Where They'll Be

When we were talking about President Kennedy's assassination yesterday, I compared his death to the attacks on September 11, 2001. "Everyone in America will remember where they were the day the Twin Towers fell for the rest of their lives," I pointed out to the class.

They seemed to take my word for it; I guess they had to since not one of them was born yet on that day.

Later I wondered what unifying moment awaits their generation, and I hoped that instead of

war,

death,

or destruction,

it might actually be something

awesome!

Where Were You?

It's National Poem-in-your-Pocket Day, and as every year, I asked my students to choose a poem and carry it for the day. We celebrate the occasion in class also, and all students who are willing and able may share their chosen poems (for a lollipop, of course!).

This year someone read Where I Was by Dan Brown.

"Do you know what that's about?" I asked.

"I think it's about a field trip," he answered.

"Yes, but it is also about when President Kennedy was shot."

"What?????" another boy shouted from across the room. "President Kennedy was shot????? Did he die????"

I frowned and looked at the second student, trying to tell if he was serious. The other kids around him shushed him, and explained that yes, the president had died of his wounds.

"Anyway," I continued, "that was such a huge event for the people who were alive then, that many years later they remembered clearly where they were when they heard the news, and that's what the title of the poem means."

Later I was telling my friend Mary about it. "Just think," she laughed, "that kid will always remember that he was in your class, in 2015, when he heard that Kennedy was shot."

For the Bird

Once I was complaining to someone about the general lack of respect that those planning meetings and professional development seemed to have for teachers' time. He shrugged. "They pay you to be there whether you like it or not." That was pretty demoralizing.

I thought of that when we were confronted with another tedious task in our department meeting this afternoon-- I'm not sure what objective those who designed the activity had in mind, but after a full of day of teaching, the consensus was definitely to just get it over with as quickly as possible.

We had to rate ourselves and our school, from bad to good, on a series of descriptors. It had to be a consensus or any outliers had to be detailed in a 2-3 paragraph explanation. I proposed using fingers to get a general sense of where each of us was, and the group agreed. "But watch which finger you use for one," I was warned by our chair. "I know you!"

Visualize

"Can we draw stick people?" is perhaps the most common question sixth graders ask when an assignment calls for them to produce a visual.

"Sure," I answered this morning, "but there is a bear in the story. What is he going to look like?"

Not to worry, my student assured me, and he was right. In fact the whole class was charmed by the character we dubbed "Square Bear."

Internal Clock

We drive by our community garden plot every day on our way to school. I've developed a sharp enough eye that during the growing season I can usually tell if there is a need to stop sooner rather than later to harvest, cut, gather, water, or weed. In the winter, though, I sail by barely noticing even if the lid of the small potting bench has blown open; I've learned that the winds will shift and slam it shut again.

This year it's been a cold spring, and we had not been to the garden even once to check on the persistent covering of weeds when late last week, perhaps from reflex, my head turned and my eyes were filled with a wee purple haze blossoming from the far side of the plot. It wasn't until Sunday that we actually stopped to investigate. As discouraging as the unwanted blanket of vetch, false chrysanthemum, and clover was, the peonies were sprouting strong, the blackberries are spreading faithfully and well, and that lovely cloud of periwinkle? It was some fragrant phlox that I put in last year and promptly forgot.

It's time to get to it.

Ask an Expert

A farmers market recently opened within walking distance of our home, and so the past couple of Sunday mornings we've enjoyed the luxury of heading over there to see what treasures they are vending. True to the season, there was local asparagus and wild ramps today, and I happily bought a bunch of both.

"Have you ever cooked with ramps before?" the young cashier asked me as he weighed my purchase.

I admitted I had not. "What's your advice?" I asked, for I can certainly recognize a kid who is dying to share what he knows.

He shrugged. "Oh, Google is the way to go to find a recipe," he began modestly, "and many will tell you that the greens are good, but I've never tried them."

He paused.

I nodded.

"So if you ask me? I like them sauteed. Add them to eggs and they're very good, but with asparagus?" He lifted my bundle and placed it in the bag. "They're heaven!"

Yes they are.

Every Other Day of the Week is Fine

Personally? I hate acrostic poems. I agree with my friend Mary who just the other day called them, "the lowest form of poetry." To me they should be relegated to the same recycling bin as word searches.

And yet... kids love them! Perhaps it is because for years they have been given the so-called "interdisciplinary" assignment of writing an acrostic poem about some science or social studies concept. Or maybe they like them because they are easy, and often thoughtless. In any regard, equally out of respect for my students' affection and the difficulty of coming up with a month's worth of fresh daily poetry challenges, each year I include some sort of acrostic.

Today it was write about a day of the week, and as I expected, S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y is leading its brethren in this popularity contest. I specifically left the door open for students to write about days they did not care for, though, kind of as a measure of creativity. Fortunately, one student stepped through and posted the following:

Morning seems more tiring than usual.
Onerous is the word to describe getting out of bed.
Nothing seems to matter except sadness.
Death, the sole thing that is sadder.
An adder's bite would be less painful.
You sooooo wish it was Friday.