Flitting Shadows

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

Here is one story…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so….

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

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

I rest easy…

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.