Coulda Woulda Maple Suga

Maple Syrup Making Also Boomed as a Pandemic Hobby the headline read. The article detailed how all the sugaring equipment has been bought-up and back-ordered. When the tree sap begins to flow, it's an official sign that spring has arrived, the governor of New Hampshire is said to have noted.

Immediately, I visualized myself with a mallet and and pocketful of spiles, tapping maples all over the neighborhood, filling my tin buckets, and setting up a turkey fryer to boil the sap down. Even a cup of amber syrup would be grade A to me, but

Dang it! 

My working from home ended a couple of months too soon.

The Work Cut Out for Me

I was unprepared.

What is poetry to you? I asked.

Just more writing.

Specific words that rhyme and are too fancy to understand

Poetry bores me.

Usually it is something confusing with some meaning people want us to decode though the lamp was white for normal reasons.

I don't have feelings for poetry.

I like poetry but not when it's in school.

I see poetry as another writing-ish unit.

 They said.

I'm so surprised! I told them. Do you like music? Songs?

Oh yes! They certainly did.

You know that's poetry, right? Words, rhythm, repetition, rhyme, feelings?

They were skeptical. So much so, that one of them wrote her haiku about it:

Though it may be true--

I will never admit it.

Songs are poems?

Just yesterday I was celebrating the arrival of National Poetry Month, but now? I see it could be a long month!

Fire to Light Our Tongues

April is National Poetry Month, and for me it's a bit like the flip side of October-- instead of chill air and ghost stories, every where I look is new life and, well, poetry. I spent the morning yesterday reading Naomi Shihab Nye, Marie Howe, and Dorianne Laux. The words just found their way onto my phone screen, so what could I do?

Tomorrow, I am introducing the April portion of the 100 Day Writing Challenge to my students, and can it be a surprise that our challenge is to write a different poem every day? A task that is daunting, but definitely doable, for any who are willing. Each day, a new form is introduced, along with models and some suggested tools. And, as Mary Oliver reminds us, "You do not have to be good." 

Nope, you just have to be willing.

With all that in mind, I sat down this evening to craft a set of instructions to help these young writers get their arms around the project. My directions started out quite matter-of-factly, but as I typed, the words seemed to veer off on their own. It is a poetry unit, after all; perhaps that's to be expected.

Here is the "Fine print" as I presented it to my class:

• During the school week, challenges will be posted every 2 Days, and locked at midnight on the second day. 

• Each assignment is either labeled "Required" or "Recommended" 

• You will have some time in class to complete the required poems. 

• Writers are encouraged to try as many poems as possible. 

• There will be a test at the end of the unit. 

• This challenge is both easier and harder than it looks. 

• You will surprise yourself and love at least one of the poems you write. 

• I believe in the poet in you.

See what I mean? 

Bring it Spring!

The sun was shining, the air was soft and warm, and it was a perfect day to tidy up our outdoor spaces. As we swept and stacked and rinsed and hung and planted all I could think was...

70 degrees is so much better than 40.

A Good Reminder

One of the unexpected delights of last year's growing season was the pot of lemon grass we had out on our deck. I purchased the plant on a whim when I was filling my cart with herbs and flowers for the hanging baskets. It turns out that fresh lemon grass is nothing like the woody stalks that are sold in Asian markets. I found i could clip the ends of the tender, flat blades and use their fragrance and flavor to punch up all sorts of summer salads and marinades. 

Perhaps my favorite use was a version of the Thai classic larb, made with local organic ground turkey. The lemon grass along with a generous sprinkle of fresh basil, mint, and cilantro really made the dish sing, and summer tomatoes and cucumbers completed the feast. 

Before last year, I never remember even seeing lemon grass plants for sale, and so when I spotted it in a garden catalog in January, that seed packet went straight into my basket. And it turns out, that lemon grass is actually pretty easy to grow. I have seven sturdy little plants that are already four inches tall, just waiting for the threat of frost to lift, so that they can leave the grow light and start reaching for the sun and the sky. 

They know that summer's coming, and they help me remember that, too.

There Is That

We had our nephew Treat over for tonight before he leaves Sunday for his cross-country road trip. It was great to see him and hear about his plans for camping and hiking and visiting friends on his way back and forth from coast to coast. Our pets, too, were very enamored of him-- both cats and the dog nuzzled and rubbed and rolled all over him. 

"I don't remember them being so affectionate," Treat noted at one point in the evening when all three of them were gathered around him by the fire.

"Well," I said, "it might have something to do with the fact that you are the first person we've invited for dinner in over year. You're quite the novelty!"

There'll Be Days Like This

Today's been kind of a bummer. Still tired from driving seven hours yesterday, I was kind of dragging when I got up. 

We had planned to get together with our neighbors to celebrate the Nats home opener and share the wings brought back, but the game was postponed because of COVID, then a couple people bailed, and the weather was kind of raw and gray, so we just delivered wings instead, promising to reschedule when it's nicer out. 

We spent a little time dismantling the dining room office that I used to teach remotely. It's nice to have the space back, but a little bittersweet to commit to returning to the old daily grind-- this past year has me hankering for something new; I just haven't found it, yet. 

And even our daily walk has been put off-- a neighbor's unit is flooded, and we've been helping out, manning the wet vac and donating extra towels. The dog downstairs is baying, his mournful howl floating up through the floor. He sounds a little like I feel. Who knows what we want?

But I don't worry, 'cause Mama said...

A Whole (Nother) Story

A child of the sixties, the first president I kind of remember was LBJ. Even though I was in first grade when he left office, I knew who he was. As I grew older and learned more about the turbulent decade in which I was born, Johnson was always a bit of a minor character: the benchwarmer forced into the game in the JFK story, the out of touch antagonist in the RFK story, the recalcitrant cooperator in the MLK story, the ineffective villain in the Vietnam story. (That old guy.)

His wife, Lady Bird, was also a soft-edged somebody who planted a lot of flowers along the highway, not much substance there. But today, on our road trip home, we listened to the first six episodes of the podcast In Plain Sight: Lady Bird Johnson. Hosted by Julia Sweig and based on her book about the former first lady, the podcast tells the story of the Johnsons' time in the White House using the over 123 hours of audio diaries that Mrs. Johnson kept. Her voice, her insight, and her smart observations humanize the couple in a way I just never considered. (Highly recommend the podcast.)

In my mind, the Johnsons always seemed so old, but when President Kennedy was assassinated and the two of them were thrust into a role they had worked toward but in a time and situation they were unprepared for, he was 55 and she was 51, both years younger than I am now. (Pooooosh! Mind. Blown.)

Despite their good intentions, the changing world was ultimately unmanageable, and they found themselves out of touch, especially with younger Americans. There was a little bitterness along with the relief they shared upon retiring to Texas in 1969. It would have been nice if they had had many years together after that, reading and riding and swimming and hiking and driving the amphibious car on their ranch in the Texas Hill Country, but LBJ passed away just 4 years later, at the age of 64. (So sad, right?)

Nooks and Crannies

The recipe looked easy enough: Mix up the 4-ingredient dough in the evening and let it rise overnight. Stretch and fold it, give it a short rest, and then roll it out. A biscuit cutter and some cast iron skillets warming on the stove were the final pieces. Ease them onto the hot surface and griddle for seven minutes a side. 

"What are you doing?" Gary asked when he came downstairs this morning.

"I'm making English muffins!" I told him. 

He looked skeptical.

I shrugged. "We'll see."

Thirty minutes later? We were buttering our muffins. 

Fork split and toasted, they looked store-bought, but they were much crisper on the outside and tender on the inside than those. 

"These are outstanding," Gary declared.

I'd call that a success.

Supporting Role

I stood on a 12 foot ladder in the middle of the family room stretching to reach the smoke alarm fastened to the cathedral ceiling. It had been chirping since the night before, a side-effect of searing half-racks of lamb before finishing them in the oven for Louise's birthday dinner. Heidi's folks are both in their mid-70s, and still very independent, but wise enough not to climb tall ladders anymore. I pushed the reset button, and the four of us waited, anticipating an annoying alert to break the silence in a minute or two.

"That was it?" Louise scoffed, when I clambered down a few moments later, satisfied that the beeping was over. "How stupid! I told the electrician not to put it up so high! What are we supposed to do when it's time to change the batteries? Pay a handyman 87 dollars? Ridiculous!"

She had a good point, of course. Heidi and I put the ladder back in the garage, both of us thinking how hard it is to be of help and support from 400 miles away. At least we fixed one thing, I thought, checking it off the to-do list we always encourage them to make for us when we visit.

Later that night I woke from a sound sleep, certain that I could hear the alarm bleating about its low battery. I lay in the darkness straining my ears for the persistent warning that something needed attention. It was not my imagination. We heard its piercing alert every 28 seconds for several hours until we dragged the ladder out and, at Louise's direction, just disconnected the whole thing so that it would never bother them again.

We offered to get a new battery and change it once a year on one of our visits, but she declined. This time as we stowed the ladder, I wished for a different resolution. 

But it's her house.

Four Seasons

It was 66 and sunny, bare boughs barely bouncing in a mild breeze when we arrived yesterday afternoon in Buffalo, NY. Today? A hard, cold spring rain is drenching the barely green grass. Tomorrow? A gusty day with a mix of clouds and sun is predicted, but not to worry! Tuesday will bring full sunshine and temperatures in the mid-70s, a true taste of early summer in these parts, right before the snow on Wednesday.

Lucky us! We get all the weather on our Spring Break.

Write On

We were about an hour from home and the sun was still low on the horizon when I realized that I had not updated the slice of life for my students. "I have to pull over!" I told Heidi and then scanned the interstate anxiously for the next rest stop or exit. 

Five minutes later we were idling in a park and ride lot as I cussed a little at the limited functionality of the app and my phone. The task that would have taken maybe 60 seconds if I had remembered to do it on my lap top, as I meant to, before leaving school, seemed interminably glitchy. 

"Are you sure it can't wait until later?" Heidi asked, noting my frustration. 

"Somebody is going to log on looking to post!" I replied. "It has to be there!" 

At last I was able to save and publish, and we were just about to resume our Spring Break road trip when a little chime sounded on my phone. 

"Where's the slice of life for today?" the message read. 

"Refresh your screen!" I replied. "It's there now." 

"Yay! Thanks!" the student responded. 

I took a deep breath and relaxed as I eased the car back into the flow of traffic. When the kids are that eager to write? It's worth an unplanned pit stop to let them.

Dogs in Space

When we went to pick up Lucy from doggie daycare this afternoon, there was a 4-month old pug puppy at our dog walker's house. Evie was a little shy; she watched the rough and tumble of the big dogs from behind the toy basket, her flat face peeking over the stuffies, and looking for all the world like ET hiding in the closet. And when at last she ventured out on her strangely long legs (she'll fill into them), she strongly resembled an AT-AT Walker from Star Wars. 

Really? Is it any wonder that the creators of Men in Black chose Frank the pug as the perfect disguise for a friendly alien? It really isn't much of a stretch.

The Haystack

One of my homeroom students started in person today. Because he was a few weeks behind the kids who had attended already, his mom contacted me yesterday to go over the routine and also to report that he was a little nervous. Understandably so! Our sixth graders have never even been in the building: they have no frame of reference for even the most explicit directions.

"No worries," I told her, "I'll head down to the gym in the morning and bring him upstairs to show him around." 

It was a good plan until I entered the cavernous field house attached to our school. A couple hundred or so masked kids sat on the cross points of a six-foot grid. Many had their hoods up; most were looking straight down at their devices. I scanned the group and considered my options. Short of shouting his name, all I could do was walk up and down the rows peering intently at every student. When at last I was saved by the bell, a figure just ahead of me stood up. "Here I am!" he said cheerfully.

"You are so tall!" I told him. "The camera doesn't show that!"

Later in the day, I found out that yet another of my homeroom kids would be starting tomorrow. "Where do I go?" she asked anxiously.

"I'll come downstairs to find you," I promised, but then looked at the guy I had fetched this morning. "But if you see me before I see you? You better wave!"

Keep Stirring

I made risotto for dinner tonight. Any avid fan of one of the many reality cooking competition shows out there will know that risotto is always a risk, if not a certain ticket to the loser bracket. It is not necessarily a hard dish to make (although it does take focused attention at the stove), but it's a hard dish to time when coordinated service is an expectation. Luckily for me we eat when it's ready around here.

The first time I ever ate risotto I was 14. My family was living in Saudi Arabia, but due to the laws governing expatriate schools in the Kingdom, I was in boarding school in Switzerland. Just up the mountain from my school was a little restaurant called Flora's where all they served were ribs slow-cooked on their wood fire hearth, salad, and risotto Milanese. If you wanted anything else you might have been disappointed, until the family-style platters and bowls arrived at your table and you dug in. A menu as simple as that must be impeccable, and Flora and her staff delivered.

But I was 14. How was I to know what an extraordinary meal I was having? I just thought you could find perfection everywhere. 

When I first started cooking seriously, I believed I could recreate that meal. Over the years, I have tried dozens of rib and risotto recipes, and there have been some good meals, but that Flora's magic? Has eluded me. Tonight our risotto is rather work-a-day: boxed chicken stock with some shallots and shiitakes. We have a shrimp topping sautéed with napini and winter cress from our CSA, freshly shaved pecorino and a little dice of plum tomato. Nothing to complain about, for sure, but no comparison to Flora's either.

But that's okay.

Whiskers Forward

I have a student in my homeroom who has been very shy all year. She never turns on her camera, and in fact, before Fall Conferences she told her dad that I had never seen her before. It was true-- my image of her was based on the photo in my grade book, a picture that had been taken early in fifth grade. When she finally made an appearance for the conference, I was kind of surprised at how much she'd changed: the little girl with pigtails and smile was replaced by a middle schooler with a high and tight mop of curls and an anxious frown. 

After that? I heard her voice (although rarely), but the slash across her camera icon remained steadfastly present, even during the second conference. That is until last week. 

A bunch of the other kids in our group are certified goofballs: they are forever wearing hats and masks, waving papers and books and posters, and parading their stuffies and pets across the screen for us. There were a couple of cats waving in the gallery when her hand went up. 

"Hey!" I said brightly. "Do you have a question?"

"No," she said quietly, "but I do have a comment."

"Go ahead!" I said.

"We're getting two kittens next week," she reported.

Well, the class went a little wild and wouldn't give up until she had posted a picture of her kittens-to-be in the chat. 

And then today? That hand went up again. "We got our kittens," she told us. 

And what do you know? There she was on camera, first with a very stubborn and wiggly gray-striped kitten held up to her cheek, and then again cradling a quite compliant orange-striped baby.

"So cute! Congratulations!" I said, as the image faded to a little circle with her initials. 

But my fingers are crossed that those kittens will be a little less camera shy than their girl.

The C in CLT

One colleague mentioned a mentor text that she had used successfully with her students. Another colleague searched the author and found that she lived and taught in the next school district over. The third colleague went to the author's homepage and contacted her about a virtual visit with the young writers in their classes.

Ten days later? Kids and author were laughing and talking about writing and publishing together.

Now that's collaboration!

It's Been a Minute

I ordered a lightweight vest from LL Bean and when it arrived the other day I found that it was a little big. If this had happened any time in the last 12 months, I would have printed a return label and dropped my package either at the post office or UPS Store. But there is an LL Bean store not 20 minutes from our house, and being fully vaccinated, it seemed like a good Sunday errand to go make an exchange for a vest that fits. 

So we did. It's not that we haven't been shopping all year; we have in moderation, but today being out and about in the sunshine, jockeying for a spot in the parking lot, and then spending a little time checking out the sale racks and new spring offerings? Well.  

And although it is hard to say if it felt more like a beginning or an ending, it undoubtedly felt very different.

Who's Walking Who?

Years ago, a dog trainer we worked with advised us against extendable leashes. "Your dog should never be in front of you," he told us, "much less more than a few feet away." I sheepishly reeled my dog in from the tree she was sniffing and pressed the lock on the handle.

We immediately purchased a six-foot cloth leash and donated the others to the animal shelter. After that we side-eyed all the dogs criss-crossing 12 feet ahead of their walkers, while virtuously keeping our dog a foot or two to the left. Well, that was the ideal, more often than not there was some tugging. Our wrists grew mighty strong, though, and so did our dog's neck. Eventually, we found a balance, and our dogs have been very nice walkers, both.

This evening I looked out the window and saw our neighbor walking her 15-year-old dog. She uses an extendable leash, but rather than run ahead of her, her dog stopped and she was the one who continued walking until she got to the end of the leash. Only then did she turn around and see her recalcitrant pup. "C'mon," she encouraged him, and he lumbered forward. Then she turned and kept going, unaware that he had stopped again. They made their way all the way home just like that, 12 feet at a time.

Running the Workshop

Our sixth graders are writing children's fiction, and we have reached the point in the unit where the planning has been completed and the drafting has begun. Or at least that's what the calendar says; in reality, students are spread out wide along the writing process already, like runners in a marathon. 

Our main means of supporting all the writers, where ever they might be, is the writing conference; a quick individual conversation to catch them up and/or speed them on their way toward a final draft. Concurrent learning both simplifies and complicates our conferences. 

Yesterday and today, for instance, I had some students in front of me and other students at home. Most kids from each group were ready to write, but others hadn't finished their planning quite yet. I made the logistical decision to pop the planners into individual breakout rooms where they shared their electronic plot diagrams with me as they worked. There, we could talk through any blocks that had them stuck. 

I joined the main call on my iPad, too, so that when I was on hold and in a breakout room, I could still monitor the kids who were working independently and answer any quick questions they might have. In between conferences, I muted all the mics and checked in with the in-person writers, most of whom were wearing headphones, as I was, too, when I was talking to someone else. 

When at last I had the room to myself and was able to take a deep breath and remove the mask, glasses, and earbuds that were stuffed into or otherwise covering every hole on my head, I was pretty wiped. But the writers? Were on their way to the finish line. 

Win-Win

One of Lucy's friends came over this evening. It's been raining all day, and both dogs needed a little stimulation. They've known each other for years, and in fact we refer to Lady as the nanny: with a few well-placed nips and a judicious little growl or two,  she helped socialize Lucy back when she was a cheeky puppy. 

These days Lucy has a bit of an upper hand; she's bigger and younger, but she still defers to Lady most of the time, with the occasional exception of guarding a toy. Tonight, though, Lucy snatched every single thing that Lady showed any interest in. In our house that kind of behavior means that the toy gets put away, and soon we had a pile of stuffies and balls on a shelf beyond the reach of either dog. 

Neither one seemed too upset, in fact Lady seemed to enjoy getting Lucy in a little bit of trouble. Their good-natured possessiveness reminded us of our last dog, Isabel, and her cousin (my brother's dog) Sonic. Whenever Sonic would stay over, he always wanted whatever Isabel had. No doubt he was motivated by love and admiration, but he used to stare at her as she chewed and the minute she dropped whatever it was, he dashed over and took it for himself. 

Isabel was a wise old girl, though, and it didn't take long for her to figure out that if she showed a little interest in something she didn't care about, when Sonic grabbed it, she would be free to get the good stuff for herself. 

And everybody was happy.

Nous Allons Voyager

My 7th grade niece is taking French I this year, a class which is, as her teacher frequently reminds her, a year-long course. My niece is also a distance learner, and learning a completely new language virtually has been a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, both Heidi and I took French in high school, and so we have volunteered to do some zoom tutoring. 

Personally, I am thrilled by how much of the language I have retained all these years later. Despite struggling to recall where I left my keys and wallet 2 minutes ago, French verb conjugations, nouns (along with their feminine and masculine articles) and prepositions all roll off my tongue without a second thought.

Back when I was learning French, having the privilege to travel made learning the language very relevant. Although I never considered myself a fluent speaker, you bet I could read and understand enough to get myself around Paris and Geneva. But my niece is stuck in Atlanta, and when her year-long course began in August, the prospect of traveling anywhere was dismal at best. 

Even so, with every assignment we do together, I get a hankering to go and speak French somewhere. Montreal and Quebec, perhaps? Surely Canada won't keep us out forever! Maybe this summer (or next?) the three of us can pack our bags and head north.

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Annual Event

As is my custom when the Academy Award nominations are announced, I printed out a list of Oscar nominees yesterday and began gleefully checking off any film or performance I had already seen. Truth be told? It was a paltry handful. Thank goodness for Nomadland, A Promising Young Woman, and Mulan; a little bit of girl power went a long way this year. (But definitely not as long as it should go.)

Scanning the very few checked boxes, I started to scold myself a bit. In any other year, I chided, thinking of all the movies I would have seen by nomination time. 

But of course I stopped, because in any other year since 2004, the Oscars would be over by now, and our traditional family movie-going, dinners, and getaway only a pleasant memory as our thoughts turned to Spring Break and beyond. And obviously there's no question that this year is not just any year. 

So I took another look at the list with appreciation for those few good movies I'd seen and the promise of all the ones I would see between now and April 25, when I win the family Oscar pool! (Because why not? It's been a crazy year.)

Where He Is Now

It must have been the eyes I recognized first-- despite his face being two-thirds covered with a mask, his eyes were unmistakable. And he nodded when those eyes met mine as he rolled past me on his skateboard; he knew me, too. Then, when I called his name, his eyes narrowed as I'd seen them do so many times, and I knew his lip was curling beneath the mask as he skated past without a word or a backward glance.

"Aw," I said to Heidi, as we continued on in the same direction. He turned around about 50 yards ahead, and glided off to the side, stopping where would have to pass him again.

"You knew that was coming," Heidi told me.

I called his name again and waved. This time he looked up and waited for me to get there. "How are you?" I asked.

"Good," he nodded.

"How about school?"

"It's okay." He shrugged. "Virtual."

"The other teachers are going to be so excited that I saw you," I told him. "Do you have any messages you want me to give them?"

He mentioned two of the team by name. "They were cool," he said.

I ignored the implication that the rest of were not. "Well you look great!" I continued, and it was true: his eyes were clear; his clothes were clean; his body was relaxed. "Come on by and see us when you can. We always want to know how you are."

"Maybe," he allowed. "I think I might move back here for high school next year."

"Can we get a picture?" I asked. "I want to show everyone at school."

He nodded, and I stepped over. He pulled his mask down, and we smiled. I know mine was genuine, and I want to believe that his was, too.

Plagues Upon Us

Rather than outside in the breezy March sunshine, the annual spring meeting for our community garden was held on Zoom yesterday morning. To be honest, it's never been my favorite part of gardening there: so often the presentation and approval of the budget and bylaws devolves into a bit of a scolding session, and this meeting was no exception. 

Particularly unpleasant was when, while discussing a bit of controversial rule-smithing, the membership chair unmuted, and brandishing the waiting list for plots, assured us all that if we didn't care to conform to expectations, 150 of our fellow citizens would jump at the chance to get their gardens planted by May 15. (Now June 1-- score one for the democratic process!)

Later in the call, the question of "brown space" came up. Were our gardens supposed to be at least 30 percent clear of growth or no more than 30 percent unplanted? 

"It's at least," one of the chief gardeners confirmed. "We made the rule 17 years ago because of the cicadas. Well, really it was the rats. There were so many cicadas for them to eat, that the rat population in the garden exploded, and they were everywhere. If there was no brown space, a plot would be infested with rats burrowing and breeding under the plants."

Silent gasps of alarm lit up the digital gallery of gardeners, myself included, because this is the year that Brood X will emerge again, just as soon as the soil warms up to 65 degrees. And if a pandemic and billions of cicadas weren't enough, the thought of battling hoards of rats, too, was more than a little daunting.

All in Good Time

I needed a key cut, some lightbulbs, and super glue, so yesterday afternoon I celebrated the end of the work week by heading out to the big box home improvement store right after school. On a Friday afternoon, the place was not crowded at all, and the unspoken promises of repair and improvement drew me up and down the aisles long after I'd found the items I came for. 

Eventually, I made my way out to the garden center and was surprised to find a wide selection of herbs and annuals. So many years the plants are pretty picked over by the time I get to shopping for them; I was tempted to fill my cart right then. The string of 70 degree days we have enjoyed this week made it seem like the time was right to plant the containers and hanging baskets that we enjoy so much in the warmer months of the year.

But I knew better: the danger of frost in these parts extends to mid-April, and starting things too early, no matter how much I wished it was a good idea, was not a risk I was willing to take.

Who knows what might be lost when I shop again in April? But it doesn’t matter— my baskets will be lovely, as they always are. 

Soft Opening

I welcomed my last group of in-person learners this morning. Our hybrid concurrent block schedule means that I'm only in the same room once a week with most of the kids who opted to return to the building. The rest of the time they are virtual along with the majority of their classmates. 

"How has actually being here at school been so far?" I asked them.

"Good!" they nodded with mild enthusiasm. 

"Well it sure is nice to see you!" I told them in return.

A hand shot up. "Do you know when spring break is?" 

"It starts two weeks from today," I answered without hesitation.

He looked as relieved as I was.

One More Pivot

Just as the students were arriving for their first day in the building this morning, some sort of HVAC catastrophe had the halls outside my classroom roaring like an airport runway. With my door closed, the thunder was manageable, and when the noise quit, I assumed it was fixed. 

Not so fast, though! The principal knocked on my door a little while later. "We're going to have to move your class down the hall while they work in the ceiling to replace the part," she told me. "It's for safety reasons. Have the students pack up." 

In another time, the request might not have seemed so complicated, especially since there were only 4 kids in the room with me. But concurrent teaching and all its attendant technology had me dismantling my carefully calibrated set-up: unplugging several cables, turning off the SMART board, and leaving my extra monitor and the webcam and mic behind. 

"We'll be back on the call in a minute!" I told my virtual students and led these brand new students to an unfamiliar classroom with only laptop and iPad in hand. With no other choice, I propped up my laptop on a student desk, almost as if it was the fifth student in the class, and taught from the front of the room.

Oh, the lesson went fine, and it was actually quite liberating to get up from behind my fortress of a teaching station and move around a little. By the end of the class period, the repairs were complete, and I was able to return to my classroom and reconnect the whole apparatus before the next class began... 

...and dream of a time when the room is filled with kids agin, and all that technology is no longer necessary to do the job.

Not so Free Market

"I need to work on getting more commissions at lunch today," a student told me this morning. Although I have been teaching him remotely since September, this was our first face to face interaction.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"I draw humanoid figures," he explained with a bit of impatience. "Customers ask, I go home and do it, and they pay me two dollars when I give it to them."

"Hm," I responded. "I like your initiative, but I'm pretty sure kids aren't allowed to sell things to each other here at school."

"Oh," he dismissed my concern, "that would just be faulty logic. I'm sure it's fine."

"Well," I responded. "I'd hate to see you get into trouble. Why don't I check the rules to make sure?"

Signs of Life

For their fiction project, the sixth graders in our school write and illustrate a children's book for an audience a few years younger than they are. It gives them a chance to apply the elements of fiction and all they know about creating characters and conflict and setting in a simple, but creative way. Throughout the unit we read and analyze published books as models and mentor texts, again, a simple and accessible way for students to solidify their knowledge of fiction and its structure. 

Today we read A Place for Pluto by Stef Wade, a book that checks all the boxes for the assignment. Once he is stripped of his planet status, Pluto wants to find a place to fit in, so he talks to comets, meteors, and asteroids before finally meeting the other dwarf planets. The resolution is a two-page spread with all the planets, plus the Sun and Halleys Comet answering the classic question Where are they now? with a little joke for each. For example, the Sun says, "You all make me dizzy!" 

I like to go through the page and ask students to explain why the lines are funny. "Because the planets spin around the sun," they'll say. 

But when we get to Mars, it's a little tougher when he says, "Let's celebrate with chocolate!" Not many kids make the connection between the planet and the candy company of the same name. 

Even so, I had to laugh when one of the students who was here in person this morning mused, "Did they find chocolate on Mars?"

But ever an exemplar of growth mindset, I recovered my composure quickly and answered, "Not yet!"

What the Devil?

When it came to TV and the movies, I used to love a good serial killer or true crime drama. Malicious or mean, villains and their evil actions were as easy to watch as the popcorn was to munch: hot and salty and forgotten the moment the house lights came up. These days, though, with all the negativity in the real world, I have found it almost impossible to escape into the fictional world of TV. Everything is too sad, or too spiteful, or too violent, or too callous, or too unjust to enjoy. I've even taken a break from The Crown; they lost me when the queen told her son that no one, in the kingdom, the palace, or the family cares what he thinks. 

Googling "nice shows" will only get you so far, but there are a raft of sites that will tell you what to watch next based on what you liked before. Somehow, through a combination of scrolling and clicking, I found my way to a list that had the show Lucifer on it. Perhaps you, like I did, might think that a show about the devil is the opposite of what I was looking for, but we, friends, would be wrong. 

Based on a character created by, well, God, and a situation invented by Neil Gaiman for DC Comics, the series is about how Lucifer, having grown tired of Hell, moves to LA and opens a nightclub. Through a series of events, he becomes a consultant to the LAPD, using his unique abilities to question people of interest and uncover deeply buried clues. The show is irreverent and funny, with playful dialogue and silly situations. And although he expects selfishness and cruelty from all he meets, Lucifer Morningstar (as he is redundantly known) is more complex than either Milton or the Books of Ezekiel and Isaiah would lead you to believe. 

We are only a few episodes in, but redemption is a big theme. What could be more positive and feel-good than that?

Consider the Sweet Potato

I.

The best way to cook a sweet potato, according to Nik Sharma, on the podcast the Genius Tapes, is to both steam and roast it. Steaming it breaks down its fibers and gives the veggie a creamy texture, but roasting it “releases at least 17 more aromatic molecules than boiling or microwaving.” As such, Sharma recommends a hybrid, 2-stage method involving aluminum foil. The result? A creamy and complex sweet potato. I have tried it myself, and I can vouch for the technique.

II.

When I was growing up, the one time a year that sweet potatoes were always served was on Thanksgiving. Then, my aunt would boil and mash them with butter and brown sugar and top them off with mini-marshmallows toasted under the broiler. They were gooey and sweet, any child’s dream, and I couldn't stand them.

III.

My sister has a friend who went through a phase in college where she ate a big baked sweet potato for dinner every single night. She literally turned a light shade of orange from all the beta-carotene. 

IV.

There is a difference between sweet potatoes and yams, but no one is quite sure what it is. One is starchier, one is sweeter; one can be purple or orange or white. One is monocot, and one is dicot. I used to think the orange things we ate at Thanksgiving were sweet potatoes, then a few years later I was sure they were yams, but now I think they were definitely sweet potatoes. Maybe. 

V.

Every year, we get at least 10 pounds of sweet potatoes from our winter CSA share. It might seem like a lot for a couple of little 50-something ladies to consume over the course of a few months, but they keep very well, and we find lots of ways to use them: diced in soup and stew, mashed for muffins, riced for gnocchi, grated for pancakes, home-fried with onions and eggs, spiraled and crisped browned in the oven, minced and added to risotto, and of course, both steamed and roasted. Don't worry, we get that vitamin A!

Coda

We've only been back in the building for a few days, but already the weekends are filling up like a bucket under a leaking roof. Where does the time go?

Fortunately, there is no remedy for a busy day like a simple supper. Hello scrambled eggs, salad, and toast!

Mask-capades

Perhaps the hardest part for me so far of returning to the school building is wearing a mask all day. I have a wide assortment of face coverings, but I haven't found any that remain comfortable for much longer than 30 minutes. So, I always take advantage of the rule allowing us to remove our masks when we are alone in a classroom with the door closed.

But I was halfway down the hallway at school this afternoon when I realized I wasn't wearing a mask. Even though the building was almost deserted, and no one else was in sight, my eyes widened and I began to feel a little panicky. Just then, a colleague turned the corner. 

"I forgot my mask!"

"You're not wearing a mask!" we said in unison.

I spun on my heel, clapped one hand over my nose, and then pulled my turtleneck up and over my mouth, speed walking back toward my room. "Sorry," I added over my shoulder.

Back in my room, I grabbed one of the many masks on my desk and put it on. I sighed, plopped down in my chair, and put my hands in the pocket of my hoodie, where I found a mask that was in there all along. Shaking my head, I stretched my legs and stuffed my hands into my side pockets. There was another mask in the left side. 

Evidently? I know myself well enough to be prepared for those moments of forgetfulness, but not well enough to think that I actually am prepared for those moments of forgetfulness. 

Maybe I'll just keep my mask on at school.

Pragmatics

When I signed off for my last (scheduled) fully virtual classes of the year today, it was with an enthusiastic, "Have a great weekend and I'll see you on Tuesday!" I paused and added, "Some of you in person."

"Nooooo!" groaned one student.

"I wish I was coming back," sighed another.

I empathized with both of them. There is a fair amount of anxiety among all the stakeholders as we transition from distance learning to hybrid. No one knows what it will be like, and there is a bit of buyer's remorse on both sides of the choice to either send your students in person for 2 days a week or keep them home for the rest of the year.

"Listen," I told them. "Your families chose what they think is best for you. Our class is not going to change-- we will all be here together, some in person, most at home, but we will make it work for everybody, right?"

"Oh I'm not worried about that," responded the first student. "I just don't want to have to get up earlier."

Space and Grace

"I'm going to come home right after school!" I vowed when I returned to the building, but two days in I am already seduced by the sun shining in through that window, as it has so many afternoons in the last 27 years, warming me as my fingers fly over keyboard and mouse, crafting the lessons that will become skills and knowledge in the days to come. 

Even though my desk has been moved to allow for six feet between me and the tidy rows of desks a handful of students will occupy next week, those four walls have witnessed my entire career-- countless inhales and exhales and all the spaces in between. Being present in that place after a year of teaching remotely is a homecoming. The clock on the wall speeds ahead, and it's already later than I planned.

One day in the not too distant future, I will close the door on that room behind me for the last time. Another teacher will stand at the door to welcome the students, and maybe sigh with a little relief when they charge off to the rest of their day, leaving behind a quiet space to work and plan for the learning ahead.

Reality Check

We showed a series of safety videos today at school in order to prepare those students who are returning to the school building next week and the week after. Modeled on the TV series Stranger Things, the videos ran through the rules and safety requirements in a humorous and witty way. 

The mitigations are hardly surprising, especially for a community that the NY Times designates as "Very High Risk" for COVID-19: from arrival to dismissal, the middle school kids are expected to stay six feet apart and wear their masks in most situations-- the classroom, the hallways, and the restrooms. At lunch, masks can be removed while eating, but students will be seated at desks set at six foot intervals with plastic shields. There is also a daily sign-in procedure that includes health screening and temperature check, and students must sign out any time they leave their assigned room during class.

"What do you guys think?" I asked my homeroom afterward.

"The videos were good, but the rules are insane!" one student responded. "I predict kids will lose their minds if they have to follow all those! Something has to change!"

"Maybe," I agreed, "but it won't be the rules."

Free Your Mind

We had the full attention of our pets this afternoon as we did a crazy yoga kriya in the living room on our lunch break. As we stretched and twisted and breathed deeply, or with fire, the dog was downward and the cats were cows; their participation complicated the space, but definitely expanded the energy, too. 

The penultimate pose of the series had us placing our thumbs on our temples with fingers straight up and chanting. Full disclosure? It was awesome, but I also had to giggle a little.

"I hope the dog walker doesn't come right now," Heidi said.

"I hope she does!" I laughed.

As it Should Be

I had a moment this afternoon, while walking the dog through relentless rain and mourning the safety and flexibility of working from home that we will soon lose, when all I wanted was to throw everything aside, like the covers in the morning when I get up, and drive cross country in April with my nephew Treat and camp for 10 days in Death Valley. Upon my return, I would go down to the Outer Banks and stay with my other nephew, Victor, on the beach for a couple weeks, until it was time to head to Alaska, where our godson, Josh, will be working this summer. 

Why not? I thought. What's stopping me?

The answer is some variation of 30 years and all the stuff that binds a 58-year-old teacher to the (wonderful) life she has built. 

But these boys! These men-- it has been my joy to take them on some of their earliest adventures, and now it stings a little to be left behind as they go forth and do such awesome things on their own.

Limited Series

As I mentioned in an earlier post, our latest TV binge has been The Crown on Netflix. Four seasons late to the party, we have had the luxury of carrying right on through the show at our pleasure. For us, "binge" means one or, at the very most, two episodes an evening, and so we slowly make our way through this series or that. As we neared the end of the second season of The Crown, I was aware there would be a cast change, and I had grown so attached to Claire Foy as Queen Elizabeth that I was not ready to let her go. 

Pausing at the end of episode nine, we watched several documentaries about the real royal family. "Why don't they include this stuff in the show?" Heidi griped.

"Because it's a show," I said. "They have a dramatic arc and too much extraneous information would be confusing."

She shrugged unconvinced.

Eventually, we watched the end of season two and moved on to season three. As I predicted, I could not get behind Olivia Coleman as the queen. "Why did they have to drop a perfectly good Queen Elizabeth?" I griped.

"Because it's a show," Heidi answered. "They have to show time passing somehow."

I shrugged, unconvinced.

Happy Burpday

Pity poor Lucy-- today is her birthday and she had a grooming appointment, not something she loves. It's hard to know if it's the combing, the clipping, the bathing, the drying, or the anal gland expression, but suffice it to say that a spa day? It is not. Even so, grooming is a necessary nuisance which happens regularly, and so Lucy must sigh and go along quietly.

To add insult to injury, she has also been suffering from a bout of indigestion which has her gulping and belching and straining to eat the sweet, sweet grass that only dogs can identify for sure. As closely as we watch her diet, with Lucy digestion is delicate and sometimes difficult. Never a shy dog, last night she woke us up, heaving and hiccuping. "Tomorrow is going to suck!" Heidi growled once Lucy was finally settled, snoring away, stomach gurgling. 

It was hard not to agree, but for the fact that we love her so!

It Seems Only Fair

Last year I realized that if I was going to ask my students to step out of their comfort zone and challenge themselves to do something every day for one hundred days, then I should do that, too. My challenge couldn't be writing, since that has become a habit, so what could I do? 

Back then, in March of 2020, I decided on sit-ups and meditation, and I despite the pandemic (or perhaps because of it?), I am proud to say I made my hundred days and have continued on. Daily diligence is kind of my jam.

What's next? you might wonder, as I have, too. So I decided to throw it out to the kids. Next week, they will get to propose a hundred day challenge for me. And honestly? I can't wait to see what they come up! 

Stay tuned.

A Lifetime

Today was the day when I introduced the 100 Day Writing Challenge to my students. Technically, it starts next Monday, March 1, but with conferences at the end of the week and asynchronous learning, it made sense to go over it now. Plus, I've learned over the years that a few built-in safety nets prevent kids from dropping out if they miss a day or two along the way. 

I wasn't always so flexible, though. When I first started the challenge, I thought the dread of losing everything for missing a day would be more than enough to keep kids in it to win it. After all, I have held myself to the rigorous standard of daily posting since March 1, 2009 with never a miss. But these days I know that what works for me isn't necessarily what's best for everyone, and I really just want the kids to write.

When I was giving the origin story of the writing challenge this morning, though, I did tell the students that I had written every day since March 2009. "What?" one student unmuted to exclaim. "That's longer than I've been alive!"

Home School

 The question of the day today was What is a rule you have in your family that you would change if you could? The answers came in fast, but the first to respond wrote I would change the video games only on weekends! 

"That sounds like you!"I told him a little while later, as we were reading through the replies. "I know it must be hard to wait until Friday for your games."

As he unmuted to answer me, there was murmuring in the background and we could hear his mom talking to him. A little chime sounded, alerting us all to an addition in the chat. "I changed my answer," he said.

I wouldn't change any rules, he had posted. They are all for my own good.

We Shall See

The calendars on the bulletin board were turned to March  2020 and the list of homeroom students was outdated as well when I entered my classroom this morning for the first time this school year. When people insist that it's time to open school now, we bristle, because school has been in full session since September, despite access to the buildings being quite limited. The 50+ hours a week we teachers have been putting in are testament.

But here I am, tweaking my classroom layout and doing a tech check on the equipment I will use to teach "concurrently"-- some students in person, others virtually, all at the same time. I'm also acclimating to wearing a mask all day, which may end up being the most challenging part of the model for me. I do have hopes that being in person, some of the time, will benefit some of the kids, and that the mitigation our district has promised will be enough to keep everyone safe, and I can only do what I can do.

Rumi wrote:

The same wind that uproots trees

makes the grasses shine. 

Time to shine. 

Not as Smart as You Think, Watch

Heidi and I rely on our smart watches to track our activity and exercise. Sometimes? That's a good thing, like when we head out for a walk or do a work out because we're behind on our rings. Sometimes, it's demotivating, like when one of us says, I don't have shit today! Why bother? and then plops down on the couch with some ice cream. 

A little while ago, I was in the middle-- I got my exercise and stand goals, but my activity goal seems unreachable. I could blame it on the cold or the fact that I spent a good chunk of the day in front of a screen working on grades, but tonight I shrugged it off and vowed to do better tomorrow. 

As I was verbally processing my decision, Heidi looked at her watch and noticed all her goals were at zero. Obviously a glitch-- she restarted her watch twice before she heard the little chime congratulating her for standing or something. 

"I can't believe none of the apps checked in with me all day!" she griped.

"I know!" I said. "As far as they're aware, you haven't moved since midnight! They should have been all over you to get the hell up!"

"Or call 911!" she added.

The Current Crisis

Yesterday I was enjoying a remote lunch with the colleagues I used to eat with every day before the pandemic. We were chatting about this and that: the weather, students, return to school, and of course, vaccines. Which one will your parents get? Did you have a reaction to the second dose?  How effective is P or M or J against the various variants? What company is closest to having the next approved vaccine?

"A year ago who would have thought we would be so interested and well-versed in big pharma?" I laughed. "I doubt I could have named a single company!"

"Maybe the one that was responsible for the opioid crisis?" Liz suggested.

"Probably," I said, thinking. "Who was that again?"

Err... 

As well-read and knowledgeable as the three of us are (clearly evidenced by our awesome 9 out of 11 on the NY Times weekly news quiz-- equal or better than 88% of other readers!), we all drew a blank.

I guess there's only so much room for misfortune in any brain, or three.

17 Syllables

Friday is reading day in homeroom and our school always provides a great book talk from a staff member to inspire the kids and give them some good ideas about their next read. Today one of the counselors recommended Morning Haiku by Sonia Sanchez, a celebration and commemoration of the lives of revered African American artists and activists. As a follow up activity, the students were asked to write haikus for dedicated to people who inspired them.

The haiku is a deceptively simple form of verse. So often, young writers tick off the 5-7-5 syllables and call it a poem, and that is what most of my homeroom students did today. What they didn't take into consideration was how serious an editor I am. Those first 17 syllables they write usually reveal the topic, but not much more, and I love collaborating with poets, digging into their intention, meaning, and word choice, to find a way to use every syllable to its fullest advantage. 

Fortunately? A short poem is quick to revise, and in the 20 minutes we had, the kids submitted draft after draft in staccato quick fire, rearranging lines, cutting adverbs, and paring their syllables to uncover the essence of inspiration. 

"Do you like this draft better?" I always ask. "You don't have to say yes-- just be honest."

"Yah!" one student told me today. "I'm going to take it to my parents right now!"

Snow Day

The sharp smell of wood smoke filled the air when I stepped outside to walk the dog this evening. All day long a wintery mix of precipitation had tapped on the windows, but by 4:30 the sky was a bit lighter and the air was still. It was cold though, below freezing, as it had been for the last 24 hours, and an inch or so of icy snow drew a gauzy veil over all the grassy slopes and valleys in this hilly neighborhood making them ideal for fast but gentle sledding. Everywhere we walked Lucy and I heard the shouts and squeals of small children sliding on saucers and toboggans and then trudging back up  in the fading daylight for at least one more go. 

Downhearted

In anticipation of taking a dive into conflict with the young fiction writers in my class, today the intro question was What is something you hate to do? Most of the kids were quick to answer: dishes, chores, cleaning my room, homework, stepping on my little brother's legos, and so forth. 

But one student, who is usually quick and earnest on the Chat Snap was silent. "I can't think of anything," she unmuted to report.

"Nothing?!" I asked, mugging for the camera with wide eyes and exaggerated double take.

"Yeah," she confirmed, "I don't hate anything."

This kid is awfully sweet, and I kind of believed her. Or at least I believed that she believed it. "Do you have any pets?" I asked.

"We're getting a dog soon," she said.

"Well," I told her, "I think you might hate picking up dog poop. I do!" I paused to think. "What about chores?"

"I like chores!" she replied in a very credible tone.

"You are amazing!" I said. "I love your positivity! What about exercise? Burpees? Donkey Kicks?"

"I don't mind any exercise, except push-ups," she answered.

"Do you hate push-ups?" I asked.

"Yeah," she admitted.

"Well, put it in the chat!" I told her with false cheer, because rather than experiencing that satisfaction that accompanies talking another writer through the process to dig deep and find some inner truth, instead I felt kind of bad for forcing a sunny little kid to admit to some inner shade.