Unquestionably

"Do you know Ms. W?" a student asked the other morning in homeroom. "She's my testing teacher and I want to know if she's nice."

"Oh, yes!" I answered. "I know her well! She's very nice."

"I don't know if I can believe you," the student replied doubtfully.

I tried not to be offended. "Why not? Don't you trust my judgment?" I asked, wondering why she had bothered to ask me at all.

"It's not that!" she said. "It's just that, now that I think about it, you're cool with everyone!" She shook her head. "I'm definitely not that chill."

"First of all, thanks," I laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment. But also, don't worry-- Ms. W. really is nice!"

Stacy Knows Best

"Stacy told me," one of my students remarked the other day.

"Who's Stacy?" asked the kid next to him. I was curious, too. I know of no Stacys in our school.

"Oh," the first boy shrugged, "she's my moral compass. Always has been."

"What?" said the other kid.

"She's the voice in my head that tells me right from wrong," explained his classmate. "Everybody has one. Mine's just named Stacy."

I looked carefully at him to see if he was joking. He didn't seem to be, and neither did he seem the least bit self-conscious about revealing this detail of his life.

"Why?" asked the second student. "Why 'Stacy'?"

"I don't know, she just is," answered the other kid. "She's an adult with two children of her own, so she has a good idea about what I should do." 

The student next to him nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation, and went back to his writing.

Snowball Effect

The plush snowballs I ordered to use as a brain break arrived right on time yesterday, and I couldn't wait to try them out today. Unfortunately, we had a testing schedule that only allowed for homeroom and a 4-hour testing session before lunch. Fortunately, there was no better way for 17 kids to blow off a little steam before going off to the test than winging 50 snowballs at each other for five minutes or so. 

At one point, the printer came to life and we knew someone would be at the door any minute to pick up their printing. "When they open the door," I suggested, "let's nail 'em!" 

We waited breathlessly for the handle to turn, and when it did? "Fire!" someone shouted, and we pelted the science teacher with the soft little balls.

She quickly recovered from her initial shock, and then picked up a few snowballs and tossed them right back. 

The kids' laughter alone elevated my mood, and maybe, just maybe, their performance on the test improved as well.

Bean There, Done That

When I was in fourth grade my mom helped me with a science fair experiment. We wadded up paper towels, dampened them, and then stuffed them in an empty peanut butter jar. Next, we carefully tucked dried kidney beans into the folds and then set the jar on a windowsill. What followed was miraculous to my nine-year-old brain: the beans sprouted, sending roots toward the bottom of the jar and emerald green shoots toward the top. I hadn't realized that beans were seeds, and seeing them grow was an awakening for me.

I hadn't thought about that experience in decades until last weekend. I was feeling bummed that I hadn't planted any shell beans. My students and I had several little plants growing on the window sill in our classroom, but I wasn't sold on just dropping a bean in a dixie cup full of soil. It occurred to me that there was a way to give them a head start, and so I grabbed a mason jar and some paper towels. Next, I pulled the yellow-eyed beans I ordered from Maine from the pantry, and just like my mom and I had done all those years ago, I placed my beans in the damp folds of the paper towel.

I brought the jar to school and placed it in the sun next to the little plants. By Friday? The beans had swelled and opened, tiny roots clinging to the paper towel. I carefully placed each bean in a cup of soil, watered them, and went home for the long weekend hoping for the best.

Oh my! The six-inch plants waiting for me this morning surpassed my wildest dreams! They were actually ready to be transplanted into the garden this afternoon. Where two weeks ago I was beanless, today I have the promise of several quarts to shell, if the garden gods will it so. 

As It Flies

We were playing pickleball yesterday with friends when a crow swooped down and landed on the baby stroller. Thankfully, their 15-month-old was occupied with Heidi and the dogs, because the bird pecked around in the diaper bag and then flew off with a protein bar that had been in the pocket. Stunned, we watched the crow as it landed first on a nearby chimney, and then next in the shade of a tree off to the far corner of the court.

"I can get it!" promised another friend, and he took off running toward the crow. 

Overconfident, perhaps, or possibly preoccupied with getting its prize out of the wrapper, the big black bird had no defense, and AJ nabbed the stolen snack back just as quickly as the crow had grabbed it a few moments ago. 

The game was, of course, at a standstill as we laughed about the turn events. "Who wants it?" called AJ, jogging back to the court.

The answer was no one-- everybody was just a little skeeved about eating what we had to start calling "the crowtein bar".

Weren't We All

My dearest friend from high school is in Lugano, Switzerland, where we went to school, right this minute. How miraculous it seems to see the pictures she is texting me! 

Here is the hotel by the Funicolare, there the department store where we spent our pocket money on weekends, here the piazza we called Federale Square, and there the arcade of the Salumeria, still festooned with huge, hanging salamis. 

Modern technology allows me to see, almost in real-time, the place we lived and graduated from, a few days shy of 44 years ago. 

Downtown looks so different to me, even though the buildings are old, my friend texted. Basically, I didn't observe or appreciate the amazing surroundings here as a youth.

Don't be too hard on yourself, I responded. You were a great kid!

Still No

There is a particular fence post on a certain little walking route through our neighborhood that our first dog, Isabel, could not pass by without pausing to sniff. Once she had filled her nose, she always broke into a happy little trot along the fence line. For years, this was part of our morning routine. 

I clearly remember the first time I walked Lucy past the same spot: I was dismayed when she never even hesitated, just kept on her way as if there was no reason to pause. I guess I took it as a clear message to vary the route because it's rare that we find ourselves there. 

Today was an exception, though. I took Lucy for a little afternoon jaunt in the glorious weather, and as we meandered through the neighborhood, that fence post was on the way home. Even after seven years, I slowed my step in anticipation of a sniff and a trot, but of course, I was with a different dog, and she passed right on by.