The Career After This One

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I want to teach art. 

If you ask any garden-variety elementary student what their favorite part of school is, you are going to get one of three answers.  They will either say recess (the all-time #1 choice, the world over), PE (a distant second), or art (a very close third).  The second runner-up on my (very scientifically administered) poll is shared by boys and girls alike.  Kids like art.  They just do.  I think there are a number of reasons for this.

·      They get to be messy

·      They get to watch their beloved teacher spaz out when they get too close to her new cream colored sweater with paint covered hands.

·      They get to be creative (which is frustratingly sparse the rest of the week).

And the number one reason kids love art…

It is truly an intoxicatingly relaxing hour at the end of a nut-so week.

Plus, what kid doesn’t adore their art teacher?  And who couldn’t use more adoration in their life?

I am as fond of Friday art as the Darlings. I live for it and look forward to it all week.  I have always maintained that I have the soul of an artist and the hands of a plumber (my apologies to plumbers everywhere.  It’s just that you do not need graceful hands to do what you do).  I long to be a genius at painting and drawing (this will be my first request in heaven), but I am forced to settle for clumsy, mediocre stabs at best.  I do not care.  I don my metaphoric beret and create regardless.  I scribble and splotch and sculpt and print.  The end result is not pretty nor is it admired by others outside my immediate family who will admire or have food withheld.  It is not, after all, the finished product that gives the rush, it is the process.  We master artists all know this. 

Art is the counterbalance to a week filled with sled-dog learning.  I, the teacher, am the musher filling six-year-old brains with standards and test language and benchmarks.  That black cloud hangs constantly.  I do not love that component of teaching, frankly.  I am a little too free-spirited, I am afraid.  Ever hear of the Waldorf educational philosophy?  Google it sometime.  It sounds like Nirvana to me.  “Children, what interests YOU today??”  I could so totally copy and paste myself into that teaching dream.  And they probably make a gazillion dollars.  I only make half a gazillion, so the extra money would be really nice.

But alas, my paycheck comes from a different world that is fond of the Black Cloud and wants to keep it alive and well, so standards and testing language it is.  We plow through bravely and gamely and I try to explore as many of their whims and rabbit trails as time and tight schedule will allow.  But I noticed very shortly into my teaching career that an entirely different mood prevails on Friday afternoons.  It is like someone pipes oxygen into the building and all occupants take a deep, cleansing breath and exhale good vibes and peace.  It is the first glimmerings of a weekend break being taken out for a trial run.  It is the whisper of a change of pace.  It is the brain and body’s attempt to renew and restore.  And it is as necessary and needed as number concepts and phonemic awareness.  There is no real learning without a brain break to process it all.

And so, teachers the world over (I am guessing.  My scientific pollsters all quite on me) pull construction paper and paints and googley eyes out of overly stuffed closets and cupboards and make those crafty things that mothers live for.  You don’t really believe that refrigerators were invented for food preservation, do you??  There is nothing sadder to a teacher than watching the paper plate solar system mobile that took three art sessions to finish get folded/shoved/wadded into a too-small backpack for the journey home, never to be looked at again until Christmas break when mom cleans the darn thing out.

Here’s my second confession.  I hate crafty art projects.  No, it’s true.  I really do.  Most are pointless.  But mothers need them to prove that their children were really at school and that they have the makings of a budding Norman Rockwell, so I comply and send the stuff home with my Darlings.  Some of it is cutesy balootsy, but I long to teach them the Seven Elements of Art as well and introduce these children of the prairie to the great artists of this world.  Kandinsky is this week.  Monet and other impressionists will follow and a few American geniuses as well. 

Last Friday we tackled printmaking.  With apple season in full swing and all the glorious educational opportunities associated with them, I dug out the white construction paper and tempura paints.  I had found this idea during a google search last year (what in the name of Johnny Appleseed did teachers do before the internet??), and loved the results.  It is cheap, it is easy to prepare for and explain to six-year-olds, and it just feels like a fall thing to do.  PLUS, it satisfies craft-starved mothers AND introduces a true component of fine art. 

I fished around on my art cart until I located my brayer on the lower shelf behind the once-pretzel-filled plastic tub of paint shirts and set the Darlings to carefully pressing straight down on their paper with paint covered apple halves, “No dear, don’t smear.  Bring it straight up!”  Da Vinci could not have done better.  They were beautiful.  And I was rapturous.  Happy, peaceful children, soft piano music piped through the Bose speakers, and creativity flowing like mucus during a flu epidemic.  I sat at the kidney table guiding and watching and decided to do a little creating of my own.  Before you could say Mona Lisa, I had painted the leaves from the apples with green tempura and was busy filling in around my own prints with green leaves.  Now the children clamored to add leaves to their prints.  I brayed.  They pressed and we all ooh’d and aah’d over the results.

Title teachers and library specialists and my neighboring teachers popped in to ask a question or borrow a book or claim a child for services and all stayed a bit longer than needed to observe the creative process and relax in the atmosphere of peaceful bliss.  I was in Creative heaven.  I eventually became aware that the children had finished their work and had wandered to the bathroom to wash tempura off green, red, and orange hands.  They had even put their paint shirts back into the tub and were tidying up the classroom.  Good grief.  I should be more in charge. 

With my volleyball-playing-homecoming-attending daughter gone for the night, Mr. Dahl whisked me away for dinner.  As we sat waiting for our order to arrive (and wow, was I hungry!), I realized that I still had red paint stuck in my fingernails.  Glamour redefined, I guess…

Today I introduced eight children who live on the prairie, in the middle of nowhere, to the works of the father of abstract art, Wassilly Kandinsky.  I had an out-of-the-ballpark lesson plan well thought out and well prepared.  I had read through his biography, had a sample of today’s project I had done a few years back, and had all supplies laid out.  I am not usually this organized.  I am generally about three steps behind my planned schedule and on a search-and-rescue mission for brushes and stained paint shirts well into our art hour.

Today was different.  I think maybe it is because I was excited to introduce information into my student’s lives that is of interest to me.  The lesson went well.  The kids were interested in this man’s life and were impressed with his works.  “Whoa!!” was a constant cry as they flipped through the binder I had prepared of some his more famous works.  They liked this dude with the penchant for bold colors and use of geometric shapes.  They could identify with him.  He thought like a first grader.

I instructed them on how to trace geometric shapes onto their watercolor paper with crayon, add lines and dots, then cover the entire page with watercolor.  I stared in delighted wonder as their crayon resists began to emerge from colored backgrounds.  These were genuinely beautiful!  As usual, the students were theatrically gushy.  “I cannot believe we are doing this!”  “Thank you, Mr. Kandinsky, for showing us this!”  “Whoa!”  “Mrs. Dahl, look at THIS! …whoa….”  Whoa, indeed.

One of my most challenging students sat diligently tracing, coloring, then painting in careful, short strokes.  He was oblivious to the chatter and movement around him.  When he had applied the last bit of paint to cover all virgin white paper, he triumphantly held his paper up to me with a grin the size of Ohio.  I stared in amazed wonder.  His use of line and color sucked the air out of my lungs.  I nearly wept.  He was as gifted as he felt he was at that moment.

Being a classically trained musician, Kandinsky would paint with classical music playing in the background.  We did the same.  Vivaldi’s Four Seasons opened up the gates of creative flow for us today. Our corner of The Dungeon was the picture of peace itself.  The mood was quiet and joyful, the children engrossed in their work.  Mrs. Dahl was so buoyant she had to be scraped off the suspended ceiling tiles.  Three o’clock came.  Fifteen minutes until the bus bell would ring.  They were so close to finishing… “keep painting, my children1”  Miraculously, I had them all lined up at the door with backpacks on and filled with Friday letters and corrected homework by 3:14.  I dared not look around.  I knew Trevor was steaming west from Grand Forks.  I wanted to get out the door quickly and begin my weekend.  Spaghetti for supper, I think.  How long to clean up this tsunami?

Earlier movement across the hall in the second grade room caught my eye.  Were they really cleaning their desks out at only 2:58?  The room looked spotless.  How does she DO it???  The last minute flurry of questions, location of near-forgotten items, and jabber filled our last few moments and then the bell rang and they were gone.  I could no longer delay my honest assessment of the state of the Tree House.  It was bad.  REAL bad.  It was filthy, cluttered, and paint-splattered.  I grinned.  It was just as I most like it.  Our chromatopography leaf experiment was brewing nicely on the side table, drying art was laid on newspaper beside the shelves, cups of muddy water with brushes sticking out of them, like trees in a Louisiana swamp  dotted the work tables, the remnants of cut pages for, “Ten Black Dots,” lay in a pile next to my reading chair, and the reading easel was covered with books I had not yet put back on the shelves.  My desk and chair had open textbooks and ungraded worksheets scattered in untidy piles, with neon sticky notes directing me to “grade” or “file” or “make copies.” 

I was completely centered and happy at that moment.

I walked across the hall to the “Perfect Room.”  Doggonit, she even had Mondays work sitting on desktops, just ready and waiting for her lucky students to step back into the Wonderful World of Witt.  My poor lambs will stagger in on Monday and be greeted with careless stacks of papers, our science experiment still bubbling, and a half-torn leaf from the Plant That Won’t Die -- a donation to the previously mentioned science experiment.  I really need to let go of the perfect image dreams.  It ain’t gonna happen in my quasi-hippie world.

One of my all-time favorite books, “Willow,” by Denise-Brennen Nelson, tells the story of a young art student who is incapable of following status quo.  Her passion for creativity ignites the stone cold heart of her crotchety art teacher, transforming her from head to toe.  I can relate.  If it were up to me, Friday art would also happen Monday through Thursday. 

Little Sally Sue was distraught when she learned it was time to go home.  “I don’t want to leave!  I wish we could live with you.  We could do art everyday!!”  Yes!!  A protégée.  She’s got the sickness…

So, yeah, I can just envision THAT conversation with my husband, “… what would you think of my going back to school?”  (him) “Would you work less hours?”  (me) “No.”  (him) “Would you make more money?”  (me – meekly) “No.”  (an incredulous him), “Would there be ANY advantages??” (me – in a whisper) “No.”  “Then why in the world…?”  “Cuz…. I just really like Friday art and… (grasping for straws here) you love me??”  I could play the bucket list card, I suppose. 

Yeah, I don’t think that is happening…  PLUS, I would be something like one hundred and thirty seven before I could wrap up another degree and embark on Career the Sequal.  But hey, a bucket list is a bucket list, right??

I guess I’ll have to settle for Friday adoration.  It will save me money on cream-colored sweaters…

The Versatile Apple!

Color copies turns this riot of color into "designer" paper for our class book

Attack of the Killer Math Manipulatives

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One of the best pieces of advice I received during my education courses at the university came from a sweet, brilliant methods instructor. Her recommendation to us was that when we introduce any kind of hands-on manipulative, we should allow the children time to simply play with them before beginning any instruction.  Her thinking was that they are going to play and be distracted anyway, so give them the green light and make them think you are the nicest/grooviest/most benevolent teacher in the whole wide world!! (“Mrs. Dahl, you are so, so, so, so, so niiiiiiiiiiiice!!”  In the world of a six-year-old, this is the equivalent of a Nobel Peace Prize). When they have satiated that need to play/stack/build with said math items, then you might possibly have their attention enough to actually get some instruction in.

How right she was.

Today I had a chance to use my brand spankin’ new geoboards.  What in the name of Sam is a GEOBOARD?? (…you might be asking).  A geoboard, my naïve friend, is a flat, plastic square with pegs spaced at even intervals.  Rubber bands are then stretched over the pegs to help teach geometry and positional concepts.  They were invented by an Egyptian mathematician in the 50’s.  I was excited to dig them out because it was the first time I have had opportunity to use my very own set.  For my first two classes of first graders, I had to borrow from either kindergarten or second grade on the mornings my math lesson plans called for them.  I usually forgot to ask to borrow until the morning was in full swing, and if you have ever stepped into a kindergarten classroom when things are really humming, it’s a bit like standing in the middle of an electrical power substation.  The kilowatts being produced have the very air humming.  Enter at your own risk….

I tore off the plastic wrap and opened the small plastic bags of “geobands” aka garden-variety-office-supply rubber bands (were the rubber trees these came from a hybrid especially produced for this purpose?  “… of the species, Geobordus Stretchythingyus…”), then proudly handed a brightly colored geoboard to each student, along with a “geoband” (wink, wink).

This is when the trouble started… a disturbance in the Magic Tree House Force, if you will.  Six-year-olds with budding fine motor skills + elastic bands capable of launching across a room and/or snapping tender skin = you do the math.  I had just glowingly given them the OK to “play” with their geoboards (“Mrs. Dahl, you are so, so, so, so, niiiiiiice”) when rubber bands started whizzing past my face like spuds out of a potato gun.  This, accompanied with, “oops,” and “Hey! My rubber band!”  Suddenly, little bodies were scrounging around on the floor for their escapees, like prison guards searching for inmates from Alcatraz.

That part was comical.  Mrs. Dahl was having a pretty good laugh.  But then the mayhem turned bloody (or at least painful).  As tiny fingers tried to manipulate stretchy rubber, the sounds of snapping now filled the air.  “Ow!” was becoming a chorus echoed around the kidney-shaped table.  (Snap) “OW!”  (Snap) “Ow!  OW!!!”  Now there was something else happening in the Magic Tree House.

Fear. 

Holy cow, I could see panic building in my Darlings.  They were afraid of the darn things.  Well, this would never do.  When I was a kid I hated math for all the right reasons.  It was hard and it was proof-positive I was stupid.  You remember the good old days, right?  (Vonda, what do you MEAN you don’t know the answer??!  Haven’t you been listening??  Don’t you know how to solve this problem YET??  Stop daydreaming!!)  Ah yes, education at its finest hour…

I could not only see my math lesson being flushed down the cold porcelain of lessons out-the-window, I suddenly also had images of my first graders growing up with geoboard trauma that would scar them for life.  The symptoms would include cold sweats when near the elastic aisle at the fabric store and an avoidance of tarp straps.   Group therapy to help overcome this American Psychological Association-sanctioned diagnosis would require being forced to hold rubber bands (…”see Clarence?  It’s just a rubber band.  Rubber bands don’t snap people.  People snap people…”).  The sessions would begin with the characteristic check-in… “Hi.  My name is Blanche and I am afraid of geoboards… (in unison now), “hiiii, Blanche…”

After a particularly brutal 3-snap torture, Miss Sweet-As-Pie Blondie announced, “I think this is dangerous!”

Good grief.

When all bands had been retrieved, bodies returned to chairs, and welts were beginning to form nicely, we started over.  “Boys and girls, watch Mrs. Dahl.  No dear, like THIS…” Thankfully, the Attack of the Evil Bands ended without too many casualties.  No tears were shed and no one refused to keep trying.  I guess I won’t know the full extent of the mental anguish until the next time I reach for the Tools of Torture, or I am handed cease-and-desist papers from attorneys.

Until then, I think we will stick with something safe, like flashcards.  No, wait… paper cuts… arrrrgh!  I give up.

“Hi, my name is Mrs. Dahl and I am afraid of teaching with math manipulatives.”  (hiiiii, Mrs. Dahl…).

The Bridge That Ruby Built

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Her story came sequentially in our Social Studies textbook -- a small blurb between measuring time by using a calendar and the importance of rules at school and at home.  Citizen Heroes was the heading on the page.  And that was my Darlings first introduction to a pivot in history that shook the Deep South and ultimately, each of us.

I remembered that my principal, who once taught first grade himself, had lent me the children’s book, “The Story of Ruby Bridges” last year during Black History month.  It is a beautifully written book that pulls even very young children into its riveting story from its first words.

It tells the true story of a six-year-old girl from Louisiana who, in 1960, is judge-ordered to attend an all-white school, defying the ban of black students from the William Franz Elementary School.  The judge’s ruling is met with fury and defiance from the white parents, who ultimately refuse to send their children to a school that now has one lone black girl in it, our heroine, Ruby Bridges. 

Little, brave Ruby does indeed attend first grade at William Franz.  But Ruby is the only student that year.  No one will attend school with her and no teacher will teach there with her in the building.  A Mrs. Henry from Boston was eventually hired to teach Ruby.  Everyday little Ruby walked through an angry mob of white “people” (I use the term loosely here), hurling insults and threats at her.  And everyday, she stepped into an empty classroom and was the sole student of her teacher.  Because of murder-by-poisoning threats, she was only allowed to eat food she brought from home.  Someone even placed a black doll in a small wooden casket and left it in front of the school.  Not only did that brave little girl walk into that empty building everyday, she also began to pray for the very people who persecuted her.  How many six-year-olds could do the same?  I try to envision my own children doing it.  I cannot.

I did not add a lot of theater to the story as I read, as I normally do.  Instead I allowed the power of the story to provide the drama.  My children were spellbound and sat uncharacteristically motionless.  My voice, soft and even.

When I had read the last word on the last page, I carefully shut the book and laid it gently in my lap.  “What do you think of this story?” I asked simply.  They were so quiet and somber, I wondered what thoughts were tumbling around in their little minds.  I waited in silence as thoughts and words were forming and courage was being gathered.  I thought I might get comments on the story itself.  Things like, why were people so angry or how could a little girl be so brave… things like that.  I was unprepared for what came next.  One brave soul blurted out, “What if a black kid came to our school, Mrs. Dahl?  What would happen?”  My gaze rested carefully on this one who had given voice to the thoughts of all.  I took a deep breath.  His honesty nearly toppled me.  His ignorance staggered me.

A good counselor always turns a question back to the questioner for scrutiny.  “What if a black kid DID come to our school?  What do YOU think would happen?  How would you feel?”  An answer shot out from my hard right.  “Scared,” tumbled from baby lips.  Others found their voice.  “Weird.”  “Nervous.” The answers were falling from freed tongues. 

I struggled to settle on the right thing to do here.  They were honest, yes.  Bravo!  But they just didn’t GET it.  How could they?  They had no base of experience from which to borrow from.  Their worlds are consumptively white with no variation.  The only pigment represented in our little patch of Planet Earth is a couple of Native American reservations.  African Americans are only recently finding homes among us, and only in the larger cities of our fair (and I mean that literally here) state.  We are Germans and Scandinavians.  There is no shortage of blond, blue-eyed North Dakotans.  I do not for one second hold these young ones at fault.  They can no more understand racism than they can the complexities of the Vietnam War. 

I sat perfectly still in my groovy, octagonal turquoise reading chair and tried to land on the exact right thing to say at this pivotal moment.  I wanted them to remember this moment for…. well, for forever.  Then it came to me.  I had forgotten I had used this teaching moment last year during a similar discussion with last year’s first graders after reading about Martin Luther King, Jr.

Seeming to switch gears suddenly, I announced, “I think we will go outside.”  Suddenly, happy gasps and shouts of joy all around.  I let them celebrate for a few seconds.  I stopped it with, “We have a new playground rule, however.  Today those with blue eyes will sit on the grass and watch the other children play.  Everyone with blue eyes will be watchers.  The rest of you will do the playing.”  I let this bombshell soak in for a moment.  Confusion darkened faces that had just moments before been rejoicing.  They looked at one another with blank looks as if trying to discern from the other children whether they had truly heard correctly.  A couple heads dropped down and one poor deflated soul even burst into tears.  No one could make sense of it, so they turned sad faces back to me.  “Mrs. Dahl, do you mean it?  Everyone with blue eyes has to WATCH?”  I nodded.  “That is our new rule.”  Indignation met me head-on.  “But MRS. DAHL, that’s not fair!!”  Their Benedict Arnold blue eyes were boring holes into mine.  They are German, and Norwegian, and Finnish.  All but a few have blue eyes.  I knew I had hit my mark.

“It’s not fair!” was being echoed around the circle.  I let them express outrage for a moment or two.  Cursed blue eyes!  I could nearly hear their minds shouting accusations.  Finally I asked, “Do you know why I chose blue eyes?”  No, they could not guess.  I must have lost my mind, was all they come up with.  They wanted to know.  They demanded to know.  “I chose blue eyes,” I said carefully, “because I wanted to.  There is no real reason.  I just thought today blue-eyed kids should not get to play.”  Stunned silence as they vainly tried to process this gross travesty.  The anger hung like a wet blanket.  “It’s not fair,” someone whined again softly. 

“No, it’s really not fair,” I finally agreed.  “It’s not fair at all.”  No one spoke.  They couldn’t guess where this was heading so they waited for more from their schizophrenic teacher. 

“Boys and girls, that is how it is when people aren’t allowed to do things simply because of their skin color.  It isn’t fair and it makes no sense whatsoever.  People with black skin or yellow or red skin are just like people with white skin.  They think the same way we do.  They have the same dreams we have.  They have the same needs we have.  For one group of people to tell another group of people they don’t have the same rights solely because of their skin color is incredibly unfair and it is wrong.”

I could see a flicker of comprehension dawn on a few of their faces.  They were still smarting over the playground business and six-year-old minds were trying like fury to catch up to what I had just said.  I continued, “So what if a kid with black skin did come to our school?  How would we treat them?  I would hope we would treat them just like any other kid because they ARE just like any other kid.  They are just like you.  They want and need to be treated with respect, just like you do.”  A few heads were nodding now.  I asked for suggestions about how we could make them feel welcome.  “I could ask them to play with me at recess,” someone ventured.  Now we were getting somewhere.  More suggestions and momentum was building.  I was pleased with the thought process I was witness to at that moment. 

“So…. Mrs. Dahl, you were kidding about the blue eyes thing, right?”  I smiled, but kept silent.  They are watching my face intensely.  “Yeah, she’s kidding.  She’s smiling!” another one spoke with authority.  The one with tears looked up hopefully.  “Yes, I am kidding.  I did it to help you understand the story we just read.”

If you think me cruel for toying with the happiness of innocent six-year-olds, I respect your viewpoint.  But I think it better to inflict a moment of sorrow over a triviality like recess, than to let a distorted view of inequality go unchallenged.  It is not my job to form the worldview of each child.  I am fully aware of that.   But right is right.  There is too much gray anymore.  Few people have the stomach to take a stand and say, “this is WRONG.”  I hope my Darlings develop such bravery and will be willing to be counted among those who refuse to cower in silence when there is societal inequity.

Ruby Bridges was just six years old when she became a hero.  I think my students possess the same seeds of steely core as that little girl from Louisiana.  I really do.  I hope they nurture and grow that core as they mature.  I hope they make a difference when a difference is called for.  I hope they always take the side of right.  I hope if a child of color does find their way to our town and our school, that the inhabitants of the Magic Tree House make them feel warmly welcomed.  I hold many high hopes for these, my students.  This particular one would make my venture into the world of education incredibly rewarding and worthwhile.

Perhaps I have shared the following story already – I rarely go back and read former blog posts.  If so, forgive me, but it bears repeating here.  When I was a 6^th grade student in St. Louis, I sat next to a black girl named Esther who commuted daily from downtown to attend our private church school.   The inner city schools were so bad then, they truly were.  Busing came a few years later and created a citywide furor that lasted for years, but that would come later.  For the present, Esther’s parents sacrificed to drive her into the suburbs daily in order that she could get away from the crime of the inner city schools.  They too are my heroes.

One day we were talking softly, she and I, and out of the blue she asked me a question that I carry with me to this day.  “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be black?” she asked with sudden intensity.  I was struck by her tone and a little ashamed for reasons I could not explain. I thought for a moment and then had to honestly respond with, “No, I guess I don’t.”  She didn’t say anything and I felt the need to fill the void with something.  “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be white?” I asked in return.  I will never forget how wistful her voice and face were as she answered softly, “All the time…” 

It was the first time I had ever put myself in another’s place and saw life through another’s eyes.  It changed me forever.

And so…

To my blue-eyed Swedes and Finns and Germans.  My precious, priceless Darlings… I long for you to be changed as well.  Treat all with respect and be unfailingly kind to your fellow man.  You will have made this world a better place and a certain quasi-hippie very proud.

This one’s for you, Ruby….

The National Anthem: Not for the Faint of Heart

I am always amazed when I hear that some classrooms in this great country do not recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  I cannot imagine what teachers are thinking.  It takes three minutes and teaches civic pride.  It is as American as hotdogs with mustard at baseball games.

The heart of the Magic Tree House pumps red, white, and blue blood.  Our favorite number is fifty and our synapses are powered by sparklers.  We ARE the future of America and we stand proudly at her side.

So Mrs. Dahl, being the patriotic quasi-hippie that she is, felt that the daily pledge to Old Glory was possibly underestimating the potential of The Darlings.  Dare I try, I wondered…? How can a small towner be a full participant in any sporting event unless they can whip off the old grain elevator cap and at least mouth the words to the National Anthem?  I owe it to these kids to be able to hold their heads high when the school band wheezes out the first notes of “Oh, say…”

Or maybe I am old enough to remember when national pride was common place and I am just a little sickened when kids who are Superglued to their iPhones and and addicted to their designer coffees are apologetic about the prosperity of the land of their birth.  I think a month in a third world country ought to be a mandatory part of high school these days.  But hey, that’s just me.  What do I know?

I began my little patriotic ritual about February of last year.  I cannot remember why.  I only remember that I was shocked at how quickly it was learned by last year’s crop of Darlings.  Beginning this school year with the Pledge followed immediately with the National Anthem was never in question.  For decades to come, I envision past students at various stages of growing up coming up to me and commenting that they learned the National Anthem in first grade.  It will be my contribution to a strong national backbone. 

It is a lofty goal, but here is the challenge, (and maybe you haven’t noticed this), but our national anthem is a terrible song.  At least from a musical perspective, that is.  Oh shucks.  Let’s just get real here for a moment.  It is a terrible song all the way around.  The words are archaic.  “ ‘Ore the ramparts we hailed?”  Yeah, that comes up in casual conversation at the local Applebees.  Why can’t we have something timeless like, God Save the Queen?  The British have it all over us in the national song war. 

Not only are the lyrics indecipherable to most adults, but the musical score is, well… just watch most televised sporting events.  Professional teams hire the best of the best singers to warble out this song at the start of each game.  Rarely is it done in a breathtaking fashion by those who make a living at such things.  For the average American?? Might as well just gargle with bumble bees and call it good.  It is nearly impossible.

But Mrs. Dahl is determined to prevail.  Mrs. Dahl is not a gifted singer, mind you.  Mrs. Dahl can carry a passable tune and even find the alto part occasionally.  But Mrs. Dahl is not anything close to a pleasure-to-listen-to singer.  But sing, Mrs. Dahl shall do, regardless.

And so, if you happen to be ascending or descending the ancient stairs on my wing of the building at about 8:25 a.m., you just might catch the wafting sounds of eight boisterous first graders and a middle-aged creaking garden gate belting The Star-Spangled Banner.  Little hands pressed over budding patriot hearts and eyes fixed on our flag, we sing like there is no tomorrow.  Our favorite part (apparently) comes at, “…whatso purrOOUUUdly we helled, at the qwilights last leeming… ”  This line seems to get special attention each and every morning.  I am not exactly sure why.  We sing it louder and with more fervor than the rest of the song.  It must set our quavering American hearts to full-blast pumping.  We then fade into the stratosphere when we hit the death-zone notes on “and the rockets red glare…”  Francis Scott Key must have had just a bit of wicked whimsy in him to force that nonsense on hundreds of years of national history.  He probably got dared into including it or something.

When we are finished and the last note hangs somberly in the air, I must daily resist the urge to shout, “Play ball!”  I do (resist that is), but it is hard.  When they will finish the song in the future as men and women with families and bills to pay, the ending of the song will signal the return of the seed company cap to balding heads and folks will sit down on hard wooden bleachers, as the locals have done before them for generations.  Then games will begin, and popcorn will be purchased, neighbors will catch up on the local gossip, and boys and girls will flirt with one another, ensuring that families will continue to inhabit the town and games will continue to be played.  It is a good system.  Everyone is happy.

So if you happen to hear Mrs. Dahl screeching out our national anthem with a classroom of six-year-olds like backup singers for the Temptations, please don’t be too hard on us.  We are not professionals, only dedicated patriots trying to learn a really stinky song rich with meaning and historical import.  We love our flag and what she represents.  We will sing it every morning for the duration of first grade.  And we will hold our heads high when we can sing it (mostly) right wherever and whenever it is sung or played.  We are Americans and we are proud.  God bless America and God Save the Queen.

Play ball!!

My Magic Tree House Themed Classroom

I posted some pictures of my classroom on the old blog site, but have never added them to this new site.  One beautiful thing about educators is – we love to share ideas!  So for those of you interested in a Magic Tree House theme or some variation thereof, here is a peek at my classroom.  Feel free to borrow, beg, or steal whatever suits your purposes.  And as always, questions are welcome.  If you prefer email, you can reach me @:  ewetopia@bektel.com

THE CLASSROOM: 

I love these ancient wooden doors!

It is more of a command than request, really...

I found this great Melissa & Doug alphabet puzzle and used it as a border.  The "smoke" is wool from my sheep days

Mr. Dahl made the fab portable stand with chalkboard on front.  The globe is as old as the earth itself

This is where we start each day

Our reading corner.  We spend a lot of happy time here each day

The "tree" is made of butcher paper and silk leaves

My new unofficial class motto - my church gave these out to promote missions - I love the power of its message

Somewhere behind the plant is my desk

I feel strongly that first grade is not too young to appreciate fine art.  I mean, c'mon, Kandinsky is right in a 6-year-old's wheelhouse!

Vanity station - gotta' have one of those, right??

Meet Chester - class mascot

IN THE HALL COMING INTO THE CLASSROOM:

My door forms the trunk of the "tree" and its branches cover the wall space around it

Handy Dandy Mr. Dahl added the floor of the tree house, which is suspended from exposed duct work

A broader view of the upper door way.  The leaves are die cut from construction paper.

The tire swing and rope ladder are painted directly onto the wall using plain old craft paint