A Heart of Hope

I have a cousin, a first cousin once removed if you want to get technical.  Her name is Megan and she is the daughter of my first cousin, Wayne.  Megan is twenty-five, movie star beautiful, and sweet as peach pie.  Today was her wedding day.  She married a wonderful young man named Nathan.  They will live in Tennessee and begin this new chapter of their lives as we all did; young, madly in love, and figuring things out as they go. 

I diverge my usual teaching-centered writings today because Megan’s story is one you need to hear.  It will remind you that life is precarious and bittersweet and full of hope.  I do not know all of the details, as I live a great distance from her home and was not first-party witness to the story I am about to tell, but I can share what I recall and come at it from my own perspective.

When Megan was a teenager, a virus invaded her perfectly healthy heart, causing an athletic, picture-of-health girl to become incredibly ill.  It was a fluke thing, the doctors said.  It could happen to anyone.  Why Megan?  Only God knows.  This is where Faith becomes the bedrock of a person’s life.

Megan recovered and resumed her life, for the most part.  She did not spend a great deal of time dwelling on that unpleasant chapter of her life.  She graduated high school, went on to college, and then found a job she loved.  Her life was as beautiful as she is.

In the fall of 2009, she began to experience some of the same troubling signs she had endured before.  With growing certainty she knew that something was terribly wrong with her heart and she dreaded the thought so much that she kept her symptoms to herself and tried to function normally.  Around Thanksgiving of that year, she knew the jig was up.  She was growing weaker by the day and becoming desperately ill.  She finally confessed her symptoms to her parents and the doctors confirmed her fears.  Her heart was degenerating rapidly and was not going to get better.

Megan’s perfect life now spiraled downward with dizzying speed.  She soon became too weak to do anything except lie on the sofa and simply BE.  She had energy for almost nothing and her parents watched their child go from successful, healthy young adult to bed-ridden invalid.  Breathing became difficult and keeping food down nearly impossible.  Her already thin frame lost pounds it could ill-afford to lose. At her lowest point she weighed something like eighty-five pounds. 

Her dad, my cousin, began to journal their journey in the form on an online blog, much as I am doing now.  He found solace in pouring out his grief digitally.  Thousands of us cried and grieved with a daddy who was watching his girl lose her fight.  It was almost unbearable to read some of those posts.

By March of 2010, her situation was critical.  Somewhere in that time frame, she was placed on the heart transplant list, which is a complicated acceptance process with layers of “need.”  Because there are so few organ donors in comparison to need, only the most ill and near death are even considered for such a rare gift as a healthy heart.  The list of criteria to be considered is staggering.

Megan was too ill to really understand all that swirled around her during that time.  She had been in the hospital for many weeks, every breath a fight.  Her parents stood helplessly by her bed and watched her hover ever closer to death.  They were powerless to stop the progression of her insidious disease. They could only cover her with their unfailing love and storm the gates of Heaven with their prayers. 

How does one go about praying for such a thing as a heart for a loved one?  You fully understand that in doing so, you are asking the death of someone else to be hastened.  Someone’s mother, or son, or brother will have to die so that the one you love can live.  It is a heavy duty to ask such a thing of God.  And yet….  You do it.  You have to.  You trust a loving God to sort all the ethical details out.  You WILL your child or spouse or friend to LIVE. And you pray for a heart to come before it is too late. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it.  We do whatever it takes to keep our loved ones near us.

March melded into April and Megan’s doctors knew they were running out of time.  Megan’s frail heart would soon be finished nourishing her body with life-giving blood.  Options were discussed and a stop-gap measure was found that would buy her a little time, but just a little. 

On April 17^th, her heart had had enough.  Pneumonia invaded her body and as her temperature rose, her chances for survival plummeted.  Her parents could see it on the face of every medical person that came in to her room that day. 

It was time to say goodbye to Megan. 

What Megan and her family did NOT know just yet, was that a donor heart had become available that matched perfectly.  Unbelievably bad timing that now that she had a heart, she was too sick to receive it.  But her doctor did the unthinkable and began to screen and prep her anyway, without raising the hopes of her family.  They did not know that their miracle had become available.  They only knew that Man said it was too late.

You need to know that our family believes in prayer.  And we believe that God is in the business of miracles.  So while Megan’s heart and body failed, the rest of us went to prayer.  Does God hear our prayers?  I believe that He does.  I’ll never forget the phone call I received telling me that Megan’s white cell count was dropping and her temperature returning back to normal.  The pneumonia she had begun the day with was leaving her body.  Now things sped up at breakneck speed. 

Oh, the rejoicing when Megan and her family learned of the beautiful, pink heart waiting for her!  By Sunday evening, Megan was recuperating from heart transplant surgery and was experiencing the reverse of what she had been.  She was no longer in the process of dying.  Now she could get back to the business of living. So many miracles and so much to marvel over.  Megan was alive, thanks to the unspeakable gift of a donor heart. 

I took a picture today.  I stood at the window on the second story of my house and photographed the sky, as I often do living here on the prairie.  The rain was coming down somewhere to the west of us.  We can see storms coming for miles.  An opaque black curtain stretched from sky to earth.  But shining through the dark of that curtain,  for just a moment, the image of the sun was radiant.

I think that describes Megan’s story to perfection.  The best of modern science and medicine said that hope was gone for her.  They had done the very best they could.  It must have been so difficult to deliver that news to her grieving family.  All seemed incredibly dark for a time.  We hate it, but sorrow touches even movie-star beautiful, sweet twenty-five year-olds. 

And yet….

The sun had never really stopped shining.  Storm clouds can cover that brilliance so completely that we forget it is still with us.  All we see are dark clouds.  But it is there;  shining, and illuminating, and warming lives.  I believe it is called Hope.

Today Megan stood in front of the same Dear Ones who never left her side for all those months and made promises to a young man that God brought in to her life just weeks after her transplant.  Nathan and my son, Trevor, have been good friends for quite some time.  Trevor and Megan have shared a friendship that transcends familial blood-ties and Trevor convinced Megan to visit him in Kansas City as soon as she was healthy enough to travel.

During that visit, on a whim, Trevor stopped at Nathan’s place and introduced he and Megan to one another.  Megan’s second miracle was now unfolding.  Before long, they were dating and quickly fell in love.  Megan’s new heart was now truly christened.  It had found a home in Nathan’s love.

I stand in awe of Megan’s story.  It bespeaks of all life’s most ardent emotions;  sorrow, grief, desperation, joy, new love…and hope.  Always hope. 

I could not attend the wedding, but my heart was there, sharing a day pregnant with meaning and emotion.  This day was the culmination of a love story that began long before Nathan and Megan ever laid eyes on one another.  Their story begins long, long before that.  Their story tells of a God who knew that Night would turn to Daybreak for Megan.

Even when it was the darkest, the sun was still shining. 

Megan’s heart somehow knew it….

(If you would like to read more about Megan’s story, the web address is:  http://megansheartstory.blogspot.com/)

School Pictures Day: Mrs. Dahl Works the Camera

Do you love school pictures, or what??  Parents send little Johnny or Janie out the door on the day of pictures, dressed to the teeth, every errant hair held in place with some sort of goo or spray.  Their little Cars or Tinker Bell backpacks contain the prerequisite order form with the DE-luxe package box checked, which includes twelve 8x10 photos, and 300 wallets.  The scam is, that four minutes into the bus ride, your child has a snot drip on his new white polo shirt, and he decided to shove his stocking cap on his heavily moussed head, creating a riot of hair sticking up in every direction, like his hair is trying to jettison into the atmosphere.  When he gets to school, he will inform his teacher that “mom says don’t comb his hair before pictures” and his $89 package will feature a snotty white polo shirt and really bad hair.  The best part is, the photographer with only take one shot, so mom and dad, you get what you get… SUCKA’!!!

Better than the ridiculous prices for really bad pictures, are the ridiculous poses that the photographer puts the photographee through (yes, Spell Check, I am quite AWARE that photographee is not a real word.  Deal with it!!)  You walk up to the preplaced “feet” on the floor in front of the backdrop – no guessing about where you are to stand – paste on your best fake smile, and wait for the agony to be over.  Is that good enough?  Oh my, no.  Your physical therapy session is about to begin.  “OK, just drop your left shoulder a wee bit.  Yeah, like that.  Now raise your chin and point it due north while leaning your torso at a ninety degree angle.  There, yes, just like that!  OK, now take your right shoulder and shrug it until it is nearly touching your ear and purse your lips together like you just sucked a lemon.  Yeesssss… that looks so natural!”  (Click).  Next!

All my eight little darlings did just as they were told and took the dearest, darlingest school pictures in the history of first grade classes, I am just sure of it.  Precious and adorable.  Now it was my turn.  Being the genius I am and having spent a great deal of time with sheep in a former life, I followed my six-year-olds to the red feet pasted to the floor.  I placed my brown suede boots with the fabulous gold zipper on back on the red feet, flashed my best fake smile, and waited for the flash.  Now the calisthenics began … left shoulder down, slide your hands down your hips a bit (so SULTRY), blah, blah, blah…

I suddenly stopped, took my hands off my sultry hips, and announced firmly, “I cannot work in these conditions.  I need music!  I need a fan! I am a professional, after all!”  Turning to the superintendent, who was in line behind me waiting to place his feet on the fake red feet, I said, “You.  Go find those items for me!”  This next part is just priceless…  without missing a beat, he walks over and stands in front of me, then using the envelope he held in his hand, he begins to wave it in front of my face.  I had my fan.  The effect was stunning I have no doubt.  I love it when others are silly with me.

I’m pretty sure I single-handedly messed up the school web site yesterday.  Our students were dismissed after lunch recess so that we teachers could spend the afternoon in an in-service (code for What’s The Point?) meeting.  Part of the magic of the afternoon was training on how to get our individual class web page up and running.  I listened carefully and took copious notes.  Yep, yep, yep... I’ve got it.  I logged on last evening in order to at least get a start on the thing, and managed to put something together to give online visitors a taste of what our class is like.  I even added pictures.  “Not too bad, Mrs. Dahl (I am thinking).  When I was done and had it posted to the site, I realized that all of my information had been posted to the school’s home page.  Whaaaattt?? How in the world…??  I pressed keys and clicked on icons and links trying to undo my mistake.  Nothing.  I fired off a flare to the school techie, but for a time, Mrs. Dahl’s first grade web page hogged the home page for the entire school.  Visitors to the sight must have thought me such an attention seeker.  Well, for goodness sakes!  I would have had you check it out before it got fixed so you could share my idiocy, but this morning when I logged on, all was well.  I guess the web page fairy worked its magic throughout the night, seeking out digital dummies like me and waving its magic wand where necessary. 

On a different note, our class pet, Chicken On Sale, continues to garner attention, affection, and notoriety.  His froggy star is most definitely on the rise.  I walk into my classroom in the mornings now and find anonymous gifts of plastic baggies filled with dead flies.  The bugs pour in like offerings to the Amphibian gods.  The biggest smile-maker of the week happened on Monday.  Our 5^th and 6^th grade teacher, Mrs. Fox, suddenly appeared in our doorway – in the middle of class, no less. This is unusual for several reasons.  During our morning reading and math block times, our rooms are in virtual lock-down.  I nearly expect to hear the words barked, "stand back!" and see bars to lock in to place once we are all inside.  Nobody leaves their classroom unless you get an emergency call stating your house is on fire, a loved one has been abducted,  or you really have to use the bathroom.   The other reason it is rare to see Mrs. Fox standing in my room in the middle of the day is, my room is in the school dungeon.  It is not on the way to anywhere.  Kind of like the state of North Dakota.  You don’t happen to pass through.  You are there because you intended to be. 

So when I saw her smiling face I was immediately intrigued by her presence.  “Mrs. Fox!’ I said delightedly.  “How can I help you?’  Holding her right hand up for inspection she offered with self-pleasure, “I have a fly.  I have a LIVE fly.”  OOOooohhhh. A live fly is a rare treat for poor, captive Chicken On Sale.  He will be luuuuvvvvin’ THAT!  With pomp and circumstance my entire class ushered our goddess of Good Eats to the new digs of Chicken On Sale (a huge plastic pretzel tub from Sam’s Club), and ceremoniously dropped the still-buzzing, doomed fly into COS’ habitat.  We thanked her profusely, and with that, she was gone.  She told me later that when she arrived back in her class, all her 5^th and 6^th grade students were standing at the door waiting for a detailed account of how well received their corporate gift had been.

Do you just LOVE small, rural schools?  Honestly, I feel as though I live in Mayberry.  I hear teachers from large cities complain about disrespectful students and worry about crime, and think I must surely work in the greatest environment on the earth.  We are a 109 member family that is intertwined in a unique and beautiful way.  Of course it is not perfect and there are moments of personality clash and tension.  But I will not dwell on those here.  Just give me my moment to bask…

I had other smile moments this week too.  As the outside temperature drops, the outside critters really want to move indoors.  Our room always has a fly or two buzzing around our heads and tickling our arms.  We were in the middle of grammar when a particularly loud fly dive-bombed our worktable.  One of my students held out his arms in a gesture of attention-getting and warned the others to freeze.  As we all listened to The Fly, he dead-panned, “breakfast.”  We knew Chicken On Sale’s morning needs had been met.  I swear, that little amphibian is getting fatter.  A teacher suggested I take a kitchen scale to school and weigh him daily to chart his growth.   I sense a science fair project in the making…

My other giggle minute came at the beginning of the day on Tuesday.  The children always go outside to play if they arrive before the first bell.  As they poured back into the stairwell to hang up jackets, stumble over backpacks, and prepare for the day, I heard a panicked voice I recognized immediately as one of my students.  “I’m STUCK!” came the slightly muffled voice from somewhere in the coatroom.  I tried to decipher what “stuck” could mean in this circumstance.  Zipper won’t go down on his jacket?  Head between the railings on the stairs?  Shoe attached to bubble gum that had been left on the floor?  Now the little voice is growing frustrated.  “Every….time… I…try….” Panic is setting in.  What in the world?  I better investigate.

As I head out the door to do a search-and-rescue, he walks in.  I smiled when I saw his dilemma.  SOMEHOW (and please do not even try to guess.  You will hurt your brain), he had placed the sleeve of his jacket on the mouse sticky trap that had been shoved in the corner behind the door.  Our frog/mouse/snake/salamander infestation was being attacked with everything we have in the school arsenal.  Somehow the custodial staff had managed to catch a six-year-old.  Those babies are sticky!!  The aide who had been on playground duty stepped in to try and free him as well.  Every time we got a piece of his jacket loosened from its death-grip, another part of the sleeve would get sucked in.  It was a comedy of errors.  Now the aide was stuck too.  You know me well enough by now to know that that sort of scenario gives me the giggles.  How ridiculous it was!  FINALLY, he was free and no longer had to worry about being left in the corner of the coatroom, left to waste away to skin and bones on a sticky mousetrap.  F-R-E-E!  

It is now Thursday and I am home for the day.  Instead of washing my windows and taking screens out for the winter, I am typing this tale.  Well, my friend, that must change. 

More later….

Sincerely,

Mrs. Dahl

First Grade Teacher

Frog Feeder

Sticky Trap Emancipator

Super Model

Nothing Says Kindergarten Like a Heavy Metal Concert

Yesterday was Saturday.  Guess what I did?  I got up early, caught a ride with a co-worker, traveled 90 miles in the school driver’s ed. car (that passenger side brake was so tempting!!), to attend the state kindergarten conference.  But, Vonda, you say.  You’re not a kindergarten teacher.  Why go to the kindergarten conference?  Good question.  The answer is, I really like the kindergarten teacher.  She asked if I wanted to go.  I welcome any opportunity to spend time with her.  

It was not the first time I have attended a kindergarten conference with her.  I went last year as well.  I was student teacher under her at the time of the conference.  She thought it might be beneficial for me to go.   OK.  Why not?

It was too far to get up the morning of the conference and drive, so we decided to get a hotel room and make a weekend of it.  That should be fun.  Have a little girl time.  What else could we do while there?  We each decided to think about it and do some online searching for Fargo events that same weekend.  Hmmm...what could we do, what could we do??

A couple of weeks before the conference, the kindergarten teacher approached me a little timidly.  “I found something for us to do,” she offered hesitantly.  “Oh yeah?” I asked eagerly.  Art exhibit?  Craft fair?  Broadway musical?  Two-for-one night at the Hungry Heifer Buffet?

“There’s a concert in town that weekend,” she continued.  “There are several bands playing that night, actually.  It’s a big tour.”  I waited for more details.  Music genre was not being offered for acceptance or rejection yet.  “Ok,” I prompted.  “What kind of concert?”  Doggonit, I’m just gonna’ say it, I could almost hear her thinking.  “Heavy metal,” she finished confidently.  “There are a couple of bands I would really love to see,” she finished with, her voice trailing a bit.  She was losing the inner confidence battle, I could see.  I think she suddenly had become acutely aware of what she was asking a middle-aged, uncool mother of four to do. 

My co-worker is the picture of professionalism at school.  Dresses smartly, keeps personal issues compartmentalized in front of the students, does her job and does it well.  She is nurturing, intelligent, and compassionate.  That is the school version of our kindergarten teacher.  The one that walks out the door is a little less buttoned down.  She likes to howl at the moon a bit.  She is a roller derby queen (literally), and she likes to bang her head a little.  I absolutely love how unafraid she is to be who she is.  She is such an intriguing, lovable blend of uniqueness.  I respect and applaud her for that.

I owed her… big time.  When it came time for student teaching placement, I went to this woman and practically begged her to take the necessary course work in order to become a cooperating teacher through my university.  She never even hesitated.  Her heart is so big and golden that she would do anything for anybody.  I loved student teaching under her and watching how unfailingly patient she was with the high demands of such young children.  It was a rewarding experience.

So now she was asking for a reverse favor.  How could I say no?  I couldn’t and didn’t want to.  If she wanted to go, and wanted me to go with her, I would.  Of course I would.  Hey, this could be fun.  Certainly something to stick in my Things-I’ve-Never-Done file.  I adore new experiences.  OK, let’s do some head banging!

And so we did.  It was the Rockstar Energy Drink Mayhem Festival tour.  You’ve probably heard of it (tongue firmly in cheek).  It featured two stages and eight bands.  Bands with names such as, Hail the Villain, Stone Sour, Avenged Sevenfold, Halestorm, and Disturbed.  Not surprisingly, I had heard of none of these, but my younger friend assured me these were big names in the genre and would put on a great show.  Even as I am typing this, I am laughing out loud.  You should have seen the looks on my own kids’ faces and heard the shock in their voices when I told them about my plans.  It was priceless!  “Mom!  Do you have any idea what you are going to?  Mom, there will be CUSSING!”  a.  No, I have no real idea of what I have in store, and b. I think I’m old enough to hang onto my moral moorings in spite of an evening of heavy metal mayhem. 

Just as priceless was waiting in line at the Fargo Dome to buy tickets, surrounded by more tattoos and black clothing than I had ever seen assembled in one place.  I suppose I stuck out a bit.  I really do not care.  This is America, after all.  If a middle-aged, squeaky clean, Naïve Nancy wants to see Disturbed in concert, why shouldn’t she? (I kept asking myself all night…).  As we are standing there, my friend spots a high school girl from our school standing in the line next to us.  Instead of finding black-clad youths with spiked mohaws to stand behind to hide, she grabs my arm and drags me over to her.  I wish I had a picture of the look on this young girl’s face at that moment.  Eyes widen to impossible sizes, jaw drops to her knees, and she exclaims loudly, “MRS. DAHL!!!  What are YOU doing here?”   Laughing I pulled her into my arms and said something along the lines of, “I have no idea….”

Did you just ask me if I enjoyed the show?  I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you properly.  I think I damaged my hearing somehow (I don’t know when or how)… 

Here’s my truthful assessment of that night.  Is it my new favorite genre of music?  No.  Although there were a few songs I didn’t mind.  Screaming into a microphone is not music to me (wow, did I just sound my age, or WHAT?!).  But there was this one female singer that was truly gifted.  Her voice was amazing.  I am glad I got to experience her talent. I called my children one by one on their cell phones and held mine high into the air so that they could experience it with me.  It was so loud in there that talking was impossible, but I knew they would want to share the moment with their mommy.  Even though they were spread out at universities hundreds of miles apart, I could almost see them rolling their eyes at my weirdness.  That’s all right.  Someday they will appreciate the fact that their mother was a lot of things, but boring, never.

The rest of my quick review of that night includes hours of loud music, screaming from the audience in response to the bands, some truly amazing stage shows, albeit darkly themed and even a little frightening.  During Avenged Sevenfold’s turn on the stage, a spotlight was suddenly shown on a man climbing along the rafters near the ceiling of the towering ceiling in that arena.  High above the crowd and just over the stage, he suddenly jumped, a rope tied around his neck.  I squealed.  I couldn’t help it.  I noticed everyone around me did the same thing.  It was a shocking sight.  Worse than that, his “lifeless” body was left to hang and swing over the band as they finished their song.  A mock suicide, obviously, but it was so realistic and disturbing that I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.  The crowd loved it and roared in appreciation.

Plumes of thick smoke began to rise from those standing in front of the stage.  Well, I’m guessing they weren’t frying chicken down there.  The man behind me got so excited about something shouted from the stage that his beer went down my back and soaked my hair.  I guess if I’m going to get the full experience, I might as well smell like it. 

I think the emotion that made the most impression on me throughout that night was the common feeling of dark hopelessness amongst those surrounding me and from those on stage.  It was a common bond that united this mass of people.  My friend probably has a completely different take on it.  I ‘m guessing she does.  It was incredibly brave of her take such an uncool person with her.  I love her for that. 

When the kindergarten teacher asked if I wanted to go to the conference with her again this year, I immediately said yes.  I had brought some good ideas back for my own classroom from the last one.  Jack Hartman was the featured guest.  The name will mean nothing to you unless you are a primary grade or early childhood teacher.  Jack Hartman is the Mick Jagger of classroom educational music.  I already owned one of his CD’s and use it daily in my classroom.  Absolutely did I want to see and hear him. 

We arrived in Jamestown on time, but were unsure of how to get to the elementary school.  We pulled into a gas station to try to Google Map it on her iphone.  Not having much luck, we went old school and went in to the service station to ask for directions.  As my friend was getting directions from the attendant, a man standing there interjected, “Just follow me.”  He walked out, got into his car, and like the pilot car on interstate road construction, he lead us right to the front door of the school.  Only in North Dakota.  We honked and waved appreciatively as he pulled away and left us to rescue some other damsel in distress, I suppose.

The conference was good.  Although did we really have to seat ourselves directly in front of the stage, like Jack Harman groupies??  I just knew he was going to call us up on to the stage to sing and dance like the fools.  He probably somehow spotted us for the metal heads we are and left us alone.

The workshops were beneficial, although I would have liked to of stood up during my morning session and publicly shamed the broads seated at the far end of the room who talked nonstop throughout the entire workshop.  How rude!  Shut up, already.  These ladies worked hard to put this presentation together.  Let them have their 45 minutes without behaving like kindergarteners yourselves.  There.  I feel better now for having gotten that off my chest.

I am glad that I went, both last year and this year as well.  It never hurts to broaden horizons and gain new insight and ideas.  I am also glad that I work with people I truly like and enjoy spending time with.  Work is fun because of them.

As we headed home in the late afternoon, sharing and laughing about the day, I felt a satisfied contentment with the place I am at in this phase of my life.  So much fun to have a career right now that I feel free to pour myself into without the stresses of a young family.  Life is good and fun and rewarding. 

I didn’t smell like beer, but it was a good day nevertheless.  Thanks, Gayla.  You (literally) rock!  :)

Of Pirates and Playing Hooky

Did you ever play hooky when you were a kid?  C’mon… be honest.  I do not remember ever actually faking illness, but there was that one time I held the thermometer up to the light bulb on my nightstand hoping it might inch up a degree or two.  It didn’t.  I also remember beseeching the Lord one day during first grade to strike me with a good old-fashioned case of stomach flu so that I could go home for the afternoon.  I’m pretty sure it was spelling test day.

I stepped in to the workroom one day this week and the cook, who was seated at the table, informed me that one of my students was ill and would not be attending that day (in a small town, everyone knows everything).  I made a mental note of that information and headed down to my classroom.  I walked through the door, and lo and behold, there stood the “ill” student, her mother standing beside her.  “I thought you were sick today,” I said to the miraculously cured child.  She just grinned in a self-conscious manner, and mom filled me in on the Paul-Harvey-Rest-of the–Story.  Turns out that after mom had told her to go back to bed, the mother had heard her singing in a fairly chipper manner for one hovering so close to death.  It didn’t take much to make The Faker confess – when pressed for the truth, she admitted she was, in fact, not sick at all.

Too late to catch the bus, mom loaded her in car and hauled her to school.  They both now stood before me.  One disgusted and the other a trifle embarrassed.  I couldn’t help but laugh at the botched attempt.  Still smiling, I turned to my little charge gone AWOL.

“You do know,” I addressed her directly.  “If you try to play hooky, I give you extra work.”  The cherub face with the irresistible grin faltered for just a moment.  I could see her processing this information.  Her grin returned full force as she decided I was pulling her proverbial leg.  “Nuh-uh!"  I grinned back and told her to empty her backpack.  Within moments, mom was out the door and we began our day.

We are currently in book #4, Pirates Past Noon, of the Magic Tree House series.  First grade LOVES pirates (apparently).  They liked mummies, and Knights, and dinosaurs, but they have completely embraced this pirate thing.  Two of the characters in the book, pirate shipmates, are named Pinky and Stinky.  Cult heroes to us!  I suppressed smiles as I overheard the boys arguing about who would get to be Stinky (any title with the word pink in it is obviously too girly.  Everybody knows THAT). 

My daughter has a pirate hat she wore for Halloween one year. It has a saber stuck through the top and two glowing ruby eyes on the skeletal face.  I brought it to school and wore it during read aloud time sometime between chapters five and seven.  The children were rapturous!  I wore it all afternoon that first day, but kept bumping into doorframes and walls with it (it is a big hat).  My fellow teachers have learned to take me in stride, I think, but this day a couple of them couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “And WHY are you wearing a pirate hat?”  When you read a pirate book you have to wear a pirate hat.  Am I right?? 

The kids are desperate for me to be a pirate for Halloween.  Cap’n Bones, to be precise.  They don’t know yet that I am going to be Glinda, the good witch from Wizard of Oz.  I feel like wearing pink.  And a crown.  Someone else will have to be a pirate, I guess.

For those who have a burning desire to know, our new class pet frog, Chicken On Sale (first graders found his name in the newspaper grocery store flyer), has become something of a school celebrity.  Frogs have to eat, right?  I asked our principal to ask for insect donations during morning announcements.  He was fabulous.  In a completely serious tone, he implored the entire student body to please donate any found insects to the first grade frog.  In typical fashion, they responded.  I walked into my room after recess to find close to twenty kids clustered around Chicken On Sale’s canning jar home clutching still hopping, chirping or buzzing insects.  Anxious to donate to a worthy cause, they had used recess time to “feed the hungry.”  Chicken On Sale is the fattest, happiest, most content-in-captivity frog you ever saw.  In a weird way, he’s even kind of cute.

This is how low I have sunk, however.  A couple of mornings ago, I was eating breakfast at home and spotted a fly lumbering around my kitchen.  You know the kind.  The late fall variety that is near the end of its life cycle, is huge and can barely move fast enough to get out of a fly swatter’s way.  It really wasn’t a fair fight, I readily admit that.  But I ended his short fly life anyway, and then I did the unthinkable.  I put him in a baggie and took him to school for my green, croaking, grocery store flyer friend, Mr. C.O.S.  As I was depositing the fresh kill into his Ziplock final resting place, the thought crossed my mind, “Am I really doing this?”  I can add insect hoarding to my list of life achievements. 

So back to my first grade illness-faker.  At the end of the day, just before the final bell, my students empty their cubbies of homework, notes for parents, etc.  Miss Tried-To-Pull-One-Over-On-Everyone was busy shoving papers into her backpack when I stood before her holding a packet in my hand.  “Remember what I promised you this morning?” I asked her.  She knew immediately what I was referring to.  “I wasn’t kidding,” I went on.  “You really do get extra work if you try to play hooky.”  She stared for a moment trying to discern if I was joking.  I wasn’t.  “For REAL??” she asked unbelievingly.  “Yes, for real.  Next time just come to school.  It will be less work in the long run.”  Her countenance was crestfallen.  “I am never doing that again!!” she wailed.  We’ll see.  She’s young.  It may be too tantalizing to not try again.  But I do not think it will be tried anytime in the very near future.

Fall is heavy upon us now.  The nights hover just at the freezing mark.  The days are still light jacket weather, but Jack Frost is definitely blowing gentle puffs of cool air over us that will soon refuse to warm at all.  Leaves are red, or yellow, or dry and crackly-brown, and scuttle across the street to gather in clumps beside the curb. 

I had the blind up on our lone classroom window on Tuesday of this week.  As I wandered around my children in the midst of their daily newspaper sight word search, stepping over small bodies and milk cartons (we always combine snack and sight word time), I had one of those moments where you are so totally in the moment that you suddenly feel as though you are observing a point in time from a third party perspective.  You are just a little detached somehow as you memorize that flash in time.  I used to have those moments with my children, when they were young.  Some part of your brain is whispering to you to absorb everything you are experiencing because it is precious and something to tuck away into your store of mental treasures.  Golden Memories, I call them.   They are priceless gems that will nourish and feed the soul at some future point in your life. 

As I listened to the gently hum of children on this day, talking and laughing together, paper strewn everywhere, a shaft of autumn sunshine found our window and burst through with shimmering beauty. It sought and found the golden head of a child stretched out on the floor, unaware that he had been kissed by that giant orb around which all life revolves.  I stood mesmerized for a moment watching the way the light filled the space and concentrated itself on the child and floor around him.  I felt the warmth of the sun at that moment as my mind took a mental photograph.  Children content and learning… This was why I had become a teacher.

And so we ended the week with six boys fighting each other to be called Stinky, a stray frog who thinks he hit the jackpot, and a first grader who MAYBE (hopefully), learned a life lesson.

It think it was a good week.

National Betty Day

I wonder, sometimes, how it is that I can be so self-absorbed that I forget to “see” the people around me.  There are those in our path that we acknowledge, have entire conversations with, may even know well, but we forget to scrape past the exterior of their surface persona to catch a glimpse of the true person underneath. 

We are all players in this little game, are we not?  When someone asks you how you are, what is your instant reply?  “Fine,” is how we have all been conditioned to respond.  Fine whether we feel it or not.  Fine even when we are struggling with a heavy burden and need a listening ear.  Fine when our heart is breaking and we feel absolutely alone. 

Sometimes we are NOT fine.  Sometimes we should check our autopilot at the door, and scream out, “Help me!” Or “I’m lonely.”  Or “I feel unappreciated by everyone in my universe!”  Sometimes we should see the lie of that word in the eyes of the other and take the time to listen, or at least dig deeper.  Ding the surface veneer a little.  Find out what’s underneath.

I was reminded of that this week.

There is an angel that sits just outside my classroom door three days a week.  She is a participant in the state funded Foster Grandparent program, and honestly, I don’t know what I would do without her.  This rookie teacher just feels better knowing her calm presence is within easy reach, should I need a little help here and there.

Her place of honor in the school is an ancient desk pushed against the wall, parked between the girls and boys bathrooms.  The doors are always left open to keep bathroom shenanigans to a minimum, so I am sure it is not a pleasant place to sit.  And yet, she keeps coming back and has been doing it for years. 

Her duties are vaguely defined and general in purpose.  She will help a child memorize the States, or cipher an addition problem, or get caught up on late homework. She has cut out countless things for me and the other primary teachers, she has collated Weekly Reader sheets, organized anything disorganized, and even brought coffee to me in the middle of the afternoon. 

Those are the obvious things she does.  I love her for doing those things consistently and cheerfully.  I love her more for the things done that are rarely seen or heard by those of us who work her so hard.  For while she is explaining how to do two-column addition or what a proper noun is, she is also gently teaching life lessons.  I have overheard her soft voice guiding children into channels of virtue and responsibility.  Things like, the personal satisfaction of completing a job.   The honor of garnering the respect of those around them.  The fallacy of not being trustworthy or reliable.  The long-term benefits of applying themselves to their studies.  I have heard her be firm too, when needed.  She is normally such a tender sweetheart, that firm resolve in her voice causes her young charges to sit up, take notice, and fly right. 

The idea for Betty Day began during lesson planning for the coming week.  Social Studies had a lesson that encouraged interviewing someone who had seen many changes in the community during their lifetime.  I thought of Betty instantly.  She had lived here her entire life, the kids adore her, and you can’t get more convenient than ten steps from her desk to our door!  She was delighted to comply.

From there, the ideas in my mind grew exponentially.  She should get flowers, of course.  The kids LOVE to make homemade cards, and really, what is a party without cake?  Chocolate, of course.  Shhhhhh.  It will be a surprise!

My students were thrilled.  Par-tee, par-tee, par-tee!!!  Oh yeah.  They were on board.

I forgot about baking the cake until the morning of The Day.  Shucks.  I threw the boxed mix in the old Kitchen Aid, and let it bake while I passed a curling iron over the mop on my head.  No time to let it cool before frosting (the cake, not my hair), so I took the frosting and fall-colored sprinkles with me (first graders wouldn’t THINK of having cake without sprinkles.  They consider them a major food group). 

While I laid out my materials for the day, I frosted the cake and applied a generous layer of sprinkles.  OK, cake ready to go.  Cards were lying in a heap on the art table.  Flowers were…. FLOWERS!  I nearly forgot.  I ran to the cafeteria where I had shoved them in the cooler next to the red Jello, and filled a vase with water.  Fall colors in a really nice arrangement.  I liked them.  I thought maybe she would too.  Setting the vase on her desk with a card propped against it, I proceeded to prepare for my busy day and was secretly looking forward to her surprises lying in wait for her.

Then, just like that, my students arrived and the starting gun to the day had me at a dead run.  About ten minutes after nine, our door opened and Grandma Betty stood there in the doorway clutching the opened card in her hand.  No words came from her mouth, but tears were coursing down her velvety cheeks.  I left the child I had been helping and walked towards her.  She tried to speak, but only broken phrases came out.  Finally, she managed to say, “No one ever gives me flowers.”  She drew me into her embrace and hugged the stuffing out of me.  “Thank you,” she finished in a whisper. 

She wanted to thank the children as well.  They flew into her familiar arms in a spontaneous group hug.  More tears flowed from her soft eyes, and I ran to grab my camera.  I will always cherish that shot of her being loved so unconditionally from children who instinctively discern the true character of a person.  It is priceless, that picture.

I knew if she was overwhelmed with something so simple as flowers, she was going to love our secret party later in the day during Social Studies.  Keeping it a secret from her was easier than I had anticipated it would be with eight first graders who have no concept of keeping a secret.  They readily admit it when then pass gas in class.  No shame, no secrets.  That is their uninhibited motto.

Our interview went great and was incredibly interesting.  Such a great job she did!  I had to suppress a smile when I realized she was a little bit nervous.  I learned things about the school and town that I had never heard before and the kids had great questions for her.  Bravo, Betty!

Then it was time for our surprise party.  I ended the interview with the announcement to her that we had been scheming and planning for several days and told her that we had christened that day National Grandma Betty Day.  She beamed.  Then the kids handed her their cards, and the tears began to flow again.  When she saw there was cake too, I think she could have died happy on the spot. 

I reflected on that later, when the kids were gone for the day.  It had been such a simple thing, this little celebration of ours.  It had not cost much in terms of money or time.  It was not hard to plan.  And yet, I had the impression that it had meant more to her than anything had in a good, long while.  Why had I waited so long?? 

I think it goes back to being self-absorbed.  Vonda is busy.  Vonda is overworked and overwhelmed.  Vonda, Vonda, Vonda….  Well, so what?  Who isn’t going 110 miles per hours in this day and age?  I have no excuse.  I just didn’t take the time to ding the veneer.  I had felt gratitude for all she did, but had I ever really expressed it before?  Not as I should have, certainly.

It takes so very little to make a person feel appreciated.  A little time and effort go such a long way in making a person feel valued and, yes, loved.  I need to do it more.  I need to make it a habit.

I am both chastened and buoyed.

Here’s to you, Betty…

Toss Your Cookies Friday

Smugness should never be allowed to enter the psyche of a teacher.  It is an emotion antithetical to the vocation of educator.  It is borrowing trouble.  It is placing a curse on yourself.  It is sticking pins into the proverbial voodoo doll. 

It is such a far, far distance to fall when everything stops spinning on its axis. 

You know where I am heading…

Fridays are wonderful because it is Jeans Day.  What could be better than sliding into my favorite jeans, comfy moccasins, and a Vikings Jersey?  I’m asking… what could be better?

Fridays are awful because they are the last day of the school week.  At face value, that should be a good thing, right?  And it is, but I usually find myself trying to stop the swift slide of ending the week in a whirlwind of last minute business.  There is the dreaded Friday letter to send home.  And truthfully, that puppy doesn’t usually get written until, well, Friday.

Today was different.  Today I awoke with my letter written and ready to print.  I had already started lesson planning for next week, I had my art project ready to whip out in the afternoon.  Holy cow, did this mean I was GETTING THE HANG OF TEACHING??? No, no, I cannot make that leap just yet.  As I was shoving corrected homework into cubbies (another frantic last minute chore, generally), the Smugness Demon jumped on to my shoulder and started to tickle my ear.  I was even toying with the unthinkable idea of running up to the Teacher Workroom to grab a quick cup of coffee and munch on whatever high calorie baked goodie was featured today. 

Then I heard my name, and the tone spoke volumes.  Ooops.  I instinctively knew that things were going to go downhill quickly.  The kindergarten teacher was walking towards me with one of my female students beside her, and my poor girlie was a mask of contorted features and tear-stained face.  Ohmygoodness… what HAPPENED?!  Rollover accident?  Death of a beloved pet?  Mugged by roving gangs on Main Street?

“Carl puked on me on the bus!”  She blurted out in horror.  “He got it everywhere!”  Unadulterated outrage.  My eyes did a sweep of her person.  I had to hand it to Carl.  He had missed very little of my young Joan of Arc.  Jeans, backpack, shoes were all coated with Captain Crunch.

Joan was inconsolable.  I fetched her stay-at-school stash of spare clothes and sent her into the bathroom to change, the tears and sobs still wracking her small frame.  She was sure she would never recover from this unspeakable horror.  When we got her into clean things and back into the classroom, I tried to provide some perspective and help her jump to the fifth stage of the Kubler-Ross model of grieving - Acceptance, but she stubbornly insisted on planting herself in Stage Two - Anger.  Shoving a stuffed animal into her shaking hands, I headed upstairs to the laundry room to put her things into the washing machine. 

The school HazMat team beat me to it.  Hazardous Materials team consisting of the lone male elementary teacher standing over the sink trying to remove barf to the best of his This-Is-So-Not-In-My-Contract ability.  The ironic, amusing part of that mental picture is, this man was successful in the engineering field for many years before deciding to devote his energies to educating the young.  He is borderline genius, I think.  I student taught under him, and trust me, he is one smart cookie (in keeping with the cookie theme of this post), and I ‘m sure the school board is too smart to ever toss him.  He and I have spent hours discussing “what if” the state legislature ever approved charter schools.  He thinks he could do it better and smarter than the current educational system does.  I think he could too.  I hope he hires me.

I told Einstein that I would throw my desecrated duds in the wash when he was done, then headed back downstairs.  My students had all arrived by now and were ooohing and ahhing over our most recent class pet frog (the frog infestation continues), captured by me in our classroom just before The Crisis of the Century.  I made a mental note to have the kids come up with a name for it later.

Joan was still sobbing and clutching the stuffed dog like it was literally keeping her alive.  I patted her distraught head and gathered my chicks for morning routine.  Joan couldn’t possibly participate, she was sure.  I gave her a pass… for the moment.

I passed the stack of new writing curriculum that had been dropped in my arms just minutes before.  Weighing roughly the same weight as a four-year-old, I was to look it over and implement it ASAP.  Sigh… there goes the weekend.

Snack is now underway, pledge is a memory, library books deposited in the proper receptacle, homework turned in, it was time to get out the newspapers for our daily sight word search.  I challenged my first graders to find a name for the new pet frog from the pages of the Tribune.  Challenge accepted.

Joan is still crying, but has agreed to get a highlighter and participate.  I hear pathetic little hiccups coming from her spot on the floor at various intervals.  The squall is subsiding.  I had pulled her onto my lap a few minutes before to try once again to calm her and she had wailed aloud, “I’m just so grossed out!”  I get it, dearie.  I do.  I’d be a bit nauseated myself.  I harkened back to the day a few weeks before when this same child had come in from recess clutching her stomach and complaining about being sick.  She gives me the giggles when she speaks to me because if you wrote down verbatim what she said, there would be no punctuation whatsoever.  No periods or commas or breaks of any sort just talking and talking until she runs out of breath it is really so very funny I love this child she melts my heart and Mrs. Dahl you know WHAT??! (big inhale before the next volley of words…)  

This is how she speaks.

As she complained that day of her tummy feeling sick, she told me how she had attempted to make herself feel better.  She said, “I was feeling sicker and sicker outside so I got on the Puke Machine” (a legendary piece of playground equipment.  Every student who has ever attended here has a story about The Puke Machine).  “Did it help?” I asked with arched eyebrow.  “NO!” was her amazed reply.  I guess she figured she would fight fire with fire.

I smiled as I recalled the memory. 

Newspaper time was winding down and I called for pet frog name nominations.  Ideas were thrown out and bandied about.  “Mid Dakota Clinic” was discussed and rejected.  “Netbooking” didn’t receive much enthusiasm.  The winning name?  (Drum roll, please, as the game show music swells and crescendos….)

Our pet frog has been christened, Chicken On Sale.  Yes, really.

Well, you know what they say…. 

Tastes like chicken…

Moses??

I’m beginning to think that my first graders have been crying out to God to deliver them from “Egypt.”  That would make me Pharaoh, I guess.  If Charleton Heston shows up, I’m going to reconsider my vocation.  I wonder all of this because we have a serious infestation of frogs going on in this ancient edifice we lovingly call “school.”  Of biblical plague proportions, really.  I have captured and released many.  I’ve had them drop down from the ceiling right in front of me.  A class can only keep so many pet frogs.  The last one didn’t get enough hydration, I think.  Ever seen a bloated frog?  It’s not pretty.

What’s next?  Locusts??

Today my sweaty angels were changing into their gym shoes in the coatroom, when I heard the words shouted to me that every teacher will no doubt hear at some point in their career.  A six-year-old voice demanded to know, “Why is there a dead frog in my shoe?”  Well, THAT got my attention.  He came around the corner from the coatroom holding a very dead frog in his hand.  “It’s flat,” he stated.  Yes, I could see that.  Makes me think poor Kermit went out to recess with the owner of the shoe, as well.  My Discoverer of Dead Critters was unfazed.  Our playground is a virtual Reptile Garden.  The kids are always chasing snakes, salamanders, and of course, frogs.  For a reptile phobic such as myself, it’s like teaching in the middle of a Fear Factor episode.  I can handle the occasional frog, but we do occasionally find a snake in the building, and for that, I need extended therapy.  And possibly a Valium.

Apparently this was a shoe-themed day.

I am walking down the hall with my class when I realized my sandals are not feeling quite right.  Let’s back up.  Why am I wearing sandals on the fourth day of October?  Because I can, that’s why.  Here on the northern prairie we are having Indian Summer like you  cannot believe.  I mean epic!  Temperatures have hovered in the seventies and even eighties.  I am LUVIN’ it!!  I will wear all the summer gear I can for as long as I can. The tan is long gone.  I do not care.

So as I’m walking down the hall, I realize I blew out a shoe.  One side of my right sandal is ripped.  Instant sadness.  I love these shoes.  You know how you have certain jeans or shoes that you would wear for the rest of your life, if you could?  Yeah, you know….

What to do?  It’s not like I carry spare shoes around with me.  Hmmmmm…..

When I got back to class, I searched my supplies and found just the thing.  Colorful packing tape with a geometric design and neon colors on it.  Oh yeah.  Come to me, baby.  I wrapped the Sure-Cure around the toes of both shoes and studied my work.  Perfect.  It looked awesome (no, really…).  It even matched my jean skirt and shirt.  Well, this day would not be a total bust after all.  I gloated until I got up to walk, that is.  You may or may not be aware that packing tape makes a crinkly sound.  Did you know that?  I sounded like a walking candy wrapper all day.  Wow, did we get the giggles over that!  I would step over to the homework drawer and see the faces of my largely male student body trying to suppress giggles.  Little grimy hands held over grins.  Mrs. Dahl and her Postal Package Shoes were a major distraction all day.

During reading intervention group, the Little Princess sitting next to me kept staring at my cool and groovy shoes.  I told her the story and asked if she liked them.  She nodded and smiled broadly.  “When I get big,” she asked, “Can I have them?” 

Oh my love, you may have them sooner than that.  Tomorrow they are yours.

And just so you know, if the water fountain starts running red, I’m outta’ here…

I know, right?

Educational Field Trip Feels Like Work Release to Students

I love themes, don’t you?  When I decorate a room in my house I like it carry a theme.  My family room has a game board theme.  I just redid my son’s bedroom with primitive black crows.  See what I mean?  Themes…

Let’s travel down the right-of-passage field trip highway.  What kid doesn’t enjoy a field trip?  There is something intoxicating about being given permission to leave the prison yard (OOPS, I meant school building) for an entire day and follow his or her teacher around like ducklings at the pond.  I love the idea of a field trip.  Let’s take learning out of the classroom and into the great, big world.  To that end, I am not the least bit interested in mindless activities just to satisfy some notion that kids should go on field trips.

Last spring the kindergarten teacher and I threw together (I meant to say CAREFULLY AND SYSTEMATICALLY ORGANIZED) a transportation themed field trip.  I must say, it totally rocked.  We visited an airport hanger and climbed in and out of single engine airplanes, we visited the Greyhound bus station, we went for a spin in a limo, we rode the city bus across town, and we got a behind-the-scenes tour of the city airport.  We even ate lunch at a McDonald’s that features vintage cars.  Wow, we are good!  It was fun, adventurous, and best of all, educational (tricky, tricky, Mrs. Dahl snuck some learning in there.  Hee-hee.  SO devious).

At some point during the summer months, as the teacher section of my brain percolated ideas for the coming year, I had the idea that a media communications themed field trip might also be fun.  The Bismarck Tribune had featured my class in a series of ads over the summer promoting its Newspapers In Education program.  Three ads ran at various times for a total of nine ads during June, July, and August.  I felt they owed my class a tour fit for William and Kate.  I was going to cash in as soon as I could make it happen.  While we’re at it, why not add a television station?  Hey, this was turning into the field trip of the century.  I would probably be nominated for some national award or something.  Yeah, I could feel it coming together.  The kindergarten teacher was on-board.  The second grade teacher added her assent after a bit of thought, and now we were a party!  Call the TV station – check.  Call the newspaper – check.  Arrange for a bus and driver – check.  Note for home with permission slip – check.  Ask the cook to prepare sack lunches for us – check, (wow, this is more complicated than I thought…).  Talk to my students about the importance of the media in keeping us informed – check.  Talk to my students about proper field trip behavior – check.  Do it again – check. Did you hear me, class?  Listen respectfully and DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!   

OK, I think we’re ready.

The day dawned bright and clear, and WINDY.  The weather forecast had predicted winds in the 20-30 mph range.  Just a bit of a zephyr in good old North Dakota.  Ha!  We laugh at high wind warnings, and then we spend half-a-day searching for our lawn furniture. 

We began our day of Learning Adventure at the television station.  Our tour guide, Lee, was awesome with the kids and had them in the palm of his hand the moment they met.  As he warmed the crowd up with his humor and easy approachability, one of my blond Finns pointed to me and informed our tour guide, “She’s forty-nine.”  Thanks for sharing that, Blondie…

We barely escaped the Room of Terror (I had had nightmares about this one).  I am referring to the station control room with its bright, twinkly lights and buttons covering every available space.  Were they INSANE letting us in here?  I had to control my own urge to push buttons, it was nearly impossible for our students to resist.  But inexplicably, they did and we were now in the news studio.  The kids were enthralled!  We took turns standing in front of the blue screen to do the weather using the monitor showing the weather map.  We all got the giggles when one of my first graders, who had worn blue that day, disappeared into the weather map, save for his head and hands.  He looked like a floating phantom (another one of my recurring nightmares).

Next was the newspaper tour.  Poor, poor tour guide!  Lisa was in for it.  By the time we disembarked from the bus, our kids were done touring.  They were tired, bored, and ready to do some exploring on the scale of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.  They would not stay close to our tour guide.  They would not.  Reprimands and cautions thrown at them by we three teachers seemed to fall on deaf ears.  They were tired of being well-behaved, angelic beings.  They were ready to touch buttons and walk through some “employees only” doors.  I finally stationed myself at the outer edge of each stopping point of the tour so that they at least couldn’t migrate any further than me.  One swift karate chop would stop them cold (and leave me unemployed).  I remarked at one point that I felt like I was herding sheep.  When we had sheep on the farm, and wanted to contain them for whatever reason, we would walk slowly towards them with our arms spread out wide.  Sheep are so amazingly brilliant that they would see the human “wall” coming towards them and assume that our ability to move them was much greater than it actually was. 

Kids are like that too.  The adult sometimes has to assert dominance even when none is felt.  I used to say to my children, “Who is the boss, you or me?”  I said it as much for my benefit as for theirs.  I didn’t always feel like the one in charge.

So being the brilliant, observant teacher that I am, I realized with genius clarity, “These kids are not having fun.”  Oh, I am so very intuitive and discerning.  Back-to-back tours for primary age kids is asking too much.  OK, lesson learned and tucked away for future reference.

All was not lost, however.  We had also built into the day a stop at the Pumpkin Patch and the kids were stoked about that.  STOKED.

Unfortunately for us, it was also the perfect storm of billions of bales of straw and the gale force winds of Hurricane Xavier (I just wanted an excuse to type Xavier.  Is that a great name, or what??)  Wow, it was WINDY.  I should have titled this post Straw In My Bra.  There were itchy little bits of golden stuff flying everywhere.  It got into our eyes and hair and other unmentionable places.  We could taste grit filling our mouths and crunching between our teeth.  I was not having fun.  Thankfully, the kids were.  Finally released on parole, they were running and jumping and hooping and hollering like little monkeys on caffeine.  It was fun to watch, that is, when I could open my eyes against the Saharan sand storm.

That was on Thursday.

On Friday, I asked my students to make homemade thank you cards for our respective tour guides.  The detail was amazing.  I guess they were listening after all.  Their art reflected the enormous printing press we had gawked at, the four colors used in color printing, the conveyor belt for transporting printed papers, the weather map, the cameras and monitors, Lee, our tour guide at KFYR, and the one that touched me the most, a pink card with hearts that simply read, “I like Lisa.” 

My next field trip will reflect lessons learned by this rookie teacher.

And take place in a dome.