Reading Between the Signs

It was only 55 degrees when we set off today, and although the sky was clear and blue, the wind was brisk, so we bundled ourselves in flannel and down when we headed into the woods for a hike with our dog. The sun was still unfiltered through bare branches as we walked. No spring ephemerals peeked out from the brown leaf bed lining the trail; no chickadees, brown creepers, titmice, or nuthatches buzzed or warbled us on our way, and when we crossed over creeks and passed by ponds there were no turtles sunning or even the slightest peep from a frog.

Even so,

maybe it was the angle of the sun, the way the light, both golden and white, sparkled on the run and the river beyond and right into our eyes. Or maybe it was the trees that were just beginning to swell, or the holly and rhododendron that looked so fiercely evergreen. Maybe it was just a softness in the breezy air.

Something there was that told us that winter was gone.

Jumpster

Our dog is not allowed on any furniture except the bed-- there she makes herself quite at home, and we often find her stretched diagonally across it, belly up and snoring soundly. In addition to the bed, our cats are allowed on the couches and chairs, but never on the table or counters.

Understandably, different households have different rules for their pets, and since Lucy, our dog, visits other places, she has to adjust to different expectations. In general her hosts are more liberal than we are, welcoming her onto the couch and other furniture. Even so, she seems to grasp the concept of context, for the most part.

Over at her dog-walker's house, the rules are very canine-friendly: she boards guest dogs, and her house is set up to be as accommodating to them as possible. Because she has a couple of cats and a dog of her own, she usually keeps the cat food up on the 3-sided counter between her kitchen and dining room. Lucy knows not to counter surf-- nowhere she goes allows her to stand up and inspect the counter tops-- but evidently she didn't realize that actually jumping up there was forbidden as well.

It's kind of a surprise to find your 52-pound goldendoodle on the kitchen counter lapping up cat food. In fact it's just one of those rules you never thought you would have to teach her, and yet there she was when we went to pick her up the other day, just as proud as she could be.

The dog walker didn't seem upset at all. "You never should have taken her to agility," she shrugged.

The Plot Thickens

All stories have a plot! The teacher intern reminded our students today. All plots have an exposition, rising action, turning point, falling action, and resolution, she continued.

I looked to my left at one of our more challenging sixth graders. He was neither taking notes nor paying attention. Instead, he was conspicuously buried in a graphic novel. I walked over. "Did you hear that?" I whispered. "All stories have those things!" I gestured to the screen dramatically.

"Not this one," he shrugged, waving his book at me. "It's part of a series, so it never ends. There is no climax or turning point."

I liked that he was thinking about our claim critically, and I told him so. "But you know," I confided, "each book in a series is usually a stand-alone story, too, so I bet this one," I pointed to the volume he was clutching, "does, too."

"I doubt it," he said.

"Why don't you let me look while you are finishing your notes," I suggested, and maybe it was the neon green loose leaf I had given him before, or perhaps it was the cool pen I lent him, or maybe he just wanted to say, I told you so! when I failed, but he surprised me and handed the book over.

I skimmed the beginning and then paged backward from the end until I found the part where they say, He saved us! But now, he's gone. I pulled a post-it note from the pad, wrote my student a little note, and stuck it on the page before that. Then I went over to return the book.

"I told you!" he said triumphantly.

"Oh, no," I replied. "I found it. You'll see when you get there." I handed him his book.

I thought he might flip right to the note and pull it out dismissively, but he surprised me again. "You read all of that?" he asked in astonishment. "Does it at least count for your daily reading?"

Lost

When I discovered that one of my mittens was missing yesterday as I unloaded my school bags from the car, at first I was confused. I could have sworn that I tossed two mittens into the backseat after carrying them out in an afternoon much warmer than the morning before. I had a clear memory of doing so, but I scoured the interior of my car and all the spaces between it and the front door, and no errant mitten was recovered.

Although it's true that the days when mittens are necessary are numbered, the thought of giving up on a little woolen soldier who had served me so well all winter long was more than galling, and so I hopped back in the car and returned to school, despite the evening traffic. There I checked the area all around my parking space and then retraced my roughly 2000 steps to the building, scanning all the way for my prodigal mitten. When I made it to the door without any luck, I rang the buzzer so I could go in to check my classroom. Still no mitten.

More mystified than dejected, I walked slowly back to my car, past soccer fields, playgrounds, and tennis courts, eyes peeled for a single black marl mitten, alone and abandoned. I never found it.

Oh, I looked again this morning, and I know it will be a long time before I can walk that path without at least a fleeting thought of my mitten. Maybe it's the mystery of such a loss that makes it hard to forget; maybe it's the futility of the search that makes it easy to regret. Maybe that's just the way my brain works, or maybe I am not in the mood to lose anything right now.

Whatever it is? I am having a hard time letting that mitten go.

Taking Off the Training Wheels

I stepped out of my second period class to track down a student's ipad this morning. More and more, my teaching intern has been taking the lead on instruction, and it was a good opportunity for her to solo.

Today's activity was the celebration of the media literacy unit. All of the student commercials were included, film festival-style, into a presentation, and in between students evaluated each other's work using the same instrument we applied to professionally produced ads at the beginning of the unit. 

When I returned to the classroom about 15 minutes into the period, the door was locked and I found that I had left my keys on my desk. I could hear a lot of enthusiasm within, and rather than knocking on the door to interrupt, I peeked through the blinds. It was indeed a celebration-- a proud teacher congratulated happy, engaged students on their hard work and achievement. They didn't need me at all.

Of course I felt a pang, but it was kind of like when I see former sixth graders in the hallway on their way to their 7th and 8th grade classes. I miss them, but I know I was part of the team that helped get them where they are going. 

At those times, we smile and exchange waves or nods and away they go,

but this morning? 

I knocked on the door and joined the party!

On Principle

I set myself up yesterday for an easy post complaining all about Daylight Savings Time today.

Unfortunately (or rather, fortunately?), such a rant failed to materialize for me: I spent a nice day yesterday with friends and family and never really missed the hour. I went to bed relatively early and woke up right away when the alarm went off. I wasn't too tired today, and my students seemed fine, too. Leaving school at my usual too late hour, I was pleased to see that it was still very light out and enjoyed a sunny walk to my car.

Hmm.

Could it have been the meditation on forgiveness I listened to yesterday? Could such a notion extend to an abstract concept like arbitrary time change?

Naaaaah.

I still hate you Daylight Savings Time!

Happens Every Year

There are certain benefits to participating in a writing challenge the same month each year. One of the least obvious, perhaps, is that certain topics are relevant every time. For example, in March there's usually snow and/or signs of spring, and there's always a reflection about a whole month of writing at the end. Since one of the toughest things about daily writing can be finding a good topic, having these baked in ideas is little like a free space in Bingo.

I've noticed it in my students' writing, too. For them, March always means student-led conferences and district assessments for band and orchestra, and, trust me! I read a lot of slices about both of those.

Of course, March also triggers the granddaddy of all rants for many of my students and their teacher, too. For it is in March that we early-risers are needlessly robbed of an hour of sleep and morning sun when DST is imposed on us!

Oh! The injustice of it inspires hundreds of words all raised in a one united complaint, and the only itty-bitty consolation is knowing that not only will our voices be heard and read throughout the blogosphere, but that our writing is done for yet another day.