So we've been working on this writing samples ALL WEEK, and today by the end of class was the drop-dead deadline. Still, there was one particular student who early on had been moved to the desk RIGHT next to me, but even with constant encouragement and redirection had yet to write a single word of his final draft. Twenty minutes into the class period, we were reaching crisis stage, and I was grasping for motivational tools.
"Your mom is going to be REALLY mad," I whispered.
He fidgeted. "I know," he said, but it wasn't that convincing.
"She won't believe you didn't finish," I said, shaking my head. He was loving the sympathy. "I think I better get a video of you so she can see what happened."
His eyes widened as I pulled out my phone and started recording. "No, no," he pleaded.
I have him a what-can-I-do? shrug and kept the phone pointed straight at him.
He picked up his pencil desperately and began to write, and can you believe it? He finished the essay by the bell.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Overcast with a Chance of Sun
"You didn't explain that very well," the student standing by my desk told me.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'll try to do better next time."
"I thought we were supposed to bring our drafts for you to check," she continued.
I nodded sympathetically. "Normally, you would," I replied, "but because this is kind of a test, I'm not commenting on drafts-- you have to revise on your own. I would be happy to answer any specific question, though."
She frowned and then brightened a bit. "Actually, I do have a pacific question," she said.
"What kind of question?" I asked.
"Pacific," she repeated.
"Well," I said, "I'm afraid if you have a Pacific question, I can only give you an Atlantic answer."
She giggled. "Oh forget it! I'm going to go fix my draft."
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'll try to do better next time."
"I thought we were supposed to bring our drafts for you to check," she continued.
I nodded sympathetically. "Normally, you would," I replied, "but because this is kind of a test, I'm not commenting on drafts-- you have to revise on your own. I would be happy to answer any specific question, though."
She frowned and then brightened a bit. "Actually, I do have a pacific question," she said.
"What kind of question?" I asked.
"Pacific," she repeated.
"Well," I said, "I'm afraid if you have a Pacific question, I can only give you an Atlantic answer."
She giggled. "Oh forget it! I'm going to go fix my draft."
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
What Blah
More tales of quadruple teaching a lesson:
Today, I used the white board to record a student-generated list of writing tools we've used this year. During the last class of the day, a student raised her hand and repeated one of the ideas, verbatim, from the class before. I caught on right away. She could read the ghostly shadow of the erased writing. "Good one!" I said. "What else do you see?"
She reeled off another one, and we laughed. "Anything else?" I asked.
"What..." she started and then frowned and squinted. "Blah." She couldn't read the rest.
"What blah?" I repeated. "Very good!" And I wrote it down on the list.
The students who were paying attention giggled. (I'd like to say that it was all of them, but I teach sixth grade. I knew I'd have to circle back and pick up the stragglers another way.) "What blah!" one of the focused kids exclaimed. "I must have been absent that day!"
We joked about it for a minute or two and then went on to complete the list. The assignment was for them to write the first draft of an essay and then use the list to revise. A while later a student approached my desk. "I'm finished my draft," she said quietly.
"Did you use the list on the board to revise?" I asked.
"Yes," she confirmed, "and I have everything except what blah. I must have been absent that day."
Today, I used the white board to record a student-generated list of writing tools we've used this year. During the last class of the day, a student raised her hand and repeated one of the ideas, verbatim, from the class before. I caught on right away. She could read the ghostly shadow of the erased writing. "Good one!" I said. "What else do you see?"
She reeled off another one, and we laughed. "Anything else?" I asked.
"What..." she started and then frowned and squinted. "Blah." She couldn't read the rest.
"What blah?" I repeated. "Very good!" And I wrote it down on the list.
The students who were paying attention giggled. (I'd like to say that it was all of them, but I teach sixth grade. I knew I'd have to circle back and pick up the stragglers another way.) "What blah!" one of the focused kids exclaimed. "I must have been absent that day!"
We joked about it for a minute or two and then went on to complete the list. The assignment was for them to write the first draft of an essay and then use the list to revise. A while later a student approached my desk. "I'm finished my draft," she said quietly.
"Did you use the list on the board to revise?" I asked.
"Yes," she confirmed, "and I have everything except what blah. I must have been absent that day."
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Minty Fresh
I'm not sure how it came up at lunch today, but I found myself confessing that, when I was in kindergarten and first grade, I ate the paste. I think I must have assumed that everyone did that so I was a little surprised that I was the lone paste-eater. I felt it necessary to explain.
"Seriously? You never tried it?" I asked. "But, it was so delicious-- all sweet and minty. I wonder what kind of paste that was? I wonder what was in it?"
I thought back 45 years in time. "My teachers used to cut little squares of paper," I recalled, "and the paste came in these giant tubs, so they would take like a tongue depresser thing and scoop a glob onto each square and then student helpers would bring one to each of us," I continued. "We had to use our fingers to rub the paste in, so of course you could taste it, and it was good!"
For a second, I was my present adult teacher self standing in that long ago classroom. I considered the routine from a professional perspective as I tried to describe it to my colleagues. What did we do next? I tried to remember.
"Hmmm... Now that I think of it, I'm not sure how we were actually supposed to get the paste off our hands... did they send us to the bathroom? Did we have a sink in the room?" I shrugged. "Who knows? For me, that was never a problem!"
"Seriously? You never tried it?" I asked. "But, it was so delicious-- all sweet and minty. I wonder what kind of paste that was? I wonder what was in it?"
I thought back 45 years in time. "My teachers used to cut little squares of paper," I recalled, "and the paste came in these giant tubs, so they would take like a tongue depresser thing and scoop a glob onto each square and then student helpers would bring one to each of us," I continued. "We had to use our fingers to rub the paste in, so of course you could taste it, and it was good!"
For a second, I was my present adult teacher self standing in that long ago classroom. I considered the routine from a professional perspective as I tried to describe it to my colleagues. What did we do next? I tried to remember.
"Hmmm... Now that I think of it, I'm not sure how we were actually supposed to get the paste off our hands... did they send us to the bathroom? Did we have a sink in the room?" I shrugged. "Who knows? For me, that was never a problem!"
Monday, January 14, 2013
Stumbling Blocks
I gave an assignment to my classes today that I thought would be a quick review of something they learned in 5th grade, but a few minutes into it with the first group made me reconsider. They did not seem to grasp the directions and when they did, the task took them much longer than I planned for.
One of the benefits of teaching four sections of the same thing is the opportunity to tweak a lesson that needs it right away. The next class went a little better, but it was still not as smooth as I hoped. The third time I started with a little confession about how the day was not going the way I imagined it. "Maybe this is just a hard activity," I warned the class in a tone that was more challenge than admission of defeat. I made the directions very explicit and gave examples.
"That doesn't seem too hard," a student commented.
"I know, right?" I said. "Now show me how it's done!" I ended my pep talk with a little fist pump and then noticed a student raising his hand.
"I think I know what might take so long," he said. I looked at him expectantly. "You forgot to give us the worksheet."
Oops.
One of the benefits of teaching four sections of the same thing is the opportunity to tweak a lesson that needs it right away. The next class went a little better, but it was still not as smooth as I hoped. The third time I started with a little confession about how the day was not going the way I imagined it. "Maybe this is just a hard activity," I warned the class in a tone that was more challenge than admission of defeat. I made the directions very explicit and gave examples.
"That doesn't seem too hard," a student commented.
"I know, right?" I said. "Now show me how it's done!" I ended my pep talk with a little fist pump and then noticed a student raising his hand.
"I think I know what might take so long," he said. I looked at him expectantly. "You forgot to give us the worksheet."
Oops.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
I Have Seen the Future
When I heard that the smallish movie theater I used to go to all the time had been renovated and switched over to reserve seating only, I made little note of the fact. Later someone mentioned that not only were the seats by reservation, they were luxury recliners, too. That piqued my interest, but it wasn't until this morning, when we met a friend there to see Zero Dark Thirty, that I fully realized the implications.
Oh. My. Gosh. Wide, roomy, adjustable auto-recline, and foot rests? The movies may never be the same.
Oh. My. Gosh. Wide, roomy, adjustable auto-recline, and foot rests? The movies may never be the same.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
21st Century Pioneer Woman
With a dramatic bang and a tiny wisp of smoke, my electric range quit working last night. Fortunately, dinner was ready.
This is actually the third stove we've owned in the 14 years we've lived here. When the elements kept burning out on the original 1985 model, we replaced it with a cool black ceramic top number. It was awesome until that day when the oven shorted out, blowing the entire circuitry on it. The repairman assured me that although the part was on back order, it would be there in a couple of weeks.
Two weeks without a stove seemed crazy. The first thing we bought was an electric kettle to boil water for coffee. We already had a crock pot and a combination deep-fryer and general electric pot. Our microwave is also a convection oven, and so we did nicely. When they called to tell us that it might be another week or so, I got an induction burner.
By now it was early November, and Thanksgiving was on the way. During one of my pointed calls, someone finally broke the news to me that my range was going to be out of commission for the entire holiday season. I reeled for a moment and then went into catering on site mode, channeling the mindset I had given up a decade ago.
For Thanksgiving, I farmed out the turkey and made all my other sides with the versatile little appliances I had. (I don't think I've roasted a turkey since.) At Christmas I did all my baking in the convection. It took a little longer, but it was fine. We ate normal meals and had guests over. Stove? Pffffft.
Thinking back on that time now, five years later, I have to say that being stoveless really wasn't too much more than an inconvenience, in fact I kind of enjoyed the challenge of it all. At last, though, in March, I broke down and bought a newer, better range. A few months later, they delivered the errant part. That kind of made me mad, but I was enjoying the new stove too much to let it bother me for long.
Until last night. Oh, I've put a call in to my new, reliable repair guy, and I have high hopes that he will be able to make a quick and simple fix, but he's so old-fashioned that he doesn't work on weekends, which is okay with me.
We'll make do.
This is actually the third stove we've owned in the 14 years we've lived here. When the elements kept burning out on the original 1985 model, we replaced it with a cool black ceramic top number. It was awesome until that day when the oven shorted out, blowing the entire circuitry on it. The repairman assured me that although the part was on back order, it would be there in a couple of weeks.
Two weeks without a stove seemed crazy. The first thing we bought was an electric kettle to boil water for coffee. We already had a crock pot and a combination deep-fryer and general electric pot. Our microwave is also a convection oven, and so we did nicely. When they called to tell us that it might be another week or so, I got an induction burner.
By now it was early November, and Thanksgiving was on the way. During one of my pointed calls, someone finally broke the news to me that my range was going to be out of commission for the entire holiday season. I reeled for a moment and then went into catering on site mode, channeling the mindset I had given up a decade ago.
For Thanksgiving, I farmed out the turkey and made all my other sides with the versatile little appliances I had. (I don't think I've roasted a turkey since.) At Christmas I did all my baking in the convection. It took a little longer, but it was fine. We ate normal meals and had guests over. Stove? Pffffft.
Thinking back on that time now, five years later, I have to say that being stoveless really wasn't too much more than an inconvenience, in fact I kind of enjoyed the challenge of it all. At last, though, in March, I broke down and bought a newer, better range. A few months later, they delivered the errant part. That kind of made me mad, but I was enjoying the new stove too much to let it bother me for long.
Until last night. Oh, I've put a call in to my new, reliable repair guy, and I have high hopes that he will be able to make a quick and simple fix, but he's so old-fashioned that he doesn't work on weekends, which is okay with me.
We'll make do.
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