A Tree Grows

When I got the invitation by email a few weeks ago, I was kind of on the fence. You are cordially invited to this year's service awards! Celebrating employees with 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, and 45 years of service.

With 25 years, I am on the low end of that spectrum, and award shindigs are not really my thing. A colleague who received the same invitation was more enthusiastic, and she encouraged me to go. My friend Mary, also on the list, was not inclined to attend. Undecided, I promptly forgot about the whole thing.

Today I had a few minutes of time between classes and meetings, and since the sun was shining, I decided to take a quick walk. We share our campus with a county park, and the paved path that circles the 2 soccer fields, tennis and basketball courts, and baseball diamond is about a half mile. Walking the loop, I found sky blue sharpie and a well-used baseball.

Pocketing the marker I continued on, tossing the ball from hand to hand. My mind wandered as I walked and I thought of the many times I had tread this trail over the past 25 years. How could it be so unchanged?

The path was lined with maple, oak, red bud, and crape myrtle. I figured that even the slowest growing of those adds a foot to its height each year, and I stopped, looked around, did a little math, and considered the way ahead.

Back in the building, my friend Mary reminded me of the service awards deadline. Without hesitation, I RSVPed 'yes' to the ceremony, and got Mary to agree to go, too.

All We Hoped it Could Be

Skimming through a few posts from my early-morning writers, it didn't take long for a theme to emerge:

It is Monday, ugh. I just want to go back to bed.

Monday. The second worst day of the week. I really just wanted to sleep in. 

I don’t like Mondays. Monday’s are always bad luck for me. 

It’s a Monday... Not a good day. 

Ugh Mondays. I really hate Mondays because they’re are the start of a new week, and it’s hard to adjust to waking up early in the morning.

Waking up on a Monday is the worst for me because I usually can’t get up. 

Ugh it’s Monday. I don't like Mondays, I hate it with a burning passion. 

Monday’s feel like a year they take so long.

I sighed and turned away from my laptop. Of course I could relate.

Just then the morning announcements came on the TV. As she does every Monday, our principal shared some words of wisdom. In light of the shootings in New Zealand, this morning her message was one centered on open-mindedness and freeing our minds from intolerance. At the end she played a few bars of Free Your Mind.

I looked around at my Monday-weary kids and realized that a little music was a great idea. Cleaning out their binders was next on our agenda.

"Organization dance party!" I declared, grabbing my phone and the Bluetooth speaker on my desk, and after a little more En Vogue I continued, "I'm taking requests!"

"Livin' on a Prayer!" suggested one student without hesitation.

A little Bon Jovi later, I asked again.

"Country Roads!" someone else shouted.

Who are these kids? I wondered as I blasted the John Denver song.

After that, the requests got a little more contemporary. We listened to Castle on the Hill by Ed Sheeran.

Most of the class was jamming as they recycled, hole-punched, and clipped, but one guy sat clicking his tongue disapprovingly. "What's the next song?" I asked him.

"How about peace and quiet?" he suggested archly.

I laughed and hit search. A minute later the song Peace and Quiet by Drew was playing.

It wasn't quite what that student meant, and he had to tolerate everyone else singing We Will Rock You and Something Just Like This until the bell rang, releasing 15 energized sixth graders into the rest of their Monday morning.

All Done

At the end of the weekend it's sometimes easy to feel disappointed about all the things I didn't cross off my ambitious to-do list. A stack of folders and my laptop are still in the pocket of my pack where I optimistically shoved them as I left my classroom on Friday afternoon. The new toilet paper holder is still in its box in the powder room (but the drill is in there, too, now!) The deck is unorganized, the garden uninspected, the refrigerator still cluttered with the last few bites of meals we ate too long ago to save.

But then, I consider the things we did that weren't even on the list. We walked with the dog in beautiful places both Saturday and Sunday. I dug out my camera and took a few photos I like. I discovered a new podcast, made a big breakfast this morning, and slept later than usual both days. I tried to find the exact words to describe the way the light sparkled on the water, talked to my mom on facetime, did a neighbor a favor, and sat quietly on a railway-tie wall as the sun warmed my face.

Oh, there's a busy week ahead, for sure, but I think I'm ready.

Reading Between the Signs

It was only 55 degrees when we set off today, and although the sky was clear and blue, the wind was brisk, so we bundled ourselves in flannel and down when we headed into the woods for a hike with our dog. The sun was still unfiltered through bare branches as we walked. No spring ephemerals peeked out from the brown leaf bed lining the trail; no chickadees, brown creepers, titmice, or nuthatches buzzed or warbled us on our way, and when we crossed over creeks and passed by ponds there were no turtles sunning or even the slightest peep from a frog.

Even so,

maybe it was the angle of the sun, the way the light, both golden and white, sparkled on the run and the river beyond and right into our eyes. Or maybe it was the trees that were just beginning to swell, or the holly and rhododendron that looked so fiercely evergreen. Maybe it was just a softness in the breezy air.

Something there was that told us that winter was gone.

Jumpster

Our dog is not allowed on any furniture except the bed-- there she makes herself quite at home, and we often find her stretched diagonally across it, belly up and snoring soundly. In addition to the bed, our cats are allowed on the couches and chairs, but never on the table or counters.

Understandably, different households have different rules for their pets, and since Lucy, our dog, visits other places, she has to adjust to different expectations. In general her hosts are more liberal than we are, welcoming her onto the couch and other furniture. Even so, she seems to grasp the concept of context, for the most part.

Over at her dog-walker's house, the rules are very canine-friendly: she boards guest dogs, and her house is set up to be as accommodating to them as possible. Because she has a couple of cats and a dog of her own, she usually keeps the cat food up on the 3-sided counter between her kitchen and dining room. Lucy knows not to counter surf-- nowhere she goes allows her to stand up and inspect the counter tops-- but evidently she didn't realize that actually jumping up there was forbidden as well.

It's kind of a surprise to find your 52-pound goldendoodle on the kitchen counter lapping up cat food. In fact it's just one of those rules you never thought you would have to teach her, and yet there she was when we went to pick her up the other day, just as proud as she could be.

The dog walker didn't seem upset at all. "You never should have taken her to agility," she shrugged.

The Plot Thickens

All stories have a plot! The teacher intern reminded our students today. All plots have an exposition, rising action, turning point, falling action, and resolution, she continued.

I looked to my left at one of our more challenging sixth graders. He was neither taking notes nor paying attention. Instead, he was conspicuously buried in a graphic novel. I walked over. "Did you hear that?" I whispered. "All stories have those things!" I gestured to the screen dramatically.

"Not this one," he shrugged, waving his book at me. "It's part of a series, so it never ends. There is no climax or turning point."

I liked that he was thinking about our claim critically, and I told him so. "But you know," I confided, "each book in a series is usually a stand-alone story, too, so I bet this one," I pointed to the volume he was clutching, "does, too."

"I doubt it," he said.

"Why don't you let me look while you are finishing your notes," I suggested, and maybe it was the neon green loose leaf I had given him before, or perhaps it was the cool pen I lent him, or maybe he just wanted to say, I told you so! when I failed, but he surprised me and handed the book over.

I skimmed the beginning and then paged backward from the end until I found the part where they say, He saved us! But now, he's gone. I pulled a post-it note from the pad, wrote my student a little note, and stuck it on the page before that. Then I went over to return the book.

"I told you!" he said triumphantly.

"Oh, no," I replied. "I found it. You'll see when you get there." I handed him his book.

I thought he might flip right to the note and pull it out dismissively, but he surprised me again. "You read all of that?" he asked in astonishment. "Does it at least count for your daily reading?"

Lost

When I discovered that one of my mittens was missing yesterday as I unloaded my school bags from the car, at first I was confused. I could have sworn that I tossed two mittens into the backseat after carrying them out in an afternoon much warmer than the morning before. I had a clear memory of doing so, but I scoured the interior of my car and all the spaces between it and the front door, and no errant mitten was recovered.

Although it's true that the days when mittens are necessary are numbered, the thought of giving up on a little woolen soldier who had served me so well all winter long was more than galling, and so I hopped back in the car and returned to school, despite the evening traffic. There I checked the area all around my parking space and then retraced my roughly 2000 steps to the building, scanning all the way for my prodigal mitten. When I made it to the door without any luck, I rang the buzzer so I could go in to check my classroom. Still no mitten.

More mystified than dejected, I walked slowly back to my car, past soccer fields, playgrounds, and tennis courts, eyes peeled for a single black marl mitten, alone and abandoned. I never found it.

Oh, I looked again this morning, and I know it will be a long time before I can walk that path without at least a fleeting thought of my mitten. Maybe it's the mystery of such a loss that makes it hard to forget; maybe it's the futility of the search that makes it easy to regret. Maybe that's just the way my brain works, or maybe I am not in the mood to lose anything right now.

Whatever it is? I am having a hard time letting that mitten go.

Taking Off the Training Wheels

I stepped out of my second period class to track down a student's ipad this morning. More and more, my teaching intern has been taking the lead on instruction, and it was a good opportunity for her to solo.

Today's activity was the celebration of the media literacy unit. All of the student commercials were included, film festival-style, into a presentation, and in between students evaluated each other's work using the same instrument we applied to professionally produced ads at the beginning of the unit. 

When I returned to the classroom about 15 minutes into the period, the door was locked and I found that I had left my keys on my desk. I could hear a lot of enthusiasm within, and rather than knocking on the door to interrupt, I peeked through the blinds. It was indeed a celebration-- a proud teacher congratulated happy, engaged students on their hard work and achievement. They didn't need me at all.

Of course I felt a pang, but it was kind of like when I see former sixth graders in the hallway on their way to their 7th and 8th grade classes. I miss them, but I know I was part of the team that helped get them where they are going. 

At those times, we smile and exchange waves or nods and away they go,

but this morning? 

I knocked on the door and joined the party!

On Principle

I set myself up yesterday for an easy post complaining all about Daylight Savings Time today.

Unfortunately (or rather, fortunately?), such a rant failed to materialize for me: I spent a nice day yesterday with friends and family and never really missed the hour. I went to bed relatively early and woke up right away when the alarm went off. I wasn't too tired today, and my students seemed fine, too. Leaving school at my usual too late hour, I was pleased to see that it was still very light out and enjoyed a sunny walk to my car.

Hmm.

Could it have been the meditation on forgiveness I listened to yesterday? Could such a notion extend to an abstract concept like arbitrary time change?

Naaaaah.

I still hate you Daylight Savings Time!

Happens Every Year

There are certain benefits to participating in a writing challenge the same month each year. One of the least obvious, perhaps, is that certain topics are relevant every time. For example, in March there's usually snow and/or signs of spring, and there's always a reflection about a whole month of writing at the end. Since one of the toughest things about daily writing can be finding a good topic, having these baked in ideas is little like a free space in Bingo.

I've noticed it in my students' writing, too. For them, March always means student-led conferences and district assessments for band and orchestra, and, trust me! I read a lot of slices about both of those.

Of course, March also triggers the granddaddy of all rants for many of my students and their teacher, too. For it is in March that we early-risers are needlessly robbed of an hour of sleep and morning sun when DST is imposed on us!

Oh! The injustice of it inspires hundreds of words all raised in a one united complaint, and the only itty-bitty consolation is knowing that not only will our voices be heard and read throughout the blogosphere, but that our writing is done for yet another day.

Winter into Spring

This morning I took a look in the freezer and found a half bag of cranberries and some frozen turkey stock, and given the cold, gray weather and smudges of snow on the ground, it did not seem unseasonable to bake some cranberry-orange muffins and put a pot of turkey-vegetable soup on to simmer.

Tomorrow is predicted to be much warmer. March is changeable like that around here, but even so, winter is definitely waning and spring emerging. So tonight we'll eat the last of the turkey and cranberries until next November. Marie Kondo-style, we'll thank them for their service, and turn our attention to the pea shoots, parsley, and asparagus that are waiting in the fridge with their spark of spring joy.

Red or Not

Long ago someone told me that red was a power color, bold and unforgettable, communicating conviction and authority. I took the information to heart and always chose red whenever I was feeling a little insecure, for example interviews, professional presentations, and especially back to school night. Maybe it was imaginary, but those crimson duds sure did boost my confidence!

A couple of decades later the jitters are mostly gone, and I like to think of my current wardrobe as casually classic: cool and neutral, maybe a little bit hipster. At this time of year I usually wear dark turtlenecks or t-shirts with jeans and a sweater and boots. This morning, though, as I dressed for parent conference day, my hand hovered briefly over the one bright turtleneck I own, bright red, and purchased for Christmas, before landing on the charcoal gray one to its left.

A minute later, I shrugged on my cardigan and headed downstairs for a quick breakfast before packing lunches. Seeing that it was a bit later than I thought, I chose to pack and eat at the same time, resulting in a big spoonful of yogurt landing right on my turtleneck. Dabbing wasn't doing it, and in the interest of time I dashed upstairs to change my shirt. This time the red was my only option, and I quickly pulled it over my head.

Glancing in the mirror I realized that was confident-- confident that I knew my students and I knew my job and confident that today was going to be a good day. Then I zipped up that cardigan one more time and went to work.

Dinner of Champions

After a full day of corralling aspiring filmmakers as they stampeded from one location to the next, jockeying for that perfect camera angle, the shot that would bring their commercial over the finish line, I raced from a special education committee meeting to a consultation with my teaching intern and her university advisor to the first of my student-led conferences and around to the copy machine, before finally entering the homestretch.

Fortunately, we have a plan in place for dinner on days like these. Scrambled eggs with french fries and tossed salad is a quick and satisfying meal that provides us with a little time to relax and all the energy we'll need for another day at the track tomorrow. 

While Ye May

We had our monthly countywide ELA meeting this afternoon which commenced, as usual, with a warm and rather entertaining video from our Supervisor and Secondary Specialist. "This is our last video!" they told us at the end, and proceeded to explain how the April, May and June meetings would be organized.

And although their focus was on supporting us as we continue the work we do, the end of this school year glimmered, ever so briefly, above the horizon, and I was reminded that, although it is easy to forget when you're in the middle of

planning
and teaching
and assessing
and reteaching
and reflecting,

our time with these
crazy,
wonderful,
challenging,
brilliant
kids

is actually

finite.

Prop Masters

When you're shooting commercials on a shoestring budget, creativity is a must-have. That's one lesson I hope my students learned today as they worked on their media literacy group projects.

"We need cheese!" one group said.

"How about construction paper?" I asked.

"We want it 3D," they replied.

In the absence of any immediate cheese source, I showed them how to sketch a wedge, double it and add tabs to cut out and fold into mock cheddar. Next it was mouse ears, and over the course of the day our construction paper portfolio grew to include life-size fairywings, 2 mustaches, a chef's hat, and 4 giant crab claws.

These last were my favorite. I think you can see why:

The Nose Knows

I know I've written before about my dog Lucy and her amazing sniffer, but this blog is called Walking the Dog for a reason!

Maybe it was getting up at 5:30 am after a 3-day weekend, or maybe it was the weevils I found in my black-eyed peas when I put them in some water to soak, but whatever the reason, I was behind in my morning routine today when I stepped out the door to take Lucy for a quick walk. We powered our way to the back hill where she usually does her business, and I was relieved when she started the little leash-dance that means it's time to get out the bag.

All of sudden, though, her nose flew in the air and began to urgently sniff some invisible odor wafting above. A quick pivot to her right and she was dragging me with all her might across the hill and toward the pool. We're a Dog Whisperer household, and such behavior is never permissible, so a quick yank on the leash brought her to a stop. Even as she sat, I could see her leaning in the direction she really, really, really, REALLY, wanted to go, and so I gave her the "OK" and prepared to follow, quickly, so she

was
not
pulling

Over the hill and up the steps we traipsed until finally we made it to the cedar fence that houses the pool utility shed. Preparing to round the corner, I wondered what we would find.
A cat?
A raccoon?
A fox?
A deer?

With a last mighty jerk on the leash, Lucy and I burst onto the unmown grassy strip that runs along the retaining wall behind the pool deck and saw...

Our neighbor Lauren and her dog, Lady, two of Lucy's dearest friends. "You found our secret pooping spot!" Lauren said, recovering nicely from the shock of our entrance. A couple of wagging tails and one very satisfied goldendoodle later, we headed home, still running late, but not really minding as much.

Hometown Tourists

It seemed like a long time since we had seen the sun when at last it appeared yesterday afternoon. Taking advantage of the break in the weather, we put the dog in the car and headed off to the other side of town and the National Arboretum. It had been many, many years since I had been there, and I was eager to check it out.

Early March is not a very popular time to explore the 446 acres on the eastern edge of Washington, DC, but we did not have the place to ourselves, which was fine. There was a certain jolly camaraderie with everyone we met, all of us bundled in layers against the wind and happy to be out in the fresh air. And despite the mostly empty beds and leafless trees there was still quite a bit to see.

The National Capitol Columns stood stark against the faded blue sky, and it won't be long until the flowering trees are in bloom. In the herb garden a new exhibit of hops pays tribute to the rise in popularity of craft beer, something I could definitely get behind!

A little further down was another outdoor exhibit on grass and lawns, which was fascinating even at this time of year. We spent a little while comparing the winter colors and textures of the several examples, and I sent a picture of the welcome banner to my brother-in-law, a man who knows his lawns!

With so much space to walk and so many things to smell, Lucy loved it too, and we could see why it is known as one of the dog-friendliest attractions in town. The sun disappeared behind some clouds and the day grew dark before we even had a chance to check out the azalea library, the bonsais, the fern trail, the grove of state trees, or the famous eagle nest, but we weren't disappointed: all the more reason to visit again soon.

Family Breakfast

I took advantage of the new conference call feature on FaceTime to catch up with my mom, brother, AND sister all at once this morning. It was really fun to share some Saturday morning routines with each other despite being hundreds of miles away. My niece showed us her cheer routines from the student-teacher basketball game the night before, my 13-year-old nephew chatted briefly about the banana skin in the new season of Fortnite before grabbing an ice cream sandwich for breakfast.

"I can't complain about him not eating a healthy breakfast," my sister shrugged. "I had cinnamon toast this morning."

"I had cinnamon toast this morning, too!" I said. "I don't even know the last time I had it, but I just felt like it this morning!"

"Me, too!" my sister replied.

"I forgot how yummy it is," I added.

"Same!" my sister agreed.

My mother looked a little disapproving, whether it was the ice cream, the cinnamon toast, or both, was hard to tell.

"You can still get in on this!" I told her. "You're an hour behind!"

No-Snow Day

When school is closed because of snow it seems wrong to venture far from your own warm house unless it's to shovel, sled, or walk the dog. But this morning our district surprised everyone by canceling school in anticipation of weather that never materialized. Sure, there was some icy snow to scrape, and the day was raw and gray, and a few slick spots warranted a bit of caution when walking or driving, but the 2-hour delay they originally scheduled probably would have taken care of those conditions.

Oh, I'm not complaining-- I spent the morning reading and replying to the first slice of life posts of my sixth graders, who were themselves stunned by this turn of events. When it came time to walk the dog, however, I saw no reason to restrict ourselves to the neighborhood, so we bundled her into the car and headed up to a county park that has been on my list of places to visit for a while.

Fort Bennett Palisades are located on a steep spit of land between some 1.5 million dollar townhomes and the Potomac River. A narrow trail starts near a Civil War era spring house and winds into a mature growth hardwood forest, past two stone driveway pillars, which are the only remains of Bay Eva, an actual castle built in 1950 and demolished less than 50 years later.

Today the path was muddy and the sound of the traffic on the GW Parkway was a bit jarring, but our dog, Lucy, loved it. Her nose was either on the ground or in the air, scenting all the wildlife that must have been just out of sight. Within sight, though, was the thing I had hoped to see. A bald eagles' nest balanced in the top crook of a tall sycamore, right between the parkway and the river, and on the branch beside it?

One of its occupants surveyed her dominion, looking for all the world like the national bird she is.

Day by Day

We introduced the 100 Day Writing Challenge yesterday to mixed reviews. Each year, starting on March 1, our sixth graders participate in 3 different month-long writing assignments. There is a minimum requirement, a reward level, and then the ultimate challenge: to write every single day until June 8. Some kids love it right away, like the 4 guys who made a pact to do it together and choose matching T-shirts for their prize, and other kids are pretty skeptical.

When that second group brings up hypothetical obstacles to writing and posting every day, I share with them the experiences of past students. One guy went to soccer camp over spring break, and finding no Wifi, called his mother every night to dictate his post. Another student had a death in her family in India, but through the miracle of the World Wide Web, she too posted every day she was away.

I also share my own experience. This post is the last of ten consecutive years of daily writing with never a miss, 3,652 days in a row. There have been some challenges to be sure. Early on I had to drive to town every day while on vacation in Maine because our rental house’s connection was so spotty. And even tonight I am composing this piece on my phone because of a cable internet service outage in our area. Somehow, I’ve always been lucky and determined enough to find a way to extend my streak.

Even so, we try to approach the experience with a growth mindset and a few safety nets to make the challenge more doable for our students. Don’t give up before you start, we say. Just try it one day at a time. This year we showed a quick video of a girl who did push-ups for a hundred days in a row to emphasize the idea that with practice comes strength. I don’t know about the kids, but I’m ready to start pushing up! In fact, I started thinking that although I always write alongside them in this challenge, maybe it would be more inspiring if I tried to do something else for the hundred days.

Put a pin in that!

Deep Bench

I may have mentioned that there is a student teacher working with me until April 5. We have reached the point in her internship where she does most of the teaching, a lot of the planning, and some of the grading. Fortunately, the soon-to-be teacher that I am mentoring is great-- smart, organized, funny, and able to manage some big (and sometimes wild!) classes of sixth graders.

I realized just how lucky I am when yesterday she was out for a dentist appointment and today I did the lesson myself to introduce the 100 Day Writing Challenge. After two full days of teaching? I'm exhausted!

Luckily, she takes charge again tomorrow, but what's going to happen on April 8? I better stay in shape!

Felix Awards

On the morning before the Oscars, Emily (segundo) suggested we all write skits and act them out for awards before the actual show. The response was tepid, especially in the over 50 crowd.

"Isn't that more like the Tonys?" someone asked.

"Let's make films then," she pivoted neatly.

And with that, some of us were in. Treat embraced the challenge right away, enlisting both his parents and Emily as cast members in his brooding black and white film. His filmmaking entertained us as we took a three mile walk around our little peninsula that afternoon. Watching him pull his actors aside and direct them in front of ruined log cabins, swamps, beaches, abandoned boats, and No Trespassing signs was hilarious. Victor's approach was more subtle: from time to time he would fall behind the group, walking slowly with his phone pointed at odd ditches and bare trees.

I think others of us had good intentions; I know I spent some time filming and dramatically reading the extremely detailed rental house guidelines, but when the award show came on, there were only 2 movies for the jury in our first annual film festival.

Oh. my. god! Did we laugh and ooh and ah!

Treat's film, Major, was a droll, tragicomic narrative of a French pirate and a devastated coastal community, poignantly punctuated by the missing title character. Victor's movie was entitled Hague after the tiny town we were in, and it was an exquisite kaleidoscope portrait of so many beautiful images that we had all walked right past the whole weekend.

When the end credits rolled, there was a moment of stunned silence, and then genuine applause. Personally, I was speechless. Made and edited in one day, the movies were rough, but they were diamonds.

Team Colors

It was in the spirit of wringing every last bit of fun out of our weekend that Treat and I dragged out the cornhole set this morning. Even though the day had dawned dry for the first time we had been down on the Northern Neck, the yard was still a soggy morass, and the wind was a little bit brisk, so we set it up on the covered back deck of the river house we were staying in.

The boards were homemade from plywood and 2x4s with a couple of bolts and wingnuts to fasten the folding legs. They were painted burgundy and gold, and we found a faded set of bean bags that matched. "Redskins colors," I noted, as we took our places.

It wasn't a competitive game. To begin with, there were only three bean bags of each color, and then when Victor wanted to join, we each gave him one of our sets, and he played for both sides.

"You said these were Redskins colors," Treat said, "but I think they're Gryffindor!"

"Or Virginia Tech," Victor added.

"You cannot distract me with this useless thought exercise," I told them through dramatically gritted teeth and then tossed my red bag way short.

"Yes we can!" Treat said, sliding his yellow bean bag over the board and off the deck. "Your brain works exactly the same as ours! You know you're thinking of other red and yellow things right now."

"No I'm not!" I replied, cheering Victor as he landed the red bag on the board. "Except... Lucy is red and Rosie and Sonic are yellow! Go Lucy!"

"Lemons are yellow and strawberries are red," Treat responded. "Go lemons!"

"I love lemons!" I scowled. "But bananas are yellow and cherries are red, and cherries are much better than bananas. Go cherries!"

"What about pineapple and pomegranate?" asked Victor, "or mango and passion fruit?"

"Easy for you," I said, "you have both colors!"

Herstory

It's not just our own history that has occupied us this weekend. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours out of the rain and into a tiny local history museum in one of the nearby villages on the Northern Neck peninsula. Upon entering, we were greeted by a women who looked for all the world like the faded hippie she later proudly proclaimed herself to be.

Wire granny glasses rounded blue eyes that wrinkled on the sides when she smiled, which was often. Her reddish-brown hair was dusted in gray, and even the earth tones of her Indian-print tunic and ankle-length skirt were muted. "Am I expecting you?" she asked. "Are you teachers? Should I recognize one of you?" When she reached out and gave me a little one-armed side hug, we knew we were in for an adventure.

Over the next hour or so, she regaled us with stories of the heroes and villains of the town, enlisting the members of our group to act out some of the more dramatic scenes. Interspersed were tales of her own life and the personal journey that led her to that place and that moment. There were props and books and photographs to enhance her version of local history. Along the way, we found out that she was an Eccles scholar at UVa, like Bill, and she actually knew Emily's brother Chris, from the days when he lived about 45 minutes north.

Before our stories diverged she gave each of us a hug and a kiss, then we zipped up our raincoats and stepped back into the present, through the mud, and out to lunch. 

Record Keeping

I don't even remember why I decided to start saving the Oscar ballots, but when I mentioned that I had them as we were cleaning up at the end of the evening last year, my brother told me I should definitely bring them next time. Last week I spent some time collecting them from the two or three different places I squirreled them all away, and carefully placed them in labeled ziplock bags, one for each year, and packed them up for our annual Academy Awards Getaway.

We spent some time this morning going over the archive. Stretching back to 2003, there was a record of all our pools and parties, with the exception of 2004 and 2011. Our initial data analysis determined that Victor is the current grand champion, with 3 wins and 2 ties, but Bill is in second with 3 wins and 1 tie. The ballots are so much more than just records of right and wrong predictions, though.

For example, they remind us of all the people who have celebrated and played with us over the years. Early on there are ballots for both of Emily's parents, Vic and Judy, who have since passed away, Kyle has joined us twice, Josh is in and out, my mom has several ballots, both in person and remote, and our friend Mary has also played along 3 times. (In fact, Bill considers Mary his spoiler-- he would have had one more win and the current overall crown, if not for the year she took home the prize!)

It is clear what a primary source these simple sheets of paper are when you consider some of them individually. Treat was 7 when he filled out his first ballot, and the tiny, lower-case scrawl of his name at the top might suggest how unprepared he felt to enter such an enormous competition. Even so, he did pretty well, out-preforming half of the adults at the party. The pages also show the transition from Riley to Victor; Heidi's have flowers and hearts on the years she does well; Josh artfully scribbles semi-solid blocks around the categories he misses; Judy primly Cs and Xs her hits and misses, Kyle signs his name "Mr. Moo" in honor of his job as the Chik-fil-a cow.

When we were finished with our artifact review, there was one ziplock bag still left on the table. Labeled 2019, it contained a crisp stack of blank ballots, patiently waiting for history to be made.

Friday Night Lights

It was crazy-hectic packing up and getting out of town for a weekend away on a Friday evening. Dashing home from school after making sub plans during the deafening din of Anime Club, we threw 3 days of clothes and toiletries into our duffles, packed the cooler with essentials (beer, coffee cream, and ragout for dinner) and then huffed all our stuff out to the car.

The map app confirmed what I already knew-- it was rush hour in DC, but I obediently piloted the car into the gleam of brake lights and stop and go traffic, along the twinkling tree-lined streets of Old Town, and under the incandescent gauntlet of lights lining the Wilson Bridge, and past the pulsing red, white and blue of the Capital Wheel, and down through the suburban glow of Fort Washington and Waldorf.

When at last the roads cleared, we found ourselves on country roads so dark we almost (almost!) missed the starless glimmer of city nights we were accustomed to. Along shadowed farm fields, over unlit bridges, and finally onto a pitch-dark rutted dirt road, we drove on. And at the end of the trip there was warm light spilling from the windows of a house and family and fun waiting within.

Fantasy Avenue

It was planned chaos in my classroom today. After analyzing and evaluating commercials, students were now ready to apply all they knew about persuasive techniques by forming groups, choosing a product to brand and market, and creating a commercial of their own.

An array of three dozen colorful, if perplexing, gadgets were laid upon a table and ceremoniously unveiled. A spin of the wheel determined when each group got to choose, and when the selections were through, trades and additions were welcome.

The kids didn't need to know what each item actually was; in fact it was better if they didn't. Imagination is a premium for this project, and so the sooner you believe a silicone dish rack is a portable grill to be sold with the slogan You go grill!, the better off you'll be.

Snow Goggles

Sometimes when I take Lucy out in the morning our one-on-one time is interrupted when she slams her nose to the ground and pulls me in the direction of some invisible trek. So single-minded is she that even treats can't break her concentration; I hop along scooping up the expensive, "high-value" nuggets that she spits on the pavement. "You don't understand!" says the look she gives me when I tug sharply on the leash, and I have to admit she's right.

This morning when we stepped out our door the world was hushed and muffled in the snow that had begun falling at dawn. No one else was about, and ours were the only footsteps in the powder that covered our way until we got to the hill in the back of our complex. This time, when Lucy's nose hit the ground, I saw what she was after. Boot prints and dog prints meandered along the edge of the woods and up to the bushes.

"Who is that?" I asked her, and she wagged her tail and came over to me.

A little further down it was a set of rabbit tracks hopping up to the pool gate that drew her attention. "Bunnies!" I said, and she was ready to keep going.

Next a bright spray of yellow snow caught her nose, and she turned to look at me. "I know!" I told her. "Someone peed!" And it was clear to both of us that we were connected by more than the leash.

President's Day

One of my favorite presidents has always been Abraham Lincoln. Before I was 9, I knew his entire life story from reading every biography in the school library. Even today, odd facts about him occur to me now and then, almost like remembering something about someone I really knew. Just last week, the path from the movie theater to our dinner reservation took us up 10th St, past Ford's Theater and the house where Lincoln died. "I wonder what the street was like in 1865," I said, looking across the 4 lanes of traffic from the box office to the steps of number 516. "Was it this wide? Were there hitching posts? Did this house have a yard?"

One of my favorite purchases in the last year or so is a cylindrical cast-iron doodad a little smaller than a breadbox. Forged in America, it has an open ring at the top connected to a sturdy base by two solid columns. Welded in the center is a fan-shaped wedge, and the idea is to put a log through the hoop on top, balance it on the wedge, and knock it straight down to the ground and split it in two.

Oh, it makes a lot of racket, and yes, you have to swing that mini-sledge like you mean it, but the effort it takes to split wood is really minimal.

But?

The satisfaction of cracking those logs in half with a single blow (or two)?

Is not. 

Out of the Office

Today was a holiday, tomorrow I'm out for doctor's appointments, and they are calling for snow and ice all day on Wednesday.

When will I ever get back to school?

(Oh, and did I mention that I am out next Monday for our annual Oscar Holiday Weekend?)

For the Record

A question occurred to me as I sat watching the five Academy-Award-nominated short documentaries this afternoon. Is the job of a documentary simply to document or is it something more?

I considered the first of the five, the story of young man of Nigerian heritage whose parents had moved him from London to a city 35 miles away in attempt to shield him from the violence that claimed the life of a child from their neighborhood. Confronted by racism in his new home, his survival strategy was to do whatever he could to get the thugs targeting him to accept him, and he was so successful that he eventually became a member of their violent gang.

The next entry followed several terminally ill patients, their families, and caretakers as they negotiated end-of-life situations and decisions with as much dignity and empathy as possible. Mini-doc three consisted of 7 minutes of archival footage of a rally held 80 years ago in Madison Square Garden where 20,000 Americans showed up to support the rise of Nazism in Europe.

The fourth was on refugees fleeing Northern Africa on perilous rafts and boats bound for Europe, a topic that has been addressed by other films, also recognized by the Academy, over the last few years. The final entry told about women in India who, held back by the inconvenience and stigma of menstruation started a pad manufacturing factory that gave them and their clients more freedom to pursue education and employment.

When the last credits rolled and the lights came up, I imagined that my fellow movie-goers were also wondering how best to appraise what these various films were documenting. Was it simply some aspect of the the human condition? Was it a problem? A solution? Or something else?

Conversational Piece

"What is that?" the cashier asked she rang up one of my items.

"I don't know," I answered.

She looked at my strangely.
I considered my reply.
It was indeed very unexpected.

"I'm a teacher," I explained, "and every year my students make commercials for make-believe product. I saw this on clearance and thought it would make a good prop."

Her confusion turned to interest, and we chatted amicably as she finished with my stuff. "My teachers never did anything like that!" she told me as I swiped my card. "Kids today are really lucky!"

"Was that oversharing?" I asked Heidi as we left the store.

"No, Babe, I think that was just right," she said.

Silver Linings Playbook

That one section of my class that has been consistently the most challenging all year is fortunately the period of the day when I have the most support. It is co-taught by me, a special education teacher, and an English language learner support teacher. Even so, that particular group gives the three of us a run for our money almost every day.

Now that I have a student teacher working with us, too, it finally seems that the adults are gaining the upper hand. Because there are so many other professionals working with the class, I am often not the one providing direct instruction. Such was the case a couple of days ago when my intern was teaching the lesson.

I was in one corner of the room using my presence to manage the 8 students over there, and my co teachers were strategically standing in other parts of the room, too. After the lesson when the students began working independently, the four of us moved through the room, helping and redirecting the kids as they collaborated in small groups to analyze and evaluate some commercials. Later, when the students had gone on to their electives, we congratulated each other on the success of the class.

"It was almost like we were choreographed," said one of my colleagues.

"No, it was more like a basketball play!" I said. "In fact, " I added, warming up to the analogy, "we should have a playbook! We can screen, pic and roll, isolate the shooter, double team, slide the zone... oh my gosh! It will be a teacher best seller!"

Power of the Pup

Lucy and I were on the return leg of our quick morning walk when we heard a mournful wail coming from down some stairs. Lucy froze, and I tugged impatiently at her leash as a young family lumbered into the parking lot. We often see these two tiny girls and their mom and dad in the morning as they head to their car to start the day, but this time the oldest little girl, who can be no more than 3, was sobbing as she walked. Spotting a floppy red dog sitting on the sidewalk with concern, she slowed her pace a bit.

"She's so worried because she heard you crying!" I said.

The tears stopped immediately. There was even a little smile across her pink cheeks as she reached a chubby hand toward Lucy's full body wag.

"It's Valentine's Day!" I told her. "Nobody should be sad today!"

As the little family continued silently toward the car, I was quite certain her parents agreed.

Operation Happy Voice

Heidi had her phone on speaker as she waited on hold for a med-tech representative to pick up and take her order. At last a chipper young man answered the call. When she stated her business, he never missed a cheerful beat. "Whoa! Tragically, my friend, you have called the wrong company! But would you like me to look up the right number for you?"

"Uh," Heidi hesitated. "Yes, please?"

"No problem at all!" he responded. "Here you go! Have a great day! Thanks for choosing our company!"

Take Note

For the second semester this year, my friend Mary and I are piloting a new kind of homework for us. Called a "Writing Log", the concept is to have students free write a page or more regularly in their notebooks, and then select an entry to turn in weekly. Because the expectation is still new, today I took the opportunity to check in with a couple of kids.

"How long does it usually take you to do your writing homework?" I asked one young man.

"8-12 minutes," he told me with certainty.

"That seems... reasonable?" I prompted.

"It all depends if I know what I'm going to write about when I sit down," he said. "If I do? Then it... just flows!" He opened his hand expansively to show me what he meant.

He needn't have. I know all too well how a daily writing committment goes. "If you get an idea during the day," I said earnestly, "you should definitely write it down."

He nodded skeptically.

I went to my desk to jot our conversation down.

Early Onset

A parent was at school this afternoon and stopped in with her son, my student, to check on a few things. His grade was a little lower than she expected, and she was wondering why.

"Well," I turned to the student, "you kind of stopped turning your reading logs in at the end of the quarter, right?"

He shrugged. To me it was acknowledgement of something he and I had discussed before. To his mom, it was something different.

"Honey?" she began, "Did you know what you were supposed to do?"

He shrugged again. I thought about ways to tactfully remind the two of them that this was the same assignment he had been completing weekly since September.

"He's never deceptive," she assured me. "If he didn't do it, there was definitely a misunderstanding."

I raised my eyebrows. He lowered his head.

"I guess I forgot," he said. "And it takes too long, y'know, to write the date and everything."

"Yes!" his mom agreed, "Writing his name and date on anything has always been a struggle."

"Well," I said, "do you know what the homework is this quarter?"

"The writing log?" he mumbled.

"Right!" I answered. "But you didn't do the writing that we checked today."

He scowled a little. His mom looked on, uncertainly.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I forgot!" he snapped.

"But we talked about it... What's wrong with you? You're never like this about your school! Is it that you love reading and writing so much that being forced to do them makes you afraid you won't like them anymore?" His mother's words hung in the air. He scoffed quietly.

I understood. Although he is a pretty typical sixth graders, he is her oldest child, and she was not expecting adolescence quite so soon.

No One Was Safe

One of the highlights of February for me is always seeing the Oscar nominated shorts-- animated, live action, and documentary. Being recognized by the academy showcases 5 of these usually low profile little films into an anthology shown in theaters. It's an opportunity to see the work of international filmmakers who are often unfettered by the expense and corporate control of the big studios, and most of these films are usually fresh and innovative and even a little edgy.

In past years there have been memorable tales of time machine builders, a pre-teen Somalian pirate, a modern-day cupid (with real arrows), a babysitting job that saved a guy from suicide, and an encounter with terrorists on a bus ride in Nigeria, to name a few of the live-action entries.

This year the subject matter of 4 of the 5 live action movies included little boys in danger, from themselves, from others, or both. They were unflinchingly grim, so much so, that the audience who sat in stunned silence at the end of the first film, giggled with gallows humor at the end of the second, and guffawed at the end of the program, a little traumatized by what we had all seen in the last 100 minutes.

Because of the similar themes and content, it was hard to consider each movie outside the collective, and I'd have to say that this year, the format was probably a disservice to the nominees. (Except for the one about the dying old woman who wondered what she missed when she didn't pursue a same-sex relationship in 1963.)

"This was our first date after our baby was born," I heard a guy behind me tell the total stranger to his left. "What the hell??"

I, personally, was thankful that the only dog made it through unharmed.

Past, Picture, Present

I was recently messing with the settings on my desktop computer and inadvertently changed the screensaver. In order to restore my previous view of the glacier in Resurrection Harbor, I had to browse through my photo library.

These days when everyone has a camera in their pocket, it's easy to lose sight of the present in an attempt to capture the moment. I know I'm guilty of that, and I try to be more mindful of when and how often I open my camera app. Even so, as I scrolled through my Alaska Album, I was amazed anew at the grandeur of the scenery, and it was hard to believe that not only had I been there, but I had actually taken the pictures I was looking at.

(This is one of the little lakes on the vintage railway line from Skagway to White Pass Summit)

Gagvertisement

This time of year our sixth graders have a unit on media literacy, where they learn to identify the persuasive techniques in commercials. One of the more engaging activities has them working in small groups to view recent Super Bowl commercials and analyze them for their strategies.

The classes usually hum along during this assignment as students huddle in twos and threes, their intent faces illuminated by the glow of their iPads, their ears plugged with earbuds. So I was a little surprised this morning when a student approached me with an urgent request to leave the room.

"I don't feel so good," he moaned.

"Do you need to go to the clinic?" I asked.

"Nah," he shook his head, "I just need to get away from the Chunky Milk commercial."

Memorable? Yes.

Effective? You be the judge.

Garth, Ruthie, and Chuck

When I woke up this morning and heard the radio guy say, "It's February 7, 2019. Garth Brooks is 57 years old today,"  I wondered, in my half-awake state, how he could be possibly be soooo old. It seemed a little sad and wrong.

A little while later, I realized it was my friend Ruth's birthday, also. Just a few months older than I am, she too was turning 57. I reached for my phone to text her my best wishes.

Here's our exchange:

42 Minutes a Day

Having a student teacher reminds me of what a complex task we tackle every day: mastering content, delivering engaging instruction, and managing a mini-mob of evolving human beings. It is a little like juggling the universe.

And, how odd it is to sit on the sidelines and observe the students in my classes being instructed by someone else! The novelty of the perspective is bright and shiny; I have the opportunity to actually look at each one of the 131 kids I teach, in real time, and see the person he or she is, with a whole world of hopes and worries and dreams and losses.

New Sheriff in Town

My student teacher has been getting her feet wet, trying a little instruction over the last couple days. Even though we explained who she was and what her role would be, the shift has taken some students by surprise. They enter the room and are astounded to find me at my desk and the intern up front by the smart screen.

"C'mon guys!" she encouraged them this morning. "You need your iPad and your writing notebook! Let's get ready to go!"

One student stood by her table, stunned. "But... where are we going?"

The Grind

What? Rising at the usual hour and working a full day, five days a week?

There must be some mistake!

Now about that 61 degrees in February...

Freewriting

"We can write about anything, right?" asked a student the other day when I introduced the new daily free-writing assignment.

"Anything," I assured her.

"Then I'm going to write about that!" she pointed out the window and up. "What is it anyway?"

I looked at the skeleton of the elementary school being built in our former parking lot. "The school?" I tried. She shook her head. "Those big wooden beams wrapped in plastic?"

"No! Those white things in the sky! There were only 2 before, but now there are six."

I looked up, way up. Six bright white contrails scored the brilliant blue sky. "Do you really not know what those are?" I asked with wonder. 

I could tell by her face that she did not. 

"They're airplanes," I explained. "It's so cold that their exhaust freezes and leaves a thin cloud behind them."

"But I see them in summer, too," she replied.

"They are miles above us!" I said. "It's always cold up there."

She was silent. We looked at the sky together. I was thinking of all the hundreds of people aboard those flights, wondering where they were going and why. I don't know what she was thinking, but I hope she wrote about it.

Good for What Ails Ya

Sometimes it's easy to focus on the inconvenience and, let's be honest, expense of having a dog. Arrangements have to be considered before spending any significant time away from the house; quality food and veterinary care are pricey. Plus, when your dog is young and energetic, she needs considerable exercise, every day.

It was this last condition that brought us to the dog "gym" at noon today. It was too cold and muddy for Lucy to play anywhere else, so Heidi arranged a crew of three of her canine buddies to meet us down there for open hours. The place is really nothing more than a cavernous industrial space with inexpensive agility equipment, rubber mats thrown on the floor, a couple of skylights punched into the 25 foot steel roof, and whitewashed cinder block walls with colorful frolicking dogs stenciled upon them, but the joy that being there gives Lucy is contagious. Watching her literally leap and bound and bounce and pounce, tail up and tongue out, is a warm remedy for any cold, muddy day.

Imagined Life

Yesterday I had an appointment at home at 3, which forced me to dash out the door along with the students a little after the last bell of the day. At 3:30, when the serviceman was finished, I started dinner. Josh and a couple of his friends were coming over at 6, and I made a hearty vegetable and shrimp posole and baked a cranberry cake with caramel glaze and whipped cream. Next, I vacuumed and set the table, then laid a fire to start a little later. Soon it was time to go get Heidi from school, so I bundled Lucy into the car, and she bounced around the frozen fields outside our building for 20 minutes or so. On the way home, we got a text from our neighbor, and ended up inviting her over for dinner, too. It was a lovely evening, enjoyed, I think, by all, and as we loaded the last of the dessert plates into the dishwasher, I couldn't help but wonder what else in the world I could accomplish if I left school every day at my contract time.

Matrilineal

I called my mom in Minnesota yesterday to see how she was faring in the sub-zero temperatures brought in by the Polar Vortex. At 5 PM CST, it was -20 degrees, and Mom was just finishing up on a call from my sister and niece. "Annabelle's disappointed it's not -70," she laughed. "Even with the wind chill it's only -35."

"You're such a Minnesotan!" I marveled when she told me she had gone out the day before to get her nails done. "What did you wear?"

"Layers," she reported, "and my coat is really good. I pull the collar up around my ears."

"Wait!" I said. "You didn't wear a hat?"

"I can't! It messes up my hair," she told me.

I thought of my mom this morning when it was 9 degrees here, and I did put on a hat to take the dog out. As I stood all toasty and warm on the hill at the back of our complex, a neighbor drove by on her way to work. Pausing in the parking lot, she rolled down the window. "I know it must be cold if you're wearing hat!" she said.

Chillin

The sun was brilliant and almost warm as it cut through the 20 degree air at nine o'clock this morning.  My step was light, and, well-prepared against the elements in cashmere scarf, mittens, and sun glasses, I admired the icy blue of the cloudless sky and the icy clouds of my breath as I walked toward school. No Polar Vortex here, yet, just a cold day in January, the kind that makes me happy to be alive and outside.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Just Doing My Part

With slushy snow expected later this afternoon and plummeting temperatures overnight, our district called an audible and scheduled an early release for today. Students and most staff left the building an hour and 20 minutes ago leaving me in the quiet of my classroom to look over a few things for the lessons tomorrow and later this week, send a couple of emails, and work on finalizing the Quarter 2 grades that are due at midnight. I've let it be known that I don't expect to be here tomorrow, but my friend Mary said the best way to insure that the weather cooperates is to be ready to go; Leaving things undone with the presumption of a snow day always backfires, so here I am.