Guilty as Charged

Our counselor routinely meets with small groups of kids at lunch, just to check in with them. Today she and the minority achievement coordinator had four or five boys eating together, so they asked them how things were going. "Fine," one guy answered, "except my English teacher is trying to turn me into a poet."

A Virtue

I'm feeling impatient.

It seems like I'm still not doing a good job giving my students time to write, mostly because the poem and mini-lesson are taking too much time at the front end of class. It's not as though they could sustain more than 15-20 minutes of solid writing anyway, but the transitions continue to be a little rough, and it seems that the bell rings too soon after they've finally settled.

Today was no exception, we were very rushed at the end of each class, although at last I'm beginning to see the groundwork of the last several weeks come together. We finally have the foundation of a common language for talking about free verse poetry that the students can apply both to what we are reading and to their own drafts. They are conversant in line breaks, sensory details, figurative language (simile, metaphor, and personification), the quality of the verbs and nouns, and basic punctuation choices. In addition, they are getting pretty good at discussing what meaning a poem has for them.

OK... I guess we are making some progress.

Back to Work

The weather has turned cool and a little raw here, more so than usual for this time of year. I was weary when I rose this morning, but the soft brush of my fleece jacket on my bare arms when I walked the dog soothed me, just as the chill in the damp morning air woke me up and helped me to think clearly as I considered the day ahead.

When I got to school my classroom was bright and warm, and crossing the room to my desk by the window, I was comforted by the space that I have worked in for so many years. Everything was ready for the students who would arrive shortly, and I was, too.

In Which Regularly Reading Poetry to My Students Comes in Handy

None of Judy's children felt that they could get through the passages she chose for her funeral without breaking down, so last evening, during the visiting hours, one of her sons pulled me aside and asked me if I would do a reading at the service. I said I guessed so, but then my social skills kicked in, and I added that I would be pleased to do it and was very honored that they asked. Which I was, truly. A little while later, he approached me with Judy's own dog-eared Bible in hand. I recognized it from her bedside. She had bookmarked the three pages with tiny post-it notes and had penciled brackets and asterisks next to the verses.

Holding the book and running my finger over the lines she had drawn just days before, I swallowed hard and wondered if I would be able to do it either, but when I got home, I looked up my passage again. It was a short excerpt from Paul's second letter to Timothy, and I read it over to be sure I knew it.

At noon today, the October sun through the clouds gave just enough light to make the stained glass windows of the chapel glow. When my turn came, I rose and walked to the lectern. The microphone was adjusted a bit high, so I stood on tip-toe and read the words I'd practiced:

As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

I think I did it well.

Hey, Normal, Where Are You?

The school year so far has seemed like a series of obstacles to get around, over, through, and past. Perhaps it was the later-than-usual start, September 8, and then trying to fit all the September/early October activities into a compacted time: testing, assemblies, orientations and introductions to this and that activity, back-to-school-night, progress reports, conferences, etc. The flu has knocked us a little off our stride as well; we've enjoyed our first extended holiday-weekend, and I'll be out tomorrow for the funeral.

Maybe next week?

Stuff and Gravy

How sad we were on Saturday morning to hear the news that we lost Judy at a little before 6 a.m. We've spent the weekend helping her family in any way we can, and yesterday afternoon we stopped over at the house to see if there was anything we could lend a hand with there. Judy had fine taste and was a tireless collector and shopper. She always gave wonderful gifts, and her home is filled with more cool things than many museum exhibits or antique stores. Tiny sculptures, books, jewelry, buttons, vintage toys, hand-carved wood, dollhouse furniture, paintings, shadow boxes, ceramics, and other exquisite items decorate every surface and most of the walls, and fill all the closets and drawers to overflowing, not to mention the attic and the cellar. Her home is a wonderful expression of her life, but the unifying energy that made it more than just a collection of things has gone, leaving all the stuff behind for her children to handle. It's going to be a huge job, and I confess that I came home resolved to get rid of some of my own possessions.

Of course for me, helping means cooking. I'm always happy to have the chance to cook for people, and since Friday night, I've been over at my brother's each evening to cook dinner for him and the boys and my sister-in-law when she returns late from her parents'. I've tried to vary the menu, but we've had gravy every night: along with the company, it warms us.

This is too Much Pressure

This is a last minute emergency guest blog post, guys. This is Nemo from notably awesome neighbor-blog A Road That Disappeared, and I am running out of time to write this guest post, so I am calling on you, the reader, to imagine something really excellent being written in this space! It can be pretty much anything. I don't mind, just as long as it lives up to my high standards of quality. Meanwhile, I'm going to fill this space with some random noise. Ok, so when I'm an adult I'm going to raise any children, nephews, or nieces or whatever by misleading them even more then my parents did to me. I'm going to construct elaborate fantasies and insist that they are entirely true, like claiming that marshmallows grow on marshmallow sheep and that when they get a little older I'll take them to the ranch and they can help harvest the marshmallows. They'll grow up skeptical and with completely developed imaginations, so if they're ever presented with a situation that requires them to think quickly, such as, for example, having to come up with a guest post for someone else's blog at the last minute, they'll be totally prepared and not have to pull off something lousy like this.

Well, that's that then. Thanks for joining us and be sure to tune in tomorrow, when we'll be returning to your regularly scheduled Walking the Dog post.