Midnight Train to Georgia

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My name is Georgia.  Mrs. Dahl asked me to tell my story.  I hesitated, only because I have just nine days left to live.  Time is precious.  Writing an autobiography as a guest blogger wasn’t on my bucket list.  My biological clock is tick, tick, ticking.  I need to find my soul mate like, yesterday.  It is so very difficult to find the right guy these days.  Well, ANY guy for that matter… Oh well, more on that later.

Here’s my story…

I arrived on Mrs. Dahl’s doorstep orphaned and abandoned.  There were six of us in all; six tiny, vulnerable, hungry orphans.  I got to know a couple of them pretty well.  Bob was the most friendly and the class clown.  Bob and I hung out together a lot.  I remember how my new mom looked as she pulled me up close to her face for the first time.  She smiled (cause she’s weird that way).  Then she got distracted by something or other -- I swear she’s a little ADD and A LOT blond – and set us down on the art table.  I heard her mutter under her breath as she walked away, “I’ll have to find those instructions and read them later… ”  OK, that worried me some.  Surely there is some sort of vetting process for adoptive parents.  Man, I sure hope so.  I wasn’t sure what to think at that moment.  I only knew I was HUNGRY.  So incredibly, insatiably, gnawingly, hungry.  “Where does she keep the Pop Tarts?”  That’s what I wanted to know. 

I wasn’t related to the other orphans, at least I don’t think I am.  I guess one can never be quite sure, especially when one doesn’t even know who their parents are.  I guess mom and dad just did “the deed” and then went their separate ways.  Casual sex has its consequences.  I guess I am what you would consider a “consequence.”  I was born outdoors and then left to fend for myself.  I know what you’re thinking.  My parents should be arrested for callous neglect.  Or at least turned into Social Services.  No, it’s OK, really.  This was my destiny.  I know how it is and nothing can change that.  I am not bitter and I do not harbor resentment.  I don’t have time for negative emotions.  Nine days, remember?

So back to my first day with Mrs. Dahl.  I ate everything I could lay my hands on.  I mean everything.  And it must have been nutritious stuff because I grew.  Man, oh man, did I grow!  To the point that (Ok this is going to sound really weird), but my skin actually felt a little… I don’t know how to describe it exactly, but my skin felt tight.  Yeah, I know.  Freaky, huh?  So I’m sitting around wondering how to get a pizza delivered, and BOOM!  My skin splits open, from the top of my head, right down my abdomen, and clear to my feet.  Holy shemoly, I was FREAKING!!  Whaaaat is haaaaapening????  Am I in a Twilight Zone episode?  Is an alien gonna’ pop out of my gut?  But then it hit me.  I felt… really….. GOOD.  Yeah, baby…. Oooh.  After stretching and stepping out of my old creepy, gross, disgusting skin, I located that Papa John’s number and put my feet up until the doorbell rang.  Then I ate the entire pizza by myself.

So that’s pretty much how my days went.  I’d gorge myself until I wanted to hurl, then the old skin would pop like a natural casing hotdog on the grill.  And every stinkin’ time it felt GREAT!!!  It’s like unzipping your pants after grazing at the Hungry Heifer all-you-can-eat buffet.  Ahhhhh…. relief.   Now, who’s up for Chinese??

And then, on day seven, I had a sudden urge to climb.  Ever see Close Encounters of a Third Kind?  You know, where Richard Dryfuss creates this huge mud thing in his house because he just HAS to?  It was kinda like that.  So I climbed. Right to the top. And then sticky stuff started coming out of my body and I’m suspended there, for like a day.  I can’t reach my food, I can’t get back down, I can’t do ANYTHING.  I felt like a dork.  So I sang a lot.  You know, stuff like you sing at camp.  Oh, and some Earth, Wind, and Fire.  I love R & B.  It helped pass the time until… I didn’t know what.  I didn’t know if I would die up there from hunger or if the fire department would come and rescue me like a kitten in a tree.  I just had no idea what to expect.  So I kept singing.  I was on the second verse of, “September,” when things got shoved into overdrive on this wild and wacky adventure.  I mean WEIRD stuff.

Suddenly, my skin splits AGAIN and now I’ve got this strange, but kinda’ beautiful green undercoat thing goin’ on.  And then the darn thing starts to harden.  It’s like I’m being imprisoned in my own body.  I know I’m always saying that I could use more time to myself, but this was really over the top.  Now I’m completely encased in myself, like a little kid zipped tight in their sleeping bag. 

I’m not that crazy about the dark either.  Or tight spaces.  I had both goin’ on in spades.  Now I can’t breathe.  I think I’m hyperventilating!  Quick, I need a paper bag!  Breathe, Georgia, BREATHE!!  Go to your happy place and try to relax…

When my heart stopped racing like the pistons on a Corvette, I took stock in my predicament.  I put my hand to my chin cuz I was thinking, right?  And then I realized with horror that where my hand had formerly been, there was nothing more than a sticky, oozy glob.  I… was… LIQUIFYING!!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!  Somebody wake me from this zombie horror nightmare!!!

And then everything went black.  I must have passed out or something.  I have no idea how much time elapsed.  I’m guessing a week or more.  Was I dead?  Not sure.  Maybe.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  All I know is, I awoke and saw a thin ribbon of light shining into my dark cave.  Light?  Am I free now? 

I felt odd.  REALLY odd.  And really light.  I wriggled a little to get a better look at the light shaft, when all of a sudden, my surroundings opened wide.  I blinked in the harsh light, but decided escape was now or never.  Pushing with all my might, I broke free of my prison and was now fully outside the sleeping bag thingy and clinging to a net.  I looked around with wonder.  Where WAS I?  I took in my surroundings.  I was in some sort of mesh enclosure and there were other creatures with me.  Two, in fact.  Beautiful, totally graceful creatures wearing the greatest outfits ever.  And there were also three green sleeping bag things hanging from a hook.  Was this heaven?  Hell?  Purgatory?

I began to lean towards the hell option when I realized that I was being watched.  I could feel the stares before I saw who or what it was.  Chills ran up and down my spine.  I wasn’t being watched by the fashionistas with me.  No, these were childish faces with enormous eyes, messy hair, and spaghetti sauce on their faces.  Were these monsters?  Ogres?  They weren’t of my species, that much I knew.  They were creeping me OUT!  Those big, unblinking eyes were pressed against the mesh and they were giggling and shouting things like, “Mrs. Dahl, another one emerged!!”  “Mrs. Dahl, it’s flying!!”  “MRS. DAHL, its drinking nectar from the cantaloupe!!”  “IT’S DRINKING NECTAR, MRS. DAHL!!”  Why did every syllable from their mouths have to be at 120 decibels??

Wait… nectar??

Now I’m thinking about some pretty pressing needs.  I am RAVENOUS.  I look around frantically and spot winged creatures sitting atop strawberry slices and orange cantaloupe chunks.  FOOD!!!  Now how to get down there??  I’m a climber, not a flyer.  As I sat pondering this dilemma, I realized I am hovering.  How is this possible?  I can feel the soft rush of air around my body and the chills start down my spine again.  No, it cannot be.  This is not happening.  I’m a climber.  I climb.  I have little feet, not…. Not WINGS!!  Holy cow, I HAVE WINGS!!  Can I move them?  How do you make wings move?   I’m trying too hard, I think.  Just relax, Georgia.  Just go with it.  Be the wings.  Yes, yes!  Hee hee… HOLY COW, I. Am. FLYING!!!  This completely rocks.  I might join the circus or something.  No, wait.  I can’t.  I only have nine days left to live.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I suddenly have a craving for canteloupe juice.  Mmmmmm…. it’s like the best stuff I’ve ever tasted.  It’s like nectar.  Wait, it IS nectar.  No wonder nectar gets so much positive buzz. Nectar is delicious! 

I’m sitting there hogging an entire orange chunk of fruit and eyeing a nearby strawberry, when a winged creature lands softly next to me.  “How you doin?” he asks amiably.  I stare.  This voice I know.  My mind is racing with options and possibilities, none of them making any sense.  But that voice… it HAS to be.  “Why you starin’ at me?,”  that voice asks a little defensively.  I have to ask.  I have to know.  It is not possible, but I have to know.  “BOB??” I ask incredulously.  “Yeah….” He answers hesitantly.  “Do I know…?”  Suddenly his eyes grow wide and his antennae stand at attention.  “GEORGIA??”  We just stare at each other, not comprehending.  “How…?”  “Who…?” 

The next days speed by as we enjoy our new wings and all the nectar we can sip through our proboscis.  We gradually began to accept our new look and even got a little narcisstic about ourselves.  The flattery flowed between us like spilled chocolate milk in the lunchroom.  “Nice colors on the wings, girlfriend.”  “Ha!  Oh, Bob, you are such a charmer!”  Then more giggling and flirting.  You know how it goes.  I think we could all feel the pressure to reproduce building.  We knew the clock was ticking.  Time to bust out of this joint.

For one thing, we were getting really tired of being watched all the time.  We couldn’t do anything without those big eyes and grinning mouths in our personal space at all times.  It gets worse.  Not only were we the center of attention, for like, seven hours a day, we were actually suspended above some sort of worktable in a room with painted clouds on the walls and a fake tree in the corner. It was like living The Truman Show.  The only upside was that the lady the little ogres referred to as “Mrs. Dahl” brought us fresh fruit chunks everyday.  So I guess she was OK.  Kinda’ had chaotic hair and hippie leanings, but she was cool.

Me and my friends met in small huddled groups and whispered ideas to one another of how to escape our see-through jail cell.  Ideas were bandied about, and then discarded.  We were too light to rip the mesh and not strong enough to unzip the top.  Days blended into nights and then back to days again.  And still we were trapped.  Our situation was growing more desperate by the hour.  Bob was bouncing a rubber ball against the wall of our cell one day, pondering more options when suddenly an earthquake struck.  The whole enclosure shook violently.  Were we going to die imprisoned forever,   never to have known the sweet freedom of the outdoors with its blue skies and gentle winds?  We had just days left to reproduce, and now it looked as though that dream would never be realized. 

It was our darkest hour.

But then, we were suddenly being carried up stairs, the jarring chatter of the little ogres a cacophony of noise.  And then….

And then....

We were outside!  The smells, sounds, and sights were overpowering.  I wept.  I noticed Bob was a little misty too.  “Allergies,” he tried to deflect with.  Whatever.... 

Our mesh prison was placed gently on the sweet, green grass of a large field and then the faces were there again, saying words of parting and undying love and devotion.  Each ogre was allowed to say something in turn and a few goodbye notes were dropped in carefully from the top. 

I heard Mrs. Dahl say, “Are you ready?”  and a loud chorus of cheers erupted.  Then the Zipper of Incarceration came apart and her giant hand gently scooped a compatriot towards the top of the enclosure.  And… floop!  Suddenly one of our own was gone!  I pressed my face to the mesh and watched in disbelief as she spread her beautiful wings and soared to the heavens.  The Little Ogres shouted with joy and flapped their gangly arms and chased after my friend, encouraging her on. 

My emotions were a raging mix of conflicting forces.  I was so happy for her!  But so  heartbroken that I was still trapped.  I wanted to soar too!!  Just as I was ready to scream my fear into the wind, the giant hand appeared again and scooped another pal towards the endless blue of the sky and freedom.  Again the ogres screamed with delight and chased another chum into the heavens.  Mrs. Dahl was snapping pictures like fury and smiling that goofy smile of hers.  She seemed inordinately pleased with herself.

Then the top opened again and again and again.  Bob was next.  He looked at me with something of a twinkle in his beady little eyes, and simply said, “See ya on the outside.”  And then he was gone too.

I waited.  And prayed.  I knew my time had come.  And then as if in a surreal dream, the top opened wide, the blue sky beckoned, and I felt my wings beating a song of release, matching the beating of my tiny heart.  I felt my body rise, clearing the enclosure, and I sailed into the winds.  I was free!  I had never known such joy.

I was only vaguely aware of the ogres clapping and cheering my release and running beneath me, their voices growing more distant and finally fading into a soft hum of giggles and shameless joy. 

I smiled and stretched my breathtaking wings to their fullest extent.  And just as I cleared the maple at the edge of the field, I caught a brief glimpse of Mrs. Dahl.  She was looking straight at me and mouthing the words, “Be free…”

I caught a wind current and soared over a freshly planted wheat field, eager to find a mate and reproduce. 

Now... where did Bob go???

Epilogue:  I don't purport to know the thought processes of butterflies, but the rest is largely true.  We watched six tiny Painted Lady caterpillars go through the entire process, culminating in metamorphosis.  The Darlings each adopted a butterfly and gave it a name, which was dutifully recorded on the adoption papers.  Georgia and Bob were two of those names. On the last day of school, we paraded out to the playground and released them with as much fanfare as we could muster. It was a beautiful day, both literally and figuratively.  

And if you see a Painted Lady butterfly alight on a leaf or flower, please say hello from the Darlings.  It may be one of ours…

The Darlings wrote goodbye notes to their adopted butterflies

The custodian made this tiny top hat and briefcase for the departing butterflies

The children joyfully chased each butterfly upon release and cheered their flight

A few stuck around and graciously allowed my Darlings to get up close and personal

One student hands a feasting Painted Lady to another student without disrupting the meal in the least

Utterly captivated and intrigued

Such great detail of a Painted Lady sipping dandelion nectar

There's Something About Her

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She flits into my classroom early in the morning.  Although she lives within walking distance of the school, she usually arrives before other students and a few teachers as well.  Large schools have policies about that sort of thing and they shoo the Early Birds into the cafegymatorium or cattle chute them into a hot breakfast line. 

Not us.   

Eventually an aide will take them outdoors to play in order to give we teachers those last precious moments of day’s preparation.  But there are no rules about colonizing them into regions unknown the moment their feet cross the threshold.

She is not one of my first graders, but rather a student from an upper elementary grade.  She habitually walks on her toes and it creates the stealth of a cat on lush grass.  I generally do not know she is there until she is nearly upon me.  I am endlessly surprised that she never startles me.  She waits for me to acknowledge her presence and then she greets me with a never changing, “Hi, Mrs. Dahl.”  She smiles her sad little smile, but behind her cat-shaped eyes I detect the sparkle of intelligent wit .  I am usually in the middle of laying out seat work, or entering grades, or trying to answer a parent’s email in those last eye-of-the-hurricane moments before the Darlings come spilling through the doorway, all jabbering simultaneously and in desperate need to tell me about what they dreamed about, or what they had for supper the night before, or their newest video game victory.  It is my favorite part of the day, when they are energetic and fresh for learning.  There is generally a note or two shyly laid on my desk like offerings for capricious gods declaring their endless love for me, along with stick figure drawings.  I can always pick out myself in primitive artwork.  I am the tall one with the chaotic hair. 

And so it is sometimes difficult to fully focus on my early morning apparition.  Her next words are also unvaried and never fail to soften my heart a little and pull my eyes to her face and my attention to her words.  “I brought you something.”  “What is it today, dear?”  Only then will she allow herself to enter my personal space.  It is akin to the king raising his scepter for a peasant to enter his presence. 

Her long, slender fingers then open gracefully to reveal whatever treasure grabbed her attention that day. It may be a feather, or a leaf, or a frog, or beetle.  She is famous for her ceaseless collecting of interesting rocks.  She has donated countless chunks of quartz to my science discovery shelf and even a few treasured fossils. 

Yesterday she placed three green bean seeds lightly in my hand.  Today a dozen dried kernels of corn and lettuce seeds. “I thought your students could plant these in their soil (we are in the middle of a huge thematic soil unit) and see if they’re good for growing stuff.”  She paused, waiting for my encouragement to continue.  I give it.  “That is a great idea,” I assure warmly. 

Now that the charitable deed is done, she wanders around my classroom thoughtfully, noticing things that most people miss.  Her senses are oblivious to the common nuances of everyday living.  She struggles with finding her niche in the society of her class.  She does not seem to notice or alter her behavior when her peers teasingly point out her differences to others her age.  She is offended at times, yes, but sees no need to change her foundational self in order to fit someone else’s mold.  She is unashamedly true to herself.  I cannot help but admire that a little.

The opposite pendulum swing is that she seems to be attuned to things most people are too busy or noisy to notice.  She walks outside with her head down, always. Not because she is disconsolate or lacks confidence.  No, rather, she is engrossed with what amazing discovery she might find at that moment.  She is the most aware nature lover I have ever met.  It is appreciated by few.  Maybe no one.  I’m not sure.  

Maybe that’s why she brings her bounty to me.  She knows I will exclaim over the half robin’s egg, or the ladybug in the cup.  I identify with her, this child who struggles to find her place in society, but who butterflies follow and the Sun kisses with appreciation.  I understand her peaceful coexistence with nature.  As a child, I too walked with my head down and stooped to pick up a pink quartz stone or a clover.  I would climb every tree in our sprawling yard and sit quietly for hours listening to the birds and watching squirrels chase up and down trunks.  I would rather be outside than anything and I couldn’t get enough of the wonders of nature.  If my neighbor and best friend was busy and couldn’t play, no worries.  I’ve got trees to climb.

I haven’t changed in this regard.  I am still daily amazed at how wonderful this big world is.  I still look up and wonder how the geese know where to go and when.  I smile that green grass is emerging from still cold ground.  I think about gravity and interesting clouds and spotted fawns and how my tomato seeds can lie dormant for decades and then rise from the dead, given the right set of circumstances.  I am flat out blown away by these irrevocable truths. 

My little friend is too, I think.  I don’t know how much she knows or cares about God, but I’m pretty sure she’s a fan, like me.  Like me, she finds her sanctuary at the top of an oak.

I turned back to my grading this morning as she gazed at my soil sample display and the praying mantis tank and the tray of rocks with magnifying glasses beside them and I heard her sigh in appreciation.  “Mrs. Dahl, your room is like a dreamland of science.”  I beamed.  For a moment we basked in the shared appreciation of nature and I laughed a happy laugh.  She is a quasi-hippie in training.

I have small hopes for this child and myself.

I hope I always find time to make this small, daily connection with her.  She stopped coming for a while and I found I missed her and her gathered treasures.  When I told her so in the hallway one day, she was incredulous.  “You do??”  The very next morning she was back as if no time had elapsed.  Her silent approach, standard greeting, and proffered gifts were all there.  When she left this morning, I carefully added the corn kernels to the small dish with the bean seeds.  I would share them with my first graders during reading rug time.  She took the time to bless our class with them.  They will be graciously discussed in turn. 

I hope my students catch her love of nature.  I hope they learn to see things others miss.  I hope they are never in too big a rush to spot a treasure and lean down to pick it up for examination.  I hope they climb a few trees and listen to the birds’ song for the sheer joy of it.  I hope they learn to recognize the beauty all around them.  I hope the setting sun takes their breath away everyday of their lives.  I hope they never stop wondering or asking questions about the things they see and feel and hear.  I hope they are amazed by something each and every day.  I hope they catch the spirit of my little friend.

I think the world could use a few more quasi-hippies…

Hello, World

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I need your help...

Maybe you don’t know that I can see you – well, not YOU in particular.  But I can see which countries stop by for a visit.  I know how many times you visit and I know which of my posts you are reading.  I know that many of you stumble into my little universe via Google or Bing on your quest for pictures of my Magic Tree House themed classroom.  I surmise then that many of you are teachers like me. 

I am hoping you will now be willing to “out” yourself in a big way and help me with a project that’s kind of a big deal to me.  I won’t even make you message me privately.  I will post my name and school mailing address at the end of this and you can just dig a few ounces of dirt out of your petunia bed and pop it right into the mail.  I would love a return address so that the Darlings can send a proper thank you.  But if you choose to remain anonymous, I respect that too.

I’ll put the old bus in reverse for a moment…

While in college “The Sequel” a couple of years ago, a methods instructor mentioned that she always made sure to pack zip top plastic bags whenever she traveled for the purpose of bringing a little of the local soil back to her classroom.  I was instantly intrigued.  I made notes to myself to do the same when I stopped mortgaging my children in order to pay for college in order to become a teacher who would never make enough money to justify the cost of college… oops… did I say that out loud?

Fast forward three years and I am still loving this chosen career path and finding it incredibly rewarding and challenging.  Kids are the most wonderful creatures on earth and they make me smile every day.  And sure enough, I kept my promise to myself and started asking friends and family to help me begin my own collection of soils and sands.  I was unprepared for the enthusiastic response.  I have blogged about it several times – both the funny anecdotes and the heartwarming tugs – so I’ll not drive down that freeway today.  But please take a moment and read through them for a taste of what this project has become.  I think it will inspire you.

The aforementioned methods professor asked me last spring if she could come visit my classroom just for the fun of it.  I was honored.  In the course of that afternoon she and I visited about my acclimation to teaching, fun ideas I incorporate into lesson planning, you know… the sort of scintillating trivia that would put a hyperactive poodle to sleep.  When she found out I had followed in her dirty footsteps, she wanted to hear more.  That conversation got her wheels turning.

She recently asked if I would be willing to write about it with her. That got even more wheels turning.  We decided to jointly teach a thematic unit on the properties of soil and its importance to life on Planet Earth.  We’ll begin doing that this very week.

Here’s where I need YOU, my blogosphere world readers.  If you are at all interested in the goings on of a little school on the big prairie and a quasi-hippie, middle-aged new teacher, then I would love/adore/be-ever-so-grateful to anyone who would be willing to send a few ounces of your local soil or sand to my students, affectionately known to me as The Darlings. 

Here’s why it is important to me:

I am determined that my students will understand that there is a big, wonderful world beyond the borders of their native North Dakota.  I want them to understand that there are deserts and jungles and sand dunes and skyscrapers and that learning about all of it is an intoxicating adventure into understanding that life is full of options for them.  Knowledge is empowerment. 

A couple of days ago I got a box in the mail, handed to me by our high school English teacher.  She had begged her teacher-parents to send some Alaskan soil from a remote island north of the Bering Strait.  They complied.  Oh boy, did they ever.  The box handed to me nearly had me doing cartwheels.  The soil is not dirt at all.  It is black, fine sand.  Also in the box was a small piece of sealskin, several beautiful sea shells, something called flower stone, and (wait for it….), Mastodon ivory!!  Wait… what??  Part B of this incredible fortune was a slide show done by journalist that visited the island.  Apparently, scientists flock to this remote spot at the top of the world because of an alarming rate of temperature increase that is causing the permafrost to not be quite so permanent and their shorelines to erode at an astonishing rate. 

Now I ask you… do you think my Children of the Prairie will ever have the opportunity to visit northern Alaska or walk on beaches that are quickly being gobbled by the sea?  No, I doubt most will ever make it past our bordering states.  This is a cause of sadness to me, for travel expands the mind and creates new vistas of understanding.  BUT, through the tactile experiences of squishing wet sand through the fingers that hold the reins of their 4-H show goats, they can know that moisture on their tiny hands is the ocean itself -  a complete wonderment to my landlocked children.  They can make surmises about growing healthy crops and take a tremendous amount of pride in the rich, fertile soil of their home state.  And maybe, just maybe, dream of visiting the places we point to on the ancient globe I salvaged from the dumpster.

I wish I could pay you for your time and trouble.  I cannot.  You will have to pay the shipping costs and know that your reward will be in expanded thinking for the children of farmers and ranchers and oil field workers.  You will not get the benefit of seeing their little eyes glow with excitement when a new package shows up in our classroom, but you can be assured that its delivery will be the precursor to a lengthy discussion about your spot found on our salvaged globe, a Google search to find all the information we can, an aerial Google Earth fly-by, and comparisons of your soil to ours and other countries or states.  

So I am asking…

Please consider sending us a soil donation.  I know it is nervy to ask.  People are busy.  Money is tight, etc., etc.  But where my students are concerned I am shamelessly nervy.  I assume that people will be delighted to help a complete stranger with lofty education goals for her students.  

I am old enough to be slightly blown away by the fact that these words can be read by literally anyone, anywhere.  The world is so small anymore and the potential impact is astonishingly large.

So thank you in advance.  I would so appreciate it if you would post this on your Facebook page.  Hey, it won’t cost you a dime and MAYBE, just maybe, someone in your circle of influence will be intrigued enough by a tiny prairie school to take a moment out of their life  and add to our growing soil collection.  Maybe…  

I am annoyingly optimistic about stuff like that.

 Looking forward to The World in Our Mailbox,

Vonda

Send samples Care Of:

Mrs. Vonda Dahl

Wing Public School

Wing, ND 58494

Vonda.dahl@sendit.nodak.edu

Other related blog posts:

http://diaryofafirstyearteacher-vldahl.blogspot.com/2011/11/mrs-dahl-collects-weird-stuff.html

http://diaryofafirstyearteacher-vldahl.blogspot.com/2011/11/common-ground.html

http://diaryofafirstyearteacher-vldahl.blogspot.com/2012/01/donated-soil-samples-turn-dirty.html

http://humboldtdiaries.blogspot.com/2012/10/mrs-dahl-earns-her-iron-butt-biker-badge.html

Places we have samples from:

States:

Alaska

Arizona

California

Colorado

Florida

Georgia

Hawaii

Idaho

Indiana

Iowa

Michigan

Minnesota

Missouri

Nebraska

Nevada

New York

North Carolina

Oregon

South Carolina

South Dakota

Texas

Washington

Wisconsin

Wyoming

Countries:

England

Germany

France

Netherlands

So Jealous of Miss Landers

 

Remember the perky and pretty young teacher from Leave it to Beaver?  She was the quintessential combination of charm and firm hand.  She lead her students to the Brook of Learning, kept a tight lid on the shenanigans of Larry and Whitey, and had the unwavering adoration of her students, the Beaver included.

She’ s not real.

Hate to break it to ‘ya, but perfect teachers exist in the land of unicorns and Barbie. 

I cannot speak, of course, for all teachers everywhere, but it seems to me that many of my coworkers are in the same little paddle boat as me – just trying to make a little headway against a very strong current of long hours, endless meetings, professional development demands, disgruntled parents, money spent out of pocket for classroom supplies, and not enough time to plan for the thing we most want to do – teach.

When I was a kid on vacation at one of many lakes south of St. Louis – an annual tradition for us – I once had the brilliant idea to walk from our cabin down to the dock where my parents were fishing.  My genius challenge to myself was to do it with my eyes shut.  I planned to cross a narrow bridge over open water with my eyes tightly closed.  I was a child prodigy, really… so far above my peers intellectually.  This little story is proof of that.  Anyone could do it with their eyes open. 

I was home free too.  I could hear the voices of my parents and the lap of the water against the weathered boards of the dock.  With one foot in front of the other, carefully, slowly (this sort of thing was better left to we professional blind lake walkers), I made my way to my parents side, who would be overwhelmed with my daring-do and spirit of adventure.  They would know beyond question that their oldest daughter was no ordinary child.  There would probably be a fish fry and homemade ice cream that night in my honor.

Suddenly, my Ked-clad foot felt only air underneath it and then the cool of the water was a shock against my skin.  Oh yeah.  I forgot to mention one little wrinkle in my adventurous plan.  I couldn’t swim.  Or COULD I???  Suddenly my little legs were instinctively kicking for all they were worth, my head that housed my enormous Einstein brain just barely keeping my nose above water.  Scared?  Uh…yeah.  Terrified, actually.  I could hear my dad’s voice shouting to “KEEP KICKING!!” Then he was beside me in the water lifting me to the safety of the sun-warmed dock, where I lay shivering and retching.  It was not my finest hour.  He probably said something to my mother later along the lines of, “She’s not very bright, is she?”

Teaching feels that way to me now.  I love teaching.  I LOVE teaching.  I love children and imparting knowledge to them.  But actual cIassroom instruction is only one facet of this demanding job.  Many days I feel like I am expending all of my energy just to keep my head above water.  I won’t even tell you how many hours I put in during a standard week.  It’s ridiculous.  My husband and daughter could tell you.  And to be fair, it is my choice to work those extra hours. I didn’t really process it in those terms the first year or so, but I have my teaching sea legs under me enough that I am seeing my profession with a little more clarity.  It’s like seeing the one you love in a bad light for the first time.  It’s a little heartbreaking. 

Here’s where Miss Landers-envy rears its green head.  I think the educational world of Beaver and Wally’s world was less complicated than the world I stepped into two short/long years ago.  I think teachers showed up a comfortable 30 minutes early, wandered into the teacher’s lounge for a cup of Folgers with their comrades, perused the daily newspaper, graded a few papers, put in their day of work, entered their grades into their grade book when the day was over, sent the kid with detention out the door to clap the chalky erasers together (I would only know this because I did lots of chalky-eraser-clapping in my day), thought through the next day’s lessons, and then walked out the door thirty minutes after Judy had swung her braids down the white tiled hall.

Mr. Dahl and I are in the middle of renovating a house to rent out.  As John ripped out walls and literally tore the thing apart in order to start over, he found a myriad of papers that had been in the old house for decades.  One of them caught my eye.  It was a teacher’s contract dated January 21^st, 1957, fifty-four years before I signed my contract – almost to the day.  This amazing teacher agreed to teach three grades simultaneously while earning the shockingly large sum of three hundred dollars a month.  God bless her. 

Under the Duties of Teachers heading, there were clear expectations of flying the U.S. flag without fail, strict instructions for observing Temperance Day, and dire warnings about gross immorality.  Obviously times have changed.

I think teachers are suffocating under a blanket of administrative bureaucracy.  It’s a complicated beast – I’m smart enough to recognize that.  But No Child Left Behind and proving academic proficiency has created an atmosphere of educational mushing for the student, and prodding for the teacher to produce spectacular standardized test scores. 

I must confess to being a little disillusioned at the moment.

I don’t know that teaching is more demanding now than it used to be first hand.  I am a new teacher in a middle-aged body.  I can only base this opinion on conversations with those that have been in the profession far longer than I.  To a person, they claim that teaching has gotten more demanding.  In some ways, this is probably a good thing.  And yet, the students in the day of my yellowed contract were the generation to send men to the moon and win the Cold War.  Somehow they learned enough to be the precursors to the digital age.  The factory model that public education was fashioned after served its purpose well for that time.  Does today’s student receive a comparable education?  Is it better?  Worse?  That of course, is bandied about by minds greater than mine. 

But here's the core question of this rambling tome.  Are things out of control in a teacher's world?  Where is the line between teachers truly honing their craft through professional development and the endless meetings and assignments being an annoying disruption to being competent teachers?  Have we crossed that line?  Will things equalize eventually?  Time will tell.  I do not foresee it happening anytime soon.  I can’t fix it, I just ask the questions. It's a gift.

I had to laugh when I pulled a slip of paper out of the envelope entitled, “Hot Dish.”  How did that get in there?  Maybe instead of health insurance, they got recipes. 

I have this mental image of the teachers in The Beaver’s school sitting in the teacher’s lounge at the end of the day, smoking Lucky Strikes and asking the very same questions I ask here today.  Other than teachers actually smoking in the building, maybe things haven’t really changed all that much.  Maybe teachers will eventually take a collective breath and say, “Enough already.  Let us get back to the business of teaching.” 

I think Miss Landers would lead the way.

A New Coat for Ryan

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One of my all-time favorite children’s books is set in post-World War II.  In the book, A New Coat for Anna by Harriet Ziefert, the young heroine of the story is a little girl who survives the horrors of war in Europe with her mother.  But along with the rest of their village, when the troops and tanks leave, they have virtually nothing left.  Only a few trinkets and small heirlooms remain in their possession. 

Anna is growing and needs a new coat, but her mother has no money with which to purchase one and there are precious few available anyway.  And so, Anna’s mother begins to barter for supplies and services with the few things of value she has left.  One by one she parts with the only things of beauty she has in order to meet the very real and pressing need of her daughter.  Although the process of securing everything for her coat takes considerable time and effort, Anna and her mother are patient and in the end, her beautiful red wool coat is more than worth the wait.

I love that book for many reasons.  I love the historical significance.  I love the stunning illustrations.  I love the progression of the process from need, to raw materials, to services rendered, to finished product -- a great learning tool for young children.  I love that sheep are featured in it.  But I love best the life lessons portrayed that people can live with less than they think they can, that the human spirit is resilient, and that the truly good things of life are worth waiting for.

All of the aforementioned analogies are so very fitting for my second-born, Ryan.  Friday was the fruition of many years of hard work and study for him.  Second year students in his dental school receive their official white coat.  The ceremony is purely symbolic; the iconic white medical coat something to be tucked away, much like a high school graduation gown.  Ryan dismissively claims that it is solely done so that parents have something to feel good about. In spite of his protestations, I think it is a big deal for a couple of reasons. It is the official starter’s gun report that the race to graduation is on.  The goal is in sight, the finish line visible on the horizon.  It also signifies that he is largely finished with the book learning, theoretical portion of his education, and now has transitioned to clinical work.  In other words, he gets to practice on real people.

He told a hilarious story of having practiced giving oral injections for the first time the day before we arrived.  Who do they choose to perform this nerve-racking rite on?  Well, each other of course!  He said it went (mostly) well, although one poor girl did suffer a monstrously swollen cheek (poor dear).  But the funny part came afterward when they all decided to grab a bite to eat while still numb.  It must have been quite a sight to see a table full of young adults in scrubs with slurred speech and drool coming out of the corners of their mouths.  They would look at one another and say things like, “did I finith my fry?  Do I sthill hath food in my mouth?  I can’th thell…” Dental students also double as lab rats.  I think that should be taken into consideration when charging students sixty grand a year.  But those are probably just the mental ramblings of a parent worried about loan repayment.

His journey to that moment of donning his tailored coat really began about his freshman year of high school.  Inspired by his Uncle Jason, also a dentist, he began making noises to his dad and I about wanting to pursue it himself.  We encouraged his thinking.  He was a good student and seemed to have an innate affinity for comprehending text and difficult material.  We thought he possessed the right stuff to pursue such an arduous path. 

But thinking something is doable and seeing it fleshed out from skeletal beginnings to meaty form are two very different things.  Grades must be maintained, application components met, scholarships sought, acceptance to an undergrad program accomplished, and then of course, the intimidating medical school interviews.  Medical student candidates must be invited by each school to be interviewed at the sole expense of the student.  Once the interview is complete, the student must then wait for weeks or months before finding out if they have been accepted by that school’s program.  It is a long and sometimes stressful process spread out over many years.  Only those that have traveled its path fully understand these words.  I salute each one who has gone there before for their hard work and persistence.

I think I am most proud of Ryan’s tenacity to see the process to its logical end.  You may be dying to point out to me right now that he has two years of schooling left before he has earned to his doctoral title.  Yes, I know.  And anything can happen between now and then.  Yeah, I get it.  I think about those things as well.  I merely wish to celebrate his work to this particular point.  And I will add without blushing or apology, if you doubt his ability to see the process through to its conclusion, then you don’t know Ryan.  He is stubbornly tenacious.  The End.

Part A of this post is to celebrate Ryan.  Part B’s purpose is to pay forward my gratitude to a host of extraordinary people. 

When my boys were small, we would stand on the banks of the Lamoille River in Vermont and skip flat stones across the water, a simple activity that my tiny sons never tired of.  The bright sun would create diamonds in the ripples of the concentric circles that grew and then became part of the current that never ended. 

There have been people in Ryan’s life that are forever a part of his life’s current.  Some sent tiny stones skimming across the water, others mighty boulders whose splash was momentous.  But all created a disturbance that changed the flow of his waters and altered his life forever.

As I sat watching my son officially become a dental clinician, I was acutely aware that there are not a few people that shared the moment with us and should rightfully be acknowledged.  I will mention a few now.  I apologize in advance for any errors or omissions on my part.  

Thank you to his extended family members who have cheered and encouraged him from the start.  I am so eternally grateful for a big, loving family.  Thank you to his church family members through the years that have loved him like he was their own, and have prayed for him faithfully.  Thank you to those special teachers that have taken an interest in him and prodded him to aim high.  It spurs me to do the same for my students.  Thank you to a very special lady whose surprise graduation scholarship helped with college expenses.  Thanks to all in his orbit who played a role in helping him become a confident adult and intelligent student. 

I am proud of him, yes.  Of course I am.  But I am also humbly aware that there are countless people who have touched his life in their own unique way and made him a better person.  My inexpressible gratitude goes to each one. 

I must also thank the dental school for a lovely ceremony and reception.  Thanks to the twenty-six family members that took time out their schedules and drove the miles to cheer on my boy.  Thanks to Denver for having sixty-degree weather just for me.  Thanks to Ryan for spending an entire weekend with the “rents.” 

And thanks to each one of you who have watched this child from his first moments of life or have met him somewhere along the way.  You have played a role in helping him become who he is.  The stone you tossed into his river created an indelible ripple that will never be forgotten.

There have been a few bumps and bruises along the way, mind you.  You think I think he’s perfect.  He’s not.  Like the rest of us, he’s made a few questionable choices here and there.  But this is where his story intersects with the fictitious war survivor, Anna.  Sometimes life is hard and leaves you with few good options.  The heroic among us do not expend precious energy on pointless regret or self-pity.  They look instead to the options yet before them and proceed forward from that point.  They eventually become the leaders among us. 

Today I salute a kid from North Dakota who was born with irrepressible mischievousness and a quick mind.  I am acutely aware of the many miles ahead of him.  For today, I joyfully celebrate this milestone alone. 

Anna’s mother knew a few timeless truths.  Material things are transitory.  Sacrifice in the name of the things that matter most is no sacrifice at all.  Where there is hope, tomorrow will always be better. 

I think Ryan knows these things too.  His journey is changing and molding him into his future self.  I am on the bank of his river watching it happen.  I see positive signs that he is gaining that most valuable of all emotional treasures – perspective.  There is nothing in life’s tempestuous waters that cannot be faced bravely if one possesses that rare commodity.  His river is widening.  I wholeheartedly believe that he will do good things with his life and the opportunities he has been given.

The truly good things in life are indeed worth waiting for…

Revolution, Baby!

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I didn’t get to vote and I didn’t even get to voice my thoughts – something I am not used to.  If I’ve got something to say, then you might as well get comfortable.  You may get up when I am finished.  I was informed that I would be attending a professional development, all-day meeting in a town over an hour away.  “But I…..”  There was no one listening.

And so, I dutifully prepared for a sub and planned this day around a week that would include my husband’s gall bladder surgery just one day before.  I won’t go so far as to say that I grumbled… ok, YES!  You broke me down!  I grumbled (out of ear shot of administration, obviously.  I’m not stupid).

I made sure Hubs was settled in for the day and then pointed the nose of my gold minivan to Meeting Nirvana.  The roads were icy and freezing rain pelted the windows of the quasi-hippie mobile.  More grumbling.

I arrived early – a rarity for me.  You know the person that always opens the door about five minutes into the meeting/presentation/wedding/graduation/funeral?  Yeah, that’s usually me.  Just ask the man with no gall bladder. 

I pasted on my brightest Middle-Aged Barbie smile and found a cushiony chair next the first arrivee.  A woman I judged to be a tad older than myself (I know, I KNOW… I should never try to guess ages… but I DO), sat in the cushiony chair next to mine.  We shared Middle-Aged Barbie smiles and the meeting commenced.  Of course, no meeting can possibly launch without the obligatory introductions all around.  I actually love these.   I like to talk and I like to be the center of attention.  Introductions are the perfect blend of these two things for me, like Milky Way bars and stretchy pants. 

When my turn came for intros, I put the smile back on (people don’t tend to notice your wrinkles as much when you smile lots) and launched into my life story.  I was just wrapping up the year I turned eight when I noticed I had taken up more than my allotted time and ended hurriedly with, “… and that’s how I became a teacher when I was forty-seven…”

The chick next to me, the one who was now expected to share her introduction in a millisecond in order to compensate for my filibuster, gave a hurried description, then ended hers with,”… and that’s how I came to teach only three years ago.”  My blond, quasi-hippie head snapped in her direction and my synapses started firing at mach speed.  I stared for a full three seconds before breaking into a laugh.  “YOU are a new teacher TOOOOO?????”  She smiled with decorum (holy cow, why can’t I learn to be less theatrical and have more class like her??)  “I am,” she said with pride.  We grinned at one another.   The rest of the room faded into nothingness.  I wanted to talk to this lady and hear her entire story.  We were instantly connected.

When the Introduction Train had chugged a few more teachers down the track, I turned once again to my new Soul Sister and peppered her with questions.  “Where did you go to school?  Why did you wait?  What made you decide to teach?”  We whispered like the first grade girls we constantly caution to “quiet down and pay attention” all day long.

Turns out like me, she wanted to raise a family first, but had always thought about teaching.  She decided to take the plunge about the same time I did.  “Were you nervous about the technology end of teaching?”  I asked my new comrade.  “Oh gracious, yes!  But once I got over my fear and learned to be adventurous with it, I was just fine.”  She puffed out her chest just a little, and I did too.  We were so proud of us.  We were Lewis and Clark conquering the unknown.  We were Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong landing on the moon.  We too had faced and conquered.  We are an unstoppable force.  We are women, hear us roar.

I had a momentary flashback of all of those university classes I had had with twenty-year-olds and how out of place I had felt week after week.  Don’t get me wrong, my classmates were incredibly kind and inclusive – really, extraordinarily so.  Amazingly, some still keep in touch with me.  But I felt the chasm, regardless.  The first day of classes I literally had to will my body down the steps of the library building and into my first class.  I was terrified, and I do not frighten easily. 

But I persevered and I graduated and I became a teacher.  A TEACHER.  And I was only three years away from that nasty envelope that arrived in the mail with the dreaded letters AARP on it. 

And now, I had found another silly girl like myself who was just nervy enough to think that dreams do not have an expiration date.

I think this dream-chasing thing is taking off.  Maybe other women will catch the winds of empowerment and run after the very thing they thought they were too old for. 

Maybe young women will realize that “having it all” is better attained in phases. 

I don’t know...I do know that a person should end their life with zero regrets.

I also know that I have a new hero.  She’s a quasi-hippie with long blond hair who likes to be the center of attention and is chronically late.  And I think the lady next to her today was thinking the same of the brave chick in her own cushiony chair.  For whatever reason, we validated one other and celebrated anew our accomplishments. 

Life should be a kick in the pants.  It just should.  There should be a surprise around every bend and each new chapter should be a joyous journey of discovering that you really are as capable as you hope you are.

Come with me…

Join the revolution, Baby!

Merry Christmas from Me to You!

I cannot possibly reach each one of you with a Christmas card (an American tradition), but I will happily share with you my greatest joy and the thing I am most proud of; my family.  Here is a small peek into our lives and our year in the form of pictures.

Merry Christmas and Happiest of New Years!!

Sincerely,

Vonda

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdYLG2-4ooc&feature=share