The L-Shaped Lake

I once told someone that I thought Gary Paulsen was the Hemingway of children's fiction, and I stand by that. His writing is at once spare and very rich. One of the most personally influential books I've ever read is his novel Hatchet. It was the first novel I ever taught; I've probably read it at least 20 times, most of those aloud, and I can honestly say that not only did I never tire of the tale, but I found something new each time.

In Paulsen's elegant prose, the book tells the story of 13-year-old Brian Robeson who, through a series of events, is stranded alone for the summer on the shores of a lake in northern Canada. Ultimately, Brian learns to survive by drawing on his prior knowledge and his ingenuity. His experience is not without its challenges and ordeals, but in the end he grows from a dependent, reactive child to an independent and resourceful young man.

Before I read Hatchet, I don't think I ever thought about what would happen were I to be in a situation where I needed to survive in the wild. As much as I enjoyed hiking and camping, it was all pretty much a pleasant green blur to me; nothing really stuck out, because nothing had to. Hatchet put the individual components of nature into context for me, and in the seventeen years since, my knowledge of the outdoors has increased exponentially, and I love every minute I spend there.

Could I could survive on my own with nothing but a hatchet? Who knows? Probably not, but I'd definitely last a lot longer having read that book.

Boiled Peanuts

This summer when we were in South Carolina, we saw lots of signs for boiled peanuts.We are curious Yankees to be sure, but what with all the other great food--the shrimp and grits, the grouper, the benne wafers, the corn on the cob, the peaches, and the tomato pie-- we never got around to sampling that regional snack. Too soon, the vacation was over and it was back to work.

Before I got my full time teaching position I spent several months as a substitute, and I can tell you from experience that it's not an easy job. I don't think that's news to anyone-- remember how in elementary school even the mildest mannered classmates turn into their worst Dr. Jekyll selves whenever the teacher was out? That hasn't changed.

As a teacher, I appreciate a reliable sub, someone who can manage the students reasonably well and who will follow the plans I have taken the time to prepare. That happens less frequently than you might think, but over the years there have been a few regulars in the school and on the team who have become almost like colleagues. Most of them are retirees who do it for both the experience of working with kids and the small supplement to their pensions.

Such is the case of Mr. F, a retired soldier and foreign service officer who has been working in our school for at least 15 years. A father and grandfather who has lived all over the world, he believes he is well-suited for our diverse population of adolescents, but his notions about education are old-fashioned, and his approach to discipline is out-dated. I think both are a little too paternalistic to be effective. The kids usually say he's too old and too strict.

Still, you can't be too choosy when it comes to substitute teachers, and in my mind, his familiarity with the school and with my class make him a good choice for the job. Others may disagree, but if there's anyone better and more reliable, we haven't found him or her, yet. Plus today? He brought me some boiled peanuts that he made himself. That's my kind of guy.

NaNoWriMo? Just Say No

For the past few weeks, I've been receiving emails from the NaNoWriMo people reminding me that with November comes their annual novel writing challenge. My first reaction was to rule the notion of once again trying to write a novel in a month completely out. Last year I ended up with just shy of 17,000 words at the end of the month and slogged through to mid-December, stopping on the 17th with a cheery promise to be back soon. That didn't happen.

Even so, as the days of October wane, that challenge seems kind of tempting. In fact, I've dusted off my novel, and I plan to bring a bit of it to my writing group tonight. Re-reading it, I found that it's not too bad, and who knows? Maybe this is my year to finish it.

On the Bright Side

The other morning I heard a poem called accidents on The Writers' Almanac that I wanted to share with my students. When I pulled up the text on the website however, I found that the poet, Marcia Popp, uses no capitalization, punctuation, or line breaks in her work. In my mind, that made it an even better choice for my class.

After their initial confusion with the poem, the students decided that they really liked its narrative and could relate to its message, and they also professed a new-found appreciation for punctuation, which, of course, is priceless in a sixth grade class. Since then, I've purchased Popp's collection comfort in small rooms and each and every poem in the book is an absolute gem.

Yesterday my students turned in their final drafts of three free verse poems they have been writing. One boy who is new to our class submitted the following:

today is a beautiful morning its breezing the football is going to be hard to throw because the wind is going to blow it away my brother throws it hits me in the face i get the football and i feel like i am flying my brother said where is your sweater i say oh snap i am in trouble it is stuck on a branch i climb to get it and we keep playing i throw the ball so high my brother is amazed beat that i say ok he throws the ball i have never seen anyone throw it like that only football players

When I spoke to him about it,  I found that his imitation of Popp's style was unintentional. Oh well, we have some work to do, but at least he's got a bit of a natural poet in him.

More Little Things

A few years ago I fell flat on my face, and there was nothing metaphorical about it. I was playing roller hockey on a basketball court with my nephews and brother. The surface of the court was painted, and the skating was smooth and fast. We were having a lot of fun, but I was playing recklessly hard against my brother. He's less than two years younger than I, so we've been competing a long time. To be honest, I don't think I've ever completely recovered from when he outgrew me in strength and size. Wits are another matter though, and I like to think we're still pretty evenly matched there.

Too bad my wits deserted me that day: setting the worst example possible, I was wearing neither helmet nor any other kind of protective gear. Ironically, I was standing still when it happened-- my skates slid backwards so fast on that slick court that I didn't even put my hands out to break my fall, and I landed on my face from a full standing height. Miraculously, nothing was broken, not even a tooth. I had an ugly abrasion that lasted a couple of weeks and a fat lip, but that was all.

I was lucky, but this past week has brought news of family of friends and friends of family who did not survive the choices they made, both impulsive and otherwise. Right now, my students are doing an assignment which asks them to look at the people and events, the accidents and incidents that have made them who they are. Every year, I write along with them, but I confess that I usually adapt what I've done in the past and share that. Maybe it's time to take a fresh look.

It's the Little Things

I usually find myself stoic in the face of life's tragedies; I wish I could say the same about the nuisances that complicate every day life. Right now it's the short in the light fixture, the stripped gear on the mixer, the leak in the ceiling, the fruit fly infestation, the closet door off its track, and the broken handle on the microwave that seem almost impossible to manage. Of course, larger misfortunes can put all of these things into perspective, and they do, they really do, but they don't fix them. I still have to find somebody to do that.

Gerstensuppe

When I was in high school the whole darn place picked up and moved to St. Moritz for two weeks every January. It was one of the many perks of going to a Swiss boarding school. Ski lessons were included, but unfortunately for me, I arrived a day late the first year. When I went to pick up my equipment, the ski shop was out of boots my size, and so it was another day until I made it up to the slopes.

By that time there were no more beginners... everyone was at least two days ahead of me, and none of those efficient Swiss instructors in their mirrored shades and handsome red jackets seemed willing to catch me up. After careening unsupervised and uninstructed around the bunny slopes for a while, I resolved that skiing was not for me, and with fat tears rolling down my cold cheeks I removed those despicable skis and clunked over to the Signal Bahn where I caught the gondola back down to the hotel.

Despite the impression I had gotten on the mountain, I found out that skiing was not optional, and thus began my longest streak of scholastic disobedience to date. There was no way I was ever going to suffer the humiliation of that first day again, and so every morning when the rest of my classmates tromped cheerfully off for the slopes, I skulked away in the opposite direction and wandered the icy streets of St. Moritz for hours. It was lonely and cold, and even though I brought a book and a little money, there was only so much time I could spend in any cafe or restaurant before I felt my welcome was worn out, plus I lived in terror that a teacher would catch me and I would get in trouble for skipping.

The bright side of those days was literally the finest hot chocolate in the world and a delicious local soup with speck and barley called Engadiner Gestensuppe. Years later I found a recipe for it on the internet, and I continue to tweak it, trying to recreate what I remember so clearly, but so far each attempt falls a bit short. Even so, I often turn to this soup when I want something warm after a tough day, and it still hits the spot.