The Gang's All Here

It's our traditional Oscar weekend-- only made sweeter by the presence of Riley and Josh. I love the movies; going is one of my favorite things to do, but they can't compare to the company we'll keep tomorrow night.

In the Field

We took two field trips this week, and despite the fact that I planned the excursions and had taken the same trips n years past, I still came away with a lot of new knowledge and understanding. For example, just today I learned why some trees keep their dead leaves through the winter, that the box elder's branches can perform photosynthesis, how snakes poop, why the black marbled salamander breeds in early winter instead of spring, and that most birds dump a load before flight (they must feel much lighter!).

What a shame that field trips are so often the first casualties of the push for increased student achievement as measured by standardized tests.

The Classics

In writing club today a student asked me to read the first couple of paragraphs of the story he is writing. He has an inviting writing voice, and whatever he starts, I usually want to read more. The problem is, he never finishes anything.

To be honest? I can totally relate; I'm not a big finisher either. And today, I made it even harder for him to continue. His character was in the car being driven away from his old home to his new with the radio playing. The three songs our young author mentioned in the segment were Losing my Religion, Midnight Train to Georgia, and Angie Baby.

"Interesting choice of music," I noted.

"I was listening to the oldies as I wrote," he said. My raised eyebrows encouraged him to edit. "I mean, the classics," he continued.

"Do you even know these songs?" I asked. "Angie Baby? Helen Reddy?"

"A-an-gie baby, you're a spe-eh-cial lady," he sang.

"Midnight Train?" I said.

"I love that one," he told me.

"Can you sing it with only the Pips' parts?" I asked him. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Try it! It's really hard," I said. "You think you know the song until you sing it like that." Fortunately, Mary had it on her phone, and I was able to demonstrate the challenge.

On the other hand, he wrote not another word before the bell.

Winter Count

Living so close to our nation's capital provides many opportunities for great field trips, and so we took our students to the National Museum of the American Indian today. Part of the program included a docent-led tour, and our guide pulled out a touch-cart of buffalo artifacts. It was an interesting experience-- she passed around jerky, a horn bowl, a piece of shearling, a bone tool, a bladder water bottle, and a rawhide string bag.

But, the coolest artifact was at the end. It was an authentic 200-year winter calendar (or "winter count") drawn in a spiral on the leather side of a young buffalo hide. Her explanation as to what it was began with a question. "So, how do you learn history at your school?"

I can only imagine what she was hoping to hear, given the beautiful record before us.

"Worksheets," one student answered, and there were nods of agreement all around.

Night Watch

I was awakened around 2 AM last night by an eerie whistling coming from outside. At first it was a confusing part of my dream, some Pi-like tiger training maybe, but it went on too long and soon I was aware of the shadow of the window frame that the streetlight casts on the ceiling of the bedroom.

Isabel heard it too. She sat on the landing with her nose poked through the curtains burfing at the night. I got up and went to see if there was anything visible out the window. Kneeling down, I put my arm around my dog. "I hear it, too," I whispered and peered out into the darkness.

If she could have, she would have said, "You got this? Oh, good." As it was, she relaxed, slipped from my side and back into the bedroom, lay down on the floor, and was immediately snoring.

There was nothing to be seen and the noise stopped soon after, so I too returned to bed, but I lay awake for some time.

Exchange Rate

Sometimes, if I'm tempted by a high-calorie snack or treat, I'll calculate how long on the treadmill it would take to burn it off. With that perspective, it's usually easier to pass up.

Today we saw the Oscar-nominated documentary shorts, and like every year, these five 40-minute films served up a lot of food for thought, as well as close to three sedentary hours on my butt. Still I'm satisfied that they exercised my mind and heart if not my body and heart.

I liked them all, but the one I find my thoughts returning to is Redemption, the story of New York City canners-- a sub-culture of people who comb through trash and recycling to find cans and bottles to redeem. Some simply supplement their income by canning, but most of the people in the movie made their living this way, and hard lives they were.

Early in the film, Walter, a homeless Vietnam vet, drove the enterprise home for me when he started reeling off the cost of things in cans. A Starbucks drip coffee? 50 cans. A box of handmade chocolates? 500 cans.


Such a calibration was momentarily staggering to me, and I could not stop myself from converting my own recent expenditures. The water in the cup holder next to me: 75 cans, downtown parking: 200 cans, that salad at lunch: 160 cans. The sour smell of every redemption center I've ever visited filled my nose, and all of a sudden "just a nickel" seemed like so much more.

Daughter of Adam

Seeing Life of Pi today really rounded out our Oscar quest. After we go to the documentary shorts tomorrow, there will only be a handful of nominees we haven't seen... not that such an accomplish will make any difference in our annual pool.

As beautiful as it was, Ang Lee's film was a bit of a trial, though. We have been putting it off mainly because the animals are in a lot of peril, and so Heidi flat out refused to see it. (She's still a little bit mad that I made us go.)

I suppose you could include the character of Pi in that group of endangered creatures, I certainly did as I wept throughout the movie for his losses. But there is something undeniably different about the evil we inflict on each other and that we direct toward animals, although I don't know why that is. Just the other day, I finished the Newbury book for this year, The One and Only Ivan. I started it last summer, but could not continue-- the tale of the captive gorilla and his friends, two elephants and a stray dog, broke my heart on almost every page.

Why do we tell sad stories, anyway? When I told my students that I had to set aside Ivan because it was way too emotional for me to be reading at school, at least five kids asked to borrow it when I was through.

Their young hearts must be much more elastic than mine.

Unchained

After putting it off for awhile, we finally saw Quentin Tarantino's Oscar-nominated film Django Unchained today, and it was just as expected: violent, gory, loooong, and yet somehow entertaining. As always, Tarantino makes me re-think movie violence... how can I like a film with so much gore?

Well, Christophe Waltz certainly makes it easier. I can't think of an actor who is more able to humanize a killer. In any of the films of his I've seen, despite their egregious actions, his characters are much less despicable and even honorable, because they have a clear ethical code and they work within it.

Something to think about.

What's Your Type?

Who says introverts don't have social skills? I submit that perhaps? We just have a different set of them.

For example, I have one little trick that comes in handy all the time, and I bet I'm not alone. Because introverts are usually reticent in contributing to conversations, many times people assume we aren't even listening, and so I just pretend I'm not. This is handy for at least two reasons. First, it relieves the pressure to actually participate, and second, when people talk like you're not even there, you hear some interesting stuff.

I have adapted this skill to my classroom. Often when my students are working in groups and I am elsewhere in the room, even perhaps, otherwise "occupied" with the attendance or something, they assume I'm not listening...  and so, many's the time I've beheld the shocked face of a kid who has just heard me quote verbatim the inappropriate remark made when the teacher "wasn't paying attention".

My very busy brain might come in handy here, too. I am perfectly capable of tracking three conversations at a time. Another very useful skill in a middle school classroom.

Aside from assisting in classroom management, though, these abilities also provide a lot of entertainment. Just today, I overheard the following remark as my students were supposed to be making the final push on typing and editing their fiction pieces.

"What's the Space Bar?  I've never heard of that place! Do they have anything good there?"

Tradition!

And for our second vegan Valentine? We return to pizza:

Spelt crust, tomato sauce, mushrooms, caramelized onions, roasted zucchini, olives, and fresh basil.

Love!

Ath Wednesday

One of our more precocious, but very impulsive, sixth graders, a self-professed atheist, reacted today to the few students wearing ashes on their foreheads by smearing blue marker on his. He called it atheist Wednesday, but I prefer my shortened version.

Fortunately, the marker was washable and the counselor was available.

So Bad, it's Good

I was in a meeting this morning where everything went to hell. Tempers flared, shoulders shrugged, and cheeks pinkened, and I would be surprised if anybody was satisfied with any of the outcomes.

Even so? It seemed like a step in the right direction.

Let's see.

Know Thyself

The surprise announcement of the pope's resignation was a big topic at lunch today. One of the other teachers clearly stated that she was certainly not Catholic because she liked change. "I sit in the exact same seat in the exact same pew at the exact same mass every Sunday!" she declared.

"That's one of the best parts of the church," I agreed. "You always know what's coming." I raised my eyebrows. "The switch to the new liturgy last year must have been tough for you."

"It wasn't too bad," she answered. "It's really not that different..."

I looked at her skeptically.

"Okay," she confessed, "I did go to an orientation session before they changed. That really helped."

Little Wonders

We were walking back to our car on the trail today when we saw a boy of about 4 and his mother coming toward us. We smiled and so did they, but as they passed us the boy paused and made eye contact with me. "Excuse me," he said in the most polite of tones. "Do you know if there are any eagles here?"

"There are," I answered, "but we haven't seen any today." Before the shine of anticipation on his face could fade, I continued quickly. "You know what we did see? Swans! There are hundreds of tundra swans right down there, and they even have a telescope to see them better."

His eyes widened, and he looked at his mom.

"Cool!" she said as she followed his lead down the trail. "Thank you."

"You never know," I called after them. "You might see an eagle, too."

Battle Scars

Ouch! I have a little blistery callus on my left index finger. Must be all that ukulele playing.

Just sayin.

That Looks Good

We had our annual international movie day today at school. The film we showed was Not One Less by my favorite Chinese director, Zhang Yimou. It was a good movie, and the kids liked it, and after a day immersed in images of China? We're having Chinese food tonight.

Culture Shock

Believe it or not, there is such a thing as middle school wrestling. I say this, because despite my 20 years in a middle school, I am one of the incredulous. Oh, I go to the meets to support my students, past and present, who wrestle, but I'm never there more than thirty seconds before I feel my face physically contorting in shock and consternation. I literally must massage the alarm out of my expression.

Set aside the snug, uniform "singlet" that all wrestlers sport, and even the practice of waiting on hands and knees as your opponent takes his position above you, the rest of the competition still seems very inappropriate to the uninitiated, especially those of us who spend our days discouraging practically everything the wrestling coach wants the athletes to do.

Let's put it this way: Instead of "Get him!" I want to yell "Get off him!"

Could Have Been

There was a segment on Marketplace this evening about the unreliability of memory. It seems that some researchers showed dozens of people photo-shopped images of news events past, and many of the test subjects conjured memories of them. Not only were they convinced that they remembered the fictional incidents, but some also recalled their emotional reactions at the time.

That doesn't surprise me in the least. As a bit of a memoirist myself, I know how slippery the past, even the very recent past, can be. My only defense, when challenged, is that I have presented the story as I recall it, and I claim to do no more or less than that.

Even so, someone else's faulty memory can be stunning. Once I posted a picture of me and my high school roommates. Taken in December of 1977, we are all wearing matching striped pajamas that one of the other girls in the photo gave us. It was a few days before Christmas break, and we had all immediately donned the jammies the minute we opened our packages.

What else would we do but take a picture? I recollect it so clearly: I propped my Minolta SR-T 101 on a chair and set up the auto-feature. There were 15 seconds on the timer, but on my way back to the group I tripped. As I rolled over, my friends grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up into the frame just as the shutter snapped. Of course we were all laughing.

Several folks from those days posted comments on the picture, including this one:  

Actually, wasn't this taken the year I was there? This was taken in Karen and Liz's room. In fact, I'm sure I took the picture.

That's just not how I remember it.

My Pogo

We had a conference today where the parent called her daughter by a nickname the whole time. Not so unusual, really, most Sams were once Sammys and some Kennys have even been Brandons at home, but this girl happens to be Sweet Face to her family.

It was cute, if a little distracting. Truth be told, she does have a very sweet face. Later when I was telling a colleague about it, another teacher came into the room. "We were just talking about Sweet Face," I told her.

"Did someone call you that?" she joked.

"Oh... to be honest? I'm afraid everyone calls me that behind my back," I said. "In fact, it might just be my pogo.*"

*Making fun of your friends about something annoying that they do, all behind their backs. Coined by the show New Girl.

Retrospect

"Will you fix this book for me?" a student asked this morning.

"Sure," I agreed without looking up; as far as I'm concerned, book repair is part of the job. I have a ready supply of packing and duct tape for just such occasions. "Where is it?"

She handed me a ragged lilac-colored volume and its sundered cover. I literally gasped. It was the exact same edition of Little Women that I received for Christmas the year I was in sixth grade. The very one that I read and loved with all my heart, probably just about this time of year 39 years ago.

"Where did you get this?" I asked in wonder.

She shrugged. "It's my mom's."

I flipped to the page facing the first chapter. A pen an ink drawing of a man in a topcoat tipping his hat to a young woman on the street with the caption, May I go also, and take for you the bundles?" sent a jolt of recognition right through me.

I reattached the cover and then paged through a little more, looking at the chapter headings, Aunt March Settles the Question, Lazy Laurence, and so forth, but than I returned to that first illustration, out of place, at the beginning of the book. I remembered how it bothered me back when I first read it.

Jo March? Why in the world would she marry Professor Baer, especially after rejecting Laurie? Duh! That girl was clearly gay!

The Temple

This winter it's been damn hard to find a decent clementine. My theory is that they (and we) are victims of their success. Fifteen years ago, when the charming wooden crates of these delightful fruits began to appear, it seemed impossible to get a bad one. From November to March, we feasted on perfectly tart, seedless little citrus gems. The Spanish beauties festooned our holiday tables and rounded out our brown bag lunches in their bright unassuming way.

Now? They come from Spain, they come from Morocco, they come from California, and they even come from South America in the summer time, but despite this bounty, their quality is spotty. Clever distributors have designed a bright orange mesh to sell them in, making it impossible to see the true color of the fruit, much less its size or the texture of the rind. Everybody loves clementines, but not many of us get what we hoped for once we open the package.

It's to the point where I ask anyone who has a decent looking specimen where it was obtained, and I confess to driving way out of my way just to find some good clementines.

Thankfully, there is another orange that is just as satisfying.  I remember my mother buying Temple oranges when I was a little girl. They were always cheaper than the smooth-skinned navals and Valencias, probably because they have A LOT of seeds, but to me they have always been superior-- easy to peel, always juicy, with a flawless balance of sweet and tart.

I don't feel that the Temple orange has received its proper due, but maybe that's a good thing. Their season is very short, so brief in fact that I forget about them from year to year until that day when I walk into the produce section and spy a stack.

Today, like that day every year, I clapped my hands and nearly skipped over to fill my plastic bag.

Shhhhh.

By the Shorts

We had a fun day today with my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew. It was our annual Oscar-nominated shorts marathon where we see both the animated and live action shows back to back. Even though I was a bit disappointed in the field this year-- I wanted to fall in love with something, but they were all just okay-- it was great company and an excellent shared experience seeing 10 good movies that we wouldn't otherwise.

And even better? We're going to the documentaries in a couple of weeks.

Prankster

One of the teachers on my team has made the decision to retire as of April 1. For someone to retire mid-year speaks to morale around here, but that's another blog post all together. Today she told the students of her departure.

She let them know class by class, but such big news spread quickly, at first through whispers. "Do you think she really meant it?" I overheard one kid ask another.

"Dude! No way!" his friend answered. "She's only joking. Look at the date-- it's April Fool's Day!"

Oh, Genie!

All week long my students have been pestering me about the Genie. When will we know whose wishes were granted they ask? I don't mind at all, in fact I'm really happy, because clearly they are engaged and invested in the assignment.

Five years ago when we first came up with this activity, the teacher that I collaborate with and I actually planned to read through each group and decide whose wish would be granted. We talked about assessment guidelines and criteria and thought long and hard about how to make it a fair and valuable lesson.

Finally on the day before we had promised the kids the Genie was going to reply, we hit upon the following solution:

The genie listened to each wish. When the last person was finished, he stood silently for a moment before he spoke.

"Very well," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "We must find happiness in our journey through life without always searching for it. True happiness is not having what you want, but rather wanting what you have. However, I sympathize with those who have lost what they value, and these wishes I will grant.

Tonight I'm wondering if the Genie would grant my wish, the desire to live a worry-free life. Did I ever have that? I'm going to have to say no.

Tales from the Science Fair

The Effect of Temperature on Growing Crystals

Me: So how did you measure the crystals? By weight? By length?
Student: I just took off the cover and looked at them.
Me, pointing at graph: So, what happened in this trial? It was a lot longer than the others.
Student: I have NO idea. Maybe I used less borax?
Me: So, what would you do differently if you ran this experiment again?
Student: I would kick my dad out of the apartment! He ruined everything!

The Speed of Rodents in a Maze

Heidi: So why did you pick hamsters and guinea pigs?
Student: Believe it or not, they are the most athletic of rodents!
Heidi: Do you have research that shows this?
Student: Mmmm. Yes?

Missing Something?

The all-school science fair is tomorrow, and so especially with the unexpected day off yesterday, you can imagine that our hallways were literally buzzing with sixth graders assembling their final presentation boards. Everywhere you looked, one of a hundred kids was typing, proofing, printing, reprinting, cutting, and gluing. Shreds of brightly colored paper littered the carpets of each classroom.

And so it was that of course I agreed when a small group of students asked if I would stay until the late bus to help them finish up. An inveterate procrastinator myself, I know what it's like to work right down to the deadline.

As they were cleaning up, I walked around to take a last look at their work. One student had been at it for hours. She had her title, all of her headings, and some cool illustrations. "Where's your graph and data table?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't have those," she said.

I was startled. "Well, where's your data? I'll help you make those," I offered.

She shrugged. "I don't have any."

"What!!??" My jaw literally dropped open. "But, your board says your project was The Effect of Music on Memory."

"That's right," she told me, "and I know from  personal experience that you only have to hear a song twice before you know most of the words."

"No, no, no," I cried. "You were supposed to do an experiment! We could have been working on that instead of this!" I swept my hand across the table in dismay.

"Why would we do that?" she asked. "The board is due tomorrow."

Wrong

My psychic sumpin sumpin must be on the fritz. I was sure the freezing rain this morning would give us a delayed opening at best, so you could have bought me with a quarter when I found out that schools were closed. Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasant surprise, but still a surprise.

Likewise, I just knew the book, Wonder by RJ Palacio was going to win the Newbery, but it turned out going to a book I sort of despised, The One and Only Ivan. (What can I say? It's about a gorilla in a two bit zoo. Sad stuff.)

I predict that I won't make any predictions for a while. What are the odds on that one?

Blast from the Past

We saw Argo today, and for once, I was glad I knew how a movie would all turn out. The film was still very suspenseful, but much less stressful. (Thank you, Genie!)

More than anything, though, I really liked seeing 1979 and 1980 again. The setting of the movie was like a visit from an old friend. Oh sure, the glasses were outrageous, and the hair styles were a bit regrettable, and the smoking? In the office! On the plane! Oh, I don't miss that at all, and of course the whole America Held Hostage thing was really no fun either.

But still, seeing all those things that were so very familiar then and are completely gone now, made me more than a little nostalgic for my own days of expat life, flying Swissair and riding in VW Vans, and of course, being 17 and knowing everything.

Alas, that was another century.

My Next Career

Not sure what, but despite the frigid temps this week, I do have my eye on a fancy ice cream maker. No doubt I could put my vegan skills to good work with that!

Hmmm.... It might be best to buy it while I have this career to pay for it.

Oi! Ten Thousand Years Will Give You such a Crick in the Neck

Every year when my students are writing fiction, I give them an assignment to test how well they know the character they have created. In a scenario completely separate from their own story, they are asked to imagine that their character is with a group of people on a beach when...

Someone finds an old bottle with a cork in it. They all gather around to see what's inside, but the glass is cloudy. Someone else suggests pulling the cork, and as they try to pry it out, the bottle drops, hits a rock, and smashes. The next thing they know, blue smoke is pouring out of the shattered bottle. The group stands there in amazement as the vapor takes a form-- it's a genie!

The genie takes a deep breath and then speaks in a raspy voice. "What a relief to be out of there." He stretches and looks around, smiling at them. Then he shakes his head, confused. "But-- where is my bottle?" He spies the fragments being washed out with the tide. "Oh no-- everything I own was in there! That bottle's been in my family for centuries." His smile has been replaced by a frown.

He turns to the group and speaks again, his voice growing stronger with each word. "In return for freeing me, you may each make one wish. However, since you destroyed my home, only one of you will have your wish granted. Wish wisely."

They have to write how their character reacts to this situation. The task is further complicated by the fact that the "group" on the beach actually consists of other students' characters, all making competing wishes.

It's always interesting to read what my students have their characters wish for. In the majority of cases, the fictional folks are barely disguised extensions of the kids in my class, which is to be expected.

Many wish for unlimited wishes, but as I overheard one of my students telling another, "That is the most shallow wish EVER." Lots of others wish for material things; a few nice kids always wish for the genie to have his bottle back.

Year after year I preside over their fantasies, asking questions and clarifying the task as necessary, but I never engage in any wishful thinking of my own. Today was an exception, though. I'm not sure why, but in a brief moment of quiet I considered my own desires, and I knew exactly what I wanted.

I would just wish my worries away. Who needs another wish than that?

Mind Over Matter

In my house, we're not allowed to say that we're sick. We can describe our symptoms, sure, but to take that extra step and actually define ourselves existentially as unhealthy or ill? No way! We are sooooo much more than that one, temporary, condition.

That said, I have a really, really bad sore throat. I hope I'm not coming down with something.

I Feel Your Pain

"I'd like to talk about sexual harassment for a few minutes," the counselor told my class today.

"Oh yeah!" one student blurted, "I did that last year."

There was a moment of silence before her peers jumped on her misstatement, and it was only seconds before she was in tears. It all happened so fast, that although the counselor and I addressed the issue as quickly as we could, she was inconsolable for a minute or two.

"Everyone says things they don't exactly mean," I told her and the class. "Why, just yesterday I was telling another teacher about an email everyone was talking about, but I was sure I didn't get. I said, I looked everywhere-- I checked my inbox, I checked my trash, and I checked my junk.

A few eyes widened. I nodded. "Yep," I confessed, "she reminded me never to check my junk at school."

What's Your Emergency?

The other night we pulled into our parking lot road weary and with several trips to unload. Lately it seems that the neighbors have increased their fleets of automobiles, and so even at our quiet end of the complex, parking is at a premium. As such, our space was across the lot from our home, giving us an extra thirty yards or so to tote our cargo.

When at first I cut the engine, I noticed a very still figure in the drivers seat of the car to my left. Not wanting to stare, but well aware of the oddness, I sneaked a peak each time I returned to the car for another load. It was our neighbor's vehicle, and the person inside, while well-bundled against the cold was clearly our neighbor, her head bowed to the steering wheel.

We made a bit of a ruckus as we unloaded; we called back and forth to each other, and the dog was with us, too, but she never moved or reacted in any way. Finally, I did what anyone else in my situation might do-- I made Heidi go knock on the window to see if everything was all right.

As Heidi approached the car, I lurked just inside our open door, ready to react to any emergency. She rapped several times. "Is everything all right?" I heard her ask.

Then there were muffled replies from within the car, and Heidi's voice, clear in the night, "Okay, we just wanted to make sure."

Later she repeated the conversation to me. "What? Did you think I was dead or something? I'm FINE! It was just too crazy in our house, so I came out here to meditate."

That must have been pretty crazy..

Old Dog, New Tricks

My fingers hurt a little from practicing my ukulele. Where's my treat?

What a Difference a Week Makes

We are all ready to show off our cushy new theater to our guests from out of town today, but things did not go quite as expected. As before, I booked the tickets online and chose our seats in advance. We were running a little late, but entered the theater just as the previews started. "Isn't this awesome," I whispered before stopping dead in my tracks. There were people in our seats.

I am not a confrontational person, but this time I didn't really have a choice. I made my way to the center of the row and stood before the reclining couple. "I think you might have the wrong seat," I started, but the woman there would hear none of it.

"I'm sure they gave us these seats," she told me firmly.

"I have my tickets," I showed her the stubs in my palm. "Do you have yours?"

She squirmed defiantly. "I know these are our seats."

People were looking on in annoyance and the four other people in our group were standing in the aisle. I scanned the theater for empty seats but then realized that there was every chance that someone else had reserved them, and then we would be the interlopers; that could turn into vicious chain. We had to go to the manager.

Five minutes later several people were firmly moved and a few were actually removed. We settled into our seats to enjoy the show, but the reclining seats were cold comfort. Somehow, it just wasn't as fun as I'd pictured it.

For You

I don't want to brag, but generally our dog is pretty well behaved. Set aside pretty much any cat in the world (she just wants to love them) and a squirrel or two here and there and my mom (she loves my mom) and she's damn near perfect.

You can imagine my surprise then, when tonight as Heidi's mom was browning the ground beef for tacos, Isabel almost knocked her over.

She never bothers me in the kitchen, I thought. Then it hit me.

When she was a wee puppy and before we put her on a raw diet, she had a lot of, shall we say, digestive issues. One remedy for such conditions was a mixture of hamburger, rice, and pumpkin, and so I cooked up batch after batch of the stuff to keep our puppy happy and well.

Even today, nine years later, our senior dog smells ground beef frying and her inner puppy is sure it's for her. Somehow? That doesn't annoy me at all.

By Any Means

So we've been working on this writing samples ALL WEEK, and today by the end of class was the drop-dead deadline. Still, there was one particular student who early on had been moved to the desk RIGHT next to me, but even with constant encouragement and redirection had yet to write a single word of his final draft. Twenty minutes into the class period, we were reaching crisis stage, and I was grasping for motivational tools.

"Your mom is going to be REALLY mad," I whispered.

He fidgeted. "I know," he said, but it wasn't that convincing.

"She won't believe you didn't finish," I said, shaking my head. He was loving the sympathy. "I think I better get a video of you so she can see what happened."

His eyes widened as I pulled out my phone and started recording. "No, no," he pleaded.

I have him a what-can-I-do? shrug and kept the phone pointed straight at him.

He picked up his pencil desperately and began to write, and can you believe it? He finished the essay by the bell.

Overcast with a Chance of Sun

"You didn't explain that very well," the student standing by my desk told me.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'll try to do better next time."

"I thought we were supposed to bring our drafts for you to check," she continued.

I nodded sympathetically. "Normally, you would," I replied, "but because this is kind of a test, I'm not commenting on drafts-- you have to revise on your own. I would be happy to answer any specific question, though."

She frowned and then brightened a bit. "Actually, I do have a pacific question," she said.

"What kind of question?" I asked.

"Pacific," she repeated.

"Well," I said, "I'm afraid if you have a Pacific question, I can only give you an Atlantic answer."

She giggled. "Oh forget it! I'm going to go fix my draft."

What Blah

More tales of quadruple teaching a lesson:

Today, I used the white board to record a student-generated list of writing tools we've used this year. During the last class of the day, a student raised her hand and repeated one of the ideas, verbatim, from the class before. I caught on right away. She could read the ghostly shadow of the erased writing. "Good one!" I said. "What else do you see?"

She reeled off another one, and we laughed. "Anything else?" I asked.

"What..." she started and then frowned and squinted. "Blah." She couldn't read the rest.

"What blah?" I repeated. "Very good!" And I wrote it down on the list.

The students who were paying attention giggled. (I'd like to say that it was all of them, but I teach sixth grade. I knew I'd have to circle back and pick up the stragglers another way.) "What blah!" one of the focused kids exclaimed. "I must have been absent that day!"

We joked about it for a minute or two and then went on to complete the list. The assignment was for them to write the first draft of an essay and then use the list to revise. A while later a student approached my desk. "I'm finished my draft," she said quietly.

"Did you use the list on the board to revise?" I asked.

"Yes," she confirmed, "and I have everything except what blah. I must have been absent that day."

Minty Fresh

I'm not sure how it came up at lunch today, but I found myself confessing that, when I was in kindergarten and first grade, I ate the paste. I think I must have assumed that everyone did that so I was a little surprised that I was the lone paste-eater. I felt it necessary to explain.

"Seriously? You never tried it?" I asked. "But, it was so delicious-- all sweet and minty. I wonder what kind of paste that was? I wonder what was in it?"

I thought back 45 years in time. "My teachers used to cut little squares of paper," I recalled, "and the paste came in these giant tubs, so they would take like a tongue depresser thing and scoop a glob onto each square and then student helpers would bring one to each of us," I continued. "We had to use our fingers to rub the paste in, so of course you could taste it, and it was good!"

For a second, I was my present adult teacher self standing in that long ago classroom. I considered the routine from a professional perspective as I tried to describe it to my colleagues. What did we do next? I tried to remember.

"Hmmm... Now that I think of it, I'm not sure how we were actually supposed to get the paste off our hands... did they send us to the bathroom? Did we have a sink in the room?" I shrugged. "Who knows? For me, that was never a problem!"

Stumbling Blocks

I gave an assignment to my classes today that I thought would be a quick review of something they learned in 5th grade, but a few minutes into it with the first group made me reconsider. They did not seem to grasp the directions and when they did, the task took them much longer than I planned for.

One of the benefits of teaching four sections of the same thing is the opportunity to tweak a lesson that needs it right away. The next class went a little better, but it was still not as smooth as I hoped. The third time I started with a little confession about how the day was not going the way I imagined it. "Maybe this is just a hard activity," I warned the class in a tone that was more challenge than admission of defeat. I made the directions very explicit and gave examples.

"That doesn't seem too hard," a student commented.

"I know, right?" I said. "Now show me how it's done!" I ended my pep talk with a little fist pump and then noticed a student raising his hand.

"I think I know what might take so long," he said. I looked at him expectantly. "You forgot to give us the worksheet."

Oops.

I Have Seen the Future

When I heard that the smallish movie theater I used to go to all the time had been renovated and switched over to reserve seating only, I made little note of the fact. Later someone mentioned that not only were the seats by reservation, they were luxury recliners, too. That piqued my interest, but it wasn't until this morning, when we met a friend there to see Zero Dark Thirty, that I fully realized the implications.

Oh. My. Gosh. Wide, roomy, adjustable auto-recline, and foot rests? The movies may never be the same.

21st Century Pioneer Woman

With a dramatic bang and a tiny wisp of smoke, my electric range quit working last night. Fortunately, dinner was ready.

This is actually the third stove we've owned in the 14 years we've lived here. When the elements kept burning out on the original 1985 model, we replaced it with a cool black ceramic top number. It was awesome until that day when the oven shorted out, blowing the entire circuitry on it. The repairman assured me that although the part was on back order, it would be there in a couple of weeks.

Two weeks without a stove seemed crazy. The first thing we bought was an electric kettle to boil water for coffee. We already had a crock pot and a combination deep-fryer and general electric pot. Our microwave is also a convection oven, and so we did nicely. When they called to tell us that it might be another week or so, I got an induction burner.

By now it was early November, and Thanksgiving was on the way. During one of my pointed calls, someone finally broke the news to me that my range was going to be out of commission for the entire holiday season. I reeled for a moment and then went into catering on site mode, channeling the mindset I had given up a decade ago.

For Thanksgiving, I farmed out the turkey and made all my other sides with the versatile little appliances I had. (I don't think I've roasted a turkey since.) At Christmas I did all my baking in the convection. It took a little longer, but it was fine. We ate normal meals and had guests over. Stove? Pffffft.

Thinking back on that time now, five years later, I have to say that being stoveless really wasn't too much more than an inconvenience, in fact I kind of enjoyed the challenge of it all. At last, though, in March, I broke down and bought a newer, better range. A few months later, they delivered the errant part. That kind of made me mad, but I was enjoying the new stove too much to let it bother me for long.

Until last night. Oh, I've put a call in to my new, reliable repair guy, and I have high hopes that he will be able to make a quick and simple fix, but he's so old-fashioned that he doesn't work on weekends, which is okay with me.

We'll make do.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

The Tolerance Club sponsored our monthly movie today. Last time we showed The Miracle Worker and the library was pretty packed, so we asked for permission to branch out into the theater. The movie was The Hammer, rated PG-13, and so we required our middle schoolers to get a permission slip signed by a parent.

As usual, the TC kids made posters and we ran a trailer on the morning announcements promising a snack and a couple hours of community and service to any student interested in watching this true story of Matt Hamill, born deaf, who against all odds becomes a national NCAA wrestling champ.

This afternoon, the assistant principal and I waited in the lobby as the bell rang, ready to collect permission slip "tickets" and usher the students into the theatre. At first it was a trickle, a few kids came right after their last class, eager to see the movie. Soon, the lobby was full, and when we started letting them in, it was literally only a matter of minutes before we ran out of snacks. As I dashed back to our team room to scrounge up some spare treats, I passed a line of students that ran past the main office and well down the hallway.

Later, when the lights were back up and the late buses had pulled off into a rainy Friday afternoon, we counted up how many permission slips there were and then added in the last minute phone calls home that we had approved. Our house was over 200, meaning that close to 30% of our student body had come to the movie.

Wow.

Golden Statue Playbook

The announcement this morning of the Oscar nominees for the year added a little zest to our day. I was particularly pleased that the acting in Silver Linings Playbook was so recognized; it was easily my favorite film of the year I've seen so far.

I also felt quite vindicated that I pushed for all of us to see Beasts of the Southern Wild back in July. I'm quite sure I remember insisting that it would be nominated come Oscar time... the fried alligator on the floating brothel scene was magical.

A few summers ago we took all the boys to see A Winter's Bone.  (Same story: I had read a few things about it and guessed that it might be recognized by the academy, and it was, and so I am boasting about my remarkable prescience.) Back then, Jennifer Lawrence was nominated, as was the movie. Neither was victorious, but this time around? My money's on Katniss.

Scrooge

We still have our Christmas tree up. I was going to pack it all away last Sunday, the actual twelfth day of Christmas, but with all our holiday travels it still seemed a little too soon to say good-bye to the bright lights and ornaments. The tree itself still looks pretty fresh-- ten days in a cool house without the lights on must be quite preservative.

I always listen with interest to those who explain how glad they are to put everything away and get back to a more normal routine after all the hubbub of the hectic holidays. I understand their point, but that view is not mine. I'm more of a romantic along the lines of Charles Dickens, via his changed-hearted villain:

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

But don't worry, the tree is coming down.

The Point

We've had a student who has been out since before Thanksgiving with a nasty infection. Thankfully, she returned today ready and willing to jump right in and try to pick up where she left off. Always a brash kind of a personality, she took me a bit by surprise when, after watching one of the class's favorite StoryCorps animations, she raised her hand. "What was the point of that?" she sniffed dismissively.

Fortunately, her classmates were able to explain the meaning of the SC motto:  

Every voice matters.

Listening Skills

Every year, I teach a unit on memoir, and this time I've incorporated some Storycorps materials into the short pieces my sixth graders analyze. For years I've listened to the edited versions of these recorded conversations every Friday morning on NPR. Many, many times I am moved to tears, but it wasn't until I drove past the mobile recording trailer every day for a month that I thought of using them in my classroom.

The Storycorps folks, in addition to archiving all of the interviews at the Library of Congress, have some great education materials on their website, as well as some animated versions of a several of their more popular interviews.

In my class we go from transcript to audio recording to animation. One of the students' favorite pieces is a son's remembrance of his father who worked up to sixteen hours a day as a school custodian to support their family of 13. The anecdote he relates, while very accessible to the students, also contains some old-fashioned versions of things they have contemporary inklings of, specifically store credit and bottle deposits.

We have had some interesting conversations about those issues, but none have been as lively as when, in order to help them relate to how hard that guy was working, I mentioned the possibility of a longer school day or year. The shock of such a suggestion must have damaged their ears because a couple of class periods later? Someone was circulating a petition to stop it.

An Updated Classic

Yes, the chicken is poached in advance with shallots and fresh herbs, and yes, the biscuits are whole wheat. Yes, I'm serving fresh green beans, and yes, the mashed potatoes are vegan, and they have a little sweet potato as well. There is also a vegan version of the main, simmering on the stove, but YES!

We are having chicken with white gravy, mashed potatoes, and biscuits.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

OLW 2013

Over at Two Writing Teachers Ruth and Stacey have been choosing One Little Word for the last several years. The idea is to find a single word that expresses something you will work toward in the coming year.

I think it's a neat concept, and this is the sixth year that I've asked my students to do this, too. The assignment is for them to choose a word and then write a paragraph explaining why they want more of this in their lives.

Here are the choices so far for this year:

achieve
accomplish
appreciate
artistic
awesomeness
baking
balanced
baseball
basketball
believe
beyond
change
cheerful
confident
creative
dedicate
equestrian
exercise
faith
focus (x5!)
green
gymnastics
healthy
kind
life
listen
love
music
organize
paintball
purple
random
respect
rich
snowboard
soccer
socialize
softball
sports
starcraft
strong
study
succeed
think
try
write

Such a list kind of reconfirms your faith in the future, doesn't it?