Better Late than Never

It was back in early March that in preparation to start this year's seeds, I dumped a couple of dry plugs of potting soil in a planter on the deck. These were last year's duds-- dirt with seeds that had failed to germinate with the rest.

How surprised was I in late April to recognize a couple of fledgling tomato plants reaching for the sun in that very same pot? And they have continued to not just survive, but thrive, out there. I have no idea what variety they might be, but I'm going to guess some type of cherry tomato, based on the arrangement of the many, many blossoms.

With a little luck, I'll know soon enough. And in the mean time? I am grateful for these prodigal plants.

Habit Forming

"I guess the writing challenge ends today?" one of my students asked with more than a note of disappointment in his voice.

I nodded. The challenge had been extended a week to allow kids who were close to make up any days they had missed. "You have all your days, right?" I smiled.

"Yeah," he sighed, "but I just kind of like to write every day now. I feel better when I do."

I can certainly sympathize with that! 

"How about if I set it up until the end of the year for anyone who wants to keep going?" I suggested.

Now he smiled. "Thanks!"

Progress!

I've mentioned before that my sister-in-law works in the same school as I do and that we share a last name. Today my friend Mary came up to the two of us. "Hey! Guess what someone in my homeroom asked? They wanted to know if Ms. S. the English teacher and Ms. S. the art teacher were married!"

Emily and I laughed incredulously, but Mary shrugged. "Look how far we've come!"

A Life Well-Lived

Who knows how it happens? Something jogs your memory and suddenly you are transported to another time and place. I can't pinpoint what reminded me, but yesterday I spent a little time recollecting an event from my own middle school years.

When I was in seventh grade the whole school broke up into lots of cross-grade teams for something they called Oktoberfest. Each group met once a week for the month of October to plan and participate in all sorts of special events. For example, the first thing we had to do was come up with a name for our team and design badges that we would all wear to the other activities. Our teacher sponsor was my social studies teacher from the year before, a nice guy by the name of Mr. Greve (pronounced gre-vay'). Over the summer he had noticeably acquired a hair piece, and he was really a good sport when our team decided to dub ourselves "Greve's Toupees". I still remember what our badges looked like, too.

Back then, middle school itself was a new, cutting edge concept. Separate from junior high, including sixth graders, the middle school model was developed to support young adolescents in their transition from elementary to high school. How interesting it is to look back on my experiences then through my middle school teacher goggles now! I know just what they were hoping to accomplish when they planned that event, but also what a disruption it probably was to instruction, and how gracefully my teachers handled it.

Kudos to them!

I googled Mr. Greve last night and found that he passed away in 2004, but not before he retired from teaching and walked the entirety of the Appalachian Trail and most of the Pacific Coast Trail. There were many comments on his remembrance page from other former students who appreciated him in much the way I did, too, as a good teacher and a kind man.

We could all do so much worse.

Loaded

"How long does it take?" someone asked in my department meeting this afternoon when we were reminded of yet another "quick survey" that we were asked to complete before school ends next week.

"It depends on how detailed you want your answers to be," replied a colleague who had already taken it.

I nodded, because I had already completed that one. In this day of automation and Google forms, the end of the school year seems to bring survey after survey. It's brief! the designers always claim, but 5 surveys with three or more short answer questions each ends up being rather time consuming, if you intend to answer thoughtfully, particularly with no "SAVE" button.

In fact, I had kept the tab with the questionnaire in question open on my lap top for some time yesterday afternoon as I mulled the best response to questions such as If you could design countywide meetings any way you want, what would you do? and Describe the MOST effective PD course/activity of your career. Why was it effective?

Today I had the same experience with this question: What do you feel has been your greatest instructional accomplishment this year?

I'm just sayin:

Those are some mighty BIG questions to put in a quick little survey at the end of the year. 

And I Know It

We had our annual visit from my favorite guest poet today and the kids really enjoyed the activities. Just as gratifying, he was impressed with their imagination and creativity, too, and attributed it to my teaching. Aw shucks!

As always, I grabbed the chance to participate with my students as a fellow writer. Here's my poem for the day:

Poems are useless-- 

unless they are fresh like tomatoes off the vine,

or pickled like Brussels sprouts,

or black like t-shirts,

soft like number 2 pencils,

cellos and ukuleles.

I want poetry that climbs Sargent Mountain,

changes my sheets every day,

brings me puppies and kittens,

takes me to Paris.

Words like sweet potato empanadas,

Grandma's fried chicken,

down pillows on Sunday morning.

I'm a quiet poet,

quiet in the chaos of a sixth grade classroom,

watching my students,

sipping inspiration like air.

Poems are useless--

unless they are black crows on white snow,

a scarecrow in an empty field,

four leaf clovers or wild blueberries.

I want poetry hot out of the oven,

poetry that pedals madly down Superman Hill,

o bushwhacks to the top of the mountain

collapsing on the warm granite ledge.

I am not a poet,

but I am a bowl of plums

cold from the ice box;

I am Emily Dickinson's night gown:

my words smart, insurgent, 
goliath, crusading.

Poems are useless--

unless they wear tie-dye,

rise like the moon over Lake Lugano,

or brew a potion of dragon spit and candy corn.

I want poetry that teaches me to play the drums

in a cafe in Montreal,

rocks me like a hammock in the shade,

snorkels into a lost cave filled with pirate treasure.

I am a poet like the midnight wind

that blows open the french doors,

like the gold finches flitting in the river birches.

Words will knock you down

like an old farm house in a tornado,

and when you get back up,

say, "Good."

Since You Asked

"Wait! Are you married?" asked one of my students this morning. She was hanging out before the bell and had spied the ring that I've been wearing for about 15 years.

I hesitated only a moment, and it was a moment at all, because this was the first student (or anyone, really) who had asked me that question since I was, indeed, married.

"Yes," I said, suppressing a little giggle at how odd it seemed to say so. Fifty-two and a half years is a long time.

"Cool!" she said.

I know, right?