Mrs. Dahl Finds Her Inner Indiana Jones/Day 3: Freestylin'

What is she up to now???

The band of gold-seeking emigrants, led by Captain James Fisk, knew they were in trouble.  The caravan of ninety-seven covered wagons, one hundred and seventy men, women, and children, and 50 escort troops from Fort Rice, were as exposed as ducks on a pond.  They had heard the rumors.  They spoke of the dangers in quiet whispers so that the children among them wouldn't hear.  They had questioned the wisdom of their leader's decision to follow the uncharted route.  But they had hoped and prayed that the rumors were unfounded, that the remaining miles of bone-jarring travel across the grassy prairie would be uneventful, and that their leader was wiser than they gave him credit for.  Their hearts burned with gold fever and their dreams lead them to risk everything in trade for a better future.

Their commander, Captain Fisk, foolishly chose to lead the train on an uncharted path in the hopes of saving a few miles.  He was confident that General Sully's battle with the Sioux further north in what would later be dubbed as the Killdeer Mountain Battle, would assure them that they would be left alone. They were itching to be on their way.  Their impatience would prove to be fatal.

The Sioux had only recently been victims themselves of an unprovoked, devastating attack that robbed them of their winter supplies and forced them to move south for the winter.  They wanted revenge.  This vulnerable wagon train with its crippled soldier escort would suffer the wrath of an enraged people. *

My short-lived career as a paleontologist came to an end but my lust for adventure did not.  What to do... what to do...?

I hugged Trevor goodbye and thanked him for his hospitality - and for buying more bath towels my first night there so that I could have one too (goodness gracious, that kid lives sparsely), and headed my hot rod mini van south on highway 85.  I had a destination in mind, but wanted to do some photo safari work on the way. My first stop... Amidon, ND.

See the cop in the car?  It's a dummy.  This car has been parked in the same spot in the eensy-weensy town of Amidon for as long as I can remember.  It gives me the giggles every time.  Now THAT is how speed traps are done.

I wonder if he has a box of fake donuts riding shotgun?

The southwest corner of our fair state is ruggedly remote.  It is one of my husband's favorite spots.  Ranches sit miles off the highway and far, far apart from their neighbors - if they have any at all.  Buttes rise majestically, antelope run wild, and you can see so far ahead and behind you that you can almost see the curvature of the earth.  The terrain out here makes you feel small and bold simultaneously.  Each mile was therapeutic and restorative for me.

The old face of North Dakota

So where was I headed?

While a student at the University of Mary, we were required to volunteer at the Heritage Center - our state museum.  I set a goal for myself during that very enjoyable experience of one day visiting every site listed on the historical register.  Yesterday  I crossed another site off my bucket list.

As I wound my way through the southern edge of the North Dakota prairie, I was struck again by the riches of this vast state.  Farmers were busy baling hay for long winter months, crops ripening were visible in endless fields,  cattle grazed lazily, and oil rigs pumped their black gold - evidence of a new fever that has drastically changed our state.  Wind towers are also increasingly common.  Well, no wonder.  There is no shortage of wind in these here parts.  Opinion is divided on their ability to spoil the beauty of the landscape. 

The new face of the prairie

The day was epically beautiful.  Three days and three gifts of perfect weather.  Thank you, my Creator.

This is pretty much how it looked when the settlers came through - endless grass and sky

After I snapped a pic of the fake cop, I eventually turned off of 85 and onto highway 12.  There is little traffic down here.  It is as stress-free as driving gets.  The occasional slow farm implement is about the only thing that might make you take your foot off the accelerator, but only briefly as clear road will soon appear and you can blow his doors off without danger to him or yourself.

I found Fort Dilts road without too much trouble (thank you, Google Maps) and worked my way through a cloud of scoria dust (a redish mineral they use to cover the roads out here) to the Fort.

Dang creek!  The air almost crackled with the tension of waiting for an attack.  It was quiet out here.  Far too quiet for comfort.  The emigrants had heard the far off beat of drums the night before and it raised the gooseflesh on their skin.  The children were somber and stayed close to the wagons today, instead of skipping off to look at a rock or simply run off energy.  

As the nervous party had crossed Deep Creek, a wagon had struggled to cross and now needed a quick fix before moving on.  A second wagon with tools stayed behind to assist, along with eight soldiers.  The other ninety-five wagons proceeded on, assured the stragglers would catch up.  

This was the opportunity the Sioux had been waiting for.  A vicious battle ensued.  Both wagons were captures, two of the three emigrants were killed, along with six of the soldiers.  The other two soldiers were mortally wounded.  Others rushed back to assist, one of them the wagon train scout, Jefferson Dilts, and these heroes were either killed or severely wounded as well.  When the attack was over, nine members of the wagon train were dead and three more would die of their wounds later.  The Sioux lost two dozen warriors.

I drove through four miles of nothingness.  No cars, no noise, no houses.  Only a dusty road and gently sloping prairie.  North Dakota is good about signs.  I had no trouble finding the spot in spite of its isolation.

I was pleasantly surprised to find it freshly mowed.  I had done my homework and therefore was not dismayed at the lack of tourist touches.  In fact, there was nearly nothing to see.  An ancient gate and... a mailbox??  It seemed like an odd addition.  A flag pole without a flag.  Wild mustard, cone flowers, and scrubby sage bush hugged the site protectively.

I read the story posted on the interpretive sign across from the gate/mailbox.  As I read the astonishing story again, with more detail this time, I was a little overcome.  Maybe it was the perfect stillness of the site.  Maybe it was the absolute lack of interruption.  Maybe it was the eerie sense that little had seemed to changed out here in the one-hundred and fifty-one years since that fateful day.

I was so curious about that doggone mailbox I had to peek.  Inside I found a book wrapped in plastic.  Ahhh.... a guest register.  Sure enough, a Walmart-worthy, simple spiral-bound notebook held the names of ghosts of visitors past.  Nothing leather-bound or flashy here.  I was impressed with the guest list.  People from literally all over the country had made the same trek I had.  Some had added snarky comments about the lack of shiny amenities.  They had expected something else and felt cheated after that long drive.

I, on the other hand, felt the rustic simplicity was befitting.  The early settlers had endured terrible hardships in a hostile land.  This was the perfect memorial to their ordeal.

My imagination labels those as original covered wagon tracks

The wounded, terrified teamsters found a corral and place to spend the night along the creek.  The three wounded in the original attack died and were buried in the corral.  As the team tried to move forward over the next two days, things got ugly.  The Sioux were relentless in tormenting the party.  In retaliation, the whites laced bread with strychnine and left a trail behind them.  The Sioux were ravenous (they had lost all of their winter supplies in the attack on their village) so they hungrily ate the poisoned bread.  Many died a terrible death from this tactic.

The wagon train reached their breaking point.  They knew continuing the trek was impossible under these circumstances.  They found a high spot overlooking the surrounding hills, put the wagons in a circle, erected a sod berm for protective purposes, and dispatched two horsemen to ride back to Fort Rice for reinforcements.  The dead were buried within the walls of the sod embankment. 

An artist's rendering of the fort based on eye witness accounts

The very spot where I now stood.

Sure enough, simple grave markers sprouted from ground like white prairie grasses.  I read each one.  They listed only the names and ranks of the fallen:  Thomas Williamson, Marma Betts, William Chase, Augustine Carpenter, Jefferson Dilts, Theodore Rosch, Joseph Delaney, Ernest Hoffinaster, and James Fisk.  The original sod embankment was still visible under the soil.

They had the misfortune of being wounded in action only to die as escorts because of the impatience of their commander

For fourteen days, the wagon train party hid within the sketchy confines of the earthen berm.  The stench of over two hundred people, plus their livestock in such close confines was nauseating.  No leaving the hastily constructed fort for bathroom purposes!  The unending fright, the stench, the frustration of halting the expedition, the crude graves as daily reminders of their peril nearly drove the party mad.

This hell was taking its toll.  They had not been bothered by the Sioux for eleven days, but were terrified to leave the fort without cavalry support.  At last, on the dawn of the fourteenth day, a long line snaked across the prairie and a shout erupted from the camp.  As the troops came closer, the teamsters were overjoyed to see over eight hundred uniformed saviors coming to their rescue.  They wept with relief.  The terror of the last two weeks melted into joy.

The story ends bleakly.  No American spirit rising up here.  No Rocky Balboa knock-me-down-and-I'll-just-get-back-up ending.  What was left of the party went back to Fort Rice (near Bismarck) and then disbanded.  They had had enough of thrill-seeking.  For many, it cost them everything.  It simply was not worth the price.

He is buried where I sit, the brave rescue party leader, Corporal Jefferson Dilts

 As I stood quietly reliving this American tale in my mind, a man who had been baling hay in the field across from me, stopped his machinery and walked toward me.  "I don't usually see people stay this long," he said without preamble.  His name is James Birch and he was eager to share what he knew of the story, filling in spotty details.  I was eager to hear them.  Understandably, he is a little protective of this outpost.  He is happy when visitors gush about it, and hurt when they complain.  He's the one that lovingly keeps it mowed and accessible for history hacks like me.  He understands better than most what price the early settlers paid.

My personal historian, James Birch

I love the stories that make up America, the greatest nation on earth.  I do not care if people think it gauche to make such a boast.  It is time to get some national pride back.  The lavish blessings you and I enjoy everyday came at the cost of people like Corporal Jefferson Dilts and his ill-fated companions.  I thank them one-hundred and fifty-one years too late.

God bless America...

*  The account of the siege is in my own words - a little historical fiction added - no charge...

Mrs. Dahl Finds Her Inner Indiana Jones/Whiskey Creek: Day Two

A bad night of sleep and  squawkin' muscles, but I'm still smiling

More sunburn, more sore muscles, I just noticed my wrist is covered in a ring of sweaty dust - I wonder if the waitress at the BBQ joint noticed?  I think my out-of-control hair is probably hiding a pound of grit.  I loved today too.

Our digging party had a few new faces today and lost a few from yesterday.  We were twelve in all - two paleontologists, an intern (which I am pretty sure the newly graduated college girl noticed and managed to work beside all day), and the rest of us were paleontology wanna-be's.  Hacks with picks and soft brushes and copious amounts of sunscreen.  I still can't believe they let us slash away at priceless artifacts.  I guess the free labor is ultimately worth it.  Good grief, I felt inept today.

I'll back up.

It was truly another perfect day.  PERFECT.  P-E-R-F-E-C-T.  Eighty degrees, light winds, and nothing but brilliant sunshine.  I thanked my Creator for kissing my adventure with such a gift.

Once again, we met in the parking lot.  Once again, I was the last to arrive.  Once again we drove until the road became a rutted trail and then were ferried the rest of the way with all-terrain vehicles.  This time, however, we had to stop and corporately do a little road repair, as the ruts were so cavernous, even the 4-wheel drive monsters had trouble.  I felt like McGyver hauling rocks around and pretending I had good ideas to add.

"Ripple rock" is evidence that our dig site was once covered with water and rich with aquatic life.

The final hike to the site was serene and once again I was overcome with the feeling that I had left civilization on another planet.  Today I felt like an old-hand at this digging stuff.  I put my gear down and got right to work.  My "trench" was just as I had left it, with no wind or rain to disturb my previous day's efforts.  I picked and brushed and scooped and brushed and dug and brushed and picked my way ever further into the side of the clay bluff, always careful to listen for the distinct sound of bone at the other end of my pick.  And I kept finding bone no matter how far my work moved forward.  I kept thinking the end of my bone field would appear and we could get down to the business of casting or "jacketing" the area, and then I could start all over again.

It never happened.

I kept coming across more and more bones.  Some tiny and fragmented, some large and obviously connected to other bones.  I should have been happy to have so much to work on, but after awhile, I was kind of disheartened that I wouldn't be able to see the end of that project by the end of the day.  Someone else would obviously get to finish my project.  Sigh....

 (Not a very flattering angle, but I can swing a pick axe like Paul Bunyan)

I did get to do some great educational things for the Darlings.  The scientists sportingly agreed to make some short videos explaining what paleontologists do, what their tools are, etc.  The intern helped me fill a bag of rich, ancient, fossil-rich, volcanic-ash-laden soil that will be perfect for my thematic soil unit.

Best of all, I have been invited to help in the paleontology lab at the state museum to help with cleaning and cataloging the samples.  How fun is that?!? Can't wait.

Ya'll have got to come see this for yourself

I want to go again. 

I want to visit other sites. 

I think I am hooked.

Mrs. Dahl Finds Her Inner Indiana Jones/Whiskey Creek: Day One

I woke at 4 a.m. after a fitful night of elusive sleep.  I was like a kid on Christmas Eve.  I'm pretty sure I smiled all night.  I kissed my sweetie goodbye (he's such a good sport), and hit the highway.  The weather forecast, both local and nationally, were screaming warnings about a frigid week and "polar vortex" nonsense.  I had visions of standing on an exposed mountain side in gale winds with snowflakes swirling.

It was nippy at predawn, but as the sun rose, so did the temps and I was heartened that it might be fair skies and tepid temperatures after all.  I arrived in western town of Medora on time and quickly located my group.  I was the last to arrive - story of my life.  We shook hands all around, introduced ourselves, and got back into our cars to follow the paleontologists to the site.

It is something of a misnomer that North Dakota topography is flat.  I have lived in Kansas and driven through a good many plains states, believe me, North Dakota is not flat.  There are gentle rolling hills and buttes through much of the state, and there the Badlands on the western edge of the state.  Its like having our own mini Grand Canyon.  The Badlands are beautiful.  This is where I was to spend two glorious days under and upside-down bowl of endless blue sky and cotton-puff clouds.  I can think of worse ways to spend my time.

We drove our vehicles as far as the terrain and "roads" would allow, then pulled off and loaded heavier-duty vehicles for the final stretch.  Before loading up, our tools for the day were handed out;  a trowel, a soft brush, work gloves, a large pick, and a smaller pick.  We ended our ride at a ravine, gathered our gear, and finished the hike on foot.  No trail here.  Course prairie grasses and stubby sage bushes scraped our ankles as we wound our way toward a high bluff and particular Juniper bush that marked the dig site.

The view from the top was breathtaking.  Not a road, house, or any other sign of civilization was visible from a 360 degree angle.  Bluffs, buttes, and vistas everywhere I looked.  The sun was bright and the winds light - in short, a perfect day.

The dig site was further up the butte and a few shovels and picks were scattered around, from a group the day before.  Our guides, paleontologists Becky and Jeff, explained in detail how we were to begin by taking off the first foot or so of bank with the shovels.

What I thought was stony hillside was actually soft clay that came off easily.  We were trying to get to the rich layer of black organic matter underneath the gray clay layer, where the fossils were hiding.  We tossed the clay layer over the side of the butte, then claimed our individual spots where we would spend our time trying to find amazing discoveries.  My novice status was quickly evident.  I stabbed too much and dug too fast and was too anxious to find the good stuff.  Gradually, I learned to poke the earth methodically and listen for the telltale clink of fossilized bone.  Poke, poke, poke, poke.... I found something! Gently I brushed away the surrounding soil and pulled out a small shard of bone.  The expert affirmed it was indeed a bone shard (tiny, but the real deal), and told me to set it carefully in the bag we had each been given for our treasures.  The others asked to see it in order to know what we were looking for - I felt like the hometown hero.  I could have gone home happy right at that moment, but that was merely the first of many exciting finds today.

Look at that girl dig!

I also found the fossilized remains of ancient crocodile skin - the pattern still vivid and intact.  We in the paleontology biz call them "scutes." I found 5 of them in all.  I also uncovered a vertebrae (I can't remember from what - I'll have to ask tomorrow)*, and my BIGGEST joy was a set of two connecting long bones that will be "jacketed" (placed in a plaster cast) tomorrow after I dig out to reveal more of it.

The plates underneath ancient crocodile skin called "scutes"

If you look reeeeally hard, you can see the long bones at the top of my dig.

I ended the day taking a gander at Painted Canyon in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park.  Stunning.

Anyone still think North Dakota is flat?

To find an artifact of such antiquity is utterly thrilling.  I loved everything about this day.  I am tired and sunburned and still covered in Badlands dust.  There is gravel in the pockets of my shorts.  And I am absolutely in my element.  Pretty sure I'll smile in my sleep tonight too.

*  I asked the next day and I had found the vertebrae of a champsosaurus.  They know that because the ends of the bones are perfectly flat, not notched as others are.

Mrs. Dahl FInds Her Inner Indiana Jones/How I Spent My Summer

I was a squirelly kid.  I really was.  I read too much and suffered from an overactive imagination - a potent combination.  At about the age of eight, I had my future career choices nailed down to one of three vocations:  a).  astronaut, b). Cold War spy, c). archeologist.

I gave it a few test runs in our St. Louis suburban yard.  My cousin and best pal, Sharlene, and I woke up one summer morning and decided to dig to China.  We'd heard the phrase and figured, "how hard can it be?"  We dug for about fifteen minutes and were ready to abandon the challenge but then....... we hit something!  There was only one thing it could possibly be.  Buried treasure!!  We dug like fury.  With our mother's best serving spoons as shovels, we slowly extricated the shape of an ancient vase (our best guess).  Sharlene's foster sister happened by.  Excitedly we showed her our discovery that was going to rock the Missouri Historical Society, and probably the world. She gamely took a quick peek and then laughed as she sauntered away.  "It's a tree root," she tossed back over her shoulder.  Deflation.  Archeology and China were forgotten.  And probably our mother's spoon as well (sorry about that, mother dearest).

Fast forward.  I chose teaching AFTER I chose raising a house full of rowdy kids who probably have most of my serving spoons hidden in the yard.  Teaching is my perfect fit - like an Ann Taylor skirt.  I love everything about it (sans the endless meetings).  But the eight-year-old in me has never forgotten or abandoned those other dreams.  The astronaut and spy might be a bit trickier to achieve.  Although I MET an astronaut this spring - that's pretty darn close to dream-fulfilled for me. 

I cannot begin to imagine how excited my students will be when I share my adventures with them.  Dinosaurs are a first grader's obsession.  They're nuts about them.  They'll think I am a pretty cool teacher.  Shucks, at this moment, I FEEL pretty cool (go me!!).

I had to do a little convincing of the Hubster that this was a good idea.  I had surgery just four weeks ago.  I promised him that if I got too exhausted, I would high-tail it home.  He smiled and said, "have a great time." 

And so, I signed up, did a war-whoop, and counted down the hours.  Turns out, it would be an adventure that far exceeded all expectations.

The Day the Organ Went Silent

For whatever odd reason, as a kid I had the iconic graduation ballad, Pomp and Circumstance, on an old 45 record.  When my cousin/next-door-neighbor and dearest friend would come over to play, we would sometimes play that scratchy vinyl disc in my room and would cry great tears of sorrow because we thought it such a mournfully sad song.  OK, we were a couple of little suburban saps, but kids are funny that way.  Sometimes a girl just needs a good cry.

Yesterday my third-born, John Cody, walked across that great expanse of platform in the state-of-the-art campus chapel, and had placed into his hand an outrageously expensive piece of paper saying he is now an adult, fully capable of gainful employment.  At least I hope that’s what it says. 

The ceremony began with an unexpected hiccup.  As the faculty paraded down the aisles with their hoods and stripes and hexagon-shaped hats, Pomp and Circumstance blared majestically from an obscenely expensive pipe organ, the pride of the university.  The robed participants melded from faculty to graduating students and all was flowing nicely until suddenly and without warning, the music came to an abrupt stop mid-measure.  The line of entering graduates screeched to a stumbling stop in domino fashion, like a multicar collision on an icy freeway.  For what seemed an eternity, the packed room of thousands was completely silent and every confused face swiveled to stare at the stubborn, mute organ.

Then as if cued, the robed faculty swarmed around the silent instrument trying to resuscitate it en mass.  Makes sense, I guess.  They are doctors, after all.  After long moments the graduating class improvised and began to hum the song hoping to speed along the process.

And suddenly… we were back in business!  Apparently, some poor soul had caught the cord with their foot and unplugged the darn thing.  At least, that’s what the operating rumor was.  The majestic instrument once again bellowed its grand song and the procession ended without further incident. 

I won’t bore you with a blow by blow of a ceremony that was duplicated on campuses all across the country, for they all follow the same script and most are largely forgettable.  But I did grab a nugget in the midst of the lengthy proceedings that was quite poignant.  The guest speaker, one Gustavo Crocker, a man with more letters behind his name than a bowl of alphabet soup, relayed this simple truth.  He admonished the fresh faces filling the front rows, “You have simply completed this part of your education in the long journey of learning.”  I love that.  The teacher in me wanted to shout, “Yes, exactly right!!”  Graduates would soon shake the hand of the university president, heave a sigh of relief, and never look back.  Phew, my days of education are over! 

Wrong. 

They are just beginning. 

Book learnin’ is a great start, but it is only a tiny step toward real wisdom.  Their wealth of knowledge will be accumulated through on-the-job training, marriage, parenting, career changes, friendships, sorrows and joys.  Many of those relieved, grinning. graduated young adults of yesterday will fill their aging cars with scant belongings and drive away to find unexpected turns in their journey to the American dream – situations they would have never predicted for themselves.  They will enter the arena those of us further down the road have already been baptized in and know await the uninitiated. 

It is bittersweet, this thing called Life.  Some will find fabulously successful careers.  They will be the ones that are nominated for alumnus of the year and will be asked to give large amounts of money to their alma mater.  Others will decide a simpler life is more to their choosing and their lives will be no less happy or rewarding.  We don’t always get to choose how things go; illness and infertility and saying goodbye forever to loved ones will await some.  But no one gets only happiness or heartache.  All will experience both at various times.  It is the warp and woof of the fabric of Experience.  It isn’t good or bad.  It is just how it is.  It is the pragmatist in me.

And Cody, computer science major and freshly graduated career initiate, will find himself in some or all of the aforementioned categories.  His story is yet to be written.  I am happy for my son, of course I am.  He worked hard and did not necessarily love his studies all of the time, but persevered nonetheless and won the prize of earned degree.  He must now seek employment.  Classes and final exams are over.  Now the weight of responsible adult is upon his shoulders.  We will be there to help however we can, but we must stand back now and let him find his own way.  If he stumbles a little, that is part of the journey too.  We have been here twice before.  We as parents are learning too.

Cody will be fine, I believe.  College has been good for him.  He relies little on his parents for much of anything.  A little financial advice now and then or mechanical questions about his car, but otherwise our conversations are mostly of the catching-up variety. 

I look at him now and see the mental scrapbook of his past twenty-years.  Cody has always been the family comedian.  He is funny without even trying.  He began doing impersonations as a preschooler.  He has always had the knack for memorizing movies in their entirety.  It’s more of a superpower, really.

He took his place as the third child and the third son in our growing family.  His brothers found common ground in this strange new creature that invaded their cloistered lives.  They quickly and mutually decided he was a fun addition to their adventures and always included him in whatever they were doing.  Forts in the Vermont woods, elaborate road building on the beaches of Lake Elmore, or a room littered with Legos required all three Dahl boys for success.  Trevor was the left-brained logistics guy, Ryan was needed for competitive bidding (he always felt he had a better plan than his older brother), and Cody was for laughs.  Cody did very little of the work, he just made things more fun. 

Like siblings everywhere, my sons could also annoy one another in impressive fashion.  I would sometimes wonder if they would ever grow up to be friends.  Just as quickly I would hear childish voices laughing boisterously.  Nothing warms a mother’s heart like hearing the evidences of siblings enjoying each other’s company.  They used to spend the waning hours of summer nights on the trampoline, not as a form of exercise necessarily, but just a place to sip the last dregs of a summer’s day.  With the windows open, I could hear soft voices talking about everything and nothing, long after the last vestiges of daylight fell into the horizon.  I am the most content in those moments.   

Do you ever wonder how life would be different if one or another of your children had not joined your family?  There is always a tiny taste of that when one or another was away for a night or a week of summer camp.  The feel and dynamic of the family is just different.  Odd.  Not right.

I know that our family has been richer because of Cody.  He was loved from our first knowing of new life growing within me.  He was wrapped in the strong arms of his happy daddy in the first moments after birth.  He was welcomed by satisfied older brothers happy to have a comrade and relieved the new addition wasn’t a dreaded GIRL (they would later discover girls were OK too).  He is as necessary to our family as rain is to growing crops.  We need him for a variety of reasons, but mostly because he breathes happiness into a room by the simple act of entering it.

I know the next weeks and months may try his mettle.  He is just beginning his degree in Reality.  But he is smart, capable, funny, and most importantly, is not afraid to face uncertainty with the spirit of adventure, like any true frontiersman. 

I end with this story, shared during the Baccalaureate service.  The heir to the Borden fortune, William Borden, had all the promise of any wealthy, well-bred, well-educated young man in the early 1900’s.  He renounced his fortune to pursue a life of missionary service in China.  On his way to the mission field, he contracted meningitis while in Egypt and ultimately died there at the age of twenty-five, alone and on foreign soil.  Later his parents received his personal effects and among them, his Bible.  In the flyleaf were these words written in his own hand, “No reserve, no retreat, no regrets.” 

I wish my youngest son well.  I hope he will use his gifts and talents to bring a bit of sunshine to a world in desperate need of joy.  I believe Cody’s universe will most certainly be better because he is in it.  I believe he will ultimately find his purpose and own avenues of service. 

Be happy, my son.  You have great written all over you.

No Reserve, No Retreat, No Regret…

When Life Hands You Lemons, Build an Igloo

Mother Nature surprised we North Dakotans with a blizzard on Thursday, which was so sweet of her.  It was a doozy too.  And wouldn’t you just know it, I had left all of my projects at school.  I NEVER do that.  I always lug pounds of work home just in case we have a snow day, or I have an appendicitis attack, or wolves take the town hostage and I can’t get into the building.  I literally never go anywhere without something to work on.  I killed me to be “naked” at home with little to do.  What to do?  Well, I had to muddle through by finishing my novel, documenting the storm in pictures, bake Mr. Dahl’s fave molasses cookies, and generally ignore all housework.  It was a great day.  I truly enjoyed the down time.

Friday dawned cold but clear.  I was itching to get into my classroom early and prepare for the day.  I left unusually early and was looking forward to some productive work time in the quiet of early morning.  I pulled up to the building and parked in my usual spot.  The front steps were covered with snow from the storm.  Poor Harry, our he-does-everything maintenance guy hadn’t been out to shovel yet.

I hurried to my classroom, switched on the light, surveyed the scene I had left two days before, and then realized… brrrrr, it was COLD in there.  My classroom is normally very toasty… VERY toasty – which I LIKE.  At least it has been for the last two years.  It was discovered awhile back that one of the two vents in my room had been completely closed off, probably for years.  Well, that would certainly explain the perpetual nip in the air.  Being in the basement of the building didn’t help matters either.  Sitting in a cold room all day everyday is about as enjoyable as sitting in the filthy waiting room of the tire store while you get new Bridgestones put on your minivan.  It's just not that fun.

I put my things away, kept my Columbia parka and Ugg boots on, and went to find Harry.  I found him, alright.  He looked like he’d just wrestled zombies.  He was disheveled and leaned heavily on the counter top in the office.  No heat since two days ago.  That was his story.  The furnace repair company refused to send guys out in the blizzard.  Who can blame them?  On top of that, the interstate had been shut down completely for half the day.  In North Dakota that means literally closed off.  There are long gates on each entrance ramp that are closed when the DOT issues a shutdown.  It does not happen often.  It’s a big deal when it does.  So no heat and no repairmen.  Harry was ready for a trip to anywhere without snow and wind.  Nebraska would have sounded tropical about then.  “They’re coming sometime today, that’s all I know,” he said wearily.  Any extra space heaters around the joint?  Nope.  Okay, then.  We’ll just think warm thoughts.

I cheerily welcomed the Darlings into our walk-in cooler/classroom and told them not to bother hanging their coats up as they would need them for an indeterminate amount of time.  And so we dove headfirst into reading and math bundled up like the Michelin Man.  Jackets were zipped to the chins, stocking caps pulled low, and snow boots clomp, clomp, clomped around the room all morning. 

It was apparent by late morning that repairs were not forthcoming anytime soon.  This being cold thing was getting old.  And so we pulled up Kookookangaroo dance videos on Youtube and did some cardio.  That helped.  But they were getting antsy and really wanted to shed the extra layers. 

I had to laugh when recess rolled around and we sent our chilled students outside as usual.  From the frying pan to fire, as they say.  Or rather, from the frig to the freezer.  The part that really tickled me was, the kids were completely fine with yet more cold.  Man, these kids are hardy.  I am a big, soft, pathetic wuss.  I have no problem admitting that.  I was cccccccold.

I knew the Deep Freeze had hit its frustration climax when I attempted to do word maps during reading intervention time.  Coincidentally, my thematic unit for the month of January is “Winter” and that day we dissected the word CHILLY.  They were to write the word, then give examples.  I got the giggles when I perused their drawn examples of our word du jour.  They illustrated themselves in our classroom with various evidences of being, well… chilly.  There were penguins, polar bears, and one exceptionally cold child drew himself trying work with himself encased in a block of ice from the waist down.  Oh dear.  They’re colder than I had feared.

And so I decided that we should just run with our circumstances and make it an adventure.  I quickly found a (very cool) image on Google of the interior of an igloo, which I projected onto the white board.  I then had the children help me scoot a desk over to our doorway, lined chairs up in front of it and then laid a blanket on top of the chairs to create a tunnel effect.  This was the entrance to our igloo.  We were now officially an Igloo School.  If you wanted to enter or exit our classroom, you were going through the tunnel, pal.  Yes, that included Mrs. Dahl.

They loved it.  Cold was no longer endured.  Now it was embraced.  We were Eskimos!  We go to school in an igloo.  Our chicken burgers for lunch were actually seal burgers.  The sled dogs were waiting outside to take us home at the end of the day.  We laugh in the face of cold.  Bring it on, frigid classroom!

The para showed up to check a diabetic student’s blood sugar numbers.  She looked at the blocked doorway, looked at me with raised eyebrow, and waited for a response.  “You’re gonna’ have to come through the igloo entrance, sister.  No exceptions,” I challenged.  She grinned, dropped to her knees and emerged on the other side in no time flat.  I love her.  She always so happily plays along.  The Darlings hooted and hollered and welcomed her into our ice block structure.  
The Darlings wanted to know if they had to crawl through the tunnel with their backpacks on as they left for the day.  Well... YEAH.  Hello, it's an igloo.  More giggles as puffy, well-insulated, cumbersome Eskimo children huffed and puffed their way through our quickly disintegrating exit tunnel.  

The furnace gurus finally showed up, and by the time I was packing up to leave for the day, I felt delicious, glorious heat pumping out of my vents.  Oh my, I hate to be cold.  I still do not have blood the consistency of maple syrup that native North Dakotans seem to possess.  But the interior temperature had been merely an annoyance, nothing that would jeopardize safety.  We survived just fine. All in all, it was a good day.  Even a fun day.

I think one of the biggest surprises I have discovered with teaching is there are no “ordinary” days.  It seems that interruptions, changes of schedule, sick children, surprise guests, weather disruptions, etc., etc., etc., are part and parcel of the school day.  A teacher has to be so flexible she could twist herself up like a pretzel.  It’s a little ridiculous at times. 

I love the morning announcements that go something like this, “Due to a conflict in schedule, the meeting that was scheduled for tomorrow will be rescheduled for a week from Thursday and the meeting that was scheduled for that day will be rescheduled for the nine days from the last lunar eclipse.  It is vital that you attend and this will be the only reminder given.”  As you are trying to make a mental note of this gibberish, Little Sally Sue’s motion sickness from the morning bus ride makes a spectacle of itself all over the reading rug, distracting you from this Priority One announcement.  A rigid teacher is going to have a very unhappy career.  I struggle with the chaos of scheduling at times, to be very honest.  It makes me a little crazy at times.  But the show must go on.  Kids need to learn, even if the static indoor temperature is in the 50’s. You do your best.  It's all anyone can ask.

I just hope I don’t show up Tuesday to a flooded classroom.  I am NOT building an Ark…

We Needed a Girl

I have always been a great fan of Barbara Bush.  I like her spunk and her independent sense of style.  When her memoir came out, I had to read it.  Until then, I had been unaware that George and Barbara had a daughter that had died of leukemia when she was three.  George wrote a letter to his mother quite some time after their Robin’s death.  His description of how a girl had radically altered their rambunctious house of four boys resonated with me.  I understood.  I loved everything about raising sons.  I could never understand my friends’ complaining about how “difficult” boys are.  I love the male mystique and how they can solve everything with a rowdy wrestling match.  But the arrival of our baby girl left a lasting imprint on our house as well.  George H.W. Bush gives a tender glimpse into a daddy’s heart.  I echo these words as tribute to the profound imprint my daughter has had in our home as well.

George writes:

“There is about our house a need.  The running, pulsating restlessness of the four boys as they struggle to learn and grow; their athletic chests and arms and legs; their happy noises as the world embraces them… all this wonder needs a counterpart.  We need some starched crisp frocks to go with all our torn-kneed blue jeans and helmets.  We need some soft blond hair to offset those crew cuts.  We need a doll house to stand firm against our forts and rackets and thousand ball cards.  We need a cut-out star to play alone while the others battle to see who’s the ‘family champ.’  We even need someone… who could sing the descant to ‘Alouette,’ while outside they scramble to catch the elusive ball aimed ever roofward, but usually thudding against the screens. 

       We need a legitimate Christmas angel – one who doesn’t have cuffs beneath the dress. 

       We need someone who’s afraid of frogs.

       We need someone to cry when I get mad – not argue.

       We need a little one who can kiss without leaving egg or jam or gum.

       We need a girl.”

Happy birthday, sweetheart…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNet35ozqDo