City of Brotherly Love

And in the perfect ending to my stroll down memory lane, I find myself in Philadelphia for the weekend. I haven't visited this city for almost 40 years, but when I was a kid, we lived just across the Delaware River. Philly was a top field trip destination for all my school years from first to eighth grade, when we moved away.

When we put this trip on the calendar last spring, Heidi wanted to go to the highly rated vegan restaurant, Vedge, and I had one desire, to walk through the giant heart at The Franklin Institute. Today we did both, and neither one of us was disappointed.

Tomorrow? Reading Market, Independence Hall, Blackbird Pizza, Cesar Millan, and maybe even Jack's Bar are on the itinerary.

It's good to be back!

FBF

As I mentioned earlier in the week, my students are writing letters to their future selves. One of the choices they have to make is how far in the future they want to write. Almost all are within 10 years, and most don't go beyond high school. That makes sense to me-- they can't really imagine themselves much older than that.

One student is a bit of an outlier in more areas than this, and he chose to write to himself 40 years from now. "I hope you have a mansion," he said, "and that you still like video games, and I really, really, really hope you're not married."

His honesty was as poignant as it was amusing, but as he revised I suggested that he add more details about the person he is now. "Forty years is a long time," I said, "you probably won't remember much at all." As I spoke, I looked at the date on the blackboard and thought back 40 years myself.

The air practically shimmered like a flashback sequence on an old TV show as I recollected the details of those long-ago days. I was in 7th grade then. I can still name several of my teachers and describe my bedroom. I know who my friends were, which pets we had, and what our gym uniforms looked like. This last detail is seared into my mind, because it was that year that I broke my arm in PE just a day after winter break. Our uniforms were one piece, zip-up garments that were sewn to look like striped shirts over solid shorts. When I fell and broke my arm, the nurse splinted it making it impossible to remove my uniform. I was forced to pull on plaid pants over it, and my mother took me to the emergency room in that embarrassing outfit.

I shared the story of my fractured ulna with the class, and they were a very appreciative audience. "Wow!" said one little girl. "How do you remember all that? I can't even remember what happened last week!"

Winter Come Early

The temperature drops sharply, and at the grocery store we move from the apple and pear part of the year to the clementines and bananas. Thankfully the rack is full of firewood and the closet full of down.

Have a Feels-like-Monday Wednesday

"Have a feels-like-Tuesday Thursday!" said the kids on the daily announcements this morning. Of course they were confused, but it's hard to blame them after two consecutive weeks of school on Monday, off on Tuesday, only to return for three days before the weekend. I forgive them because I know exactly what they meant, AND... they'll be right tomorrow.

Archive

In our little complex of less than 400 souls, three couples have had babies in the last week. Oh my! I thought after the third, what was going on last February?

Also this week, my students have been writing letters to themselves in the future. It is the culminating activity in a unit where they have written a lot to explore who they are now, and part of the assignment is to use that material and remind their future selves of who they are now. In general, they are very engaged in this task, and as they work, I overhear them chattering excitedly about what it will be like to open and read these letters. More than one student has asked me if I did this assignment when I was a kid. "No," I shake my head, "but I really wish I had!" They nod very sympathetically.

It would be pretty cool to have such a letter, but as consolation, I do have this blog. Certainly, it is a record of who I was for at least a few moments of every day over the past 5+ years. I don't read back over it that often, but when I do, it's... satisfying.

And informative; for example I read tonight that back in February? We were snowed in for several days around here. Mm hmm.

Remember Them

If you've seen Remember the Titans, perhaps you can imagine what it would be like to watch the last half-hour of the movie with the real Petey Jones and Julius Campbell sitting right behind you. 

I take that back-- you probably can't. It was thirty minutes of pure goosebumps and then another hour of laughter and a few tears when those two members of the famous 1971 team came to speak to students at our school in an event sponsored by the Tolerance Club. They answered every question the kids asked with honesty, grace, and yes, wisdom, about their time on the team, the loss of their friends, and the progress that they have seen our country make in race relations in the last 43 years. 

On the last point, both men expressed their delight at the diversity of the 33 students gathered in the library. "We've come a long way, and we have a way to go," Mr. Campbell told them, "but I'm not worried," he continued, "you all will change the world."

Not SAD at All

I heard earlier this week that there is a counterpart to seasonal affect disorder. Some people grow restless when the days lengthen and warm; they prefer the the slanting sun and long nights of winter. I recognized myself in this description and felt a little validated. I have always felt a little out of a place in our sun-worshipping culture.

I didn't realize how I have missed the crows until this evening their raucous cries filtered in through the windows. I stepped outside and looked up at the dark silhouettes shifting and darting through the deep purple gloam. Brisk air filled my lungs; it was not yet 5:00, but the sun had set. I was exhilarated.

24 Little Hours

Yesterday was Heidi's birthday and I think she had a good one. She was showered with birthday love at home, and via mail, text, Facebook, and FaceTime.

One of her more goofy qualities is a total lack of time awareness. Oh, it can be a bit contentious when we're constantly running late, but it can be endearing, too. "How old am I?" she asked me in the morning.

"46," I told her.

She shook her head in surprise. "I could have sworn I was 45."

"You were," I assured her, "yesterday!"

Miller, Mann, and Edmunds

We saw Christopher Nolan's latest movie today, Interstellar. At 168 minutes, the concepts of gravity and time took on an authentic meaning, especially if you ask my butt. I really wanted to love it, too, but I came away with a jumble of feelings, among them being a bit dismissive of the paradox at the heart of the movie. Still, when I got home and clicked on a few reviews, I read that they filmed on location in the harsh landscape of Iceland. It was then that I realized that where they actually were never crossed my mind as I was watching; to me it was another planet. I guess I was pretty engaged, after all.

Like a Month Without an R

Sometimes I wonder if Josh even recognizes the people he lives with. Up until now, for his whole life, the only time he has ever spent with us has been during the summer and on weekends when we were off from school and focused on one of our favorite house guests. Where are those care-free people who fill their days with swimming, hiking, movie marathons, board games, road trips, and camp?

Those are always some fun times, and they must stand in stark contrast to these 7 AM to 6 PM days where dinner and a single hour of TV precede bedtime. Certainly, a bit of crankiness here and there is unavoidable. Fortunately, our good-natured boy seems to roll with it, especially since he is busy with other things, too.

And on those days when we all take a break, to go to the mountains, or to celebrate Heidi's birthday, we pick up the fun right where we left it.

An Observation

I don't think they really got me.

Tuition Check

We were talking with a younger colleague last evening before leaving school. This particular teacher was also a student at our school, back in the day, and although I did not teach her, I was a teacher there. "What year were you in sixth grade?" I asked her to remind me, and when she did, a litany of names rushed out. She smiled at each, remembering her friends and classmates.

Today it came up in conversation that another colleague was born in 1984, so she was in sixth grade the third year I taught it. It was funny comparing her with those kids then, and wondering what sort of adults they had become.

And so it goes, more and more frequently lately. My dental hygienist? She was in sixth grade fourteen years ago. The checker at the grocery? Maybe five. All those kids I've taught are making their way in the world... they are becoming the world.

Thank goodness their teachers did a good job.

A Secret Life

Dinner was finishing all on its own, and I was relaxing by the early November fire when an insistent buzzing drew my attention away from the Urban Farmer magazine on my lap. (I know, I know, I read it for the articles.) I considered ignoring the sound; a single housefly would not last 24 hours before perishing, but the drone became more frantic as the creature flew back and forth from the kitchen to the lamp over my shoulder.

Something there was about this buzz that made me think it could be no ordinary pest, and when I turned to examine it as bumped against the light shade, I saw that I was right. It was a honeybee. Perhaps she had hitched a ride on the last of the zinnias I had cut from the garden earlier, or maybe she was hidden in the tangled twists of the rosemary log we brought home for the fireplace. Whatever the case, the cold dark night beyond the window panes held no attraction for this tiny soul; all she wanted was the light and warmth of the bulb behind me, even though it held no real satisfaction for her.

Into the kitchen I went to fetch a plastic cup. The rounded form of the lampshade proved to be quite a challenge as I tried to capture the errant bee: there was no flat surface to trap her against. Soon she began to tire of eluding me, and she slowed but never quit. "Come here Sweetie," I whispered. After a couple of near misses, at last she paused long enough that a quick flick on the other side of the shade dropped her into my cup.

It was the copy of Urban Farmer itself that I used as a lid to keep her safely inside until I could open the front door. It was cold, yes, and she hesitated a moment and then flew back toward the door before finally heading off into the night.

I knew she could find her way back to the warmth of her sisters.

Playing Favorites

Thank you, November, for giving me back the hour that March stole last spring. I always liked you better.

Documented

It's been a day of non-fiction around here. I'm hooked on the podcast by the producers of This American Life called Serial, the story of the murder of a high school student in Baltimore in 1999. Interesting people and a twisty narrative compellingly reported make the series addictive audio.

This afternoon we went to see Citizen Four, the Edward Snowden story, and while the movie didn't add much new information to the well-reported story, it did provide an opportunity to ponder the far reach of data gathering that our government is doing in the name of security, and the difference, as Snowden puts it,  between a country of rulers and the ruled and one of the elected and the electorate.

And now tonight our attention turns to Ken Burn's latest, The Roosevelts. Born of privilege, the three principals in this series were all champions of every day, working class Americans. They recognized a common humanity in us all.

"We love a great many things—" Theodore Roosevelt said, "birds and trees and books, and all things beautiful, and horses and rifles and children and hard work and the joy of life. We have great fireplaces, and in them the logs roar and crackle during the long winter evenings. The big piazza is for the hot, still afternoons of summer."

Trick or Treat

For many years our school did not allow students to come in costume on Halloween. Once you reach middle school, gone are the days of class parties and all-school parades; dressing up is no more than a distraction. If I thought about it 22 years ago, I may have found it a little sad, but traditions change as their participants grow older and that is not necessarily a bad thing.

These days, we have a new principal, and so our traditions have changed indeed. Notably, costumes are not only allowed, but they are encouraged (no full face masks or props in the shape of illicit items, please!) It's not so bad, really. Although Halloween is undeniably wilder than a normal day, it's kind of interesting to see how they dress. For although for most kids that age the attention of their peers is really the objective, their costume choices can be revealing. If you think about it, it's way better than a BuzzFeed quiz.

What Star Wars Character are you? Oh wait-- I know that black cape!

Would you be a happy clown or a scary clown? Duh!

You forget to wear your Halloween costume to school, so you

A) write the name of your favorite Frozen character on a piece of paper and tape it to your t-shirt
B) take a hat from your locker and borrow patterned gloves from your friend-- hey, it's better than nothing
C) shrug it off and say you're saving the good stuff for tonight

Then there was that cute boy in the red and white "Norway" sweat shirt. It had a few stains on it, and when I asked what he was, he sneezed several times before he could answer.

"Wait! Don't tell me!" I said as he sneezed again. "You are a...

Achoo

"Norwegian..."

Achoo

"Serial sneezer!"

He laughed and headed for the tissue box.

Want Versus Need

I was in my room a-workin away today after school when first one, then another, and then another student came by to borrow a calculator, sign out a lap top, and record their word study words. Homework Club was being held across the hall, but I happened to have what these kids needed to get the job done, and I certainly didn't mind sharing.

A little while later a student in search of a quiet place to finish a test took a seat at one of my tables, and a seventh grader from my homeroom last year stopped by for a visit. In between all the action, I was able to get quite a bit of grading done.

At 3:30 the colleague who was supervising homework club brought the supplies back over and stowed them on the shelf where they belong. "It's so nice that the kids feel comfortable just coming over to your room," she said.

"Why wouldn't they?" I shrugged.

"Well, they don't all have you for a teacher," she answered. "They could be intimidated."

I nodded. I'd never really considered that.

"But when I told them not to bother you, they all said you wouldn't care."

They were right. When you're a public school teacher there are many annoying things competing for your time and attention, but when the kids need something to do their work?

It's never an inconvenience.

As Opposed To

My students spent the first ten minutes of class today collaborating to make corrections on the weekly word part quiz. "No! Micro means small and macro means big," I heard as I circulated through the class.

I smiled with satisfaction. This was exactly the conversation I wanted to hear.

"So it should be micro orgasm not macro orgasm!"

I paused and pondered the message and considered my role in clarifying it.

"I mean organism," the student corrected himself.

Ah. That does make a difference.

Reasonable Doubt

I was out of school today for a couple of doctor appointments, and the sub I had sends email updates at the end of the day. I kind of like her initiative; on the plans I leave I always request a note detailing the day's events, and this way I get it right away.

I know from personal experience, both as a student AND a sub, that it's a hard job. I try to leave thorough plans with concrete, doable activities to make things go smoothly, but I know that doesn't always work. I try to find subs who work in our school regularly so they know the kids and the kids know them, but again, that is not always an option or even successful. I have lectured, scolded, and referred students upon my return, but as far as I can tell, that doesn't really improve things, either.

Kids and subs... it's a conundrum.

So some years ago I decided to let it go, or at least extend the benefit of the doubt to all parties. What happens with the sub stays with sub, or something like that. Never mind the hours I put in on my sub plans: let the sub take the credit when they love the lesson. And no matter how ridiculous the claim, "The sub said we didn't have to..." I'll shrug it off and let them know they have to now. Certainly, I express disappointment when informed of poor behavior, but in the grand scheme of things, it's 47 minutes.

Today, though, my sub informed me that my students shattered not one, but two Rubik's cubes that I keep in my classroom. "The pieces are in a tray on your desk," she wrote. "I'm so terribly sorry."

That doesn't sound accidental to me. I wonder what they'll tell me tomorrow.

20/20 Vision

October is Disability Awareness Month and so in response the Tolerance Club has planned a few consciousness-raising events. Last week we showed a video called I Have Tourettes but Tourettes Doesn't Have Me, a compelling portrayal of the lives of kids with this syndrome told in their own words.

This week we organized stations to help students experience what it might be visually impaired. The brailling machine was very popular and so were the goggles that simulate visual impairment, and our school system's mobility specialist was there, too, along with two students whose eyesight is weakened by albinism. Putting on a blindfold and using a white cane to navigate the familiar territory of our school's hallways was far and away the most engaging activity. 

Afterwards, the kids talked about the challenges they'd experienced, but it was all brought home by one of their classmate who reminded them that they could always take the blindfolds and goggles off. "Imagine what it's like for us," she said, "because we can't imagine what it's like to be you."

Fringe Benefits

Big article in the NYTimes Magazine today asks the question, "What if Age is Nothing but a Mindset?" It seems like a sensible question, and the author puts forth quite a bit of evidence in support of the assertion that one's mental attitude can play a big role in aging.

In one study, researchers had their subjects, “make a psychological attempt to be the person they were 22 years ago,” and they provided them with props to help, including vintage clothing and furnishings, news reports, and movies. They even removed the mirrors to prevent distracting from the illusion, and at the end of the experiment, the participants tested higher on both the mental and physical assessments they had taken at the beginning.

I like these results! Consider that I have spent the last 20+ years teaching sixth grade and you will understand why. The world marches on, yes, but in room 275, almost everyone is always eleven or twelve, and there are no mirrors.

It's like a little fountain of youth, isn't it?

Misplaced Faith

While out and about on this beautiful fall weekend I saw the following message on a license plate frame: God favors me.

Really?

No fair.

A or P

It was 7:10 this morning when my eyes snapped open. Something was wrong. Uh, yeah, it was... school started in half an hour and no one in our house was up. It was a first in my teaching career-- I have never overslept once in the last 21+ years, but I was determined to make it on time. Heidi and I sped through our morning routines, skipping some steps, obviously, and I was out the door, with iced coffee and lunch, by 7:30, thereby avoiding another first: actually being late for school.

Special thanks goes to Heidi who graciously took one for the team and called a colleague to cover her homeroom so that she might be a little later than I was. I know how lucky I am; when I told the story to one of my friends at work, she said, "I'd have torn my husband up if he done that to me!" Hmm. Sobering. Thanks again, Heidi!

All day I wondered how this could have happened. We had forgotten our phone alarms, but I knew I turned the clock-radio alarm back on last night. This evening at 5:20 the mystery was solved when NPR came a-blaring down the stairs, just 12 hours too late.

Sky Island

Josh was a little ways ahead of us and almost to the summit of Hawksbill Mountain when he stopped suddenly. "It smells like Maine up here," he called. He should know. We've been telling him to roll down his windows and smell the Maine since he was six. There's a place on the Turnpike just south of Portland where the balsams are so fragrant that it doesn't matter if you're going 70; you can always catch that quintessential scent.

I looked up to where Josh was standing and noticed a gnarly balsam just to his left. I pointed. "That explains it," I said, but that was really only half true. There just aren't too many of those trees here in Virginia. We climbed the rest of the way to the top and enjoyed the 360 degree view of Old Rag, the Appalachian Trail, and the fall color blanketing the hills and hollows below. On the way back down, I lingered more than a moment beneath that balsam before continuing on to the hardwoods below.

It turns out that we had hiked to a "sky island", a place where the altitude allows a totally different ecosystem. The boreal forest we passed through was actually a vestige of the ice age, a time when the climate there was much more similar to, say, Maine, today.  Too bad they didn't have any lobster on that island, too!

Scaredy Pooch

Perhaps it was the nail gun that the door repair guy used on Monday to refasten the trim. Maybe it was six cans of lemonade that exploded all over the dining room yesterday. Whatever the cause, our dog practically jumped out of her skin when I accidentally stepped on some bubble wrap this evening. She's had a rough week!

The Knows

Overheard in sixth grade:

Why do you smell like popcorn?

I don't! I smell like Doritoes.

Daily Dangers

Dallas County Judge Clay Jenkins went on record today about the 43 people removed from the Ebola watch list down there in Texas. Asking the public to treat them with dignity and respect after the ordeal they've been through, he spoke pointedly about the five children who will soon return to their schools after being quarantined.

“Middle schoolers are some of the most ferocious and scariest animals on the planet,” he said.

Really? That in comparison to Ebola?

I think I'm due some hazard pay.

Like the Corners of my Mind

On a walk to Roosevelt Island today, Heidi affectionately reminded Josh of all the funny foibles the two of them shared when he was just a wee tot. He forgot that the lyrics of  Poison Ivy, Late at night when you're sleepin, poison ivy comes a creepin, used to make him scream, but he remembered the Mimi Monster (Heidi's hand) and how it used to tickle him.

I have my own memories of little boys at Roosevelt Island; in fact I can't visit the place without thinking of my nephew Treat. When he was three I took him and his older brother down to Gravelly Point by the airport to watch the planes land, but the noise was so loud that it really freaked him out, and he burst into inconsolable tears. I scooped him up and, in attempt to salvage our outing, sped up the Parkway to Roosevelt Island for a little nature hike. 

All was going well until the first plane made its approach down the river and over our heads. Even though it was much higher up and not nearly as loud, Treat covered his ears and dropped to the ground screaming, only to be distracted by a half-eaten, sand-covered cherry cough drop which he promptly popped into his mouth.

When I told my sister about it she said, "At least he didn't lick the Metro window!" But that's another story.

Rise and Shine

When I was 9 I got a clock radio for Christmas. My mother was wisely nudging me in the direction of independence: she wanted me to start getting myself up for school. I'm sure that initiative was met with mixed results; I have never been a morning person, but I did love listening to that radio. I remember lying on my bed grooving to the tunes of 1972. And what a year it was to have a radio of one's own. Even now when I hear Heart of Gold, or Doctor My Eyes, or The Lion Sleeps Tonight, I feel a certain sense of ownership-- those were the songs I listened to on my radio.

Assumptions

This morning my reading class was examining a short memoir to identify its theme. The plot involved a half dozen chicks that a family purchased so that they would have fresh eggs, but when their chisckens matured, it turned out that they were all roosters. "What do you think the lesson of this story might be?" I asked.

"Get as much information as you can before you make a decision," someone offered.

"Don't count your eggs before they're laid?" another quipped.

I put their suggestions on the board and we tried to find a common idea. "How about never assume?" I said, and wrote it down. "Because you know what they say," I winked.

I knew they didn't know. I've taught this unit ten times, and not many sixth graders are familiar with the turn of phrase I was about  to introduce to them.

One student did raise his hand though. "Is it Never assume or you'll..." he paused. I thought he might have it. He continued, "maybe be wrong?"

I laughed. "You might," I said. "But there is a saying: Never assume or you'll make an," here I circled the first three letters of the word. "Out of you," I circled the fourth letter, and "me!" I circled the last two letters.

My students sat in stunned silence. Then minor chaos erupted as they got the old joke. "Oh man!" one boy hooted, "I love this class!"

Yep. That's all it takes to engage sixth graders. And you can bet they'll remember that lesson.

You Know You're in Middle School When...

...you hear the news that a couple of eighth grade boys ordered ghost peppers online and then brought them to school to fulfill the mutual dare to eat them. They were found writhing on the bathroom floor after puking up their breakfasts. Word has it that the nurse actually rubbed their bellies, therapeutically of course, while they waited for their parents to pick them up.

On the Radio

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am an inveterate NPR listener. These days, if I'm not in the car, I usually catch the news online. Although I generally listen to our local broadcast, the internet makes it possible to hear programming from pretty much any station in the world.

So, some afternoons I tune into Maine Public Radio and pretend that when it's time to go home I'll be heading for a little cottage on the rocky coast. Wood smoke and salt will be in the air and seafood on the menu as October's early dark gathers.

Other times I listen to Minnesota Public Radio and imagine the autumn chill of the Boundary Waters, or perhaps the traffic lights on France or Normandale on the way to my mom's house where a cold beer and a warm dinner awaits.

And sometimes it's WABE in Atlanta that's on, so I can hear the local weather and news in my sister's part of the world and for just a moment pretend that she's 10 minutes away instead of 10 hours. 

Oh, the news these days so often seems full of trouble and woe, but the world's not quite so scary when you remember who else is out there.

True Story

And then there was that turkey I saw today heading west on King Street. A hen with striking iron grey and ivory speckled plumage, she seemed resolute in her promenade up the sidewalk. I guess this would be a good time to think about leaving home if you were a turkey.

Quick Silver Lining

Mercury in retrograde it may well be, 'cause things continue to go awry here. After taking the day off to finally have the door repaired, the bell rang once and I answered to find a technician standing on the stoop to tell me that my repairman was delayed by car trouble, An hour later a second chime alerted me to another visitor; this time, the guy assigned to the job broke the bad news that because of the expected rain they were postponing until tomorrow.

The forecast is iffy, but I'll be here , fair or foul, also expecting the call from the appliance repairman with his bid on replacement parts for the ice maker and the dryer (that"s if he can find them). By then, my fragile hard drive may be backed up so that I can take my computer to the Genius Bar tomorrow evening. Maybe I can get that scheduler on the phone from the doctor's office who hasn't answered every time I've called for the last week. Oh, and there are assignments to grade, and online discussions to facilitate-- without the distraction of being at school, those chores will be way easier.

Plus, who knows what other fires I may be able to stamp out? Thanks, Mercury.

Entropy

The ice maker, the hot water heater, the dryer, and now the hard drive on our desktop computer, all have broken within the last two weeks. The handles on the lids to both the kettle grill and the slow cooker have also come undone, and it's almost to the point where I'm past overwhelmed and on to honestly curious about what could possibly be the next casualty.

No Reminder Necessary

This time of year it seems like everywhere you drive there are signs notifying you that October is fire prevention month. I appreciate the reminder, but I don't really need it. Some of my most vivid memories of elementary school are focused on just that theme.

One day, when the air was crisp and the leaves brilliant against that amazing blue sky, you would arrive at school only to be greeted with the exciting information that there would be an assembly that day. At the designated time, each student would be directed to stand, lift your chair by the stiles, and line up. In that way we would file to the multi-purpose room and set our chairs down in neat rows, transforming the cafeteria to an auditorium. 

It was always a fireman in full regalia who would start the program for us. We learned to have a plan: feel the door before opening it, stay low, know where the exits were, and stop drop and roll if necessary. Then we saw a Disney movie made to emphasize those points. I can still remember the hush of the students when they turned the lights off, still see the autumn light filtering through the high slatted windows, still imagine the familiar figure of Walt Disney introducing the film, and still hear the authoritative voice of the narrator speaking to Donald Duck over the soft clickity-clacking of the 16 mm projector. 

It all seemed so important, so glorious and exhilarating. There we were, hundreds of souls in a congregation of our own creation, assembled with a common cause-- surviving a fire. 

Who could forget that?

Murphy's Conference

After eight years, I was feeling pretty confident that all my student-led conferences would go off without complication when I headed to school this morning. My homeroom kids were well-prepared; some had come in at lunch yesterday to finish up, but despite it being the first time for them to lead such a meeting, I knew that they were ready and able. I had carefully scheduled the times as well-- knowing that the allotted 20 minutes is often a little too short, I had limited the sign-up slots to 2 per hour. I had also put my interpreter requests in early; this year in addition to a couple of Spanish translations, I needed an Arabic and a Vietnamese interpreter as well, so I gave the office plenty of lead time. I was certain nothing could possibly go wrong.

I was right...

until about 10 AM. My Vietnamese family showed up, but there was no translator. When I checked with the main office, they told me none were available. Sometimes in a pinch, the student is willing to interpret for his parents, but this time, my student flapped his arms wildly and told me he really didn't know much of the language. Back at the office, they gave me the information for a telephone translation service we subscribe to, but when I tried to call from classroom phone, the long distance area code wouldn't go through. Fortunately, I had my mobile phone, and so we set it in the center of the table and spoke loudly and slowly, that is after I explained what we were doing to the person on the other end of the line. It went surprisingly well.

Later in the day, I had not one conference, but two, stretch to an hour and 20 minutes. The first parent spoke so fast and at such length that I never got a single one of my polite let's hurry this along strategies into the conversation. The second time we quadrupled our meeting was for a student who is really struggling, and I couldn't begrudge her or her mom a single second. 

And truthfully? The same must be said for every family I met with today. Their pride, questions, and concern all reminded me that every student is somebody's child, somebody's treasure. More often than not, they just want to make sure we are doing right by their kids. I get it.

It's a sloppy job, but some days I feel pretty good at it, and lucky to do it, too.

Building Community, Fostering Fellowship

Do: Add a cute little reference to that feline rascal well-known to all of the neighborhood on your new sidewalk sign reminding residents to check their speed. Bob the cat asks you to slow down.

Don't: Plan a staff picnic with yard games for the professional development day scheduled on a former holiday. It just kinda puts the hole in corn hole.

Epicenter

Every quarter I do a little map-making activity with my reading class. When asked if he had any advice for young writers, Newbury award author Jack Gantos suggested the following:

The first tip is to get a good journal or small notebook—not too big as you want to be able to slip it into your back pocket. Then get a decent pen. Then I want you to draw a map of your house, or a map of your neighborhood, or map of your school and I want you to draw where everything funny, serious, insane, unexpected, heroic, lousy, triumphant and tragic took place. And then I want you to think about your life as the best material in the world, and each one of your small drawings where something interesting happened will be the opening material for your story.

And so we do. I share a map of the neighborhood where I lived from the ages of 4-10, and every student creates a map of someplace special to them. Having looked at over 200 maps, I've concluded that it's human nature to place your place in the middle of the action, and so every time we look at my map I make the joke that my house just happened to be at the center of the neighborhood, and probably the universe, too.

So I wasn't surprised today as I circulated through the room while the students worked to see that most of them had started in the center of their paper and worked outward, not surprised at all. That is until one student noticed my gaze. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," I shrugged. "I like your map-- it's great!"

"Thanks!" she answered, "But did you see? My house really is the center of the neighborhood! All the other houses are around it."

"I did see that!" I told her. "What a coincidence!"

Travel Arrangements

We were talking about field trip transportation at leadership team today. Forgive me if I'm repeating my dismay, but it really is appalling that there are no more buses available unless we charge the students for the ride. "We should call Uber," the person next to me whispered when administration encouraged us to consider the subway.

"Or maybe Schoober," I answered her. We laughed quietly as the conversation turned to cost analysis. Three hours for a rented school bus would be cheaper than taking 50 kids on the metro, and more convenient, too. 

"That's only if you have a full bus," someone pointed out.

Riding with a full bus? Looking around, that seemed unlikely, if you know what I mean.

Wait. What?

Today, here in Virginia, the time came when I could have risen from my desk, gone down the hall to get Heidi, and taken off for the courthouse to get a marriage license.

It didn't happen, today, but it could have. And it will.

No! Just No

Sunday night already?

Oh, weekend, I had so much more hope in you.

The Torch Has Passed

My dad was a big baseball fan, and so when I was growing up there was usually a game on in the background from April to October. Back then, if I watched at all, I associated the guys on the field with my dad or my uncles; Brooks Robinson? Tom Seaver? Reggie Jackson? To me, they were grown ups playing a grown up game. 

Later, when I had graduated from college and was living with my father again, the background became foreground, and we all became fans of the New York Mets. Those guys seemed more like older brothers, or cousins, and we celebrated right along with Lenny Dykstra, Mookie Wilson, and Keith Hernandez in 1986 when they won the World Series.

It's been years since I've followed baseball that closely, even though my town has been a MLB town for the last eleven years. People here love their baseball, and with both the Orioles and the Nationals in the playoffs, now seems like a good time to tune in. So tonight as I cooked dinner, I watched the Nats hang on to a tenuous one run lead into the top of the ninth. Oh, we're on pins and needles here, but all I can think about is when did the players get so young? Any one of them could have been a student in my class not so very long ago-- Ryan Zimmerman? 1996. Stephen Strasberg? 2000. That cute Anthony Rendon? 2002.

Go get 'em kids!

Children, Behave

If I were to file one complaint about my students this year it would be that so many of them find that annoying prank of hiding a classmate's pencil, paper, eraser, book, etc. to be so very entertaining. Upwards of 5 times a day I am called to solve the case of the missing whatever, and the culprit is nearly always the student in the next seat.

It was the last class of the week today when I had had quite enough of such shenanigans and so plaintively addressed the group, "Can we all just agree that we're not going to waste each other's time anymore by hiding the things we need to get our work done?"

My request was met by silence and downcast eyes, and several pencils were quietly slid across the table in return to their owners. One student, however, was not in total agreement, and although he did turn over the pencil in his possession to the boy who brought it to class. "How much time do you think it takes?" he asked me. "30 seconds?"

I shrugged. "That's 30 seconds of your life you'll never get back," I answered in rebuttal. "And 30 seconds of mine, too, since I had to resolve the situation."

"Yeah," he said, "but my thirty seconds were FUN!"

Critical Success

Today's lesson involved a "poetry sort." The kids in my classes were given a collection of action poems written by former students. The task was to read all of them, select a couple, and answer questions about them. The next step was to brainstorm lists of 20 of possible topics for their own action poems.

Here's the part I loved-- in every class, without exception, several students asked if they could keep the copies of the model poems because they liked them so much.

That's validation!

Friday Night Dinner

All week long I have been receiving ads and notifications on almost any web page I visit about a BIG event happening TODAY! Yes, friends, The Gilmore Girls is on Netflix. And, unlike all the men's underwear clickables I keep getting, I agree that this news actually is cool news, because I am one of the legion of folks who loooooved The Gilmore Girls, with its terrific writing-- so snappy, so smart,  and even though it's been over seven years since the finale, I miss them and all the other denizens of Starr's Hollow to this day.

This might be some binge watching I can get behind. 

Things We Do

At about 10:05 this morning I found myself in my darkened classroom, blinds drawn, lights out, and 24 children huddled beneath six tables. It was a lockdown drill. I have never reconciled with myself just where I ought to be on such occasions. Under a table or beneath my desk seems ludicrous: I can't really supervise anyone if I'm on the floor, but I don't want the police officers conducting the drill to bust me for being too visible. 

Today I sat in a rolling chair in the corner. There was a thin slat of light below the blinds in one of the four windows that looks out into the hallway, and I could see when someone was coming. Three bullet-proof vests strode by my door to the end of the hallway next door. I heard a radio squawk as they tried each of the three doors before mine. When they tested my knob it jiggled securely, but I dreaded what would happen should one of them lean over and peer into the gap that I was looking out from. Would he make eye contact? Perhaps a pointing gesture to show me that, in the event of a real intruder who might mean us harm, I would be a target? 

But there was no opportunity to find out, with the rest of the school waiting, they moved along to other, possibly less secure locations. Five minutes later, the drill was over, and notably, 24 sixth graders who have struggled with silence for the last four weeks had not made a peep. I turned the lights back on, and another lesson, the one we had been working on before the drill, resumed.

Meow

When I was a little girl, my mom was known for her novelty cakes. She was a master at baking a couple of layers, cutting them into pieces and then fitting them back together into recognizable shapes like Snoopy or a mod looking kitty cat. A layer of frosting and a few piped details later, the results were always impressive.

Flash forward 45 years: Heidi and I always make cakes for our homeroom students on their birthdays. While I opt for the classic bundt (not only is it quick and easy, but somehow a giant donut-shape seems a tad bit more breakfasty), Heidi is forever making flowers and such. Generally, she uses a shaped baking pan, but a couple of years ago, one of her students was obsessed with the Riddler and begged her for a green question mark cake. "No problem," I told her, for I had learned to bake in my mother's kitchen, where it was a simple matter to carve up cakes and put 'em back together, jigsaw fashion, into a whole new thing. Against my better judgment, a tradition was born.

Tonight, it's a throwback classic:

Fruity Confusion

Emily gave me a half dozen pawpaws last week. The largest edible fruit indigenous to the US, these particular pawpaws came from a friend of Emily's property. Her friend also sells them to several restaurants, where the chefs prize the fruit for their provenance as well as their seasonality-- pawpaws do not keep or travel well, so they are not commercially produced. "Most restaurants make ice cream with them," Emily told me.

We cut one open and scooped the custardy flesh from the thin peel with a spoon. "It tastes like nothing," Josh declared of the vaguely sweet mush on his spoon. Heidi agreed. I admired the large black shiny seeds. They were substantial, like a chunky organic bead. 

"Maybe they're not ripe yet," I suggested and put the rest of the pawpaws on the window sill, where they sat until this morning when I blended them up with some eggs and cream, half a roasted sweet potato (for body) and a sprinkle of cinnamon. At the last minute I added a dash of apple cider vinegar for tartness and cooked it into a smooth custard.

I knew my ice cream would need some contrasting texture, so I chopped up some chocolate covered nut crunch with cashews, almonds, and pecans and threw it all in the ice cream maker. 45 minutes later I had a silky, golden-hued frozen dessert with lovely chunks of candied nuts and chocolate. Ahhh, but how did it taste? you wonder. 

Many people who enjoy pawpaws disagree about their flavor. Is it bananalike? Mangoish? Melony? As quoted by Wikipedia, Ohio botanist William B. Werthner noted that The fruit ... has a tangy wild-wood flavor peculiarly its own. It is sweet, yet rather cloying to the taste and a wee bit puckery – only a boy can eat more than one at a time.

That's close, but not quite right. Tonight, when I served the ice cream for dessert, we discussed the flavor at length.

"It just tastes so weird," Heidi frowned. "It's hard to say what it taste like, because it doesn't taste exactly like anything else."

"It starts out caramelly and then takes a turn toward the not quite unpleasant and finishes with an unidentifiable fruitiness," Josh said, moving his finger in a roller coaster motion. "But I like it. Kind of. I'll probably eat more. Maybe a lot more. Maybe not."

Boy Birthday

How best to celebrate Josh's 19th birthday?

Why rock-n-roll and ramen, of course.