Young Patriots

I do not have statistics to back me up.  I have nothing to go on but a guess and a hope.  I HOPE most elementary classes begin their day with the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.  That is how we begin our day in the Magic Tree House.  Hang up coats, turn in homework, catch up on the local gossip, show off their latest Happy Meal toy, throw the wrapper in the garbage for the snack they ate on the bus that was supposed to be saved for snack time, look at the daily job chart, and then stand at attention for the Pledge to the flag.  Our goal is to get in the Pledge before the intercom crackles to life with daily announcements.  We usually make it.

There is a protocol that must occur when saying the pledge.  Have you ever done a little looking around when reciting the Pledge in a public place?  Take note sometime of who is totally zoned into it and who is mumbling the words while picking dirt out of their fingernails.  I guarantee the over-sixty crowd will be eyes forward, heart-in-it, standing at attention and focused on the flag.  Many of those younger will be mouthing the words because they somehow know they should, or it is a necessary hurdle before the game can start. 

This is something I hope to instill within my students.  I get them very early in their academic careers.  Maybe I have a shot.  Americans have become tremendously apologetic about our wealth and standing in the world.  We even are sliding towards the misguided notion that within our own borders all Americans should share equally.  Those that are the most motivated to go out and grab the brass ring are now expected to share their wealth with those not equally motivated.  This is alarming to me.  When I was a child, this philosophy’s given name was called socialism.  It is wrapped in a different coat now, but it is the same ugly baby.  I am not saying patriotism is dead.  I AM saying it has taken a sucker punch to the gut.

When I was very young, three years old or so, my mother went to work.  Nobody explained why to me.  It was still fairly unusual for mothers to do so there in the mid-sixties.  Only the decade before it had been nearly unheard of, but in my early years, some women did indeed hit the job market.  Maybe my father needed her help in the private elementary school where he was the administrator.  Maybe they needed the money.  Maybe she simply wanted to be a part of the early bubblings of the Feminist Movement (this I doubt).  I do not know.  I just know I was now was rousted early and bundled off to spend my days with my grandparents at 702 January Lane. 

I adored Grandma and Grandpa Miller.  I could not have been happier.  They adored me as well and I was content to spend my days basking in their attention and love.  My grandparents lived directly across the street from the Ferguson Middle School, a sprawling brick edifice on the outskirts of downtown St. Louis.  Every morning at precisely the same time (I do not know what time that was as I was only three and could not read a clock yet.  I only know it came after Romper Room and before Captain Kangaroo), my grandmother would call me to the front window and together we would watch the flag being raised in front of the school.  Then as it flapped in the Missouri breeze, we would place our hands over our hearts and say the Pledge of Allegiance. 

The first time Grandma had me follow this odd and unfamiliar ritual, it felt uncomfortable and strange.  The words made no sense and were difficult for my little tongue.  But after following the same procedure daily and listening to her quavery voice and seeing her undistracted cateye-glasses gaze, I began to learn the words haltingly, and then confidently.  Before long, I was calling HER to the front window and leading the charge, like a Boy Scout at summer camp.  My gentle grandmother taught me how to stand at attention and keep my gaze on that beautiful flag; the red stripes symbolic for valor, and the white stripes a symbol of purity and innocence.  It represented freedom, and to her, it represented her son’s tour of duty in Korea during the Korean War.  A war that thankfully deposited him back to her without harm.

I was so proud on my first day of kindergarten when the teacher brought us to attention to learn the Pledge, and I already knew every single word.  I whipped my hand over my heart, stood at perfect attention, and gustily lead that pledge word-perfect.  Grandma had taught me well. 

I have made it a personal challenge to do the same for my first graders.  We do indeed say the Pledge daily.  I also demand complete attention and single focus while doing so.  There will be no jabbing of elbows or reclining against their chairs while expressing this appreciation for our country, our military personnel, and our Founding Fathers’ sacrifice. 

About February, I added the component of singing the National Anthem after the Pledge everyday.  Folks, this was truly a stretch for this alto.  As you may or may not know, our National Anthem was written for the vocal range of a Lark.  Had I been consulted about which patriotic number we should adopt as a nation, I probably would have chosen something written by the Commodores. 

I digress…

My poor Little Darlings were not quite sure what to do with this new addition to the morning ritual.  The words and musical score aren’t exactly Top 40 sing-able.  Listening to their teacher try to nail those notes at 8:25 a.m. after only seven cups of coffee was laughable.  But I forged ahead daily regardless, and after a week or so, they were hesitantly chiming in bravely.  Our wing of the building was built in the ‘30’s and is not in any sense sound proof.  It must have sounded hilarious to hear nine straining cherub voices and one Orangutan oddball voice trying to do justice to our national song.

I smiled near the end of the year at the gusto that was applied to this iconic tune.  One lad in particular sang it with such fervor that it sounded as though he were singing it to Francis Scott Key himself.  Little hand pressed hard over his heart pumping true red, white, and blue blood, eyes fixed on our classroom flag, and mouth wide open in patriotic passion.  These kids had the tune and words down cold.  Do they get the meaning behind it yet?  We’ll see…

I am an unashamedly patriotic American.  On this Memorial Day weekend, I place my hand over my heart and fervently declare my allegiance to my country, the freedoms she affords me, and most importantly, the brave men and women who purchased those freedoms with their service and very lives.

I love you, America.  Thank you for being so good to me.  I will forevermore pledge you my allegiance.  I hope to plant the warm seed of patriotism within the soul of my young charges.   

I will begin with the Pledge.   

You must do the rest…

Ferguson Middle School

Graduation Mayberry Style

There are some who will read this post and will feel this familiar scene brought to the forefront of remembrance.  Some of you will have no basis of familiarity.  You may think, “how quaint” or you might lean more towards “how redneck!”  It is for both of ends of the spectrum that I write this.  For the under thirty crowd, Mayberry is a fictitious, idyllic town from the old television series, The Andy Griffith Show.

Last Friday night was our high school’s commencement ceremony.  Eight young adults wobbled down a freshly papered centered aisle to the stage, grinning, nervous, and trying to keep that darn tassel out of their mouths.  No, I did not mean to say six hundred, or even sixty.  I did indeed purposefully type the lonely digit “six.”  This year’s class was fairly average-sized for our rural school.

Son #3 tells the story of a freshman year encounter where he was asked the inevitable question of how many were in his graduating class.  His uninhibited reply was “four.”  Without blinking an eye, his co-conversationalist said, “Oh, that’s not a bad sized class.”  Knowing what this individual was thinking, Cody quickly corrected him.  “No, I don’t mean four HUNDRED.  I mean four.  That’s it, just four.”  The other party was flabbergasted, as the story goes. 

To further those fun Class of 2010 facts (you never know when this trivia might come in handy); the class was comprised of two boys and two girls (prom could have been a double date), and for the senior class photo shoot, they were all able to go in one car.  Also, there were awards-aplenty to go around.  Not only was our son, Cody, Valedictorian, he was also numbers 76-100 in class rankings.  Holy cow, that sounds impressive on a college application!

Back to this year. 

You may be wondering how long a class of eight (or four) could possibly take to go through the ritual ceremonies of graduation.  You might be surprised.  We can stretch that sucker out like a TV evangelist pleading for money.  Handing out diplomas takes no time at all.  We would barely have time to warm our folding chairs if that is all we did.  So we have a few closely held traditions that make up the other fifty-seven and a half minutes of the program.

I will share a few of them here:

One of the most cherished is the reading of the class history.  I mean a literal reading of the class history, kindergarten through twelfth grade.  This annual rite recites the names of the kids that began kindergarten in our school and lists the classmates that came and went down through the years.  There are always one or two original band members that spent their entire academic careers in the same group.  This is part of the beauty of a small K-12 school.  We are more extended family than mere strangers coincidently lumped into a classroom.  You can often see heads nodding during this time and hear whispered, “Oh, I had forgotten about him.  That’s right, he WAS here in the fourth grade...”  The class history is just that.  It reminds us of who we are and where we came from.

Another tradition, and my personal favorite, is the honoring of the parents.  The class chooses an appropriate song, usually something about wind beneath wings or love, or undying support, and one by one, the seniors pluck a flower from a vase and head down into the audience to acknowledge his or her parents.  The mother is generally handed the flower and usually gets a hug too.  Depending on whether the graduate is male or female will predetermine what happens next.  The graduating female has usually begun to cry on the first note of the song, which sends rivers of water down her mother’s face as well.  She and her mother will hug warmly, smearing sloppy tears and mascara all over one another, then giggle at what saps they each are.  “Daddy” will get an equally warm, teary hug, and doggonit if he doesn’t have a little moisture in his eyes as well.

Now if the senior is a male, things will run a little differently here.  He will clomp over to the vase and grab the flower like it’s the playground bully and he’s gotta’ show it just who is in charge around here.  He will then stomp noisily down the stage steps, holding the poor flower parallel to the ground, praying to God that his mother won’t make a gushy embarrassment of things.  When he locates his parents, he’ll shove the already-drooping flower into his mother’s hand, and may or may not give her a quick yer-alright-fer-a-gurl hug.  Now the next few moments are crucial in Macho World.  Should he hug his dad or not?  He can’t really decide until he’s in the moment.  Will the entire world that is stuffed into a sweaty gymnasium think he’s a Nancy if he gives ‘ol dad a coupla slaps on the back??  Some risk their masculine ranking and give the hug.  Others decide it is just simply not worth it.  Usually a handshake is called for in such cases.  This is considered an acceptable (and in some cases) preferable show of affection. 

As a parent who has watched three sons graduate from this high school, there is nothing that softens my mother’s heart more that watching my boy grab that flower and head towards his father and I with that “aw shucks” look on his face.  Three times I have melted into my son’s arms and been overwhelmed with that simple gesture.  For it is more than a flower and more than a ritual.  It is the symbolism of a child beginning to understand that parenting is a monumental task and that all that we do as parents is borne out of this unquenchable love we have for our offspring. 

They cannot really understand all of that yet.  No, of course they cannot.  Not until they are parents themselves.  We all know that.  But is it a first step towards that awareness.  It is a beautiful moment ripe with meaning.  It is the unspoken knowing by all parties that they are no longer children, but adults ready to leave you.  And for the record, my sons always hugged their dad too. 

The third anticipated ritual is the “Senior at a Glance” picture montage.  Well, there are twenty-five extra minutes to kill, so let’s drag out the old photo albums.  You can do that when there are only a handful of seniors, after all.  While the graduate’s favorite song plays, a power point slide show features each graduate from infancy through their senior year.  There are the usual baby shots and some edgy youth may throw in the potty training shot for giggles (and gets them).  And, of course, there are Christmases and favorite vacations.  And when it is over, we have a better idea of who these kids are and where they came from.  Sometimes the parents are divorced and the shots are painful reminders of a painful time.  Occasionally, a deceased parent is flashed on the screen and then the tears really flow as we grieve anew communally.

When Son #2 graduated, the mother of a classmate who had been killed in a car accident arrived at the graduation ceremony.   We were thrilled to see her and saddened to remember that her sweet baby should have been standing there proudly along with the rest.  This poor woman had lost her husband as well on that day and her son had been severely injured.  It had been a shock to our small community that left us all reeling.  To our wonderment, at a given spot in the program, this mother walked unsteadily to the podium that night and addressed the graduates. 

This mother, whose world had collapsed in a single day, with soft voice but strong resolve, looked at the classmates of her daughter and told them that the same year her daughter had died, she had made a decision to do something for the class of 2007.  She had taken a portion of her death benefits and had invested them wisely.  It had been accruing money all of those years.  Her daughter was only in the fourth grade on that horrible day.  “And now, I want you to have it,” she told a shocked line of seniors.  “Use it to further your education, or better yourself in some way.”  She had kept it a secret all of those years.  Each senior received several thousand dollars, the amount depending on the number of years that senior had attended school with her daughter. 

I gasped as I heard her words and saw the stunned looks on the faces of those rugged boys.  I heard my gasp echoed all around me.  Tears stung my eyes as I realized what this money signified.  She could not help her daughter with college, but she could help those that had known her.  It was such a poignant moment that I am filled with emotion even after all these years.  Such generosity borne out of such devastating sorrow is philanthropy that is forever seared into memory. 

Ryan is in dental school now.  Her generosity made a positive difference in his life.

And, as in any graduation ceremony, there are also scholarships announced, and speeches given; you know… the usual stuff.  Afterward, the graduates form a line, outside if the weather permits, and the entire community walks by and shakes each hand and offers warm congratulations.  Then the individual parties begin and these are just as utterly charming.

The really forward-thinking graduates claim the lunchroom as their territory.  The other possible choices in town for gatherings are the Senior Center and the town theater building. 

Now I know you are trying to picture a theater that can double as a reception hall.  You are thinking all wrong, my friend.  This is not a slanted-floor, surround sound, fixed theater seat building.  Well, we do have surround sound, I guess.  Surround sound for us means when Granny sitting on the back church pew can’t hear a line, her grandson shouts it into her hearing aid, and thus the back 4 rows get to hear it again. 

No, this is the OLD gymnasium, with original hard wood floor and stage still intact.  The chairs stack and the church benches in the back are shoved to the side walls.  The downside to this building is, there is no real kitchen, so all hot food must come in electric roasters.  But I have used this building for a graduation myself, and you make do.  Everyone understands your challenges. 

On mild spring nights, such as this year was, Main Street is alive with party goers headed to their destinations.  Usually, nearly everyone is invited to nearly every party, so you choose where you will begin and then make your rounds.  By the time you have hit the last one on the roster, you are so loaded with roast beef, butter cream frosting, and pink punch, you are nearly comatose.  This year I had the culinary pleasures of Philipino dishes and the best darn crab salad in the universe.  I think I have probably had dreams about that crab salad since that night.

I held my husbands’ hand as we walked Main Street and smiled.  It is such a safe little haven.  Community children roam freely, knowing their parents will find them eventually.  Laughter can be heard from the next block over.  For a city girl, I sure love small town living.  It is irreplaceable and dwindling.  What will my town look like in ten years?  Or twenty-five or fifty?  In case you live in a steamer trunk and have not heard, North Dakota is in the middle of an historic oil boom.  Think California gold rush in the 1800’s.  It is changing the face of our state so fast it is dizzying.  It is not all bad, of course, but change is indisputable and undeniable.  Whether the locals like it or not, North Dakota will be forever altered from this time forward. 

Whatever the future holds, I hope that my town will hang tenaciously onto its charming graduation rituals.  I hope my grandchildren get to experience them someday.  I hope my very own real-life Mayberry resists the outside influences for a while longer.  I hope Senior at a Glance and Class History are carried forth, however new technology makes that possible.  I hope little boys in big boy bodies still clomp down the stairs clutching flowers for their mommies, like tots who proudly lay dandelions at their mother’s feet.  I hope the more things change the more they stay the same. 

I hope Mayberry keeps its charm for awhile longer...

Mrs. Dahl, Are You Almost Out of Surprises?

 

Tomorrow my Little Darlings will cross the threshold of the Magic Tree House for the last time.  They will cease to be first graders and will morph into second graders, much like the Painted Lady caterpillars sitting on our science table.  The count down has begun.   Our time together is finite.  The end is at hand.

I am not ready.

Do not mistake that statement to mean that I am not wildly excited about summer vacation, for I AM.  Sleeping past 4 a.m. is the stuff of fantasies.  Also, my house looks like an A-bomb found its mark, and that lawn isn’t going to mow itself.

My sorrow has less to do with needing to spend the next 10 weeks with these same children, as it does wishing I had had more time to teach them all I had wanted to.  Where did all the days, weeks, and months go that had stretched out endlessly in front of me, like a ribbon of highway in Wyoming?  I am truly shocked that the end is here.  I had wanted to do thematic units on Lady Bugs and Eric Carle’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear.  They never got touched. 

There are also those last few math lessons.  Not critical stuff, but it would have been nice to get it all in.  This teaching thing is as much about timing as it is touching the intellectual soul of a child.  Who knew?  I am already planning next year in my head in order to do things differently (and better). 

We have a little game we play in our class.  I tend to be a little random.  Maybe you have noticed that.  Probably once a day, my students and I will be discussing something and my mental light bulb will go off in the quirky way it does.  “I have an idea!” I will gasp with surprise.  “What is it, what is it,” they all clamor to know.  Then a mischievous smile appears on my face, and I say, “You’ll see.  Mrs. Dahl is…” “… full of surprises!!” they finish with a shout.  I have trained them well.  The fun is less in what the surprise is as it is the anticipation of something to look forward to.

During some subject or another about a week and a half ago, The Thinker stopped his work and asked pensively, “Mrs. Dahl, are you almost out of surprises?”  “Never!” came my instant reply.  But I knew what he was getting at.  Did the end of the school year translate to a winding down of my energies and creativity?  Good grief, I hope not.  This quasi-hippie always has a thought or two rolling around inside my head like marbles in a tin can.

But the mood of my Sweeties has been odd at best lately.

This last week of the school year the Little Darlings have been shockingly quiet and subdued.  I wondered at it first thing Monday morning during all the usual morning rituals.  I kept thinking it surely could not last during a lengthy round of vainly trying to finish the science unit (we did it!!), and was sure I had stumbled into an alternate universe when they came in from lunch recess that same day.  What was going on??

The answers began to tumble from cherubic mouths about mid-afternoon.  Turns out something akin to Senioritis had infected my usually rambunctious gang.  If you have had children graduate from high school and leave the nest, then you know what this malady is.  It is that phase between childhood and adult maturity when they begin to grasp that life as they know it is about to end and it makes them… well, WEIRD.  Some of my children during that last year of high school alternated between grumpy and clingy, some withdrew into their own private world, and some went with grumpy all the way, baby!  Needless to say, it can be a trying time for all who inhabit the same living quarters. 

My personal spin on this phenomenon is it is God’s way of preparing parents to say goodbye to their offspring.  It is much like the last week of pregnancy.  You are so miserable and uncomfortable that you’d easily entertain the notion of grabbing the old hubbies hand saw and cutting the darn thing out yourself.  Senioritis has the same effect.  By the time they pull out of the drive headed to the university of their choice you are nearly pushing them out the door and shouting things like, “Don’t worry.  We’ll ship your things later!!”

My first graders have been a little squirrelly too.  Arguments and moods and hyperactivity have been in abundant supply.  But this week they seemed to have come to some sort of emotional climax.

As they sat scattered around the floor of the Magic Tree House, busy putting the finishing touches on their insect books, I overheard quiet conversations from first one side of the room, and then another.  Little faces were earnest and voices tight as they poured out their thoughts to one another in low tones.  Finally, they could contain these feelings no longer.  One sad little face looked up and into mine.  “I don’t want to go to second grade,” he said flatly.  Little echoes from this corner and that chimed in.  “Of course you do!” I assured them.  “Second grade means you are bigger and older and ready for more challenges.”  One honest chap summed it up succinctly, “I hope I get retained.”  Oh, for goodness sakes…

“Second grade will be wonderful!”  I assured them.  Little end-of-first-grade heads were shaking no in resigned woe.  “I want to stay with you, Mrs. Dahl!” said Little Sally Sue sadly.  Now, before you get the idea that all this luvin’ went to my head, I have been around children enough to know that this sudden case of the jitters has less to do with my fine teaching, than it does simply fearing the unknown.  They will love second grade and I will get little more than an occasional greeting from them in the hallway.  This I know.  But I certainly want them to finish this week and this year looking expectantly to the second year of their elementary career.

To that end, we put together Memory Books that have helped chronicle the year and (I hope) have reminded them of the astonishing changes that have occurred since last August.  We wrote about the friends we made and the subjects that became favorites and the books we adore and how our bodies have gotten bigger.  As they filled in the page titled, “How I Have Changed,” I glanced over and caught a couple of the boys trying to determine that very thing by measuring each other with their hands – simultaneously.  It was such a comical sight I had to snap a picture. 

We have also dealt with changes that transcend the mere passage from one grade to the next.  My sweet foster girl is headed to a new home when the school year ends.  She came in frantic yesterday saying that her older sister would not be going with her.  I hugged and tried to reassure, but later asked the sister if that was indeed true.  Her blue eyes welled immediately and she shook her blond head no.  “I was frustrated because I hate to leave so I said I was going to stay.  I’m going too,” she ended with soft resignation in her voice. 

Another student who has only been here since January does not know if his family will stay.  I do not know whom I will see again.  I very much like to know what the future holds and what to expect.  This is difficult for me as well.

And while I am being honest, I’m just going to say it.  I am having a hard time saying goodbye to these, my students.  You don’t have to go back and read too many posts before you pick up on the subtle clues that I am over the moon for these nine kiddie-poohs mine.  They are eager learners.  They are respectful and polite.  They are FUN.  
But they must continue on the path of their own journey, and I must do the same.  I wrote a short letter to them that was published in the school newsletter.  It goes like this:

Dear Students,

I hope I have provided at least a small foundation for a lifetime love of learning.  I hope you have found, not just school, but the joyous journey of discovery to be pleasurable.  I hope you never stop asking questions about the world around you.  I hope that you continue to want to fill your minds and hearts with the wonders of the universe.  I hope you achieve whatever it is you long to do with your lives.  I hope you never settle for mediocre.  I hope you rise to your best potential. 

Each one of you has taken up residence in that forever place in my heart.  I send you off to second grade, Dear Children, with fondness and best wishes!

Love,

Mrs. Dahl

With these thoughts and emotions churning inside my half-century heart and head, I sat waiting for my daughter’s high school spring concert to begin.  Both the choir and band were to perform and my Sweet Rosie had a vocal solo, the program announced.  I sat idly looking about at the audience members and my eyes rested on a Kindergartner in the front row.  Her red hair was slightly tousled and her jack-o-lantern gap-toothed grin was directed at a friend.  A fresh, hot-pink cast did not slow down her energy or buoyant mood.  She was all giggles and sunshine. The thought tiptoed into my head that in a few short weeks she would be my student.

I felt the soft tug of a smile at the edges of my mouth.  New students and new challenges are waiting.  A refreshing summer break and then a new crop of nervous, shy first graders will begin to weave their way into the loom of my soul.

I think I will be ready…