March Marches On

Another year. another writing challenge in the books.

My students were greeted with congratulatory fireworks and the charge to reflect on their writing over the last month when they logged onto the challenge today. As always, I was pleased and moved by how positive they were about participating.

Many of my fellow slicers are also wrapping up their month of writing by reflecting on the experience. Day 31-- it was fun! seems to be the general consensus. They took a risk, they shared their thoughts, they surprised themselves. How cool!

As for me? I'll miss the community and the connection that each daily post provides, especially with the writers I know personally. I love the writing and also the glimpse into someone else's day. For that, I am already looking forward to next year, but in the meantime you can always find me...

Walking the Dog.

On Deck

After chasing away a pair of mourning doves who considered the eaves a perfect nesting place, I spent a little time on the first warm day of spring cleaning up our tiny deck. Perhaps 6 x 8 feet, it has served many functions over the years.

When we first moved in, there was a table and chairs under a forged-iron candelabra that held tealights. It was a little cramped, but we passed many a delightful evening out there dining alfresco, talking, and laughing long past dessert.

A few years later, when we lost the tall Virginia Pines that sheltered us from the parking lot below, it seemed the right time to transition to low-slung Adirondack chairs that maintained our privacy. Then, we spent many relaxing afternoons hanging out, reading, and writing.

And when a couple of years ago those wooden chairs could no longer be patched and repainted into usefulness, the space was left to hanging herb baskets, flowers, patio vegetables, and houseplants seeking to reconnect with their inner-wild.

It was in the aftermath of that incarnation that I found the deck today. Songbirds filled the budding River Birch that was planted to replace those long-ago pines. Empty hanging baskets and plastic pots were stacked in the corner; planter boxes and clay pots edged the railing; wooden shelves and outdoor storage bins neatly lined the inside perimeter. Dry leaves gathered in the corners, and lavender, rosemary, and catnip that survived the winter were peeking green between last year's dry stalks.

Sweeping the last of the winter debris into my dustpan, I was filled with possibility. What will the new season bring?

In Kid Years

Sometimes I think that middle school time is a little like dog years-- two months equals at least six. It only makes mathematical sense: when you're eleven or twelve, a couple of months represents a big chunk of your life so far, percentage-wise.

I was reminded of this chronological curiosity this morning. The intern who has been working with my class since January was out, so I cracked my instructional knuckles and stepped to the front of the room.

"Where's Ms. W?" the students asked in alarm.

"Her son had an assembly at his school," I said. "She'll be here later." Then I ran through the announcements, read the mentor text, and taught the mini-lesson. As the class was transitioning to workshop time, I circulated through the room checking individual progress and answering questions.

"You're a pretty good teacher, too," one of the kids told me.

Living the Dream

At the end of the quarter there are always students scrambling to finish or catch up on assignments. For sixth graders, managing expectations and grades from as many as nine different teachers is a new and often confusing task, so I try to be available after school for any kids who are willing to stay. It's never as many as probably should stay, but it's a handful every afternoon.

Today there were three girls working on completing their write notebooks so I could check and grade them. Well, two of them were working; the other one was talking more than writing, a habit that contributed heavily to her need to be there at all. Even so, she is a funny and engaging conversationalist, and it's hard to ignore her chatter.

"What's harder" she asked the other day when she was working on her unit reflection, "being a teacher, or being a parent?"

"Good question!" my colleague said. "I guess it depends on the day."

The student nodded thoughtfully and turned to me. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I don't have any children."

"What!" she responded, appraising me through the lens of this new information. "Do you live alone?"

"No," I answered.

She nodded knowingly. "You have a cat, right?"

Choosing not to be offended, I laughed. "Nope!" I told her. "I have two! And a dog."

"I want your life!" she said.

"Then finish your reflection, and get started on your plot chart," I advised her. 

Time's Arrow

One of my students brought in her kindergarten yearbook today. It was fun to see the old pictures of some of the kids I teach now and marvel at how much they've grown up in the last six years. What made it even more of a bonus was that I've been teaching at my school long enough that I knew lots of kids from every grade, K-5, in that yearbook, and it was very entertaining looking through and picking them out with my current students.

In that spirit, I pulled out my collection of the ID cards we get from the school photo company every year. A perk of the contract, they serve no practical need, and so I have all of mine, dating back to 1993, stored away in the top drawer of my desk.

I was touched at how eager the students were to look through all of them, comparing my hair and my clothes year by year, but it was the comment of Mr. 7-11, from yesterday's post, that really hit home.

"Wow!" he said, looking from me to all the tiny images of me spread across the desk. "This job really ages you!"

Put it in Writing

I have a student who is definitely a verbal processor. He can barely write without talking, and this morning was one of those times. "I'm writing my slice of life!" he announced.

"Try to do it quietly," I suggested. Fortunately, most of the other kids in the group are used to him, and they usually tune him out.

"I'm writing about my morning!" he persisted cheerfully. "I was almost late today, because I woke up at 7:11!"

Most of the other students stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to him. I could see the confusion and amusement on their faces as they tried to make sense of this surprising information.

"Too many slurpees last night?" I asked.

"No! I meant the time!" he replied.

I nodded.

Everyone else went back to their work.

The Good Ship Forsythia

The forsythia is blooming this week. Offering as they do that first magical burst of color in the drab late winter landscape, these bright yellow flowers on otherwise bare branches are hard to miss. When their blooms subside to plain green leaves, forsythia may become anonymous shrubbery to most, but not to me.

When my brother and sister and I were kids, one whole side of our house was lined with forsythia, and there was just enough room between the bushes and the wall for three little children to squeeze into. Near the middle of the hedgerow, the space widened into a tiny enclosed bower, which we called our clubhouse. We played for hours there, weaving in and out of leafy fairy-door openings, inventing all sorts of games that involved imaginary perils and daring escapes.

We took turns maneuvering that one flexible branch that was our control stick for both the seafaring and space-traveling ship our clubhouse could become whenever the situation required it. Get us out of here! we would cry, and our ship would zoom us away from any danger.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I peered into the spray of yellow flowers lining the hill behind our house, looking for a bit of space where three kids might hide, but there was no sanctuary in this forsythia. Even so, I reached in and grasped a branch, running my hand up and down the pebbled texture I didn't know I remembered so well. Get us out of here! I thought.

But it didn't work, so I continued on foot.