An Open Letter to Sandy

Dr. Ryan Dahl

I am at this moment on a road trip headed to Colorado.  Tomorrow my son, Ryan, will become Dr. Ryan Dahl.  I am filled with anticipation for the weekend of celebration ahead.  It has been a long, arduous journey for him.  Medical school is not for the faint of heart.  Tenacity is a prerequisite and, thankfully, Ryan possessed enough to see him through.

His journey began years ago.  I will rewind the tape to May of 2007.  The gym in Wing, North Dakota, is filled with proud families and loyal community members.  This tiny prairie school still honors eighth grade graduates, for goodness sakes’.  Graduation is a big deal in Wing.

The cavernous Quonset is decorated with metallic ribbon and enough balloons to keep a pontoon afloat.  The high school band, minus the seniors and junior marshals, does its best to do justice to Pomp and Circumstance.  The Class of 2007 takes their place on the stage and sits down on the carefully placed folding chairs.  You may be wondering that the entire graduating class can fit on the stage.  Oh shucks, we could fit the entire high school up there.  There were only four graduates in the class of 2007.  All males, (which made for an interesting prom).

My boy, Ryan, is among them.  Ryan comes second in the Dahl Children lineup of four total.  He has known for several years that he wanted to be a dentist.  His uncle Jason had something to do with that, I believe.  Jason is a dentist and Ryan thought it would not be a bad way to take his contributing place in society. 

On that long ago night in May, he is enrolled at a private university south of Chicago, with plans to pursue a degree in biology.  John and I are hopeful he will be able to realize his goals.  We know he has many years of study ahead of him and will need to shine academically in order to gain acceptance into dental school. 

I spotted you when you walked into the gymnasium and on some mental level, wondered at your presence.  Although you had been a member of that community for quite some time, you had since moved away.  It was nice to see your sweet face, regardless.

Not far into the ceremony you stood and made your way to the stage.  Now I was actively curious.  You stood at the podium briefly, and then broke.  Without a word, you motioned your friend, who had walked in with you, to come and stand by your side. 

The gymnasium, which echoes at the slightest of sounds, is utterly silent, as if every person in that room is holding their breath. For what, we are not sure.  In quivery voice, fighting for control, you lay out your reason for being there.

With the single word, “Sarah,” we know we are about to be transported to a moment in time eight years earlier, a moment that changed everything; for you, for us, for our community.  In one horrific moment your beloved husband and daughter were ushered into eternity, and your precious son, the sole survivor of that devastating car accident, was placed on a long path of physical recovery.

You shared through your tears that night that shortly after that awful day, you chose to invest funds into an account that would be designated for Sarah’s classmates, to be handed to them upon their high school graduation.  You told no one of your plans.  Your motives were simple.  You wanted to honor your daughter in a meaningful way.  Your gift and careful investment had resulted in a significant amount to be used for furthering the education of her classmates as a way of remembering her life and legacy.

As the enormity of your extraordinary generosity sank in, I gasped.  I felt salty tears running down my face.  Not just for the help it would give my son, or for the unexpected generosity, but also because the years had been peeled back and a sunshiny little angel was running through my memories once again.  Sarah lived everyday of her life joyfully and exuberantly.  I will never forget her cartwheel on the basketball court after draining a two-pointer.  That was Sarah.  Happiness spilled out of her like a bubbling fountain.  Dear, sweet, angel-faced Sarah.

I write this today, Sandy, because I want you to know that my family remembers.  We remember your gift and its intended purpose.  We remember your mother’s love.  And we remember Sarah.

And so, as my boy accepts his diploma and conferred degree, I thank you, mother to mother.  I cannot know the depths of your painful journey.  But I do know that out of your sorrow you did an amazing thing.  You told Sarah’s classmates two things; you told them that you loved your daughter deeply.  You also told those young men on that night in May that you believed in them.  Believed they might create lives of happiness and fulfillment and accomplish the things Sarah never would.  Eight years later they are fine young men.  You helped them accomplish that.

We will never forget your kindness, your generosity and your selflessness.  Thank you, Sandy, for playing a part in helping Ryan realize his goal.  I am utterly and eternally grateful.  May God richly bless your life and path always and pour sunshine into that empty spot in your heart. 

You will always occupy a warm spot in mine.

When This Box is Full...

One of my absolutely favorite first grade activities every year is reading the book, “When This Box is Full,” by Patricia Lillie.  It is a simple book, and not terribly remarkable, as children’s literature goes.  But there is something touching about the young girl that marks the months and seasons with simple gifts added to her empty box. 

I read the text during our first week of school in the fall, hand out unadorned paper mache boxes with lids, let the students paint up a storm, then tuck them away.  Each month we add something to our boxes that remind us of that particular month.  In August, bright yellow wooden school bus cutouts.  In January, sparkling snowflakes.  In April, our book reading chart with the scene of children under an enormous umbrella.  These we carefully fold (or shove, as the case may be) into our remembrance box until the last week of school when we add our last item, a brilliant picture of a Painted Lady butterfly, as a reminder of our own adopted caterpillars. 

My Rosie, youngest of four and the only girl in the bunch, graduates from high school in forty-seven hours.  She will take her place on the stage with all six of her classmates (no, that is not a typo).  She will sit there on that stage adorned with metallic ribbon and helium balloons, deliver her Valedictory speech, and end her high school career.    

Though those in the audience will not be able to see it, she will have her own remembrance box sitting on her lap, stuffed with her own memories.  The contents of her box will strain at the seams, spilling bits of history from under the lid and down the sides, the memories of thirteen years of schooling in the same prairie school building.   

Most of her memories are pleasant.  She has enjoyed sweet friendships and has excelled in her studies and extracurricular activities. 

Some of her memories are not really memories at all, but rather the white noise of life.  The steady ticking of The Clock that ceaselessly marks time jumbles days, weeks, and months into a hazy film of sameness that has few distinctive marks.  She does not yet know that those will be some of the sweetest days of her life.  Unremarkable living means that life is pleasant, even when a little boring. 

Some of the scraps peeking from under the lid are painful to look at.  Heartaches and costly mistakes must take their rightful place in the box, as they do for all of us.  They are a part of her journey, a part of the formation of Hannah.  The pieces of her that have emerged as beautiful are partly due to those painful experiences.  Trying times either embitter a soul or release its beauty.  I am rapturously happy that Hannah’s is sweet and pure.  Only those closest to her can see the nearly imperceptible scars of difficult times hidden beneath a spirit of beauty.  Scars that tell me she is ready for a great big world.

At the end of my children’s book, the little girl takes her box filled with bits of lace, a robin’s feather, a foil heart, and a snowman’s scarf, and hands them to her friend.  Her treasures, so carefully guarded for an entire year, are made complete and dazzling by sharing them with someone she loves.

I think maybe Hannah has done the same.  Her treasures; her memories, her joys, sorrows, and successes are hers alone to savor.  But this child of my heart who came to us at the end of our parenting and who has filled our gradually quieted home with joy, has allowed me to partake in the gathering of the contents of her box.  It makes me catch my breath a little to hand back her box and say, “I love it all.  Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

In just hours, our youngest child will be done with childish things.  The concerts and track meets and class projects will take their place in her box, only to be exposed to light occasionally in the future as she reminisces, then puts the lid back on and places the box back on the dark shelf.

I love her so much. 

I am proud, yes.  But deeper and more satisfying yet is the knowledge that she has chosen wisely the things to place in her box.  They are things of purity and beauty. 

As I watch her accept her diploma and smile with satisfaction, I will smile too.  I am less sad that she is leaving than I am filled with joy that her box is filled with good things. 

Blessed is she.

Blessed am I.

Daughter of Hope

Taken from the condemned.  I will never forget the smell.

Her name was Yennj.  She was middle-aged with grown children.  She and her husband were business owners.  She liked to garden.  Her universe revolved around her family.  I related to her immediately. 

She and Heinrich, her husband thought often of leaving their small town in France to begin new lives in America.  But for this reason and that they never made it happen.

They died in a gas chamber in Auschwitz.

I gripped the biography card in my hand, handed to each of us at the beginning, as I wound my way through the maze of the Holocaust museum.  At one point I tossed the card into my purse, then fished it back out.  I wanted the tactile reminder that the images and objects before me came from and about real people.  People like Yennj.

Her name was Maya.  She was young, beautiful, and spoke impeccable English with a soft accent.  She stood just behind me as I waited to get into the Holocaust museum for my second visit this week.  My students kept asking if we could find the time to go.  After my initial visit I knew they needed to go.  They needed to experience what I had experienced on my first visit.  I promised them we would find the time. 

“Today is National Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel, you know.”  I turned to the sound of her voice and stared into the beautiful eyes of the speaker.  “Today, yes,” she replied to my unspoken questions.  Her eyes bored into mine.  I asked if she was from Israel.  She nodded.   “Today we remember that dark time for our people.”  She smiled and I liked her immediately.  She was in America for a visit and had timed her trip to the museum to coincide with her nation’s observance.

The questions began as a trickle and bubbled to a gush.  How was it she happened to be here on such a day?  Did she know anyone who had suffered during the Holocaust?  How do her fellow countrymen feel about the United States?  What are her thoughts on the Iranian nuclear deal?  Each question lead to another question and comprehensive answer.

Maya stayed by my side as we were handed our tickets and began to wind our way through the exhibits.  She commented on each one with perspective few Americans could possibly understand.  Her story began as we waited for tickets and continued to be filled in as we walked together.  I know I stared too much and too often.  I could not help it.  I was stunned. 

Here it is.

Her Polish grandmother was sixteen years old when she and her parents were loaded onto a rail car headed for the Treblinka extermination camp.  Upon arrival she and her parents were chosen for the gas chamber.  Her grandmother was not immediately pushed into line for the “final solution.”  Instead she sat outside for twenty-four agonizing hours waiting for orders.  Waiting for the end. 

A Nazi prison guard approached her at the end of her first full day in Treblinka.  “Yesterday’s arrivals will work!,”  he shouted.  And with that she began six years of forced labor in one of the most brutal concentration camps of WW II.  But she was alive.

Her grandfather, also a teenager at the time, was also loaded onto a cattle car bound for death, or near death.  While the train roared through a forested area, an elder behind him urged him to jump and try to escape whatever lay ahead for them all.  Her grandfather and the friend beside him decided it was worth the risk and leaped from the train in the middle of the forest.  They both survived the jump and escaped detection.  They remained in the remote forest, living off leaves and whatever edible substances they could forage for until the end of the war. His friend did not survive, but Maya’s grandfather did. 

Eventually, her grandparents met, married and immigrated to Israel, where they raised a family.

I stood transfixed as Maya’s tale unraveled before me like a ball of yarn that has escaped clumsy hands and rolled across the floor.  I couldn’t speak.   There is really nothing to say in the face of such raw agony.

“Could it happen again, Maya?  These awful things against your people, could they happen again?  She nodded without hesitation.  “It could happen in an instant,” she replied sadly. 

I sat just to her right and behind as we sat through a short video describing the campaign against the Jewish people of Europe.  I watched her brush tears from her beautiful eyes and felt my own fill with liquid sorrow.  It was agony for me.  How much more so for her?

Near the beginning of my excursion I felt the ever present need to take pictures.  For reasons I cannot explain, it suddenly seemed gauche to do so.  I chose instead to let the shocking images filter into my mind through trickles and atomic blasts.  On my first tour, I separated myself from the group so that I wouldn’t defile my experience with inane small talk.  I wanted to absorb on my own terms and at my own pace.  To have Maya at my side for my second tour was a gift.

Yennj, my assigned victim of the Holocaust, her husband, and daughter were eventually deported to Aushwitz, where they all perished. 

Maya is a reminder that even when humanity is at its most depraved, there are small beacons of sunshine that break through the roiling clouds.  She is a daughter of Hope.

Maya relayed that her grandmother had decided that God is not real.  How could a loving God allow such atrocities?  “God was not in that place with us,” her grandmother deduced.  Elie Weisz said much the same thing. 

“Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed....Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.”
― Elie Wiesel, Night  

I will not commit sacrilege here by dissecting such screams from broken hearts.  Only those who stepped of those train cars and into the night of evil are allowed that privilege.  But I contend that God WAS there.  Maya’s very life was proof of that.  Out of horror came this beautiful woman who tore open my heart then softly applied pressure to the wound.

I do not think the intersection of our paths was coincidence.  She and I were meant to meet and share Communion bread for a brief moment. 

We hugged at the end.  I had a tight schedule to keep and she had other sights to visit.  We exchanged information and promised to stay in touch.  I hope we do.  I think we will.

I walked away from that building filled with horror and hope and felt a renewed sense of the divine. 

And so I share Maya’s story here with you.

I am changed.
I hope you will be too.

“Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.“-  

George Santayana

P.S.  Please visit the Holocaust museum if you are ever able to do so. 

http://www.ushmm.org/

Maya found her grandmother's village on this wall listing those that were destroyed by the Nazis

Maya and me

Full-Time Teacher/Part-Time Road Supervisor

You may not be aware that I have served several terms as a professional politician.  That’s right.  I have worked for the people for something like fifteen years, and I am drunk with power.

There are a few things you may know (or think you know) about North Dakota.  We are rural.  We are a part of the Great Plains.  We can get a wee bit chilly in January.  As with other states, our counties are divided into townships, generally a surface area of thirty six square miles, or so.  The last census states that our township population is a crowded thirty-seven.  Not hundred or thousand.  Just thirty-seven.  Let’s just call it my own little kingdom.

Not long after my little brood moved to North Dakota seventeen years ago, the local Township officials asked the Hubster and myself to consider allowing our names to run for the Township board.  Bing, bang, boom, we’re both sitting on the board.  My first elected position came with the daunting title of “Road Supervisor.”  Say WHAT?!  “Don’t worry,” the board assured me.  “It’s not difficult.  Just let us have our meetings at your house and make pie.”  This might be doable, I decided.

And so, the years have rolled along with election after election finding me in one board position or another.   And the pies (or cookies, or muffins, or on a really busy day – Girl Scout cookies) kept coming.  All this glory came with a paycheck too.  You think we politicians get wealthy off the public dime?  You are correct.  We live the high life, thanks to your tax dollars.  Our little circle of fat cats meets twice a year and for each meeting, we receive a golden check for…..

…. twenty-five dollars.

That buys a lot of cruises and vacation homes, sister.  I am sorry if you are outraged.  Let your voice be heard at the next election.

You may be wondering what I did in exchange for all that denaro, besides bake and vote.  Honestly, not that much.  The old timers drove the roads in order to fill out the annual maps that indicated which needed county maintenance.  They seemed to enjoy it.  I didn’t have the time.  I had pies to bake.

That all changed yesterday.  When I got home from school, the dishy Mr. Dahl informed me I had a phone message I needed to listen to.  I listened.  Apparently I had an angry constituent.  Well, I’ll be dogged.  That’s a first.  I had a sinking feeling I was about to earn that $25.

I won’t bore you with the details – information really too technical for you laypeople.  The Readers Digest version is that heavy trucks had torn up a section of gravel road.  Mr. Dishy had informed me before I placed the call that the company responsible was already on it and would make it right.  I shared all of that with my unhappy caller.  He seemed assuaged and at my urging, promised to call in a couple of days if things were not better.

I hung up and felt better about all of those cashed $25 checks. 

On my way home from work today, I decided to go all the way.  As I drove by that Road to Ruin I thought I should stop by and see if any work had indeed been done.  Sure enough, there were gigantic machines lumbering down an impressively long stretch of road.  I could see why my neighbor had been unhappy. 

I brought the Chrysler to a stop and stepped into the frigid wind (when had the day turned so bitterly cold?).  I idly wished I had a badge or Road Supervisor uniform, or even better, a pink hardhat with rhinestones.  I watched the massive machines smooth the road for a few minutes and before long the largest of the lot backed toward me and stopped next to me.  The operator opened his door and shouted over the noise of the engine that I could pass on by.  I shook my head and grinned.  “I’m the road supervisor,” I shouted back.  The look of shock on his face made me laugh.  He grinned back, stopped his giant toy, and hopped out of the cab.  He held out his hand and introduced himself.  He then spent ten minutes regaling me with how-to-fix-a-road details and the plans to make it better than ever.  I nodded and smiled and pretended that I was something of good road/bad road expert.  I know what a pothole is, if that counts.  I probably had that glazed over look men get when a gaggle of women swap childbirth stories.

I told him about my phone call and the safety concerns that had been expressed and now it was his turn to nod and smile.  After six minutes I was shivering in the Arctic gale winds.  After ten minutes I was sure hypothermia was setting in.  Time to wrap up the convo. 

I climbed into my rolling sauna and pulled back onto the highway.  I couldn’t help but giggle.  If you had told me twenty years ago that this St. Louis native would live on the northern prairie and drive around checking on road maintenance, I would have laughed my fool head off.  I mean, isn’t life just the absolute biggest kick?  I love it.

So if you need an expert to look your road over or need helpful tips on how to deal with burly road crews, just give me a call.  I do consulting work. 

Oh, and I’ll bring a pie too…

When Harry Met Rand McNally

Harry holds a photo of the McMurdo Research Station, Antarctica

In case you haven’t read my blog lately or seen my endless Facebook updates or don’t really know me well, or at all… I’ve been on something of an Antarctic kick lately.   I mean like, I am obsessed. 

I won’t rehash the last six months, but my students have had some pretty thrilling and unique opportunities to get up close and personal with the continent in general and penguins in particular.  I think it’s a place I need to visit someday.

As I prattled on and rattled through our prairie school building blathering and gushing about penguins and researchers and the wonders of Skype, the in-house maintenance man, Harry stopped me in the hall one day.  He had heard about our Southern Hemisphere adventures.  “You know I’ve been to Antarctica,” he calmly stated.  I arched an eyebrow.  “Really?” I said with a bit of shock.  “Aww, I’ve been there thirteen times,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  He couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across his weathered face at the look of shock on my quasi hippie face.  I stared, speechless.  “Wait, are you telling me that… wait... WHAT?!?”  He leaned heavily on the snow shovel in his hand and grinned.  “I guess I’ve been all over the world.” 

Turns out our Harry used to work for the National Science Foundation as a government contractor.  He has zigzagged literally all over this big blue marble, once even working for NASA to set up a transmission tower at McMurdo.  I just had no idea.  No idea at all.  I couldn’t ask questions fast enough and begged him to soon be a guest of honor in the Magic Tree House and regale us with stories.

When our second Skype chat was arranged, I asked Harry if he wanted to sit in on it.  Did he ever!  As the Darlings asked their carefully rehearsed questions of the researcher, Jean Pennycook (dang, I love that name), Harry had a few questions of his own.  He piped up every few minutes with a new question for Jean, obviously enjoying his walk down memory lane.  Finally I handed the digital mic to him and urged him to talk to her directly.  She was honored to speak to a man that had helped build her research facilities at McMurdo.  She and Harry sort of forgot there were five cute-as-pie first graders sitting (shockingly) quiet, waiting for the focus to return back to them.  When Harry took his chair again, he was grinning from ear to ear. 

Today he showed up with boxes of artifacts.  He unloaded them on our round work table and began to pass around faded photographs of ice pack hovercrafts, icy runways, unattractive industrial buildings, himself posing with penguins and seals, breathtaking volcanic mountains, and certificates awarded for his spectacular work in the name of science.  He had rocks and driftwood.  He had mess hall napkins imprinted with the McMurdo name.  He had a ball.  And so did we.  

It was the perfect cap to our unit of study.  I mean, books and video feed are great.  But… this guy has been there!  It doesn’t get any more personal than that.  Our own Harry who throws salt on icy sidewalks and keeps that old beast of a furnace pumping hot air into our vacuous building has lived the very the things we have read about.

Perhaps my favorite photo was the one he took at the South Pole, the absolute bottom of the world.  And by the way, try explaining to first graders why you aren’t upside down and fall off the earth when you’re in Antarctica.  Gravity shmavity.  It makes no sense to them, WHATSOEVER.

ANYHOO, I am nearly finished with the book, “South with the Sun” by Lynne Cox, which recounts the first person to achieve the South Pole.  In 1911, Roald Amundsen claimed the title in the name of Norway where others had tried and failed, many of them giving their very lives for the bragging rights. 

As I stared at the grainy image of the white bleakness of the geographic pole, marked by a literal pole (believe it or not) and the flags of explorers who also conquered the feat in the name of their home countries, I was reminded of the spirit of adventure and courage that picture represents.  Man is so tenacious in his desire to see all of this great world.  I share that longing, in some small measure.  I am afraid I own the soul of an adventurer. 

And so when I read of Amundsen and Byrd and others who faced great odds and did the previously impossible, I am impressed, and a little envious.  Harry has taken his own rightful place in my mind of great world adventurers.  He has been to places and seen things that I never will and has stories to entertain and educate.  Harry rocks. 

To commemorate the day, he generously donated a chunk of Antarctic rock covered with spiny moss to our Discovery table – a true and irreplaceable treasure. It might as well be from the Moon itself.

Thanks, Harry.  It just goes to show that people are so deliciously surprising.  Everyone has their own story to tell. 

Harry will be happy to tell you his…

Roald Amundsen on his historic expedition

Antarctic Skype II

Today was Skype #2 with our Antarctic researcher, Jean Pennycook.  Again, we brainstormed for questions beforehand and practiced speaking into the microphone.  We even had a gallery of guests for this visit (more on that later).

This time when we connected we heard the sweet chirping of baby chicks, which are almost a month old now.  They began hatching December 9^th, the day after our last Skype with Jean. 

As we chatted with Jean, the penguins began crowding around her laptop and she told us that penguins are very curious creatures and were actually responding to the sound of our voices!  I can hardly wrap my brain around the fact that the voices of my North Dakota first graders caused a stir in a penguin colony near the South Pole.  Incredible and mind-blowing.

She also told us the penguins we named, Blackie and Snowy, were occupying Nest #1 and they had two chicks.  The mom, Snowy, is away from the nest right now getting food and they are waiting for her return.  After our visit I went to the website and we saw pictures of “our” penguins along with script crediting our class with the names.  We’re famous!  You can see for yourself at the following link.  Scroll down the page to Nest #1 to see pictures and our name mentioned.

http://www.penguinscience.com/education/royds_nestcheck.php

Nest #1 daily progress:
http://www.penguinscience.com/education/nest_1.php

Now about that special guest…

In the hallway one day not too long ago, the school maintenance man, Harry, stopped me and told me he had heard about our previous video chat.  Then he knocked my socks off when he told me he had been to Antarctic THIRTEEN TIMES!  Wait… WHAT?!

Turns out he used to work for the National Science Foundation and traveled doing construction for their projects.  He told Jean today that he helped build the lab at McMurdo Station.  She was amazed and thanked him for helping build the very facility she uses during her research time there.  Harry grinned from ear to ear.  We cheered and called him our hero.  It was a priceless moment.  He is planning to bring boxes of artifacts to school in a couple of weeks and do a “Show and Share” with the Darlings.  We can’t wait.  I think Harry’s pretty jazzed too.

What a day. 

To hear the giggles of my landlocked prairie children as they watched the antics of those entertaining, noisy, mischievious birds is icing on my middle-aged, quasi-hippie cake. 

A note about the video:  It is lengthy (12 min.) and the first couple of minutes are fraught with technical troubles.  You might want to fast forward to about 1:20 minutes to avoid all of that. Also, due to the video camera angle, the screen appears to be washed out, but our picture was crystal clear and breathtakingly beautiful.

Polar Opposites

Waiting for the Antarctic Skype call

Today made my Top Ten list of all-time favorite teaching days.  Forget top ten.  Top five for sure.  OK, fine. Top three.  Absolutely top three.  And the first two don’t count.

It began in Boston.

Last May I had the privilege of being a workshop presenter at the National Science Teacher Association’s national convention.  I loved every minute of it.  I loved sharing ideas with other teachers and I really loved gobbling up every workshop I could fit into my bloated schedule.  I mourned the lack of days and hours to see, hear, and learn more. 

During one of those workshops, I met a researcher named Jean Pennycook.  First of all, is that the greatest name ever, or what?  It belongs in a Jane Austin novel.  Jean presented a workshop on her annual pilgrimage to Antarctica to study the Adelie penguin colony on Ross Island.  Jean is also an educator and loves to get other teachers hooked on penguins.  From the moment she opened her mouth I was entranced. 

Among the many wonderful educational opportunities she shared with we science freaks was the offer to Skype with our classroom students.  Say WHAT?  I am so there.  She also promised to mail postcards to our students with the McMurdo Station postmark.  (Sigh) I was in teacherly heaven.

Fast forward. 

We mailed our postcards a couple of weeks ago and are working with our school art teacher to create an original flag that will be flown at the colony with accompanying pics for posterity’s sake.  Jean and I have been exchanging emails for several months in order create a timeline of events for our interactions.  Today was the designated day to introduce Jean and the untamed continent of Antarctica to the Darlings.  I have been so excited for this I could hardly sleep last night.

I did harbor a bubbling fear that technical difficulties would abort our virtual visit.  The miles separating us number something like eight thousand, after all.  Not exactly a quick trip to the local 7-11.  I also questioned the quality of our connection.  Would we only see alien, frozen faces and distorted images?  And lastly, would the Darlings stay attentive or spiral into a Tourretts syndrome convention? 

Turns out I had zero to fret about.  It could not have been a more seamless, perfect experience.  We connected with Jean right on schedule.  The signal was absolutely stunning.  As you’ll see in the short video clip, the moment our computers connected we were staring into the faces of Adelie penguins.  It sucked the air out of the Magic Tree House for the briefest of moments.  We couldn’t quite believe what were seeing.  It was a little surreal. 

They were glorious.  And funny.  And curious.   And surprisingly clean and white.

I was so enthralled I could have wept. 

Last week we brainstormed for quality questions.  These I typed onto individual sheets of paper and my students grasped in their hands today like seasoned news reporters.  We passed the digital microphone from student to student and they spoke slowly and clearly and waited politely for her response.  My heart nearly exploded with pride.  Pretty sure it did explode.  I am not sure what is pumping in my quasi hippie chest right now.

I got a little reflective too.  I couldn’t help it.  What a magical age children live in today.  School is so darn COOL!  My gracious, when I was in elementary school, the highlight of the day was being asked to go get the copies off the mimeograph in the office and getting to smell the ink all the way back to the classroom.  I’m sure I lost brain cells from all the fumes I sniffed.  Holy cow, that stuff was intoxicating.

But these kids… they literally have the entire world in front of them and the universe beyond with just a few keystrokes.  I follow NASA on Twitter.  I can’t get enough of it.  The images send me into a swoon.  I know I sound ancient when I say it is utterly, completely, heart-stoppingly amazing.  It IS amazing.  And I AM ancient.

I count myself blessed to be able to teach the way I would have liked to learn.  Maybe that’s why I am so crazy about teaching.  It’s sort of a do-over for me.

Lucky me…

 A short clip from the beginning of the conversation

Fun Facts:

·      Researchers must carry in all of their food for the entire duration of their stay.  McMurdo does have a commissary, but these things must be helicoptered in (and you thought YOUR grocery bill was high!).

·      Jean wears about 25 lbs. of clothes at a time to stay warm.

·      You cannot determine the sex of a penguin anatomically.  Researchers just wait to find out who lays the egg.

·      The Darlings were saddened to learn Jean would not be decorating her tent for Christmas.

·      The ocean is about a mile from the colony.  Mealtime is quite a hike for those short waddlers.

·      The penguins are not afraid of the humans.  Amazing considering they live in an uninhabited land.