Poaching

We spent part of this Mothers Day with my brother and sister-in-law and their boys over at her parents' deserted place. I hadn't been over there since her mom died and her dad moved to the assisted care facility. Since then, Emily and her brothers have been dividing and moving and sorting through their parents' possessions, but there's still a lot of stuff left. "It seems like a junk shop in here," I blurted out when we walked in. "In a good way," I tried to recover, "you know the fun kind of shop where they have lots of cool stuff?" There were sighs of agreement, but we all knew what I meant.

Vic and Judy were avid gardeners, and it wasn't too long ago that theirs was a stop on the annual garden tour that our county historic association organizes each spring. Judy graciously served ice cold milk and fresh cookies to all who visited that day.

One of the hand-me-downs we got from them is a poaching spade. My brother was practically rhapsodic about its utility when he delivered it to us a few weeks ago. Novices that we are, it seemed like a stretch to muster the appropriate gratitude for such an item. As most of the work in our garden has been weeding so far, the small shovel has gotten limited use, but it seems pretty good for digging. Today I found out how it got its name.

We were over there to take plants that we wanted from their garden.  My nephews used the spade to neatly dig them up and place them in empty pots that we collected from the bench at the back of the yard. When we got to our own garden, we used the same shovel to make an equivalent hole and dropped the plants we had poached right in, just as if they had always been there.

I'm really glad to have them, and as it turns out, that shovel really is pretty slick.

Gene Pool

We took our three-year-old friend Savannah to the farmer's market this morning so that she could pick out some flowers to plant in our garden. Waiting in line to pay for some marigolds and okra, I spotted my brother a few vendors down waiting in line for strawberries. "Savannah," I said, "my little brother is over there."

She was immediately intrigued. She has a little brother of her own, and as we waited we talked about how when they were grown up, they might run into each other around town, too. We paid up and headed over to catch my brother. He was charmed to meet Savannah, and immediately engaged her in conversation. "Do you have a little brother?" he asked.

She told him she did. "But he's just a baby," she said.

"Well, when you're grown up," my brother told her, "you might see him places like this and he'll be big like me-- I'm Tracey's little brother. Can you believe it?"

It didn't seem to bother Savannah at all to have the exact same conversation twice in a row. To her credit, she even acted surprised.

Look Forward

Every school year is full of surprises, and this one has been no exception: there are definitely a few things that didn't turn out quite the way I expected. For example, in September, I would have bet money that our school renovation would have been behind schedule and I never would have had to move, but here I am in a cavernous yellow room in the basement shouting poetry and directions over the constant whine of power tools as the workmen cut through brick and cinder block right above us.

Back then, I wouldn't have dared hope that the two new teachers on my team would turn out to be so great, or that for the most part, the kids would stay so nice-- this year has been super that way. I also wouldn't have predicted that the professional collaboration that I've enjoyed for the last four school years would succumb to the inevitable demands of busy schedules and evolving priorities, but it looks like it has.

Every day this week, one of the kids has asked me how much more time we have in the year. Seven weeks is the answer. Is that all? they gleefully reply, to which I sternly remind them that seven weeks is a really long time. Look what we were doing seven weeks ago, I tell them, but they are unconvinced. Children look forward, not back. Maybe it's for this reason that I've started thinking ahead to next year already.

I can't say that it is without a little sadness that I've been re-organizing and re-structuring to compensate for the changes, but it's kind of exciting, too. I have a couple of ideas to further unify all the disparate parts of my program that I'm anxious to put in place, and since seven weeks is kind of a long time, I might even try out a few of them before the end of the year. You never know what will happen.

Pssst... Have I Got a Character for You

A friend and fellow-blogger mentioned me in her blog yesterday. It was really just a fleeting reference; I was but a minor character in her daily anecdote, but I admit to a bit of a thrill when I read it. I write about people all the time, but as far as I know, no one writes about me. Pity-- there's a part of me that wants to be a character in someone else's narrative, if only so I can read about it later. Perhaps I should just make an effort to commit more memorable acts when around my writer friends.

I Can't Do it Alone

As the clock ticked toward the appointed hour for our meeting this afternoon, no one arrived. Allowing my facilitator's anxiety to take over for a moment, I entertained the notion that no one would come, not an uncommon  fantasy of mine. I relish those quiet times before and after the students are here. What kind of teacher never wants the people she's teaching to show up? I wondered. Oh, once they arrive I'm fine, better than fine, really. I love my job, but it requires a lot of interaction with a lot of people, and by nature, I am an introvert. Hence the daydream of spending my time all alone in an empty classroom-- books arranged in proper rows, chairs pushed neatly in, no one talking, or writing, or reading.

But honestly, what fun would that be?

The First of the Lasts

Despite the amount of time we have left in this seemingly endless school year, some things are winding down.

Tomorrow is the last meeting of the language arts professional learning group that I facilitated this year: planned as a continuation of our local chapter of the National Writing Project, it's been one of the biggest disappointments of my career.

One key thing that my participation in the Writing Project reminded me of was that engaging kids is crucial to the success of any class. As a fellow in the summer institute four years ago, I was completely immersed in the culture of reading, reflecting, and sharing practice, not to mention the focus on my own writing. It was awesome, and I finished the summer with the focus and desire to create that level of engagement for my students. That's a gold standard that I still hold high.

Part of the required agenda for tomorrow will be to gather and combine everyone's opinions about the experience for a brief presentation in June. I'll be interested to see what other people think, but in my mind, it's been a failure, and worse-- a waste of time. I think the biggest problem with this professional learning group was that it needed the participants to be engaged to make it work; for a variety of reasons that didn't happen, and so it never get off the ground.

Can we write it off as being passably valuable to those who attended when they were able? Maybe, but such a casual engagement was not worth the time I spent planning the course. Is it unreasonable to think that such a community is possible to create during the school year? I don't think so, but a firm commitment to the concept would have to be a requirement, and any who were unable or unwilling should excuse themselves and join another group.

In any case, I won't be around to find out; I'm done.

What's Going on in those Furry Little Heads

We had the pet psychic visit today. Believe what you will, but she has always been amazingly accurate for us, and so it's worth every penny to feel like we have 60 minutes of direct communication with our pets. Even though we're pretty sure we have a general idea of what our dog and two cats are probably thinking and feeling, it's nice to have confirmation, and in some cases, correction.

Our dog started as she always does: she feels gorgeous and everyone always tells her how pretty she is. She likes her toys, ice cubes in her water dish, and sleeping late on the weekends. She's going to the beach this summer, and she likes the garden-- she's very well-behaved there, and even helps a little. Unfortunately, that's where she got the ticks; one was fat and one wasn't. All this without a word from us.

Our younger cat said that she's fed up with the older one, because he's so cranky all the time, so now whenever he gets close to her she screams. She's also a little upset that she can't go out on the deck, and she blames him for that. She knows that if it wasn't for his inveterate deck-hopping, they would be allowed outside. She likes having her own litter box, but wishes she could eat by herself, too. In fact privacy was kind of a theme of hers: she spends only as much time as she wants to with people, and then she goes away alone for a while.

As for the old guy, it was as we feared. He has some sort of a slow-growing tumor. At the moment, he's not uncomfortable, and although this is definitely the last chapter of his life, it's a thick chapter. He'll let us know when it's time to say good-bye.

Oh, and he's NEVER going to sit quietly outside the kitchen and wait to be fed. We should just give up on that one.