Burying the Lead

It was a passage I have used dozens of times over the years to teach young writers how to craft an engaging lead. 

Taken from writing teacher guru Nancie Atwell's text Lessons that Change Writers, the paragraph is a short anecdote about a family going to their lake house and finding a car in the water at the end of their dock. The lesson calls for reading the overview and then showing students how this writer tried three leads for his piece, using action, dialogue, and reaction. 

This morning when I read the first passage to my class a student's hand shot up. "Rangeley Lake?" he asked in astonishment. "What state is this in?"

"Probably Maine," I guessed. "That's where this 7th grade writer is from."

"Oh my gosh!" he responded. "We have a cabin on the next lake over! It's called Loon Lake, because, y'know? Loons. But I've been to Rangeley Lake a million times!"

"That's pretty amazing," I agreed.

"I never did see a car in there, though," he finished.

And We're Back

Yesterday may have had a flowy-y kind of a start with the kids, but the staff meeting that wrapped my professional day was all quicksand and mud. It began with a thinly veiled attempt to guilt us into not taking any leave because there is a substitute shortage, which was billed as a problem-solving session asking for our suggestions without actually providing a forum for us to offer them. 

Next we moved on to an overview of the teacher evaluation process, and the juxtaposition was not lost on many, nor was the irony that the presentation started with the data point that, among school-related factors, effective teachers matter most to student achievement, and experience is the number one indicator of teacher effectiveness. 

I was sitting at a table with combined teaching experience of over a hundred and fifty years, good teachers all. And even though we were directly in front of the presenter, as the presentation went on, detailing all we should be doing to show all we are doing, one of us was literally nodding off in the darkened room. Another laid her head on the table and sighed that this is the kind of shit that makes her want to quit teaching, and a third shook her head and muttered that she really had to retire. All that effectiveness down the drain.

I said nothing, but the entire experience reconfirmed my chronic complaint that teaching might be manageable if it involved no more than the time spent planning, grading, and instructing the students, but all the other things that we are required to do literally amount to another part-time job. I regularly work 55-60 hours a week, and I never feel caught up.

There it Is

I've been waiting for a bit of flow since the school year started, but we're almost to the end of October and things have still been feeling a little hard. Students are tardy, unprepared for class, and unwilling or unable to follow directions on assignments. It's been a bit of a slog establishing daily routines, too. 

With 17 kids in my homeroom, it's been especially challenging to build the supportive community that can be such a positive start to the day. And I confess to feeling a little dread at the thought of spending five and half hours with them at school and on a field trip today. 

Even so, this morning started well; the students were very excited about going on their first field trip in two and a half years. They listened attentively to the announcements, completed the SEL survey, and tolerated the repeat of the Mount Vernon slide show they had already seen in U.S. History. They were even pretty engaged in selected short videos from the Mount Vernon website to watch, and we listened sorrowfully to an honest account of Washington's enslavement of hundreds of people.

The mood lightened a bit as we clicked through videos demonstrating how to make hoe cakes, pumpkin pie, chocolate, butter, and chicken pudding. Then I asked each to watch a video of their choice and share out. Even after checking on lunches, eating our snacks, and using the restroom, we still had half an hour until the buses arrived. So I pulled out a favorite group game from last year, Left, Right, Center, and gave everyone some game chips and Jolly Ranchers.

We were all sitting in a big circle on the floor when the principal announced we were in a secure the building situation because of police activity in the neighborhood, and it was clear that the buses would be delayed. No one was upset though, as we rolled the dice and passed game chips and candy around the circle and into the pot. With so many people playing, it took a while, but we chatted and rooted for candy to come our way until someone finally won. And what she did next kind of stunned me. Rather than gleefully hoarding all the candy she had won, she started giving it back to all the other kids. I supported her generosity by offering to trade them if they didn't like the flavor they got.

By then, the building was reopened and the buses were on their way. We had a loud, but fun, ride to Mount Vernon and our group spent a lovely 2 hours exploring the grounds, completing a scavenger hunt, and participating in some Colonial Days activities. The ride back to school was just as loud, and one of my homeroom kids tapped me on the shoulder. "What is it like to be surrounded by crazy sixth graders?" she laughed.

"Girl!" I answered, "I've been doing this 30 years. It's awesome!"

Spirits Arise

Back when I first started teaching, there was a new Halloween movie that everyone was talking about. Hocus Pocus was a fun Disney take on Salem witches and the zany exploits of a trio of modern kids who accidentally bring the Sanderson sisters back from the dead to menace the good people of their 20th century hometown. The movie was Halloween staple at school for at least a decade or two before streaming made showing pretty much anything obsolete, and the kids (and I!) loved it every time we showed it. 

So, even though I couldn't remember the last time I saw Hocus Pocus, I can tell you I was super excited when I read about the sequel, featuring the original Sanderson sisters, Bette Midler, Kathy Najimi, and Sarah Jessica Parker. And the buzz spread pretty wide beyond me. Not only were the kids at school excited, (I watch it every year with my parents, reported more than a few) but our 35-year-old neighbor (she was six when the original dropped) also asked if we could do a viewing party. Seems that the movie has become regarded as a classic.

This weekend turned out to be our Hocus Pocus weekend. We watched the original on Saturday night, and I must confess that I was a bit disappointed. 29 seems awfully old for a non-animated kids' movie: the pace was slower, the jokes were uncomfortably racier, and the cast was way whiter than what we are used to viewing now. Watching the new movie on Sunday night was a bit more satisfying. It is definitely a more contemporary story, full of girl-power and diversity, and it even tries to give the villainous sisters a sympathetic backstory. (And Bette, Kathy, and Sarah Jessica looked amazing!)

And, in keeping with the entertainment business model of the times, they left that ending open and ready for a sequel. Even so, I'm not sure quite how enthusiastic I'll be for Hocus Pocus 3. 

Rushing In

After successfully fixing my dishwasher, I turned to my stove. The electronic display has been blinking randomly for some time, and after watching a couple YouTube videos and doing my research, I ordered the replacement part, which arrived last week.

And perhaps here is where I should have thought things through, like what would happen if I couldn't fix it. But that was not me, and so I merrily pulled the range from its place, unplugged it, and unscrewed the back panel. Then I confidently removed the control board, pried out the old part and snapped the new one in place. And when I restored power, I was rewarded by a bright and unwavering display. Unfortunately? All it shows is an error message, C-F2, which, further research reveals, indicates a problem connection.

Somewhat daunted, I replaced the original part, which now displayed the same error code, blinking as it did so. And of course, although the oven itself works just fine, there is no way to turn it on or off. Fortunately, the stove top was unaffected by my stupidity, and so we can still cook while we wait for the service call on Saturday.

Ow!

For the second time in 6 months, I'm pretty sure I broke my toe last night. This time it was when I accidentally kicked an 8 pound dumbell on my way to the bathroom. I keep the weights tucked near the closet so I can do 5 quick minutes of curls and flies every night, and I guess I stubbed my pinky toe just right, because when I was done hopping and cursing, it was clear that some buddy taping and ibuprofen were called for, too.

Back in the spring, the same thing happened to the fourth toe on my left foot. That time, I approached the couch a little too quickly and cracked my foot on its foot. Not surprisingly, that round went to the couch. It was painful, but it hurts for a while, and then it heals. 

To me the bigger lesson is that I should be more mindful. As I age, I've noticed that my body awareness is not quite as automatic as it once was. Just the other day, I tripped and fell up the stairs, spilling my coffee everywhere: maybe because I wasn't used to wearing my slippers; maybe because I wasn't paying attention. 

I need to pay more attention.

And for the next 4-6 weeks? Every little twinge of pain from my pinky toe can remind me to do so.

Guidance System

"That was fun," my brother Bill said as we pulled out of the parking lot and started the hour trip home. We had been visiting my aunt who was recovering from back surgery. "It was nice to see Harriett, and Larry was as funny as ever."

"It was great that Courtney called while we were there, too," I agreed. "I think Mom would have been really happy that we went."

"Well," he shrugged, "I think she would have expected it."

"Yes," I nodded, "but she was usually pretty good about letting us know that she was happy we had met her expectations."

We rode in silence for a few minutes, listening to the top 8 songs from this week in 1979 and scanning the landscape for familiar landmarks. Alternate route available, flashed the screen of my GPS. Do you want to save 5 minutes?

I punched YES and made a quick right. We rolled across a bridge over the new cross county expressway and past a sign for the metro. 

"That was the Rockville Metro," my brother commented as we stopped at a light.

"Oh, are we in downtown Rockville?" I asked looking around. "Isn't that the church where F Scott Fitzgerald is buried?" I hadn't been in this part of Maryland since my mom had moved from here to Gaithersburg in 1988. "Hey Siri!" I called, interrupting Michael Jackson singing Don't Stop Til You Get Enough. "Where is F Scott Fitzgerald buried?"

"St. Mary's Cemetery in Rockville, Maryland," she intoned.

"Right there." Bill pointed to our right. 

I looked at the directions. We were on Viers Mill Rd about to cross over Rockville Pike. The next turn would be Maryland Avenue.

"I was listening to This American Life a few weeks ago," I told Bill. "The theme was something about getting places with guidance or expert assistance, and the opening anecdote was about a woman who was driving her parents to the hospital. Her mother had been battling cancer and the doctor had recommended she be admitted. Even though none of them thought it was a big deal, she ended up dying in the hospital a week later."

The light changed and we drove on. "Anyway," I continued, "the daughter put the hospital address in her GPS to find the best route from their home in Long Island, and even though she had driven there hundreds of times, it took them there in a way she had never driven before, which turned out to be right through the neighborhood her parents had grown up, dated, and gotten married in. They both reminisced about their wonderful life all the way to the hospital."

I looked at my brother. "I think this route is going to take us right by Mom's old place."

He tapped his phone. "Was it called Newmark Commons?" he asked.

"Maybe?" I shrugged. "That sounds familiar."

"Then it's right here on the left," he pointed.

We both looked at the blocky wooden sculpture marking the wooded entrance way. "That's definitely it," we agreed.

"I guess Mom really was happy that we went to see Aunt Harriett," I said.