The next couple of days passed in a blur of packing and shopping. The camp had sent a list of required and recommended items, and because the whole thing was so spur-of the-moment, they needed most of them. Sleeping bags, packs, canteens, compasses, hats, rain gear, hiking boots, bug spray and first aid kits were piled high in the corner of the dining room. They both needed physicals and tetanus shots, too. Under different circumstances, it might have been fun, but Hannah found herself moving through the days lethargically, as if she was already carrying the red backpack that topped her collection of gear...
...The next morning, her parents acted like nothing unusual had happened the night before, and the furnace was working fine, water gurgled quietly through the radiators.
Total word count: 3011
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
NaNoWriMo Day 1
It's crazy, but I just wanted to give the novel writing challenge a try. My plan for the month is to post my first and last paragraph for the day along with my word count. May you all be my witnesses.
Hannah Wilder stared out the window of the bus. Barbed wire and blackberry brambles lined field after field of corn or tobacco as they rolled up and down the hilly two-lane road. She recognized the crops from car trips with her parents. Her mother always drove, and her father always quizzed them from the passenger seat. “What’s the name of this river?” he’d ask every time they headed north to visit her grandparents...
...Hannah and Greg looked at each other, and stood quickly, scraping their chairs back. They followed their mother to the kitchen but continued out the back door. Hannah was a few feet ahead, but they both knew where they were going. Three summers ago, their parents had built a tree house in the big mulberry in the corner of the backyard. Her tears were falling furiously when Hannah hit the ladder, and she could hear Greg choking on sobs behind her. Once safely inside, she sat down hard, wrapped her arms around her legs and cried. Greg leaned against her, and it was the sound of his misery that finally broke through her own. She put an arm around him and wiped her face. He continued to weep for a few more minutes, but she squeezed his shoulder and whispered that it would be all right.
Word count: 1591
Hannah Wilder stared out the window of the bus. Barbed wire and blackberry brambles lined field after field of corn or tobacco as they rolled up and down the hilly two-lane road. She recognized the crops from car trips with her parents. Her mother always drove, and her father always quizzed them from the passenger seat. “What’s the name of this river?” he’d ask every time they headed north to visit her grandparents...
...Hannah and Greg looked at each other, and stood quickly, scraping their chairs back. They followed their mother to the kitchen but continued out the back door. Hannah was a few feet ahead, but they both knew where they were going. Three summers ago, their parents had built a tree house in the big mulberry in the corner of the backyard. Her tears were falling furiously when Hannah hit the ladder, and she could hear Greg choking on sobs behind her. Once safely inside, she sat down hard, wrapped her arms around her legs and cried. Greg leaned against her, and it was the sound of his misery that finally broke through her own. She put an arm around him and wiped her face. He continued to weep for a few more minutes, but she squeezed his shoulder and whispered that it would be all right.
Word count: 1591
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Twenty-Five Hours a Day
Take that DST...
Friday, October 30, 2009
Last to Know
Today, when the kids in my last period class met me in the computer lab, they were very excited. "Is it true that someone stole a car from the parking lot?" one student asked, breathlessly. I hadn't heard a word about it, and I said as much, adding that I hoped it wasn't my car.
I gave the directions for the assignment, and they had just settled in when one of the administrators made a rare mid-day announcement that all teachers should check their e-mail immediately. The kids watched with raised eyebrows as I sauntered over to my workstation like it was no big deal. They're sixth graders; they don't know that such interruptions are very uncommon. I played it off, too, and not a single student asked what the message said, which was that we were in a lockdown due to police activity on and around our campus. Hmm.
The class ended and my meeting and planning time began with no further word about either the lockdown or the situation that brought it on. When a substitute teacher stopped by our team meeting to say that he was on his way out, we had to inform him that it might not be possible to leave the building. A little while later, it was he who told us that the lockdown was over; there was no additional information or explanation via e-mail or P.A.
Later at basketball practice, the girls were eager to fill me in on what had happened. Some guy had stolen a car in the next county over and abandoned it in our parking lot. During 7th grade lunch recess, five police units squealed up to the building and officers swarmed over the grounds, their weapons drawn. Only then were the kids hustled into the building, and the lockdown put in place.
According to the students the suspect was still at large. I took their word for it-- they seemed to know what they were talking about, and they certainly had more knowledge of the incident than I did.
Why is that?
I gave the directions for the assignment, and they had just settled in when one of the administrators made a rare mid-day announcement that all teachers should check their e-mail immediately. The kids watched with raised eyebrows as I sauntered over to my workstation like it was no big deal. They're sixth graders; they don't know that such interruptions are very uncommon. I played it off, too, and not a single student asked what the message said, which was that we were in a lockdown due to police activity on and around our campus. Hmm.
The class ended and my meeting and planning time began with no further word about either the lockdown or the situation that brought it on. When a substitute teacher stopped by our team meeting to say that he was on his way out, we had to inform him that it might not be possible to leave the building. A little while later, it was he who told us that the lockdown was over; there was no additional information or explanation via e-mail or P.A.
Later at basketball practice, the girls were eager to fill me in on what had happened. Some guy had stolen a car in the next county over and abandoned it in our parking lot. During 7th grade lunch recess, five police units squealed up to the building and officers swarmed over the grounds, their weapons drawn. Only then were the kids hustled into the building, and the lockdown put in place.
According to the students the suspect was still at large. I took their word for it-- they seemed to know what they were talking about, and they certainly had more knowledge of the incident than I did.
Why is that?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
I'm a Cool Teacher
Because I can yo-yo and find my way out of a corn maze, not to mention make pumpkin pie out of a pumpkin. Sometimes it takes so little to impress sixth graders, but it's always nice to be appreciated.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Where They're From
My students are wrapping up an activity in which they use George Ella Lyon's poem, Where I'm From as a model for a free verse poem of their own. This is an activity that Nancie Atwell outlines in her book Naming the World. Her students developed a questionnaire which they used to interview their parents and grandparents to gather material for their poems, and we use a version of that, too.
Ours is a chart that has space for the answers to 12 questions in four columns. One for mother, one for father, one for grandparent, and one for other. One of our students has two dads, so before I gave the sheet out this year, I changed the first two columns to "parent." The questions are about nicknames and birthplaces, toys, games and hobbies, favorite books, candy, TV shows, and singers, hip expressions, heroes and hoped for careers.
We have several adopted and foster kids on the team this year, and many of our students and/or their parents were born in countries other than the United States. It was difficult for some kids to gather much information about the lives of the people in their family. It was also challenging for them to fit some of the non-traditional details of their lives into the template based on Lyon's poem. We talked our way through it, though, and everyone wrote a poem of which they were very proud.
We have one student, who was born in India and adopted into a family with a brother from Vietnam and a sister from Guatemala. Her mom e-mailed this morning to say how touched their family was by the poem. Her daughter wrote, in part:
I am from black shoes,
from Razzles and Legos.
I am from the crowded streets of India,
hot and noisy...
I am from watching American Idol
and arguing about the results.
I am from jocks and book worms,
from "Stop talking!" and "Do your homework!"
... from the love of my parents
when they tuck me in at night,
the funniness of my brother,
and the grumpiness of my sister.
I am from the wooden box in my parents' room
filled with pictures,
and all the things in my family
that make us who we are.
What can I say? It's a great assignment. They were all that sweet.
Ours is a chart that has space for the answers to 12 questions in four columns. One for mother, one for father, one for grandparent, and one for other. One of our students has two dads, so before I gave the sheet out this year, I changed the first two columns to "parent." The questions are about nicknames and birthplaces, toys, games and hobbies, favorite books, candy, TV shows, and singers, hip expressions, heroes and hoped for careers.
We have several adopted and foster kids on the team this year, and many of our students and/or their parents were born in countries other than the United States. It was difficult for some kids to gather much information about the lives of the people in their family. It was also challenging for them to fit some of the non-traditional details of their lives into the template based on Lyon's poem. We talked our way through it, though, and everyone wrote a poem of which they were very proud.
We have one student, who was born in India and adopted into a family with a brother from Vietnam and a sister from Guatemala. Her mom e-mailed this morning to say how touched their family was by the poem. Her daughter wrote, in part:
I am from black shoes,
from Razzles and Legos.
I am from the crowded streets of India,
hot and noisy...
I am from watching American Idol
and arguing about the results.
I am from jocks and book worms,
from "Stop talking!" and "Do your homework!"
... from the love of my parents
when they tuck me in at night,
the funniness of my brother,
and the grumpiness of my sister.
I am from the wooden box in my parents' room
filled with pictures,
and all the things in my family
that make us who we are.
What can I say? It's a great assignment. They were all that sweet.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Post-Game Analysis
No, she didn't make the team. We went with a younger, less experienced, but definitely more positive squad. We were afraid that the strength of her antagonism might poison the attitude of the team. I'm still not sure that we made the right decision, though, especially because we were responsible for some of that negativity.
Who knows? Had we been able to intervene more effectively when she was bullied in sixth grade, the outcome might have been different, but now it was a case of trying to balance the good of the group with the good of the individual. We were afraid that she would take the opportunity to treat younger players as she had been treated, and in order to break the cycle, we kept her off the team.
I wish that sometime in the last two years, one of us had been able to forge a constructive relationship with her, so that the positivity of this team, along with our support, might have turned the experience around for her, but her behavior and choices during tryouts showed that we hadn't done that. It was definitely a loss.
Who knows? Had we been able to intervene more effectively when she was bullied in sixth grade, the outcome might have been different, but now it was a case of trying to balance the good of the group with the good of the individual. We were afraid that she would take the opportunity to treat younger players as she had been treated, and in order to break the cycle, we kept her off the team.
I wish that sometime in the last two years, one of us had been able to forge a constructive relationship with her, so that the positivity of this team, along with our support, might have turned the experience around for her, but her behavior and choices during tryouts showed that we hadn't done that. It was definitely a loss.
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