch break, we allowed him to return, but I reassigned his seat to a place that I thought would be less distracting for him and the rest of the class. "You're sitting over there," I pointed when he entered the room.

"You mean with the weird kids?" he asked.

I raised my eyebrows and bit my tongue.

Expanding the Fanbase

The other day, as our 100-Day Writing Challenge officially began, a student asked me if I would post my writing every day, too. "Since you already write every day, I mean," she shrugged.

"Maybe," I told her, but to be honest, I have long resisted doing just that. For one thing, I don't really want to share everything I write here with my students. Many pieces offer my own private adult perspective on our days spent together, and kind of like teachers talking at lunch, are not always appropriate for kids to overhear. 

Likewise, what I might write for a sixth-grade audience may not be of interest to my adult readers, (as few of them as there are!), so I've chosen just to continue on here, rather than write twice. But there was something about the request that made me think again, and so I decided to give posting with those young writers a chance this year.

It's only been three days, but already I've seen some benefits. For one thing, I can model the type of writing we're looking for. Many students write what we call bed-to-bed posts, basically listing everything they do on any given day, rather than focusing on a single thing, or at least a single theme, for each slice of life. Another advantage was when I wrote about the mouse in my classroom the other day. As I was composing I worked to find good "mousy" verbs, and then I was able to use my writing as an example the next day for a mini-lesson on vivid verbs.

But maybe the greatest upside of publishing a couple of hundred words every day on our class site is that my readership has skyrocketed: I've gone from 3-5 daily readers to 50-100! Maybe it's not viral, but it sure is kind of gratifying.

Just Hang Up

I had a sinking feeling when I reached for my phone at school this morning. Scanning my desk, I saw no sign of it, and when I checked the pockets of my down vest, they were empty, too. My phone was at home.

But? Believe it or not, the day went quite well without it. There were only a couple of times I wished I had it-- once to check a password I couldn't remember and then again when I set out for my walk home; I had planned to listen to an audiobook as I hiked the 2+ miles.

I didn't miss any calls, or texts, or news alerts, or social media posts. The world was fine when I found my phone just where I left it, on the dining room table.

State of the Union

In honor of Presidents Day, I asked kids to name their favorite president. I can't say I was surprised when Barack Obama came out on top. Besides his historic election, he was in office when they were born, and they think he's "nice" and "cool". Plus, they like his daughters.

In second place was Lincoln. Most who chose him had a vague notion about slavery, although one liked that he didn't want to be too hard on the Confederates, and someone else appreciated that he was rumored to keep letters and other things in his stovepipe hat.

Washington was a distant third, because, according to more than a few students, he "created" the country and the office of president. A couple of kids liked that he was a general, too.

Jefferson had a few votes, more because our school is named for him than the Declaration of Independence. Teddy Roosevelt was also mentioned twice because of national parks and hunting. Finally, FDR and Reagan had one supporter each. The first because he led the country through WWII and the second because the student's grandfather was a general who worked for him.

Oh, and President Biden had one mention, too, because he beat Donald Trump and he seems like a nice guy, even though he's old.

Holiday Gratitude

We started our 100 Day Writing Challenge a little earlier this year to give ourselves a bit more time to wrap things up at the end. 

Officially, the event starts tomorrow and ends on May 31, but I gave my students a soft opening by providing them the chance to post from last Wednesday when we introduced the challenge, and I was impressed by the 31 kids who made time to write over the long Presidents Day weekend. It seems like we're going to have a good year.

And as always, I was amused and charmed by some of the content. Today we didn't have school, wrote one student. I'm not sure why we didn't, but I'm happy since I got to sleep late.

Today I thank the presidents for letting every person who goes to school have the day off, wrote another.

At least they are grateful!

Unqualified

I had breakfast with an old friend this morning. Ruth and I have known each other since 1991 when we entered a graduate program in education. After we graduated, I got a job at the school where she was already working, but she gave up teaching in public schools a short while later. Since then, she has done a lot of different things, all in education and theater, her first love.

These days, she and her family live just far away enough that we don't see each other as often as we'd like, so it's always great to have a chance to catch up.

"So what's the deal?" she asked me as we sipped our coffee. "Are you retiring or what?"

"It's so funny that you think I would know that with only four months left in the school year," I laughed, "believe it or not, I still haven't made up my mind."

"What's the holdup?" she said.

I shrugged. "If I had something I knew I wanted to do, I would definitely retire," I told her. "As it is, though, I only know what I'm dreading for next year: a new curriculum, going back earlier in August, all the hoops they make us jump through." 

"There must be so many jobs you would be good at!" she replied.

"Maybe," I agreed. "I'm pretty good at job-doing, but I sure don't have the job-finding skillset. I have had the same job for more than 30 years!"

"I know," she nodded. "I helped you get it."

"See what I mean?" I sighed. 

Poking Along

"So my phone got taken away the other day," an 8th-grader told me recently. She was a former student who had stopped by after school to catch up. Or rather to catch me up with her; I could barely get a word in edgewise.

"What happened was my mom said she was going to take it away, and I said, 'You always say that but you never do!' and then she took it away."

"Oof," I managed before she continued.

"And when I told my world geography teacher, he wasn't even sympathetic! He just laughed and said I poked the goat or something," she sighed.

"It's 'poke the bear'," I told her.

"Whatever," she waved her hand. "I actually like 'goat' better because to be honest, my mom is the G.O.A.T," she reported with a shrug. She looked at me as if I was unfamiliar with the term and clarified. "You know? Greatest of all time? My mom is truly the greatest mom of all time."

"Well at least you don't hold grudges," I said.

Connections

The grand finale of Kindness Week was for each homeroom to collaborate and create a poster that expressed why kindness matters. "The most creative gets a prize," I informed my group, "so let's think about it."

We brainstormed, tossing ideas back and forth, but nothing really captured our attention. "Let's do Connections," suggested a student after a while.

"No!" I said, thinking he meant the NY Times word game we enjoy playing together. "We can't play a game until we have an idea!" Then I turned my head. "Or did you mean let's do Connections for our poster theme?"

He nodded. 

"I think that's genius!" I proclaimed, and the rest of the kids agreed with me. 

So the next day we came up with a list of words associated with kindness and looked for commonalities. We were all crowded around the whiteboard writing, erasing, circling, making suggestions and tweaks until at last we had sixteen words that could be sorted into four not-too-obvious categories. "This is the most fun I've ever had at school," one student said quite sincerely. "It's way better than game day!"

Another student did a little online research and discovered a website that allows you to create your own Connections game, based on the NY Times model. She plugged our words and categories into it, and we created a QR Code to go along with the poster.

"I'm sure we're going to win!" another kid crowed.

"Maybe," I said. "I guess it depends on whether the judges know the game."

"I don't care if we win," said someone else. "This was a good bonding experience for us."

I'd have to agree.

See for yourself:

 

A Good Walk Spoiled

Five years ago, when they were building an elementary school in our school's parking lot, the temporary parking solution involved finding a space either on the street or in the lot down by the tennis courts two blocks away. The second option required us to walk around the community soccer fields, tennis courts, basketball courts, and school garden on our way into the building. Generally? The walk was not a problem, although foul weather made it a bit unpleasant at times. Even so, I came to enjoy the extra activity right before and right after my work day. It was a time to decompress, be outside, and depending on the time of day, be a part of the community that uses the fields.

When the elementary school opened, our parking moved to an underground garage beneath it, which was much closer to the entrance of our school. One of the concerns about building another school so close to our own was always traffic flow; both schools use the same narrow bus lane and loop; the garage entrance is right there, too, and the drop-off for students is not clearly demarcated and over by the other school. So let's just say that any teacher arriving after contract time in the morning will definitely get jammed up before being able to park and enter the building, which is a frustrating and stressful way to start your day.

Lately, I have returned to parking by the tennis courts. It's far enough way that I can park with ease, and the walk is still kind of nice. I've been really talking it up to Heidi, too, and this morning when we rode in together, I was looking forward to showing her how much better parking over there is than fighting the traffic.

We heard a dog barking frantically when we pulled in. "Animal Control is here," Heidi noted, gesturing to the white van idling diagonally across three spaces. 

A group of three people with their dogs were talking with concerned looks on their faces by the tennis courts. "Maybe there's a raccoon in the trash can," I guessed.

"I'm pretty sure it's that dog," Heidi pointed.

Sure enough, a medium brown pitbull mix was pacing and barking in the chainlink pitching cage over by the baseball diamond. As we approached, an animal control officer with a wire trapline calmly approached and entered the gate. She quickly cornered the dog and slipped the loop around its shoulders. We continued toward school as she secured a leash on the now quiet dog. On the concrete slab of the enclosure, we saw a light blue blanket and a toy carrot.

"He must've been left there," I said, and I felt my throat tighten at the idea. I couldn't shake the image of someone caring enough for a dog to give it a blanket and a toy, but feeling forced for some reason to abandon it. Heidi and I walked on in silence.

"I guess this wasn't the best morning for parking over here," I sighed. 

The Choice Is Yours

 It's Kindness Week here at school and we have been doing plenty of activities in homeroom that center around being nicer. One of the kids has been having none of it, though. he's been dismissive and snarky at every opportunity. 

"Come over here," I invited him to my desk while the other students were working on "Kindness Cups" to show their appreciation for an adult in the building. "What is going on with you?" I asked. "Why are you being so negative?"

"I don't really believe in kindness," he told me sincerely.

"Why?" I replied.

"When I was in fifth grade there was this kid who was nice to me sometimes and mean to me other times," he began. "Once a teacher saw him being mean and they made him apologize. The next day he brought me something and gave it to me in front of the teacher, so she would think he was really sorry, but later he told me he didn't mean it."

"That was an awful thing for him to do," I agreed, "but that's why we are focusing on how to be kind ourselves. We can't control how other people act; we can only choose how we want to behave." 

He nodded, but he still seemed doubtful. All the while he had been enjoying the Valentine's Day lollipop I had given him. He eyed the bag, looking at the leftovers.

"I'll tell you what," I said. "I'll give you another lollipop, and you can either give it away or keep it for yourself. It's your choice."

"Do I have to tell you what I do?" he asked.

"Nope," I answered and handed him the candy. "Happy Kindness Week."

Cumulative

When we are finished with our required activities, my homeroom loves to do online geography puzzles, news quizzes, and word games. One of our favorites is Connections by the NY Times. Each day players are given a block of 16 words and the challenge is to sort them into four categories of four words each. The criterion varies; in addition to thematic similarities, it could be a spelling commonality, pronunciation, completing common phrases, or something else.

The other day one of the solutions was bob, weave, cross, hook. "Oh! Those are boxing terms!" I explained as I stood at the smart panel. Then I pantomimed each one.

"You know how to box?" asked a student incredulously.

"I know the basic moves," I disclosed. "I've taken a few classes."

"What haven't you done?" asked another student in admiration.

"Well, I have been around a while," I laughed, "and I like to stay busy!"

Peer Feedback

There is a certain sixth grader in one of my classes who may be a bit more argumentative than necessary. 

Whenever I remind, redirect, or refocus him, instead of returning to the task at hand, he usually tells me why whatever he is doing is acceptable. His tone is often a bit smug, and I, never one to shy away from an argument, am usually willing to elaborate as to what I observed in contrast to what I asked the class to do, sometimes in a firm voice.

We had one of those interactions this morning at the beginning of class. He was having a conversation with another student across the room, and I was ready to start instruction, so I asked them both to turn around and stop talking. The other student complied, but this guy sighed and gave me the stinkeye and remained turned toward the other student rather than pivoting toward the front of the room. When I asked again, he had several reasons why he couldn't move his body and chair, but suffice it to say that he did just that a short time later.

Returning to the question day, I pointed out that it was kindness week and asked everyone to post one thing they could do to increase kindness in our classroom. There were suggestions of giving compliments, lending supplies, listening to me and each other respectfully, and helping in other ways, but five of the 18 students present pointedly wrote that if students stopped arguing with and interrupting the teacher our class would be a much kinder place.

Ouch.

Silver Linings Playbook

As a birthday gift for our neighbor, we signed the three of us up for a 3-hour workshop on Ayurveda which was held today. "Never again!" vowed Heidi as we left our house a little after noon to pick up Lauren.

"Never again what?" I asked.

"No three-hour workshops on the weekends!" she explained. "I already feel like there isn't enough time to get everything done."

"I get it," I nodded, "but let's see how it goes."

As it turned out, the three of us enjoyed the workshop quite a bit, and before we left, expressed our intention of attending the follow-up whenever it was scheduled.

"I can't go to the next one!" Heidi told me when we got home. "I said no more three-hour weekend workshops! It's 4:30 and we still have to walk the dog and go to Target!" she scoffed.

"Oh, we can run errands in a little while," I promised. "Just think-- it's Super Bowl Sunday: we'll have every place to ourselves!"

High Crimes and Misdemeanors

We were looking forward to renewing our Oscar season tradition of a movie and dinner with Bill and Emily when we headed to the theater early this evening. The film was Zone of Interest, which was interesting in its blandness; it seemed to be intentionally boring in order to show how banal evil can be. The movie was hard to watch, but worth the reminder that all manner of horrors can be normalized if we don't take care.

There was another patron in the theater who coughed loudly throughout the show. It was so noticeable that Heidi dug out a mask and put it on. Later, on the way home, our conversation turned to the cougher.

"It was the distraction that bothered me most," I said.  "Maybe the pandemic sensitized me to coughing, but what was more annoying was the disruption. It seems rude to make so much noise in a quiet theater."

"And they could be contagious," Heidi pointed out. "That's just wrong."

Battle Lines

The question of the day was "Who do you think will win the Super Bowl?" and the prediction was dead even, 43 kids for either side. 

And while I wasn't surprised that some expressed their support for Kansas City because they were Taylor Swift fans, I was a little taken aback at the level of animosity expressed toward Taylor Swift: as many kids were rooting for San Francisco because they didn't like her as were supporting the Chiefs because they did.

This, in a community that is politically pretty homogeneous. It's like we're looking for reasons to be polarized.

Live and Let Die

A few days ago I heard shouting from the room across the hall during our planning time and looked up to see a mouse scurry into my room. A few minutes later, the events repeated themselves. Finally, my colleague poked her head in the door. "Are you just going to sit there calmly while that mouse runs back and forth between our rooms?"

I smiled apologetically and shrugged. "The mice don't really bother me," I said. "I make sure there's no food in here and nowhere to nest, but if they run in, I leave them be."

"I knew it!" she said as another teacher joined her at the door. "She's not afraid of them!" They both shook their heads at me.

"I wish I could share your anti-mouse feelings," I laughed.

This afternoon the same duo returned to my door. "Mickey is no more," they informed me. "The glue trap did its job."

I cringed. 

"I knew it!" said one to the other. "She's sad for it!"

"Kinda," I admitted. "That's a tough way to go."

"RIP Mickey!" they laughed as they left.