The Penny Bank

The economy is bad everywhere.  Well, everywhere except good old North Dakota, it seems.  Ask any of my fellow prairie dwellers and they’ll answer, “What recession??”  Not only have we not felt it, we have thrived like fleas on a hunting dog.  This is the Honest Abe truth; every single time I have to run to Bismarck for something (which is pretty stinkin’ often) I see at least one new giant structure going up that I had not seen before.  I think they are starting them in the middle of the night now.  Before you shut down this brag-a-mony, let me hasten to add that the state penitentiary has also recently expanded.  Does every cloud have a silver lining, or does every silver lining bring along its own cloud?  Hmmm…

I have documented before my multiple attempts and near insanity with pencils in the Magic Tree House.  Pencils are the stuff of a first grade teacher’s nightmares.  I have grown to hate them.  First graders apply too much pressure when they write, so the lead is perpetually broken.  First graders keep track of their own items about as well as husbands keep their dirty socks off the floor (not MINE, of course.  This is purely hypothetical).  First graders think a trip to the pencil sharpener is akin to a day at the county fair, and therefore, take approximately 12.7 minutes to sharpen a single pencil, sending the sounds of the grinding sharpener deep into the cortex of my aging brain.   

I hate pencils.

After pulling out handfuls of my chaotic, blond hair, and tapping my chin that gravity seems to be obsessed with, and pondering this never-ending dilemma, I came up with the semi-brilliant scheme of selling pencils to the Darlings.  Goods and Services are a part of our social studies curriculum, after all.  Hey, let’s illustrate it on a daily basis.

Now before you go and whistleblow me to the NEA, here’s the real story.  I do sell pencils to six-year-olds, yes I surely do.  They cost a penny a piece.  Erasers are two cents each.  BUT, (here’s the part where you’ll like me again) on the Monday of every week, I give each student five pennies.  That means they can purchase a pencil every single school day.  The “hook” is, whatever pennies they have left over on Friday are theirs to keep forever and ever.  The theoretical framework being that they will use fewer pencils and take better care of their "goods" if there is an incentive to spend less money.  It may seem like small potatoes to you, but they get pretty jazzed about it.  And I figure that even a six-year-old who writes too hard and would lose his very eyeballs if they weren’t attached to his head can function on a new pencil every day.

Or so I thought.

Turns out that the friendly neighborhood pencil store was quite popular in our little first grade community.  They liked the act of purchasing pencils and erasers.  I think it makes them feel grown up to have a bit of coin at their disposal that they have full mastery over.  Hoarding was problematic at first.  Like little welfare recipients waiting for their checks on the first of the month, some would spend all five pennies first thing Monday morning and quickly run to their personal tubs to squirrel away their new purchases.  A moratorium of no more than two pencils per day was then decreed by the Pencil Store franchise owner (that would be me). 

And then a new problem arose.  They began to run out of money before they ran out of week.

I had to give that one some thought.

Sooooo, I opened the First Community Magic Tree House Loan and Trust Penny Bank – the Penny Bank for short.  It worked like this; Student A, let’s call her Little Vonda, has no more pencils and no more moola with which to buy pencils.  What to do, what to do….?  Little Vonda can take out a loan at the Penny Bank!  With very little paperwork (like, none) she may borrow enough cash to purchase one pencil or eraser.  The terms are simple.  The bank will carry her loan until the following Monday, where the banker (also played by me) will put on her “accounts receivable” hat and require payment before the end of the day.  Interest rates are currently at 100%.  A bit above the federal rate, I realize.  But think about it.  How do you divide a penny? 

The borrower’s name, the amount borrowed, the date borrowed, the amount of interest, and the date due are carefully recorded on the board for all the class to see.  This is not intended as a point of embarrassment, but rather a learning tool from which all may benefit.  When loans are paid off, that is carefully notated as well.

I explicitly explain the terms of the agreement with as much aplomb and dignity as if they are borrowing the capital to build a skyscraper in Manhattan.  I always ended the transaction with these timeless words, “Just remember, it is easy to borrow money but it is hard to pay it back.”  Little heads always bobbed a “yes” as if they were seasoned financiers.

Then one day my dire warning took on flesh and bones.  A Darling came to me with heavy step and trepidation.  It was Due Day for this one who bought pencils with abandon.  I watched my patron trudge to my desk as if it were a gallows.  With head down, she spoke barely above a whisper.  “Mrs. Dahl,” she said softly.  I waited for the rest, cool and distant and professional.  Bankers can’t make financial decisions based on emotion.  It isn’t good business practice.  “Mrs. Dahl,” she repeated.  “I don’t have enough money to pay the bank back.”  Her little head drooped even further.  “And I’m out of pencils.”

“Weeeeell, this is an interesting scenario,” I heard The Banker say in her best banker voice. “What shall we do about this?”  Her head raised expectantly, her eyes searching mine, hoping for a reprieve.  I allowed sufficient pause to create drama, then proceeded. “The Penny Bank is prepared to loan you enough money to cover your expenses.”  I smiled my very bankerly smile.  She stared intently at me while she processed this information.  “Mrs. Dahl, how much interest will I have to pay back?” Ah, an intelligent question!  I was pleased.

“Well, my dear.  Your interest will be doubled.  You will have to pay the original two cents back, plus another penny as a late fee.  Plus the new loan of one penny and its interest of an additional penny.”  I waited.  Her brain was adding like fury.  When the answer finally popped into her head, her jaw dropped and her eyes bugged.  “Mrs. Dahl,” she gasped, “that’s five cents!  I’ll be out of pennies again!”

I felt the air sucked out of the room.  Seven first grade mouths went dry simultaneously.  They felt the cold tentacles of hopeless despair wrap around their little throats.  They knew it could be anyone of them.  Time stopped.  No one knew what to expect next.  Not a word was spoken.  I could feel their empathy for their classmate rising up and encircling her.  This was bad news for her and they knew it.  Suddenly Mrs. Dahl seemed cold and hard.  Where’s your heart, Mrs. Dahl? Can't you see she's going through a rough patch??

I waited to see how this little drama would play itself out.  Sometimes the teacher needs to just let her students solve their own problems.  We often underestimate the intelligent power of young children.  They are quite capable of finding their own solutions, if given the right conditions.

Into the oppressive silence a voice from the worktable spoke up.  “I can give her some of my pennies, Mrs. Dahl.”  Every head swiveled in his direction.  A slow smile spread across my banker’s face as the realization of manifested altruism dawned in my consciousness.  A new dynamic had come into play.  They were caring for the needs of one another without the hassle and intrusion and mandates of laws or institutions.    They were rallying around a comrade and friend.   

This is how I wish all of society worked.  Commercial lending has its place, of course.  But when it comes to meeting the basic needs of individuals, let individuals and charitable organizations care for one another, not the forced taxation of its citizenry.  Too often we renege our responsibility as fellow humans to the government.  Our Milk of Human Kindness has gone dry.

Without another word, he ran over to his tub of belongings and began rummaging noisily for errant coins.  Finding his desired goal he rushed to my destitute Darling and placed two precious, copper coins in her little hands.  They looked at one another for just a moment, but understanding and thoughts were flying between them with no words spoken.  They both realized what had happened and were happy to play their parts in the script. 

She quickly placed the pennies in my hand, as if holding onto them for one moment more would make them evaporate, and then smiled a beautimous smile.  Mustering all the solemnity I could around a grin the size of Utah, I declared her “debts paid in full.”  She was no longer a concern of the First Community Magic Tree House Loan and Trust Penny Bank.  Her debt was cancelled, her credit in good standing.

Business spiraled downward from that point.  Now I often saw coins being volunteered to classmates that had fallen on hard times.  They worked out their own private lending terms, or made them an outright gift.  I rarely got to do business in the community.  My giant spreadsheet was generally blank.   

So I resorted to high pressure sales.  “Mrs. Dahl, I need a pencil and I don’t got no pennies.”  “I don’t HAVE ANY pennies and I will be happy to assist you!”  A shake of the buzz cut head.  “No, that’s ok.  Wicky said he wiw give me a penny.”  “I’ll throw in a toaster!”  I counter.  “You like toast, don’t you??”  Another near-bald head shake.  “No, I don’t weewee wike toast.”  And off my speech services recipient sauntered, glad to have escaped the clutches of crushing debt and its maniacal banker.

I do not know if our microcosm of society and its lessons learned will go with them into their future lives.  They may only remember me as the stingy teacher that made them buy their own pencils, for crying loud.  My HOPE is that when they enter the work force as teens and then young adults and that new motorcycle or snowmobile or spendy car is calling their name, tempting them into unnecessary debt and payments they cannot really afford, my words will echo in their minds and hearts.  I can only hope.

Oh…and if you find yourself short of cash, The Penny Bank has great lending rates, will be more than happy to assist you, and will even throw in a toaster. 

Your credit limit is one cent.

Age is Only a (really big) Number

 

irony ¹ |ˈīrənē, ˈiərnē|

noun ( pl. ironies )

the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.

• a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result: [ with clause ] : the irony is that I thought he could help me.

I love irony.  It keeps life so deliciously interesting.  I myself have lived a fair share of it: 

·      As a teenager who cherished being alone, I traveled the United States in an RV with my parents, three siblings, AND the family dog… for three solid years!

·      As a bride to be, I begged my fiancé to pleeeeeze never ask me to live in North Dakota.  Sixteen years later I was begging him to please consider moving us to his home state.

·      My college classmates called me “mom.”

·      My AARP card arrived my first year of teaching.

And the Grande Pooh bah of ironic mirth…

After only two years into my career, I am now officially the oldest teacher in the building.  That’s right, folks.  I am the resident geezer.  Not by much, mind you.  The next oldest is just a whisker younger than me.  But I proudly claim the crown.  I am King of the Hill.  I am the grandma of the entire student body. 

I think it’s funny.  It’s not that I love the aging process or seeing new signs of it when I look in the mirror (who is the old chick that always stands in front of me when I’m trying to see myself in the mirror???  Get out of my way, sista!)  I have truthfully had something of a midlife crisis the last year, because it dawned on me that this old thing is not going to get better eventually.  There is no cure.  It won’t go into remission.  I’m just going to keep looking older and eventually have health problems, and less energy, and…. good grief.  This is depressing.

Okay, back to irony and a few giggles.

So the teacher that was chronologically older than me announced her retirement shortly after Christmas this last year.  Everybody was pretty sad to see her go.  She has been a mainstay of our fair school and community for many years and was a beautiful example of what a dedicated teacher should be.  Everybody loves Jeanne.

But as everyone else wiped their eyes and blew their noses because of losing her from our ranks, I was experiencing a far more insidious thought.  I knew that once she was gone I, Vonda Dahl, new teacher, quasi-hippie, and leader of the Darlings, would become the oldest teacher in the building – AND POSSIBLY THE WORLD!!

It’s okay to be the oldest if you have twenty plus years under your belt and a nice little retirement nest egg accrued and have the respect and admiration of generations of students that you have single-handedly guided into wildly successful lives and careers.

I got nothin’.

To make things worse, during the last month of school, the Darlings were headed to music with the aforementioned Queen of Teaching Perfection when one of them casually tosses out the fact that they had heard a rumor that their beloved music teacher was retiring.  As the wiggling, jumping, skipping line of Darlings heads down the hall to music class, one very perceptive first grader tosses back over his shoulder to me, “Hey, Mrs. Dahl.  When are you going to retire?  It’s about time, huh??”

How do you explain to a seven-year-old that the 2.5 years paid into my pension fund would last, like eight days?

I knew this was coming.  I actually thought long and hard about the late start of my teaching career and the number of years it would require to work in order to draw on that pension.  The numbers never quite added up on paper.  Mr. Dahl and I were aware of all of that, and yet felt it okay to make the leap anyway.  The years spent at home with our four children are worth far more than being able to afford a condo at The Villages.  We don’t like humidity anyway.  And yet, the reality of my age vs. teaching inexperience has been a little harder to swallow than previously expected.

So…

I think with the Old Bag title should come a few perks.  Here are my demands:

1.     Thirty minutes of uninterrupted napping time every day after lunch.

2.     A covered garage parking space so that I don’t have to worry about slipping on the ice.  Or rain.  Or wind gusts.  Or cleaning my windshield.  Or getting my hair messed up in any or all of the above.

3.     My own private bathroom, because everybody knows that old people have to pee a LOT. 

4.     A “sensible shoes” budget.

5.     A private elevator to my dungeon classroom so I don’t fall and break a hip.

6.     My own personal assistant to help me remember all of the things that adorable, forgetful old gals forget.

7.     My own private chef to prepare lunches for me that help me maintain digestive regularity.

8.     Someone to teach me how to play Canasta.

Here’s the bottom line.  My years of teaching experience and my age are never going to dovetail.  Never.  I am too old to be a new teacher.  It just isn’t done the way I did it.  There is no polite way around that fact.  I did it backwards.  I had my years at home first, albeit chasing little tornadoes with snotty noses and PBJ faces, and then began a career. 

My dearest childhood friend is doing it backwards too.  She was an incredibly successful businesswoman for years and is just now raising a young family.  We sort of tag teamed this career/motherhood thing.  Irony is abundant in my circle, I guess. 

Well, so what?  I don’t regret a blessed thing.  I’d do it the same way again if I had to do it over.   The irony of my situation is amusing and keeps my life deliciously, marvelously, fantastically interesting.  

(yawn), I need a nap…

Flitting Shadows

This was an emotionally draining year.  It may seem odd that I have not chronicled it much.  I am usually pretty transparent about the good and the bad.  Truthfully, I had to be very careful with other people’s privacy.  I work in a small community.  With just a few careless details, all locals who read my drivel would know instantly of whom I speak.  Ethics and general consideration compel me to be sensitive to others’ feelings and privacy.  It hamstrings my writing, to be sure.  But such is my responsibility.  I will carefully share some of the angst of this past year, while being careful to not betray any of the folks in my orbit.  Just know there is more -- so much more.  Maybe someday after time has passed and memories are fuzzy I’ll have more freedom.  But not just yet…

Here is one story…

She came late in the year – a recent arrival from another state.  She was gregarious and darling and fit in immediately.  Unfortunately, her academic prowess was alarmingly behind her grade level. 

I met her dad on the day before she joined my class.  He had a preschooler in tow and an infant in a car seat.  I wondered about mom, of course, but didn’t ask.  I didn’t have to.  He was eager to talk about her.  For reasons I will leave in that moment, she was not with the family.  Dad and his three children under the age of seven were relying on the kindness of relatives. 

He wound down his sad tale and ended with a mumbled apology for not being able to provide her required classroom supplies until he started his job and got his first paycheck.  Not to worry.  I always have extra supplies on hand. 

By day two of her stay in the Magic Tree House, I knew something drastic had to happen.  She was hopelessly lost.  I called in the building intervention team and we mutually decided that she could not get the needed help in my classroom.  She needed to begin with the basics and hopefully, work her way back to the first grade. 

She took the news well; better than her classmates, to be sure.  They had already fallen in love with her and had made her one of the gang.  They felt forlorn and deserted.  Her new classroom, mere feet away from their own, might as well have been located on Pluto.  "When will she be back?" they asked daily.

She came to visit regularly; a little too regularly.  She would slip into my classroom in the middle of the afternoon, during social studies or writing.  She always came bearing a gift, usually a scrap of construction paper with the only words she knew how to write.  “I love you” was the standard text on each and every note, nothing more, nothing less.

One day her new teacher followed in on her heels, a look of consternation on her face.  She addressed her by name.  “You did not ask if you could leave the room.  You can’t just wander away and not ask for permission.  I need to know where you are at all times.”

A look of dismay crossed my former student’s face.  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.  “I won’t do it again.”  She left quickly, embarrassed at her faux pas.  I added my apologies.  “I didn’t know you didn’t know.  I will send her back immediately if it ever happens again.”  The other teacher nodded wearily.  “Getting the hang of classroom protocol has been a struggle for her.”

From then forward, we confined our greetings to seeing one another in the lunchroom, or passing each other in the hall.  She was always cheerful and full of sweet charm. 

And then came the first rumblings of her leaving our school and state to move back where they had come from.  I asked her new teacher if it was true.  She didn’t know.  The rumors began to take on greater detail and form.  I suspected it was a near certainty.  The gifts from my little friend began to increase in frequency.  One day a puppet face on a popsicle stick, another day a simple picture of she and me.  The one line, “I love you” notes came near daily.

“Are you excited about moving back?”  I asked her one day near the end of the year.  The noticeable pause in her response spoke volumes.  “Um… yeah, I guess.”  “You’re not sure?” I teased gently.  Another pause as she carefully chose her words.  “I AM, except…” her voice trailed.  “Except what?” I prodded softly.  “Except you won’t be my teacher next year.”  My heart broke just a little then.  I pulled her into my embrace and gave her a quick hug.  “No I won’t be, that is true.  You will have a different teacher.  But there are so many wonderful first grade teachers out there, and I’m guessing that yours will be perfect for YOU.”  With her soft blue eyes fixed on mine, she nodded hesitantly.  “Yes, ma’am.”  Her gaze reflected the doubts in her mind and heart.

The last week of school arrived and with it the announcement that she would be leaving for her home state on the last day immediately after dismissal.  I watched her go through the motions of the end of the year.  It is no secret that there is little educational value to that last week.  It is the last opportunity to get in that spring field trip, dispose of all lost and found items, clean out desks and lockers and supply bins, and get in a movie or two.  A few admonitions about being diligent summer readers and some transitional activities for the next grade round out the week.

She smiled and played and enjoyed the festive atmosphere of the last week of school along with her classmates.  She was truly a happy and welcomed member in her new class and she adored her other teacher, who adored her in return.  But I felt that there was an element of dread wrapped tightly about her.  It was larger than going to a different school in the fall and having a different teacher.  The very reasons for the move and the circumstances surrounding it had been traumatic and nearly impossible to process for a seven-year-old brain.  I think she was frightened that there would be more chaos to come and she shrank back from the prospect.  Her life in our town and our school was a known quantity at least.  The unknown can be so overwhelming.

On the very last day, as I sorted papers to send home, she appeared in my room.  “I wanted to give these to you,” she blurted without preamble.  “They’re goodbye gifts.”  Her blue, blue eyes were serious and fighting to be brave.  She tried to still the slight quiver of her chin.  I wrested my stare away from that mask of conflicting emotion in front of me and looked at the papers she had shoved into my hands carelessly.  The top paper, a small square, held one last familiar declaration.  “I love you” was emblazoned across the top in her unique large, block letters.  No picture or other words shared the space.

The second paper was a puzzle to me.  I couldn’t immediately discern what it was.  And yet something about it drew me irresistibly to it.  The entire paper was covered with lines – only lines.  And yet the shading and play of textures in gray pencil were expertly applied, creating an interplay of light and dimension usually only mastered by serious artists.  “It is beautiful!” I exclaimed sincerely, then added, “Help me understand what it is.  Tell me about it.”  “It’s a horse’s mane,” she volunteered simply.  Of course!  I could see it now.  The curve of the line and the variety of shades did indeed resemble a horse mane.  She loved horses more than almost anything.  She had given me the best of her proffers.  I was humbled.

I gently laid the paper down and pulled her into my arms.  “You are going to be fabulous in your new first grade,” I promised.  “I’ll never forget you and I will think of you often.”  Then I kissed the top of her soft blond head and released her.  She nodded almost imperceptibly and then turned and left without another word.  I knew I would never see her again.

I came across that picture the other day as I cleaned off the expansive bulletin board behind my desk.  I was busy throwing no-longer-needed papers away and nearly tossed her masterpiece into the trash with the rest.  But then I realized what I was holding and stared at it just as I had the day it was placed into my hands.  I was struck once again by its simple beauty.  “Dear Lord, be with her,” I breathed quietly.

This saying goodbye business is truly one of the hardest things about teaching.  I hate it.  These precious children worm their way into my life and heart and then quite suddenly disappear, for one of a thousand reasons, from my orbit leaving a huge black hole that only they can fill.  I have such empathy for these innocents who are forced to abide by decisions out of their control.  I keenly remember decisions my parents made for me that I was unhappy about.  But life is cyclical and I in turn have made decisions for my children that were wildly unpopular.  Such is the journey of all mankind.

And yet, the often warring and sometimes wedded sides of my educational background, psychology and education, wonder at the damage that occurs when such traumatic changes happen with such rapid speed.  The misconception is that children are incredibly resilient and that in no time at all, they will have forgotten why they were opposed to the change.  Don’t get me wrong, children are indeed resilient and can adapt very well. And yet, those very children will bring up those instances at odd times well into their adult years.  Some little part of their psyche is forever altered by it.  I am guessing as I type this you yourself are thinking of such a time in your own childhood.  I am too.

It is a double-edged sword to care fiercely about the welfare of my charges and wonder if they will be cared for as they deserve and find good people at every turn.  I always hope and pray so.  Most of these that enter my garden for but a brief moment in time, I will never see again on this earth.  I am sobered by that.  My influence is light at best for these transient spirits.

There is an ongoing and persistent rumor that our school is haunted.  There are most likely a large number of schools that boast the same claim.  And let’s face it, empty schools and churches are creepy at night in the dark.  Even a few faculty members have added to the claim.  A former English teacher insists that there were multiple knocks on his classroom door when he was there absolutely alone at night.  The music teacher says she has heard dribbling on the basketball court and no one was there. 

I don’t dispute their claims, but I have spent many a late night alone in that building and have never heard or seen anything supernatural.  Of course blasting iTunes at 120 decibels may have something to do with that.  Either I couldn’t hear the ghosts or they don’t like my playlists.

But pushing the supernatural to the side for the moment, I think maybe there is some truth to the argument that my building is full of flitting shadows – not literally, but figuratively.  I believe that each precious child that has crossed the threshold of my ancient building, has left a bit of their essence behind.  And this is true of those that were there for the full K-12 experience, as well as those that barely brushed our lives.

I have had to come to peace with that.  That is why each and every day that I am in the classroom, I must be at my best.  I must smile and show love and kindness, if only for that day and only for the child that will barely graze my orbit.  It can never be enough and it concurrently has to be enough.  I don’t get to write the script, I only play the part.

And so….

I breathed a goodbye and a blessing to another precious child placed in my path and prayed that her life would be filled with good things.  It is all I can do.  Her flitting shadow will forever become part and parcel of my classroom and the school at large.

“Go with her, dear Lord, and watch over her every step.  Hear her every prayer, and send caring people into her world.  Let her stumble into somebody else’s garden and find warm sunshine, gentle rain, and an environment that is perfect for growth.  I cannot go with her, but you can and I know you did.”

I rest easy…