Are You Afraid of the Dark??

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Tree branches hanging low against the outer walls scraped the windows like giant claws trying to rip open the wall and gain access to the interior.  The low moan of the wind, first nearly imperceptible, then screaming and angry added tension to the already spooked huddled group.  The only light in the oppressive room came from the occasional flash of lightning that blinded from the tiny window, creating evil shadows that danced on the gray walls.  Would this night and its infernal blackness never end?  Where was daybreak and the relief that would dispel the gloom?  The human mind can only endure so much horror and tension before it breaks and imagines things that are not there.  Such was the scene before my weary eyes.  It was a nightmare from which there would be no awakening.  We were plunged into blackness, and with it, deep despair…

Okay, OKAY, it wasn’t quite that bad.  Here’s what REALLY happened…

As this overcast day began, I was quite certain that my principal would be popping in during some portion of my reading block for an evaluation.  There were the usual rumors and stirrings of teachers in the workroom reporting that he was on the prowl and actively visiting classrooms.  To that end, I carefully prepared for the day and felt confident in my lesson plans.  Bring it on, Mr. Principal!

The children arrived and we began our day in the usual fashion.  I had just taken my first steps into the reading block (with an eye on the door for The Man), when suddenly the room was plunged into blackness.  All activity in the room ceased.  Please remember that my classroom is in the basement of our ancient school building.  I affectionately refer to my room as The Dungeon for a reason.  I have two very small windows in my room, but one is filled with a window air conditioner, so any natural light that happens to stumble into my kingdom is pathetic at best.  On a brilliantly sunny day, we get a tiny patch to enjoy (it sounds like a prison cell), and when it is dark and overcast, I am thankful for bright artificial lighting.  So when the lights go out… it is pretty darn dark down there.  The hallway beyond our door has no window whatsoever.  It is REALLY dark out there.

I was aware that all eyes were on me to guide them into a non-panic mode.  I was silent for the first few moments waiting to see if it was a blip on the grid that would immediately correct itself.  No lights reappeared…. still dark…. still dark…. “OKAY, children,” I said warmly, “it’s fine.  We’ll just keep going with our day.”  I knew it was coming and yet I did not invite it.  “I’m scared,” a small voice trembled.  Time to get proactive, Mrs. Dahl.  “Everyone come here,” I urged.  I knew they needed to feel another human being at that moment, and so I had them gather in a small circle.  I reassured quietly, but firmly, and told them that we would do reading time the best that we could, using the paltry light from the window to read by.  I knew the act of familiar routine would help dissolve their fears.  With my reassurances ringing in their quaking ears, they moved to grab their reading baskets. 

Just then my tardy principal appeared like an apparition at the darkened door.  He looked a little frazzled, I thought.  He commanded me to keep going instructionally and I smiled inwardly.  That was exactly what we were doing.  He nodded once, then was swallowed by the blackness of the hall as he left to “reassure” other teachers and classrooms of nervous students. 

The same trembling voice that had admitted fear of the dark now had a new and even larger dilemma.  “Mrs. Dahl,” came the tortured voice.  “I really have to go to the bathroom.”  A pause.  “… and I’m afraid to go by myself.”  This was quite an admission as this overwrought child was of the male variety and asking your female teacher to accompany you the to bathroom is unthinkable when you are an all-grown-up first grade boy.  “I’ll stand in the hall just outside the door,” I assured him. He did his business, grateful for my presence, and we continued our day.

Gathering my charges in a circle by the light-bearing window, we lay on our stomachs and popcorn-read our story out of our reading textbooks.  I had each child take the hand of the person on either side of them before we began.  “Remember, boys and girls, if you start to feel afraid, there is another person close enough to touch right beside you.  We are all here together and we are fine.”  They smiled and exhaled with relief.  I thought we should have a Reading in the Dark party, so I dug cheese puffs out of the closet and we read and munched and got orange splotches on our textbooks from our cheesy fingers.  I began to hear giggles and knew we had turned an emotional corner.  Fear had given way to adventure.

Mr. Calm appeared again with a flashlight in hand and handed it to me “just in case anyone needed to use the bathroom.”  Great timing. 

We were well past the ninety-minute mark of our Egyptian Plague.  Obviously flashlights had been delivered all around for the blackened hallway was now filled with beams of moving light as adventurous kids moved to the bathrooms en mass.  It was like a spelunking party out there.

I decided to forge ahead and administer a short quiz.  I was reading the first question to them when suddenly the fluorescent fixtures buzzed back to life.  It was a little blinding and a lot surprising.  “Darn,” one disappointed cherub exclaimed.  I was surprised.  ‘You LIKE the dark?”  “Yeah!” they all cheered.  A pint-sized problem-solver suggested we turn the lights back off.  I arched an eyebrow.  “Wait… you want it to be dark again??”  I was incredulous.  Another cheer.  I nodded and little Sally Sue ran to the wall switch.

And so, with the power back on and our reintroduction into the 21^st century, we sat on the floor and took our reading quiz in the dark.  These kids kill me.  And I love it with all of my middle-aged heart.

We had ourselves an adventure today.

And next year, I am requisitioning miner’s hats…

Full of Thanks (and turkey)

thankful |ˈTHaNGkfəl|

adjective

pleased and relieved: [ with clause ] : they were thankful that the war was finally over | [ with infinitive ] : I was very thankful to be alive.

• expressing gratitude and relief: an earnest and thankful prayer.

This day is nearly done.  My contribution to today’s feast, homemade crescent rolls and an artery-clogging bacon and broccoli salad, were easily prepared.  Our oldest, Trevor, is home for the long weekend and we have already enjoyed rare extended fellowship around our farmhouse table.  Someone else got to clean house for the gathering; I had only to show up bearing my edible gifts.  I loved today.  It was restful and full of sweet tradition.  It was my favorite sort of day. 

The only aching sigh of my heart was the two empty places at the table where Ryan and Cody should have been.  Letting go of adult children is both wonderful and terrible.  My wise mother always claimed that each stage of parenting is fun and unique.  She was right, of course.  I love the freedom of my rapidly emptying nest, but the echo of my own voice in a large and still house is a diligent reminder that my children are infrequent visitors in their own home.  I can only gently remind them that their home is always ready to receive them for however long or short they can visit.

I thought about that yesterday as my eyes swept my classroom and took in the chaos left in the wake of The Day Before a Holiday.  A three-day school week means that I could never expect to get in a full week of the reading basal.  I used the time (wisely, I feel), to go back and reinforce concepts that were a bit hurried before.  We played contraction bingo and practiced identifying plural nouns.  I am feeling better about their mastery of those important concepts.  Filling their little minds with all the required knowledge is such a hurried, sloppy affair sometimes.  If I could single handedly revolutionize the educational field, I would slow down instruction to a more rational pace.  But I digress….

I set about scraping paint off the table from our clay pot turkeys and picking orphaned crayons off the littered floor.  As school days go, it had been a little nutso.  I had forgotten that our PE time had been adjusted to be at the very end of the day, just before the bell rang.  While they ran their little hearts out in the gym, I frantically tried to organize their Thanksgiving crafts and graded papers so that they could just grab coats and backpacks and rush out the door to a four-day weekend.

In spite of the sudden blood pressure spike, I felt a hint of smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.  I was a little giddy as I thought about the coming break. Truthfully, I have not felt this way in three years.  As I searched the closet for plastic shopping bags to send paper chains home in, I realized that I had turned a momentous corner in my career and life.  It hit me like the crest of an emotional wave.  It was back.  My balance was returning and it felt incredible good.

When my charges were gone and the room suddenly quiet, I set about packing up to leave.  There was a time when I would have backed a United Van Lines moving truck to the door in order to transport half my classroom to my house so that I could keep working and get stuff done from the comfort of home.  Yesterday I had surprisingly little to take with me.  Oh, I’ve got projects, all right.  But I am learning to prioritize and not set the bar impossibly high (a major shortcoming).  I am learning to ask the imperative question, “What needs to be done TODAY?” and then leave the rest for another time.  Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks after all…

I am even surprisingly excited to decorate the house for Christmas on the day after Thanksgiving – a strict tradition in the Dahl house.  Last year I was downright grumpy about it.  My children were alarmed.  They kept trying to find “the thing” that would ignite my Christmas spirit, which is normally legendary.  I felt nothing but drudgery and duty as I wiped dust off plastic tubs and haphazardly tossed ornaments onto trees.  “Who cares about any of this?”  I kept thinking moodily. I was still trying to figure out how to be a teacher, I was in the middle of a graduate-level online course, and I had to somehow muddle through the holidays.  Last Christmas was horrible and I hated feeling so unlike myself.  My poor Hannah must have pondered how to strike out on her own at the tender age of fourteen. 

But this year feels completely different.  I am more ME.  Even this stupid blog is prime example.  I was amazed to realize a few days ago that last year at this time, I had twice as many posts as I do this year.  It averaged out to something like two a week.  OK, where did I eek out that kind of time on top of all else?   I have no clue.  I have determined that I will write when time and topic allow it.  I will not stress about it in between. 

So on this day of thankfulness, I am thankful for all of the clichéd things, like the rest of America, but I have a few items on my list that are unique to me.  If you have any interest in my list, read on…

I am thankful for Sam’s Club French Roast coffee beans.

I am thankful for milk chocolate and caramel – preferably together. These go great with the aforementioned French Roast coffee.

I am thankful for stretch jeans, which dovetails with the previous items.

I am thankful that my sons, Ryan and Cody, are being loved, fed, and nurtured in other homes tonight.

I am thankful that I am excited about Christmas again.

I am thankful for my church family that welcomes other cultures and is a safe haven for the saint and the sinner alike.

I am exceedingly grateful for friends that deepen my joy and make me laugh.

I am thankful for the unspeakable privilege of bringing four children into this world and for watching them write their own stories.  My heart beats with every breath they take. 

I am thankful for the man that shares my life and thinks I hung the moon. 

I am thankful that the second half of my life looks as interesting as the first half was.

I am thankful that I am gainfully employed.

I am thankful for sunsets so breathtaking I am forced to stop and stare.

I am thankful for lip gloss.

I am thankful for parents and aunts and uncles and cousins.

I am thankful for my siblings – the only other people on the face of the earth who get my jokes about our growing up years.

I am thankful for the teachers in my life who took an interest in me and made me feel intelligent, capable, and funny.  I hope I successfully pay that forward.

I am thankful for irises in my flowerbeds that make a splashy showing every summer.

I am thankful that when I shared the story of the very first Thanksgiving with my first graders, they had zero concept of that brand of hardship.  Even the poorest among them has food and shelter enough to grow and thrive.

I am thankful for the treadmill awaiting me that will help me atone for the overindulgences of today's dinner.  Holy cow, I am still stuffed!

I think I am most thankful for perspective enough to understand that I have it pretty darn good.  See, here’s the thing about gratitude and thankfulness.  If you hold your list of Things I Am Thankful For up against someone else’s list… a friend, a neighbor, a coworker, or a relative… then you don’t get it yet.  You are comparing your life with a life that will never be yours.  If you think owning something you don’t have, or meeting someone you don’t know, or becoming something you’re not is your path to happiness, then you need to hear this from me… you will never be happy, for true happiness is never circumstance driven.  Joy is the legitimate child of Contentment.  Contentment is the factory where Joy and Happiness are manufactured.  And here is the important part of this little sermon… contentment is a CHOICE. 

People are unnecessarily unhappy.  It drives bad decision-making, ends good relationships, and slides into despondency.  It is a preventable ailment.

So today, I do not place conditions on my gratitude.  I am thankful.  There is nothing more to add.  I am blessed, yes.  Unbelievably and immeasurably blessed.  But if it were all stripped away, I hope I would say the same.  For there will always be irises in the spring and sunsets that breathe the promise of another day. 

This is my “earnest and thankful prayer.” 

I am content...

The Magic Tree House: A Battleground State

We already had the presidential election, in case you had not heard.  It’s over.  The president for the next four years has been decided.  If you missed it, too bad for you.  The winner?  You’ll have to read to the end of this post for that groundbreaking news.

It began this way; the high school history teacher, a young redhead with the last name of Gandy, found his way to my dungeon last Friday morning with a fistful of paper ballots.  Would I please have my students participate in the school wide election?  Of course!  I love civics and love any opportunity to pull my children into that realm of conversation.  I cautioned him, however, that my children would be certain that their class election would indeed decide the next president… literally.  They will be astounded and outraged if the general election produces a different result than they come up with.  He smiled as if he didn’t really believe me in his Irish soul.  Really, Mr. Gandy.  You should never doubt a first grade teacher.

The ballots had only two voting opportunities on them; the U.S. presidential vote and our state senator candidates, Rick Berg (Republican), and Heidi Heitkamp (Democrat).  I knew I had the perfect children’s book to go with it.  Now, if I could only locate it before the bell rang.  Where was it, wheeeerrrre was it??  Aha!  Unbelievably, it was exactly where I thought it should be.  I may or may not have mentioned previously that I am not the most organized person in the world.  Occasionally the Mary Poppins gods smile upon me.

I marshaled the Darlings through morning pledge, book sticker charts, snack, and then into reading block.  I shared with the children the exciting news that WE were going to get to vote in the presidential election!  They cheered; for what, they were not entirely certain, but it sounded like fun to their six-year-old brains. 

Their base of knowledge on this topic is almost entirely molded by the amount of interest expressed in their individual homes.  If mom and dad do not talk politics in front of the kids, then the kids are a tad clueless.  We do discuss politics SOME in first grade.  But let’s face it; they are still trying to wrap their brains around the fact that the elementary principal and the school superintendant have no real powers outside of the school building.  To a first grader, being sent to the principal’s office is akin to being sent to the depths of the sea to face King Neptune.  Thinking large about who runs the country (and what’s a COUNTRY?  Is it as big as Wing, Mrs. Dahl?), is more than a little mind-blowing. 

I was smiling as I finished my triumphantly-located-perfect-for-the-occasion book, Grace For President by Kelly DiPucchio, a darling tale of a little girl who is shocked to discover that there has never been a female U.S president (I am a little amazed by that myself).  With the encouragement of her teacher, an election is declared and Grace is pitted against the school cool guy.  I won’t spoil the ending of that one yet either.  If you have primary-age children, read it and discuss it, even after the election. 

The Darlings loved the book and were rooting for Grace clear to the end.  Now it was time to vote!  I set up a polling booth, using one of their Saxon math folders – the kind covered with basic math information to be used as a quick reference resource.  We use them when we test so that the temptation to glance at other’s work is kept to a minimum.  I emphasized that voting is a private act and no one has the right to interfere or know how a person has voted.

Back to the election.

I played the part of U.N. observer (“Has anyone tried to influence your vote?  Are you indeed, a U.S citizen?“) I pulled name sticks out of the tin and ceremoniously had them come to our polling booth with a marker in hand.  All eyes watched each other seriously weigh options and then settle upon their choice for either president or senator.  To my surprise, poor Heidi got precious few votes.  I guess my book on “Women Can Do It As Well As Men” didn’t carry much weight.  No wonder we still keep electing men.  So with serious faces, Crayola markers in hand, and addition facts to twenty staring them in the face, they carefully marked their choices.

When all had casts their votes, I wrote the nominee names on the board and then we got to practice our tallying skills.  Eight ballots cast and eight tally marks on the official election whiteboard.  The major networks will share the results with a bit more sophistication, but the result will be the same.  By the end of the night, we will know who is our president.

As I broke my own rule and watched neon yellow markers fill in circles, I tried to mentally determine which children might come from conservative families and which ones from more liberal-leaning families.  I know, I know… voting should be a private act.  But I am the UN, remember?  I can make my own rules.

I laughed inwardly as child after child voted for Obama and then went on to vote for the Republican nominee for senator.  Did they hear the name Rick Berg at home or on television for roughly eight thousand times, and the name stuck?  Do they naturally gravitate to a man, as society at large does?  Do they just really like the name Rick?  I have no clue.  But one thing is obvious.  The Magic Tree House in not a blue state and not a red state.  We are unashamedly purple. 

Here is the tragic reality that will occur today during one of the most important presidential elections of our nation’s history.  My six-year-old students voted with as much information and knowledge about the candidates and issues as many a voting-age American.  It truly grieves me how little effort goes into making these monumental decisions.  Not all are so ill informed, of course (thankfully!), but the numbers that are, are just far too high for my comfort.

So who do my first graders think they single-handedly placed into the Oval Office?  Obama was the clear victor.  Of course, the incumbent always has momentum on his side.  It is easier to keep with a known quantity than risk someone even worse, at least that is what history has borne out. 

And so today, the 6^th of November, 2012, we get to gather at our local polling place and place a private vote for those that we feel will do the very best job for our towns, our states, and our country.  Are my Darlings the New Hampshire and Iowa of elementary politics?  Will their votes be prophetic for the rest of the country?  We should know in mere hours. 

The thing I love most about the aforementioned book, Grace for President, is that the deciding vote (yes, of course, for our heroine Grace!) was cast by a boy who surprised the school by bucking the trend and voting against the pack.  When asked why he did it, he responds that he felt Grace was the best person for the job.  Ask yourself the same question today as you pull the lever or fill in the circle or punch the computer keys.  Who will lead with true wisdom and preserve our beautiful nation?  Will we be better or worse off in four years as a result of your vote?  You must make that choice and vote with conscience, understanding the weight of your decision.  It is a high honor to live in a democracy.  Please do not disgrace it with crass indifference.

In the meantime, I have a class of first graders who will discuss today’s events over milk and granola bars, confident they have voted intelligently; a microcosm of coffee shops and gathering spots everywhere.  We will track results and discuss events until the closing bell. 

God bless America!

Mrs. Dahl Earns Her Iron Butt Biker Badge

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Our friendship sent up its first tenuous shoots through a tangle of hardship.

My neighbor just to the west of our farm had a catastrophic motorcycle accident in July of 2011.  She went for a run after her shift as an ICU nurse ended, which she often did, and hit a deer so hard, she literally cut the thing in two.  Margo went airborne and landed hard in the ditch, breaking bones, collapsing her lungs, and suffering traumatic brain injury.  She lay broken and bloody in the hospital, her three children worried sick and precious few people to lean on. 

Margo’s prognosis was grim.  There was such pressure on her brain from swelling that her children were told she would never work as an ICU nurse again.  Her team of doctors were certain rehabilitation would take anywhere from six months to a year.  No one dared venture a guess as to whether she would ever truly regain her full health and mental abilities.

But they underestimated my neighbor.  She is tough and she is determined.  She is a fighter in its fullest sense.  If she sets her mind to do something, then she will find a way to get it done.  She never once considered accepting the doctor’s predictions as certainty.  She fought to come back with every ounce of willpower she possessed, and if you know Margo at all, you know that is considerable.

As the summer weeks and months melted into autumn, she did the unthinkable and was released from the hospital after only four weeks.  And then she began the arduous task of regaining her strength.  She had multiple setbacks and nearly started over at times.  But not once did she give up.  Unbelievably, she was back to work in the ICU after only two months. 

Margo is beautiful, she is stubborn and strong, and she is a complete inspiration to me.  Her brilliant smile is matched only by her warm personality.  I am a complete fan and am honored to know her. 

I do not know if I possess her brand of strength.  I hope I never have to find out, but I suspect my future will demand that my mettle be tested eventually.  I recoil at the thought of suffering or sorrow.  But then I remember Margo and my spirit is quieted, for she has blazed a trail before me and calls back to me still far behind on life’s path that I can indeed face hardship bravely for she has already slain those dragons and she knows I can too.

One night in August of this year she called late to see if she could run over and use our printer.  Technological gremlins were at work in her computer.  Yes, of course.  Come right over.  As she found her web site and printed off forms, she excitedly described her upcoming motorcycle trip.  It was called the Iron Butt Challenge, aptly named because it demands a thousand grueling miles of riding in a 24-hour time span.

Typical Margo was brave enough to be the only woman going on this run.  Her big, tough biker buddies worried that she would be unable to keep pace.  She never once doubted herself.  I love her courage.  She’s got moxie by the pickup load.

As she described her imminent adventure, the wheels of Mrs. Dahl’s brain were going on their own motorcycle run.  I just had to ask.  I did.  She beamed.  Yes, of course!  I gathered supplies for her and thanked her profusely.

Then I set about praying for her safe journey and safe arrival back home.  She is tough, yes, but even heroic, careful Biker Babes have accidents and cut deer in half. 

When she returned, exhausted but exhilarated, having visited seventeen states and the District of Columbia, she had indeed fulfilled my wishes and delivered to me a half-a-dozen small zip top baggies of soil from points along her journey.  We had Margo and her equally amazing daughter, Fate, over for dinner.  They came bearing dirt –- the best sort of hostess gift, if you ask me.

I got the giggles listening to Margo share her stories of being questioned, teased, and even aided by her biker buddies, big, tough guys with names like Wrong Way, and Tiny (a giant).  At first they thought she had truly suffered permanent brain damage when she insisted she take the time to fish out her metal spoon for digging and shove samples of common soil into her saddlebags.  But they eventually caught on to the spirit of the thing and soon were reminding her to get her dirt before climbing back on their bikes and even playing lookout at places like the Vietnam Wall.  Tiny prevented her from being foolish when she wanted to do a little digging at the Pentagon.  Apparently, you don’t say no to Tiny.

She told of gathering soil at the base of the craziest section of their journey, a stretch of road called Tail of the Dragon near Knoxville - a twisty, curvy stretch of road with 318 curves in eleven short miles, a right of passage for the true biking disciple.  

Margo has become a generous donor even since then.  She also gathered samples for me from Deadwood, South Dakota, the outlaw town where Wild Bill Hickok was shot.  She even remembered me when on the trip of a lifetime to Lambeau Field to watch her precious Packers.  

As I stare at these remarkable symbols of people who are willing to do strange things for a strange teacher, I am touched and honored by their acts of thoughtfulness.  I am a shameless saleswoman; I freely admit that.  If you are silly enough to brag about traveling, I will ask for a “wee favor.”  I cannot really explain the amazing effect my simple requests has had on my neighbors, friends, community members, and even complete strangers. 

It is not uncommon to walk into my classroom in the morning and find a plastic bag of dirt on my desk marked with the name of location from some state or another.  I may not discover until a much later time who so graciously thought of us while vacationing in some fabulous spot. 

It has escalated from there. 

I recently was handed an entire bag of goodies from Vermont, complete with real maple syrup, which my angels thought tasted like heaven itself.  Such good-hearted people, these donors are.  They are singled out of security lines in airports to have their “contraband” tested for drugs and/or explosives, they make annoyed spouses wait while they kneel on beaches and alongside highways, they travel with plastic bags and metal spoons for digging and they are a little sick, just like the teacher they do these odd things for.

I just returned from a long weekend in the Deep South.  Several very dear, lifelong friends also turned the Big 5-0 this year.  We decided we would celebrate our mutual milestone with a trip to Charleston, South Carolina.  I packed way too many clothes, enough junk jewelry to supply a flea market, and a fistful of plastic bags.  I love to collect sand because I can touch first grade fingers to its dampness and tell them they are feeling the very moisture of the ocean.  My landlocked Darlings are captivated by anything to do with the ocean.

As my travelling companions and I strolled the boardwalk in Charleston, I noticed a ladder leaning against the sea wall.  There was no opening in the railing to get to the bit of beach in front of us, but climbing over a railing was not beneath this quasi-hippie with the stealth of a cat.  “Rules are for sissies!” I shouted to my friends and proceeded to take off any extraneous clothing that might impede my Bear Grylls-like moves.  I quickly climbed over the metal railing and descended the ladder onto damp sand.  Grabbing one of the multitude of broken shells littering the beach, I quickly scooped sand into my baggie, added a few shells for good measure and climbed back up the ladder to my waiting friends and discarded clothing.

Just as my head popped over the railing, a couple who were standing directly in front of me were startled at my sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere.  People were not supposed to be on that section of beach, after all.  “Hi!”  I grinned at my welcoming party.  As I dropped the goods into my bag and redressed myself, I chatted amiably with this couple as though we knew one another, ignoring their confused and silent faces.  Upon further inquiry, I learned they are from England.  England!  I just had to ask….  By the end of the conversation, not only had they promised to send soil from their English garden (“You don’t mean ordinary dirt??  I say, extraordinary…”), they had also agreed to Skype with my students and tell them what England is like.  I have not heard from them yet.  Is it possible they were just trying to escape the clutches of a pushy Yank who is shameless enough to solicit from complete strangers??  Nah…. 

I have ideas for expanding this little project of mine.  I recently wrote a grant and have yet to hear the results, but I would love to make this something the entire school could benefit from, and create an interactive website for students everywhere to complement it.  I get a little woozy thinking about adding more burden to my already exhausting life, but small steps for now.  As long as people are willing to share in the fun of participating, I will run with it.  If they will take a few moments to aide in the learning of geography for a small group of prairie-bound first graders, then I will gladly, shamelessly, whole-heartedly continue to ask even strangers for “just an ounce or two from your destination.”  I am still waiting to see if the garbage man comes through with soil from his trip to the Ukraine. 

And so…

If you travel to places my students have never been (which is anywhere outside a three-state region), and you are so inclined, we would be honored for you to send us a small sampling of the sand or soil from your locale.  A picture to accompany it would be icing on the cake.

Will I eventually have samples from all continents and countries?

Hey, I’ve earned an Iron Butt biker badge.  I can do anything…

I Hate Spelling Tests

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Spelling tests are such a yawner, are they not?  I mean, they are the ultimate example of fill-and-drill dryness.  Memorize by rote and write it down without help.  Yawn.

At the risk of being burned at the stake for teaching sacrilege, I think there might be a better twist on an old standby.  Don’t get me wrong.  I believe there is a place for assessing spelling and I do practice it in the Magic Tree House, but let’s be real here for one quasi-hippie moment.  I know incredibly brilliant adults who are terrible spellers.  You do too.  I think you either have the gift or you don’t.  I have heard others’ speak of research to substantiate this tsunami of a claim, and I really should document it here, but I am not in the mood to spend copious amounts of time with my search engine at the moment.  Sorry.

Beyond that, remember when the only way to check the spelling of a word was to open a (gasp) DICTIONARY?  Now dictionaries are loaded onto our laptops, tabbed on our dashboard, and are only a mere click away.  Maybe the need to memorize our words is less critical than it used to be.  Maybe emphasis should be placed instead on understanding what words mean and how they impact a sentence or a broader thought.   Just sayin’…

Back to Fridays. 

We work on our list of ten words all week.  We explore meaning and phonics rules and how they fit into the English language.  I love words and I want my students to fall in love with words too.  We spend a great deal of time playing with ways to use them.  Words rock.

But then Friday rolls around and it is time to get out a clean sheet of paper, number it to include a few bonus words thrown in, and get ready to torment already-tired first grade brains into yielding the magical, mystical spelling of those coded symbols.  It is tough slogging for emergent readers.

I am not sure when I first instituted it.  Some Friday in my very first semester of teaching it showed up unannounced.  My brain is odd that way.  While doling out words orally and peeking over shoulders to make sure all were with me, I found myself weaving the week's spelling words into a story that lasted the length of the word list.  I was amazed (and happy) to see I had their complete, absorbed attention.  Kids love stories.  I love to tell them.  It was a perfect marriage of instruction and entertainment.

Friday Spelling Stories are now a mainstay of my classroom.  The rules are few but important.  1.  I do not think about the story before the test begins (no cheating for Mrs. Dahl!) 2. The words are given in the same order as they are listed on my sheet from the teaching basal, and 3.  The story must always have a happy ending.  Here is an example:

This week’s spelling words were:

Ant

Trip

Sand

Grass

Very

Land

Fast

Sink

Help

West

Vest

The story went something like this:

“Once upon a time, there was a teeny, tiny ant named Ferdinand.  Ferdinand woke up one day and thought he would very much like to see the world beyond the beach where he lived, so he decided to go on a trip.  Ferdinand got into his teeny, tiny ant car and drove across the sand until he reached the grass far, far away.  It was a very long trip.  When Ferdinand reached his destination, he got out of his car and struck out on foot to explore this strange new land.  Ferdinand had only taken a few courageous steps when he heard a very odd sound.  Just as he was about to take another step, a hive of angry hornets exploded out of the grass and were headed right for Ferdinand!  Oh, no!!  Ferdinand turned around and began to run very, very fast.  He ran and ran and ran.  When he had outrun those furious hornets he slowed down to catch his breath and fill his teeny, tiny lungs with air when (wouldn’t you know it), he stepped right into a patch of quick sand and began to sink.  Poor, poor Ferdinand!  Whatever will he do?  He began to do the only thing he COULD do.  He began to call for help.  “Help!” cried Ferdinand in his teeny, tiny ant voice.  “Somebody please help me!”  Ferdinand was sinking deeper and deeper into the thick muck.  First he had been stuck up to his teeny, tiny knees.  Now the goopy sand was up to his waist, and now his chest.  Ferdinand cried for help all the harder.  “Please somebody!  Please save me!”  Just when the sand was to his chin and then just under his tiny ant nose, he heard the cry of a bugle that sounded something like this, “Da da da dah, dah dahhhhh.”  It sounded like the cry of the Calvary.  It sounded like help!  And it was coming from the west!  Ferdinand watched hopefully as suddenly a giant black, shiny beetle burst upon the scene.  The beetle was enormous and wore the oddest vest Ferdinand had ever laid eyes upon.  Ferdinand could no longer speak for the quick sand had covered his mouth, but he thought frantically, “please, please hurry!!”  As Ferdinand watched helplessly, the enormous beetle pushed a button on his vest and a long, robotic arm shot out of Beetle’s vest and a fake hand reached quickly across the sand to our sinking hero.  The hand grabbed Ferdinand by the top of the head and yanked him out of the quick sand faster than you can say, “glub, glub!”  Ferdinand lay panting on the edge of the mucky hole and was glad to be saved and glad to be alive.  He thanked Beetle gratefully and decided that it was time to go home.  His sandy beach suddenly seemed like the perfect place to be.  It was time to go home.  The End”

When I had given the last word off the list, eight pairs of eyes were riveted on my face and eight chatty mouths were silent and literally gaping open.  I have to prompt them at each new word to get back to the business of writing spelling words.  I provide them ample time to sound their word out and think carefully.  It is not a rushed process.  Six-year-old brains need processing time.  The next segment of the story must wait for all to be ready.  Our tests take a little longer than they probably should.

So now I suppose you want to know how they score on such a lark of an assessment.  It is a fair question.  Do they do better?  Worse?  Hard to know… Those that study do better, of course, than those who don’t.  Some things in the classroom do not change.  I do think and hope that it instills a love of language within in them that will serve them their entire lives. 

Is this responsible teaching?  I don’t know.  I honestly don’t.  I do know it is fun for them and me.  When all papers were turned in on Friday, one little pixie wrapped arms around me and shouted joyfully, “That was FUN!” 

It was indeed.

The End

The Day We Stormed the Mayor's House

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She showed up unannounced. 

I was absorbed in the task of putting the Magic Tree House to rights after an exceptionally messy day.  I grabbed a stack of papers and was just about to run up the stairs from the Dungeon when I nearly ran over her.  Dear me.  It would never do to plow down the mayor’s wife in cold-blooded abandon.  The building was nearly empty.  At least there would be no witnesses.

I greeted her warmly and wrapped my arms around her (I am a chronic hugger).  She is a lovely woman, the First Lady of our fair town.  Lovely AND a patron of the Magic Tree House.  She once showed up at our classroom door, her arms loaded with goodies for our prize box.  God bless Mrs. Mayor.

I inquired as to what brought her to my classroom so late in the afternoon.  She gave me her unique warm smile that makes a person feel showered with golden shafts of sunlight.  “I just wanted to see if you have done anything to your classroom lately.”  Another beam of light from her perfect smile.  “You know,” she confided conspiratorially.  “I tell everyone that this is the greatest classroom in the world.”  Wow.  I thanked her profusely for her generous praise and kind words.

We chatted amiably about this and that and she inquired about how my school year was going, how our daughters think so highly of one another, and whatever other trivial crumbs of inanity women find to discuss and men scratch their heads over.  Our conversation drifted to a nature walk I had taken the Darlings on a few days prior.  “I almost took them into your yard to play in your leaves,” I confessed.  “I have students who admitted they have never jumped into a pile of leaves!  Imagine that!”  My face reflected my incredulosity (do not panic or feel stupid.  This is another one of my endless made-up words). 

Her sky-blue eyes were suddenly backlit.  “Bring them over!  I’ll leave rakes out on the back patio and you can jump to your hearts’ content.  And feel free to use the swing set.  It just sits there unused anymore.  I would LOVE for you to get some use out of it.”  She ended with another luminous smile and I gladly received its sparkling shower of starry constellations.

The hamster that turns the wheel in my brain had just drunk a Red Bull and was spinning that wheel like crazy.  I couldn’t just spirit them away from the building for the sheer fun of it.  There would have to be purpose and meaning behind it.  Somehow it would have to have a tie-in to my educational goals (darn standards!)  Like Lucy Ricardo scheming with Ethel, I considered my options.  “OK, here’s what I’ll do.  Next Tuesday we’ll have our science lesson outside in your yard.  Then we can jump in leaves for awhile.”  We grinned at one another like we had just hatched the greatest caper of all time.  She sealed the deal with, “I’ll let my husband know too, so if I’m not there he’ll be prepared for the sight of our backyard full of kids!”  The mayor himself.  I was enormously pleased with our little scheme.

The day of the Great Escape dawned brilliant and unseasonably warm.  It was forecasted to hit the 80’s in the afternoon; simply unbelievable weather for October. I smiled smugly about it all morning.  I waited until late morning before announcing my afternoon surprise.  Oh, the cheers were deafening.  They just could not believe their amazing luck to get to participate in such a grand fall ritual.

When I finally had them to myself after lunch, recess, and Needs Based Instruction block, I herded them out the door and into the warm sunshine.  It was undoubtedly scripted by the good Lord himself.  I lead my charges like a mama duck waddling her babies to the pond.  They were jubilant beyond description.  They hopped and jumped and whooped and hollered.  Their six-year-old feet barely touched the ground, so happy were they to be out where children should be found on such a perfect day. 

I had made a big deal out of going to play in the Mayor’s yard.  They were dutifully impressed.  They kept asking if we would get to see the mayor.  I did not know.  He was probably off doing mayoral things, or working his day job (did I mention this is a really small town?), or hunting pheasants, or something else equally common. 

As we trudged across the playground, past the ancient teeter totters, the famous Puke Machine, and swings that were probably installed the same year FDR was sworn in, we cut west towards the houses that butted up against the school property.

As we got closer to our destination, one of my more theatrical boys pointed excitedly to the house next to the mayor’s.  “Hey,” he yelled enthusiastically.  “That’s MY house!  That’s my house, Mrs. Dahl!”  I smiled.  “We’re almost there, boys and girls!”  Mr. I-Live-Next-To-The School was still beaming over his notoriety.  I was listening to his babble behind my right shoulder, his finger still pointing to the back door of his house.  “That’s my house!” he repeated.  “Hey, everybody!  Did you know that’s my house?  That’s my… HEY!  Wait a minute.  I live next to the MAYOR????”  He nearly hyperventilated.  “Mrs. Dahl, the mayor is MY neighbor??”  It was like the first time Lisa Marie Presley understood her father was a big deal.  “Yes, you certainly do live next door to the mayor.”  I could feel the dawning admiration from his classmates being laid at his metaphoric feet.  He was suddenly something of a celebrity and enjoying it enormously.

Having arrived at our destination, we lined up at the base of the ladder leading us to the Fort in the Clouds (or so it seemed to my Little Peeps), and I took science worksheet-holding clipboards from happy hands, laid them up on the floor of the fort, and helped short legs climb the steep rungs to Adventure Ahead Land.  The study of science was (predictably) a complete Forget It.  Excited little bodies were fairly vibrating with pure energy.  Their heads were swiveling everywhere but on their plant parts worksheets.  I quickly wrapped up this train wreck and took the lens cap off my camera.  Happy little faces filled my viewfinder and I snapped with abandon.  “Mrs. Dahl, can I take YOUR picture?”  Sure.  Why not?  Eight little bodies lined up behind the aspiring photographer waiting for their own chance to hold Mrs. Dahl’s ever present camera. 

As the last picture of their favorite quasi-hippie was being snapped, one owner of a particularly small bladder suddenly announced, “I need to go to the bathroom!”  This was shades of when I had small children at home.  It seemed I would no sooner get tots into snowsuits or car seats or into the 3-mile long checkout line at Wally World and my cherub would shout with preschool gusto, “I have to go potty!!  NOW!” 

I quickly entertained a few options for Patty Pee Pee and discarded all but one.   We would just have to skeedaddle back to the school.  “Children, please line up quickly!”  Mass confusion and the threat of an uprising were etching themselves on impatient faces.  We hadn’t even jumped in leaves yet!  Mrs. Dahl, are you in the beginning stages of dementia??  I hastily filled in the basic information and a few others seemed relieved after admitting the same need.  I assured them we would quickly be back to finish our adventure.

Hiking my long skirt up in order to make better time, I lead my ducklings back past the World War II swings, the Puke Machine, the teeter totters, and down the back stairs into the Tree House and out to the bathrooms.  I have never seen them use the facilities so quickly.  It was like Superman changing clothes in the phone booth (a WHAT?... my younger readers are thinking…)

In no time at all we were once again hopping, skipping, jumping, soaring, and sailing past confused swings, Puke Machines, and teeter totters.  The long skirt was hiked higher yet as music class was now only ten minutes away.

And then it was time for our Grande Finale.

I ran to the patio to see if Her Majesty had remembered her promise to leave rakes out for us.  I had to dodge a dog pile.  Well, I guess the mayor’s dog poops just like any old peasant dog.  I spied the yard utensils and ran back to my jumping-bean first graders and showed them how to quickly rake into a pile.  As I pulled a nice pile together, I suddenly realized that the mayor’s wife is a stinkin’ genius!  She finagled an entire class to rake the leaves in her yard, and had made me believe it would even be fun!  Oh, the diabolical genius… 

When all had taken a turn with the rake and we had a sizable pile, I set the rake aside and announced it was time to jump!  I suddenly remembered that this moment should surely be recorded.  “Wait!  Not yet!  I need to take a picture!”  Groans from frustrated jumpers were heard all arounbd.  This sounded eerily like my children on a Christmas morning before gifts. 

With that necessity out of the way, I counted down from five.  At “one” they ran as a pack and jumped, squealed, and giggled like they had been handed the keys to Toys R Us.  Golden leaves were tossed high in the air and smiles a mile wide covered every sweet face.  I knew that this was a moment that these precious children would never forget. 

And neither would I.

 Two happening today added the epilogue to yesterday’s hatching of our Perfect Day.  The first came mid-afternoon.  While putting the finishing touches on a few unfinished projects, a little pixie face suddenly beamed in my direction.  “When I got home yesterday, I made a big pile of leaves and jumped in!  There are leaves EVERYWHERE now,” she added, triumphantly.  Now other voices chorused that they had done the same.  The same sweet grins as I had reveled in yesterday were beaming up at me now.  Yeah… it had been well worth the time and effort and had accomplished what I had hoped.

My pint-sized neighbor-to-the-mayor had gone home after school the day of our grand adventure and excitedly enlightened his mother that they live next door to THE MAYOR!  “She already knew,” he confessed in shocked wonder. 

The second moment came as I stepped out the door for the day at 5:30.  I stared incredulously out the windows on the heavy front doors.  It was … snowing!!  Some of the fattest flakes I have ever witnessed were floating downward, covering cars, grass, and steps.  In less than 24 hours, we had left the warm shelter of Autumn and had now entered the cold corridor of winter.  Would there even be another day perfect for “fort science” and leaf jumping??

It does not matter.  We had drunk the last dregs of summer.  We frolicked in fall’s harvest under the bare branches of near-naked trees, and we laughed and pretended for just a moment that school is fun.  Sometimes learning becomes less about knowledge and more about wisdom.

I hope…

I hope when I am old and my body frail… I hope I remember last Tuesday.  I hope I can return in my mind to a warm fall day in early October and envision once again joyous children tossing golden leaves high into the air.  I hope I remember the simple ecstasy splashed on those precious faces.  I hope I can hear their bubbling laughter and feel once again their little arms wrapped around me in spontaneous hugs as they thank me for such a fun day.  Such will be the accumulated treasures of my life.

I am satisfied.

Mrs. Dahl in the "fort"