Lost Song

When I saw this morning that I had missed the news of Gary Paulsen's passing earlier this week, I took some time to mourn him,  listening to some interviews from last spring when he published his memoir, Gone to the Woods. I realized that although I've read at least 20 books by him, I had never heard him speak, and I was surprised by how soft his voice was. Not weak, no, just not as gravelly as I imagined it Having seen his picture, bearded and gruff, on the back of so many books these last 30 years. 

And then I thought how many times I had heard my own voice reading his words out loud, and I searched to see if there were any audiobooks of his that he had narrated himself. There were only three-- Woodsong, Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers, and My Life in Dog Years, all of them non-fiction, all of them about time spent outdoors with his dogs. 

I had read them all, but there was an excerpt from Woodsong in one of the sixth grade anthologies that I used with my students for years, and so I downloaded that recording and started to listen. I had forgotten how awful the beginning is, purposefully so, to make a point about what Paulsen thought he knew about nature and how wrong he turned out to be. Somehow, hearing the account of the wolves and the doe they chase down in Paulsen's own voice, was even worse than reading it; his sorrow and trauma come through so clearly.

I listened to a few more chapters and then I paused the recording. I could have lost myself all day in the woods of Northern Minnesota, but I knew I shouldn't. I had papers to grade and chores to do.

Years ago, my mother saw that Gary Paulsen was doing a reading near her home in the Twin Cities. She knew of my fondness and admiration for his work, and so she went to get a couple books signed as a surprise for me. When she and her friend got to the front of the line, Paulsen laughed as he took the books. "You girls seem a little old to be fans," he teased them.

In fact he and my Mom were born less than a month apart, and he was 82 when he died on Wednesday. The two of them lived long, full lives, but the world seems a lot emptier now that they are gone, and I miss them.

The Only Way Out is Through

 "Will you be here after school today?" one of my students asked in class this morning.

"Probably," I shrugged, since it's rare that I leave before 4:30.

"Oh, good!" she clapped. "My brother's home from college and he wants to come visit all his teachers!"

I forgot about our conversation until a little while after the dismissal bell rang, when I heard quiet conversation in the hallway. "There's yours!" my student said.

"Right there at the top!" a deep voice answered her. "That's something."

I knew they were looking at the quilt we had made of all the team t-shirts. Her brother's design had won the contest when he was in sixth grade, and that year we had all proudly worn his drawing of a dolphin.

A minute later my student poked her head in my door. "Here he is!" she announced. 

A more mature version of the intense, pink-cheeked boy I remembered stepped into the room, smiling. 

"How are you?" I greeted him.

"I'm great!" he said. "I'm doing well.

As we caught up he told me that he was an honors chemistry student at William and Mary, pre-med with his eye on cardiac thoracic surgery. 

"That's amazing," I congratulated him.

"Thanks," he answered. "I'm really happy. Things are good."

For me, talking to former students is rewarding, but it can turn awkward quickly. Once I've shared a memory or two of their time in my class, and they've told me what they are doing now, the conversation usually lags. A few months ago after one such encounter I decided that I would ask each of them what advice they might give their sixth grade selves. Today was my first chance to try out the question.

"I would tell myself to ignore all the mean and hateful things the other kids said to me," he answered immediately.

I nodded. "You always were a person who spoke your mind," I said. "I can see where that would make you a target."

"You know the story, right?" he replied.

I frowned, and he continued.

"When I was in seventh grade they made a "We hate you" club, and basically every day told me I should kill myself."

I gasped. "Did you get help? Did you tell someone?"

"Eventually I told my counselor and then my therapist, but not before I tried to commit suicide."

I shook my head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. 

"I'm fine now," he replied, and put his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Everything is really, really good."

I believed him. There was a lump in my throat when I said, "It's a terrible story, and it makes your accomplishments even more impressive."

"Thank you," he said, "and thanks for asking. I didn't expect to pour my heart today."

New Do

"Does my hair look okay?" Heidi asked this morning before we left for school. She had it in a fun, sloppy ponytail, a look she usually reserves for weekends.

"It's cute!" I told her, "totally fine for school."

I forgot about our conversation until this afternoon when the sound of running feet drew my attention immediately and I looked up from my computer and craned my neck to see if I needed to get out to the hallway. There was no need. Heidi was standing right outside my window, between her new room and mine, and the feet skidded to a halt when their owner noticed her. "That's right," she said sternly, "you better walk in this school." 

I watched the student approaching her, the expression on his face a combination of darn it and damn it, but then his eyes widened and he knit his brow. "You look new!" he said, scanning her suspiciously for a moment. "Don’t tell me— you got a haircut," he concluded and then continued past her into her room.

"At least he didn't say I looked old," Heidi said and followed him inside.

A Bit of a Stretch

"My story is too short!" one of my students announced with anguish today. 

"One strategy you might like to try to add extra detail is to close your eyes, imagine you are watching a movie of your story, and then write down everything you see and hear," I suggested.

"Well, that would be the most boring movie ever," she replied. "Can't I just leave it short?"

Give a Silly Answer

The question of the day was, "What did you do over your long weekend?" 

The answers were getting a little snarky right before lunch, so rather than call out the jokesters myself, I asked the class if they had any follow-up questions about each post. When one kid wrote that he breathed over the weekend, his classmates good-naturedly showed him how silly the answer was.

"Does anyone have any questions?" I asked after I read his post.

Several hands shot up, and so did the writer's eyebrows. He was not expecting any interest in his report.

"What did you breathe?" asked one.

"Air, duh," replied the kid.

"How did you breathe?" asked another.

"Through my nose," answered the kid.

Another student raised his hand. "How long did you breathe?"

"I'm still doing it," he answered.

"Wow," said his classmate. "You must really like breathing.

Oops! There it Is

Today was a day of learning in our district, and I'd like to hope that all involved learned a few lessons.

 First, when they were introducing the keynote speaker, the superintendent and his chief of staff were experiencing a technical difficulty they were obviously unaware of. After ten minutes with a buzzy, echoing audio feed that transformed their voices into those of TV aliens, the screen went black and a few minutes later the live event returned with all systems go. That is, until the keynote speaker tried to play a video in the first part of her presentation, and instead all we saw was her, obviously enjoying the video which we could hear, but not see. There was no chat enabled, and so she went on, obliviously, until the next clip didn't show either, and then we went back.

I extend all involved a lot of grace; in fact the next session I participated in was a straight up video call, and with no restrictions on the participants, I unpinned and re-pinned the ASL interpreter for all 350 of us at least twice while I adjusted my own view (in an attempt to clear the screen of all the people who were asked to have their cameras off, but didn't get the message.) Oh, and I'm pretty sure I stopped the recording for everyone when I tried to switch the call from my lap top to my phone.

No question! Technology is tricky. That's why we teachers always check and double check the settings on any virtual meeting we are running, because kids, people, humans, whoever! click where we shouldn't.

But it just seems like by now? 

They should have gotten that right at the top, too. 

I Must Do Better

"I'm starving!" I said to Heidi as we headed into our house after a 2 1/2 hour pet-store odyssey on a quest to find the perfect dog treats. "All I ate today was eggs, potatoes, and cookies!" I shook my head at my own indiscretion and sighed. "Shopping marathons and cookies for lunch? It's like the holidays are coming early this year."