The Wish Bone Method of Career Planning

The First Thanksgiving – First Grade Style:

On the very first Thanksgiving, the Indians had dinner with the Canadians (or maybe my students meant the Canadiens, which makes it quite possible the first Thanksgiving included ice hockey).  The Canadians sailed to America on the Cauliflower, then they all had dinner together.

This is the official version of events here in the Magic Tree House.  You possibly did not know some of these very important and factually accurate details.  But the kids swear they are true, so they must be.  Who am I to argue??

The week of Thanksgiving is just a notch below Christmas in terms of hyperactive pandemonium.  It was crafting chaos!  We had a glue and googly-eye Lollapalooza goin’ on.  We were whippin’ out turkeys made of every imaginable substance like you can’t believe.  We made handmade My Blessings books and we even remembered our feathered friends with pine cone and peanut butter bird feeders.  The only trick was keeping the darlings from licking the peanut butter off of the pine cones. Little hand printed messages declared that, “Birds need a feast too!”  By the time the closing bell rang on Wednesday, the Magic Tree House looked like a ravaged ladies department after a sale at Macy’s.  There were bits of construction paper, slopped bird seed, and half-dried glue globs on the surfaces of everything. 

Really, what is my problem?  I have the hardest time keeping my classroom neat and orderly.  You know it’s bad when the janitor comes in to vacuum and is overheard giving her vacuum cleaner pep talks.  I mean, there are days it’s BAD. 

I really felt like a failure when I walked over to the second grade classroom to deliver some papers and gaped at the absolute pristine condition of that classroom.  Not one thing out of place.  How does she do it?

My room is in a constant state of mild dishevel.  Sometimes in the summer months, a Dirt Devil, which is a weak wind vortex, will pick up a handful of dust from an open field and expose itself in the air with it.  They are very cool to witness and pose absolutely no danger.  My room often looks as if a Dirt Devil took a swipe at my shelves and bookcases.  I am not a messy person; really I’m not.  I don’t know what my problem is… I will keep self-analyzing on that and get back to you.

Somewhere in the course of our week of Thanksgiving Fever, I mentioned the turkey wishbone to my students.  Most had no idea what it was and none had ever heard of my childhood tradition of breaking the wishbone with someone else.  Because my sister and I were the only children in our family for so long, there was no fighting over who got the wishbone.  We would give it an hour or so after the feast to dry a bit, then each of us would grab one end of it, pull until it broke in half, and whoever ended up with the larger piece got to make a wish (get it?  WISH bone????)

My students were enthralled. They LOVE making wishes!  Wishbone!  Wishbone!  Wishbone….

The conversation turned to other important topics and the wishbone concept was forgotten.  Or so I thought.

Near the end of the day, Little Sallie Sue approached me with her usual 100 watt grin.  “Mrs. Dahl, guess what I’m going to wish for?”  I had to think for a moment as to what she was referring.  Ah yes, I’m tracking with you now, Sallie Sue.   What will you wish for?  She comes close to me and wants to whisper in my ear.  I smile.  There is no one standing anywhere near us, but little girls make anything a secret, don’t they?  I love that about little girls.

I bend down so that her State Secret is delivered safely into my ear.  Her breath is warm and sweet on my cheek.  “I’m going to wish for my very own library in my room.”  Wow, I hadn’t seen THAT coming.  I was prepared for Barbie Beach House, or a real, live unicorn, or something else fitting for a wish.  A library?  I look into her shining eyes and she is beaming.  She’s not finished.  I bend close again.  “And I want my library filled with science books so I can become a scientist when I grow up.”

My Reader, I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I could have died on the spot and felt I had lived a full and rich life. 

If she could have anything at all in the World of Impossible, she wants her very own library filled with science books?  My heart was beating just a little faster as my own eyes filled with joy.  “That is a wonderful thing to wish for!  I LOVE that you want your own library filled with science books.  But do you know that you already ARE a scientist?”  Puzzlement crossed her face as she considered my words.  “No I’m not,” she declared.  “Oh yes you are, my luv.  If you ask “why” and “what” questions, and seek the answers, you ARE a scientist.  You don’t need to wait to grow up to be one.”  The grin that broke across her face was a sight to behold. 

Here’s what I hope on the Thanksgiving Night: 

I hope Sallie Sue got the bigger end of the wishbone and told her parents about her wish.  I have little doubt that they would dearly love to foster the career dreams of knowledge-thirsty girl.  And I hope she grows up to become a scientist.

This is exactly what I signed up for -- nudging the love and pursuit of knowledge in young children.  The Fill and Drill method of education works to a certain degree.  Most of us were taught with that methodology.  But  few end up becoming true lifelong learners. 

If I had the wishbone tonight, I would wish that eight adorable, precious, turkey-making first graders would love learning new things, and seek knowledge their entire lives. 

Knowing one of them is well on her way is enough for today.

(Happy Thanksgiving!)

Common Ground

I have a soft, warm glow where my heart used to be located.  That beating pump was replaced today by a cloud of puffy softness, which seems to expand every time I review the events of this day. 

It started a bit sadly, to be perfectly honest.  Grandma Long, Pauline Jewel, slipped away to meet her Maker two nights ago.  I spent yesterday remembering her and surprisingly tearful.  She was ninety-six, after all, and had been diagnosed with cancer for some time.  I wasn’t surprised by the news.  I just… I can’t even put into words why or what.  I suddenly missed her, I guess.  Anyway, I suppose I don’t need to defend myself to you.  If I want to be sad, doggonit, I will be.

Yesterday morning when I arrived at school, I found a small priority mail package sitting primly in my mailbox in the workroom.  I grabbed it and noticed the address as being from my hometown of St. Louis and the sender a woman who has known me most of my life.  I gave the box a little shake, like a four-year-old snooping under the Christmas tree.  I smiled as I identified the sound.  Dirt.  Had to be dirt.  I headed to my classroom and placed the unopened box on the easel in the reading corner.  I wanted to open it with the children as witness. 

Reading and math block came and went, and with the shortened school week, I was trying to cram curriculum and concepts into their poor brains like trash in a compactor.  About noon I got the news about Grandma, and suddenly I was trying to process, and function, and think ahead to getting myself to the funeral, and on and on.  The day both sped up and began to drag like cement shoes.  The package remained sealed and would have to wait for another day.

My first grade angels arrived this morning, and the usual cacophony of voices and early morning distractions began.  Somewhere in the middle of “The Unload” as I like to call the backpack emptying ritual, Little Blondie handed me a zippered bag with a letter and a small sample of sand.  My eyes widened.  “What’s THIS?” I demanded.  A slow smile spread across his adorable face.  “My mom sent it,” was all he said.  But from where, who, how????  He had no answers.  I quickly read the note that stated the sand had come from Omaha Beach in France.  Cool.  Very cool.  Way, groovy, completely cool.  This soil sample thing was taking off.  Mr. I’ve-Had-This-In-My-Backpack-For-

Who-Knows-How-Long suddenly remembered that he also had a sample to give me.  It too was sand, this from a beach in Florida, couriered by his vacationing auntie. Awesome!  Hugs of joy from Mrs. Dahl.   My eye caught the still-unopened package sitting on the easel.  OK, during reading we will open it together, I decide. 

Pledge to the flag, morning snack, stickers on charts for books read, morning wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee song (that’s what I call it anyway).  Sight word search in the newspaper, new 24-hour words dispensed, and finally we sat down for reading.  I showed my students the wonderful sand samples and shared the note.  “And look!  Another package for us came yesterday.  I think we should open it right now.”  A package for us??  We are collectively excited.  With flair I broke the seal and three small bags of dirt fell onto my lap, along with a letter addressed to me.  The three bags were labeled and I now was curious about what they said.  The first one read, “Ferguson Church.”  A tender smile touched my lips.  My life had revolved around Ferguson Church when I was a child.  My dad was the school principal for the church school and I had spent most of my waking hours in that building.  Wonderful and warm memories flooded me.  How thoughtful, I marveled. 

Then I lifted the second bag of soil.  “Your home on Elizabeth.”  What?! She sent dirt from the yard of the house where I grew up??  I instantly felt the sting of tears fill my eyes.  The children are staring at me as I stare at a plastic bag of dirt.  “I can’t believe…. How in the world…why would anyone….,“ I babble before my voice trails off.  I pick up the third and read its label.  This one lists the address of a second home.   I had lived in only two houses during my years in St. Louis.  She had visited both and sent a piece of each one to me. 

Now the tears are unchecked and eight little faces are unsure what to do.  Was I happy or sad?  They weren’t sure and I felt their discomfort, but reached for the letter regardless.  I needed to explore this amazing mystery to its fullest end.  The letter is lengthy, but I share it because it is so precious.

It began:

“Dear sweet Vonda.”  I am obviously going to need a tissue, and soon.  How could she have known that on this day I would need the soothing hand of a familiar friend to comfort my heart?  I read on.

“How busy you have been in the years between then and now.  You have traveled from a beautiful girl, to a beautiful mom and teacher.  You claim to be a first year teacher but as we all know, being a good mom means constant, often unintentional teaching.” 

I check the computer daily for more word from the chilly north.  I have copied all of your blogs and have them in an ever-growing notebook.  I am so proud of you.  God has truly gifted you with your ability to manipulate the English language making me hang on every word and thought.

How blessed your 8 charges are to be the recipients of your vast creativity.  How blessed I feel I am, to be given the opportunity to share in one of your classroom adventures.  Please find 3 bags of Missouri clay housed in the ever-useful zippered baggies.

One of the labeled bags contains dirt from the grounds of the church where you worshipped and were married.

Another bag holds the precious dirt from your back yard when you guys lived next to the church on Elizabeth.  As I was dislodging the dirt from the ground I wondered if this could have once been one of the Miller girls’ mud pies.

I succeeded at some secret, undercover work as I boldly walked up the familiar sidewalk, trusty spoon and baggie in hand, to your former house in Florissant.  Leaving all self-respect in the car, fully rehearsing my speech about a former resident who now teaches school way up north and is collecting dirt, I rang the doorbell and knocked on the door.  I was relieved that no one answered but I felt like a burglar as I scouted out my surroundings looking for authorities who just might handcuff me and carry me away if I tried to explain my mission to them.

From there, I found a good spot under a tree where I thought a hole noticed would surely be blamed on a poor, unsuspecting mole.  With my heart racing, I did my dirty deed and raced to the car and sped away feeling like I had accomplished the impossible when I caught, in my peripheral vision, a man standing by his car waving at me.  Me thinks he was witness to the crime, however, no police have visited me thus far, so I think I’m in the clear. 

Well, I trust your class will enjoy the Missouri Mud.  Again, thanks for giving me the chance to be a part of your world.  If I can help in any other way, suffice it to say, “I’d love to.”

I’m anxious to visit you again the next time you blog.

Forever Love,

Peggy”

By the time the last words of her precious letter had left my lips, I am sobbing.  I mean, can you IMAGINE?  The idea was genius.  The time and trouble she went to extraordinary.  The significance of each place in my life and the symbols they represent of how my life was formed are without compare.  Knowing that she stole dirt is so ridiculously funny, it is priceless. 

My earliest memories have their origins in that first house.  It is quite possible that I am in possession of mud pie material.  Goodness knows I made plenty of them.  I stopped reading the letter at that point and asked the kids if they knew the recipe for mud pies.  About half did.  They all do now.

When I was a moody, silly teenager, we moved to a neighboring suburb, and that was the house that is now two ounces short of its original soil.  I suppose if the cops catch up to her, I’ll have to post bond.  (“What class project?  I have no idea what you are talking about, officer, and I have never seen this woman in my life…”)

And the third representation of my life came from my church, around which my family’s life revolved.  I worshipped there, attended school there right to high school graduation, and loved every square inch of that enormous edifice. 

I stared at the black substance which had been such a gift from this thoughtful friend to me on this day and wondered at the incredible timing.  As I was saying goodbye to my grandmother, I had been reminded that the small pieces of a person’s life accumulate to make the whole person.

It is just dirt.  We walk on it everyday, we wash it off of our cars, and grow our hollyhocks in it.  It is plentiful and free. 

Today it became priceless to me. 

My mind roared through memories like laps at Daytona.  Racing outside after school to play in that very dirt, sitting on the grass outside the church with my cousin and best friend Sharlene, talking of boys and the things that trouble the young, and slathering my tuna white body with Coppertone as I broiled myself in the backyard in vain attempts to tan (one of the neighborhood girls told me her brother got out the binoculars when I did this and then that was the end of THAT). 

I never, ever thought during those years of growing and defining who I would become, that one day many years later, I would sit in a classroom holding a few ounces of soil from my youth and shed tears over it. 

Thank you, Grandma, for your part in the fabric of my life.  Thank you for teaching me to drink the pear juice out of the can, and giving me homemade dill pickles on my sixteenth birthday, and gum right before we left to go back home every time we visited.  You always won at Scrabble.  Always.  I think I got my love of words from you.

And thank you, Peggy, for showering me with love today.  You couldn’t know, of course, that it would arrive and be opened on a day when it would be so incredibly significant to me.  Today was the perfect day to be reminded that life’s small moments create the mosaic that will mirror the places and people we encounter.  Life’s small moments and daily minutia accumulate to form the person we become.  You modeled for me that when a great idea hits, I should follow through and do it.  It just might brighten somebody’s day.

Life is short, even when you live to be ninety-six.    

Today a dirt thief reminded me of that.

One Year of Teaching Is Coming To An End: Now What?

Unbelievably, inexplicably, I am only two months away from the first day I stepped into the classroom as a first grade teacher.  What a journey it has been!  And you, the reader have shared it with me.  Some of you were there from the first day.  Some have joined later on.  I stand amazed that anyone at all takes the time to read my ramblings.  It is utterly stupefying to me that nearly 10,000 people from 47 countries have read my thoughts.  What a world we live in.

Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to check in on the progress of a certain middle-aged rookie teacher.  I hope you have found a gem or two that made it worthwhile.  Writing about the foibles and joys of this first year has been therapeutic.  Having a written record of it is priceless for me.  I have been blessed by your kind words of encouragement.  Thank you for sharing your thoughts.

So here’s my quandary.  Obviously Diary of a First Year Teacher will be obsolete quite soon.  I’m just not sure where to go from here.  Do I keep writing just for the fun of it?  Although I do not spend ridiculous amounts of time preparing these posts, it does take time out of my schedule here and there. 

This brings me to two questions for my readers:

1.     This blog will end on my one-year anniversary.  Do I start a new blog and keep going?

2.     And if so, what are your suggestions for a title? 

Truly, I am not fishing for compliments.  I am just trying to think ahead and not let the one-year anniversary slide by without an action plan.  Maybe I would find that there is not much to say anymore.  Who knows??!

Please share your thoughts on the matter and I too will be cogitating on where to go from here.  You can post your comments to this blog site, email me, or leave a Facebook message.  

Sincerely,

Vonda

Mrs. Dahl Does Group Therapy

I am still not quite sure what happened.  I had a great lesson going today during reading intervention block time.  My objective was to illustrate the importance of mental pictures when reading and how they aid in comprehension.  Just think how boring reading would be for all of us if we did not manufacture mental images as we read a story.  Maybe you have never thought about it that way, but we all do it.

I have watched movies based on books I have read, and upon seeing the main character, thought to myself, “That’s not what she looks like!”  My brain had created an image, based upon the author’s descriptions.  I had filled in whatever detail pleased me and made sense to me.

So our exercise today was to listen to four different genres of music, and then draw a scene similar to whatever image popped into our young brains.  Music is such a powerful attention-grabber and I knew that it would help drive my point home.  The first selection was a minute or two of Manheim Steamroller’s "Faeries.”  Most of them typically thought of Christmas right off, as I had hoped.  The second selection was Kenny Loggins' “Danger Zone.”  Of course they wanted to get up and dance, and in Mrs. Dahl’s free-spirited, quasi-hippie classroom, dancing is an embraced part of our day.  So we danced.  

As a side note:  I do have solid reasoning behind this philosophy.  When you were a kid, how many times a day did you get sleepy during the school day, and then bored because you were sleepy?  Getting them up and moving gets the old ticker pumping blood back into their brains and wakes them up.  Sleepiness is not a big problem in The Magic Tree House.

My third song came from a Michael W. Smith instrumental CD.  It sounds very majestic and suspenseful.  Most thought of something militarily themed, and I always do as well when I hear it.

The fourth song piping out of my itunes application, was “Dust in the Wind,” by Kansas,  a beautiful oldie that waxes philosophically about the meaning of life.  We only listened to a short clip of the beginning, and the aide and I were lost in the reverie of the ‘70’s.  I called on the first child to share what he had drawn on his sheet of paper and what mental images had popped into his brain when he heard it.  Well, he thought about the time his dog died.  I felt the emotional barometer drop with a thud.  Suddenly all faces turned somber.  I called on the next child.  “My mom,” was all he said, eyes on the floor.  Now there is a lump the size of Omaha forming in my throat.  This poor lamb had lost his mother to a tragic car accident when he was in kindergarten.  Her funeral was held on his birthday. 

I laid a hand on his shoulder and said something to the effect of, “I know it’s hard, sweetie, and I know you miss her.”  What else do you say?  You can’t just cut off raw grief with a dismissive wave.  I can’t anyway.  I called on the next child.  I stare in amazement as I watch his face.  This one is fighting hard to keep it together.  His big eyes are filling with tears that threaten to splash down over his freckles any second.  With quivering lips he manages to squawk out, “My horse died.”  Holy cow, what had I started?  He loses his battle with the tears and now his little face has rivulets of salty streams dripping on the floor.  Dear Lord Almighty, I have got a mess here.  These kids are dropping like flies.

More pets, more sorrows shared, more broken hearts laid open for viewing.  I am standing in the middle of the floor agape with astonishment.  What is going on here and WHY?  And more importantly, what do I do NOW?  I look at the aide sitting at the table and implore her with my eyes to guide me.  I am at a total loss.  She shrugs; her own eyes getting misty.  Goodness gracious, I give up.  Reading is going out the window faster than the warm air being pumped by our ancient furnace. 

My Horse Mourner wants to be excused to go the bathroom to collect himself.  Of course, yes dear, go.  Motherless son is still staring hard at the floor, trying mightily to not dissolve into the weeping mess the Horse Mourner has become. 

More hands raised, more sharing, more tears.  More hugs from Mrs. Dahl and a few vain attempts to pull attention back to reading.  I sigh.  “I think we need a group hug,” I finally concede.  Twelve heartbroken little bodies crowd around me, all vying to bury faces in the sappy teacher with the poor song choice.  I hug.  They cry.  I whisper words of comfort and encouragement.  I am both teacher and pastoral staff in that moment.  Platitudes are useless. 

Sometimes life just hurts and there is no solace. Sometimes we all just need a warm body to bury our face in and have a good cry with. 

I have pondered all afternoon why they fell apart as they did today.  I have walked all around the thing, trying to look at it from all angles, and still can make no sense of it.  Weather front moving in?  Over tired from a long week?  I just don’t know.  I do have just one little thought.  One out-there idea that has been niggling away at my middle-aged brain, and I will throw it out there for your perusal.

I wonder if societally, we are sometimes dismissive of children’s grief, and therefore force them to stuff their hurts into inner closets and drawers in order to be more acceptable to we, the oh so intuitive adults.  Let’s face it.  Kids cry a lot.  They cry over not getting the biggest piece of cake, they cry when they are told on the playground that they can’t build a snow fort with the cool kids. 

Life is hard, when you are six, or eight, or eleven.  But we adults forget that, because we are so consumed with making mortgage payments and getting our children to all their soccer games.  We may spend a few moments comforting these little daily crises, but the overtone often is, “suck it up, junior.  Life only gets harder.”  So they do, because they are told to, but they really weren’t ready to be done processing their emotional damage, and so things get a bit short-circuited.  Maybe this little theory has more holes than my husband’s favorite work shirt, I don’t know.  I just know that my adult children have casually mentioned things from their childhood that were troubling to them at the time, and I had no idea it was such a big deal in their childhood world.  I think maybe that’s because I was too busy worrying about the mortgage payments and getting kids to soccer games, you know?

I just wonder, that's all...

Anyway, the period mercifully ended, and as they filed out with splotchy faces and red eyes, many of them leaned into me for one last hug and whispered word of comfort.  All would be well, I assured them.  They are loved and cared for.  If ever they need to talk, I am here. 

I was drained.

I pity the parents who have spent the evening picking up the pieces in puzzled wonderment.  Really, I had no idea… sorry.

All I know is, next time I am picking something from Alvin and the Chipmunks, and having grief counselors on standby, just in case.

Mrs. Dahl Needs An Assistant

WANTED:  Full-time assistant needed in busy first grade classroom. 

Skills required:  keep pencils sharpened, solve mystery of where all those pink erasers disappear to, be a human shield for teacher when sneezing and/or coughing occurs, keep fresh coffee in the coffee pot at all times, help teacher keep track of where she puts stuff down, have a steady hand for cutting out the 7,000 shapes that the crazy teacher laminates for use every week, peruse Amazon and Ebay hourly for good deals on books, go to meetings in place of the teacher and take really good notes so everyone THINKS I (oops, I mean SHE) was there, keep sharpening those pencils..., identify owners of all mismatched/unclaimed hats, gloves, and jackets, you’re not done sharpening yet… all of leads broke again???  Huh… that’s so unusual around here….

BENEFITS:  The eternal gratitude of a certain middle-aged teacher.

 And you are thinking the obvious.  For eight stinkin’ kids?  Are you KIDDING ME??  I can hear the guffawing of teachers with real enrollments from my sofa.  I don’t really need to hire help, but who says I can’t dream?  Think of the thematic units I could put together!  Think of the artistic touches I could add!  Think of the grant writing and pre-planning I could do.  Why, I might actually make it home before 5 p.m. on a school afternoon.

Truly, between hunting for decent pencils in the middle of class and sharpening during “free” time, I could have taught these kids nuclear physics (assuming, of course, I understood it myself.  And I do.  You believe me, right??).    Three weeks ago, on a weekend day, I sharpened fifty-seven pencils.  I swear I did.  I counted them.  Long pencils, stubby pencils, Disney motif pencils, grain elevator pencils; you name it, I sharpened it.  Non had the original erasers intact.  (Are those teeth marks?  Do these kids suffer from Pica, or what?  Do we need to up the fiber content in the school lunch program?).  Fifty-seven.  It took awhile.  Take a guess as to how long it was before they were all broken again.  Did someone say five days?  (Game show buzzer here).  Wrong.  Four days?  Wrong again.  Three?  Two?  You are all so pathetically wrong.  It took 1.5 days.  By mid-afternoon on Tuesday, we were scrounging for a decent pencil in our room again.  Why don’t the kids just go sharpen them themselves?  Well, they try.  They really do.  Our sharpener has Oppositional Defiance Disorder, I’m thinking.  If it doesn’t want to sharpen, it just doesn’t.  I’ve seen Little Jonnie stand there whirling the handle for eight minutes and fourteen seconds and the snapped off pencil is no closer to revealing its lead than it was at the beginning. 

So I think the obvious answer to this crisis is a full time aide to help with our usable pencil shortage.   I would settle for an old guy sitting in the corner with a whittling knife.  I’d even buy him a rocking chair and all the moonshine he could ever want.  He could stop for a spell now and again and spin a yarn for the young ‘uns.  “… and that’s how Nascar was born, Sonny.  Pass me another Mason jar filled with my rheumatiz medicine.  You kids shore do break a lot of pencils every durn day.”

So where DO sharpened pencils and big pink erasers disappear to?  I dunno’.  I think they’re hanging out in the same place as socks from the dryer.  There’s some big party island out there for single socks and pink erasers.  Our first grade classroom is the Bermuda Triangle where the unexplained happens.  They are there sitting in the pencil caddie one minute, then POOF, (whispering now), they are just gone, never to be seen again….

So if you are interested in the position, give me a call.  We’ll set up an interview, but you won’t need it.  If you call about the position, you’re HIRED! 

Between you and the old guy in the corner, I just might get something done.

Daniel Webster: The New Face of Cool

Reading block began as usual this morning.  I had changed my lesson plan just a bit when reading ahead a couple of days ago.  I noticed that in my reading basal, there was a short introduction to the use of the dictionary.  Here’s something about me you should know.  I LOVE the dictionary.  I like words.  I like hearing new words, I like knowing how to spell them correctly, and I like to know what they mean.  On a side note, a fun game for me is to occasionally make up my own inventive meaning of a word.  For instance, “desalinate” actually means to remove salt, right?  But in Vonda’s World, I might decide that it really means to “empty the nasal passages of thick, green mucous with loud and annoying gusto. “ Well, you get the idea.

One of my students did the same thing this week.  We have 24-hour words, here in the Magic Tree House.  These are words that the student himself chooses.  My only rule is it must be school appropriate.  For 24-hours that word "belongs" to them.  They are to study it, memorize its spelling, and find out its meaning.  The kids have taken to also illustrating these words on the backs of their index cards.  These are priceless treasures that really should be passed on to adoring parents.  I will do it eventually. But for the time being I enjoy having them all stuffed in a plastic bag on my desk, their little thoughts and pictures staring at me.  It’s like a journal of their thought processes as six-year-olds. 

So this boy stands beside me when it is his turn to choose a word.  You need to understand that this child has struggled mightily with getting the hang of reading.  I am feeling immensely better about where he’s at in the reading journey, but ten weeks ago I was downright alarmed.  So when I looked at him this day and said, “OK, what’s your word for today?”  He thought for a moment, but only a moment, then stated with complete confidence,”fiddlyfiddlydo.”  I had been prepared for the usual litany of safari animal names, or spelling words, or farm machinery titles.  I looked at him in complete surprise.  Where had THAT come from?  I asked him to repeat it.  Fiddlyfiddlydo.  I had heard him the first time.  I arched an eyebrow and paused.  OK, Bub, I’ll play your little game.  “And just what does fiddlyfiddlydo mean?”  He paused a moment, but only a moment.   “It means... to make a sandwich and then fill your belly with it.”  Bravo!  Well played, you little word-maker-upper!  Fiddlyfiddlydo it shall be, and it is now my new favorite non-word.

Think about that.  This child has hated reading.  Hated the process of learning to break words into phonemes.  Hated to be forced to decode the strange and difficult foreign language of the written word, and now he’s manipulating that same language into colorful new words, complete with definition?  Are you KIDDING me?  I nearly fell off the too-small-but-just-the-right-size-for-a-first-grader chair.  I laughed out loud.  Not at him, certainly, but at the joyous idea that he was beginning to make friends with the arduous task of learning to read. 

So here we are today, wrapping up our reading lesson.  Almost as an afterthought, I grabbed one of the Big Books we had read previously in the week – genre – nonfiction.  Title – Red-Eyed Tree-Frogs.  The teacher’s manual had suggested I pick the word “Macaw” out of the book, and use it to demonstrate how to use a dictionary.  SIDETRACK WARNING:  In case you did not already know this… kids L-O-V-E nonfiction books.  They really and truly do.  Anything to do with science, biographies, geography, social studies interests them to no end.  The subject matter is nearly irrelevant.  Children just naturally want to learn all they can about this big, wonderful world they live in.  It is pure joy to be witness to their wide-eyed discovery of it.

Back to Webbie.  I hold the dictionary I had grabbed off our class “library” shelf, an ancient thing probably written on papyrus, and tell them that Macaw is an interesting word to me, but I would like to know more about it.  How can learn more?  (This leads to an interesting discussion of where teachers go when they don’t have the answers.  Their suggestion was I find a smart person to ask.  OK, that smarted just a bit…)

I dramatically open the falling-apart book and tell them this is a Magic Book.  Sixteen eyes are now wide and sixteen ears are listening.  “Every word you could ever think of, or want to know about is in this book.  Every single one.”  Gasps of amazement.  I see their little brains wondering how it came to be that our very own Magic Tree House came into possession of such a rare treasure.

I showed them the process of finding my word alphabetically, not spending too much time on technique yet, as I did not want to put the proverbial pin in the balloon of the moment.  I found Macaw and read with flair, “A large parrot of Central and South America.”

“Now it’s your turn,” I announced to them.  “Pick any word and I will find it in my magic book.”  Hands shoot upwards.  I picked a child and already knew what his word would be.  “Tractor!” was his challenge to me. I read aloud the letters as I flipped past them until we got to the T’s.  Finding his favorite word in the whole wide world, I turned the book to face the class and pointed to tractor.  His jaw dropped.  By now I have the odd sensation that I am living at that moment in some alternate universe.  These kids are ENJOYING this???  I had not anticipated this at all.  This is what teachers fantasize about.  “Another word,” I invite.  They keep coming so fast I have to cut it off before all are satisfied. 

Technically it was time for our weekly reading assessment.  Our principal IS Father Time.  Block time is sacred in his world.  Now Rebellious Vonda is having an internal war.  If reading assessment is late, then math block will be off-schedule...  Shoot fire, let’s keep going, I decide with Devil-May-Care abandon.  I walk to the board and write “bed.”  I stack the remaining dictionaries on the back table near me, many of them having been brought to the Dakota Territory by wagon train, I am certain. 

Now I challenge them to take a dictionary and find the word listed on the board.  The stampede is instantaneous.  I offer a wide variety of ancient books, and the arguing over who gets which one begins, an established ritual in First Grade Society.  Books are opening all over the room now, and pages are falling out all over the floor.  Egads!  At the round worktable, Mr. I-Give-Up-Too-Easily declares that his book does not have the word “bed” listed.  I help him find it. He is amazed.  I am more amazed.  These kids are eating this stuff up!  Now they have moved on to other words.  Words they themselves have thought of.  All I can say is, it will always be one of the most gratifying, rewarding moments of my teaching career, and my life in general.   As I stood among them, aged pages fluttering to the floor, children chasing after the written word, my heart nearly burst.  They have gone from simply wondering about something, to knowing how to find their own answers.  Their horizons broadened in front of my very eyes in that moment.

Did it matter to them that the resource at their disposal is outdated? When I say outdated, I’m so not kidding.  The back of the book lists Eisenhower as the sitting president. Herbert Hoover is still living.  And Alaska and Hawaii aren’t even states yet!  It did not matter a whit to them.  It matters to me because it bespeaks the lack of import such valuable resources hold in this bastion of education.  It is unforgivable, in my opinion.  I pick and choose my battles very carefully (you have to when you raise teenagers, no?)  But when Mrs. Dahl gets worked up, well..., let’s just say I can be very tenacious.  There WILL be new dictionaries in my classroom, and as soon as possible.  Somehow, someway….

My Glory Road moment did not end there.  When told to put dictionaries away for the much-delayed reading assessment, there were actual groans of dismay.  “But I had more words I wanted to find!” was heard in stereo.  Later in the day, when those that were speedy with assignments were finished, they would ask if they could get the Magic Books out again.  Absolutely.  Some even took notes, no less!  Others asked for copies to be made of the page they were looking at in order to take home and keep reading.

I peeked over the shoulder of one, and read his note-taking with a smile.  “ex cel lence – meaning, “high quality or merit.”

I think today was a day of excellence.  I think these kids have futures of excellence.  I think on Monday morning, when I walk into General Patton’s office (the Superintendent), and request fresh supplies for my troops, he will say, “pick out the kind you want and get them ordered.  EXCELLENT request, Mrs. Dahl.”

Mr. Webster, you rock!

I'm hungry.  I think it is time for some fiddlyfiddlydo….

Small Town America Punches PC in the Face

Today is Veteran’s Day, here in America.  Every country has their own version, I suppose.  Decades and centuries and eons have found man fighting himself to expand borders and protect what he already possessed.  Real estate has caused some mighty big heartache down through the ages.

Veteran’s Day is a pretty big deal, here in our town.  We have, after all, offered many of our best sons and daughters to go off to places like Europe and the Middle East to fight for our freedoms.  We did not offer them carelessly, but were proud of their service and proud of our country, whose flag they represented.

So when this day rolls around in November, no town or school approaches the day with more patriotism than we at Wing Public School.  Our music and band teacher, Mrs. Morrison, spends weeks teaching sweet songs of patriot pride to our little darlings.  The high school band, all twenty-eight of them (which pretty much comprises the entire high school), and the high school choir get in on the act as well.  Such offerings as, "The Star-Spangled Banner," Lee Greenwood’s, “God Bless the U.S.A,” and “The Brandenburg Gate,” all declare our love of country, and pride in those that served her.  There are also dramatic readings given by sweet high school girls, with titles like, Heroes Died For Me, Freedom Is Not Free, and The Bravest Man I Know. 

We place our right hands reverently over our hearts and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, lead by the cherubic kindergarteners, their little voices soft in the vastness of the gymnasium. 

Because we are more Dugger Family on steroids than expansive school, all of our students (only 109 total), take part in the solemn festivities.  Such a sweet sight…big high schoolers sharing the risers with angelic primary children.  They all know one another.  Many of their parents are friends with each other, so socializing outside of school hours in not uncommon.

I got such a huge bang out of one kindergartner in particular.  During their rendition of God Bless America, this little mite of thing, probably all of thirty pounds when her shoes are caked in mud, would belt out the line,”Gahhhd bless A-merica, (her voice trailing off, then BOOM!)  “Gahhhd bless A-merica…”  It was her favorite part, apparently.

When the band takes center stage, a collage of songs from the various branches of the military are played.  The veterans attending are invited to stand during the song from the branch of military they served in. It was touching to see them stand, some a bit shakily, and place a weathered hand over heart, a thousand memories flooding their minds, I suppose.  Buddies lost and horrors experienced that will forever be a part of the warp and woof of their lives.

During the last song played by the band, my precious first graders, who were joined by the second grade, walked in single file to stand in front of the band, waving small American flags and grinning like they were finalists on American Idol.  I beamed as though I had given birth to each and every one of them myself.  So adorable, they were…

Taps was played with the proper amount of solemnity by one of my daughter’s best friends.  I was so glad to see that Mrs. Morrison chose to have it played live vs. perfect prerecorded version.  It only adds to the charm when there are a few missed notes.

Here’s where I love this school so much, I can hardly bear it, or express it adequately.  The poison of political correctness has not permeated our idyllic island… yet.  On Veteran’s Day we sing God Bless America with sweet abandon.  For the Christmas program, (and yes, we call it our Christmas program), we listen to songs about the Savior’s birth.   

My family moved to North Dakota from the liberal bastion of Vermont.  Political correctness was worshipped ideology there.  So when my children started school and I discovered that the philosophy here was like something out of a 50’s sitcom, I was pleasantly, joyously surprised.  I about fell over when my oldest child came home with a New Testament, and said the school superintendent had handed them out to all the graduating eighth graders.  What…. At SCHOOL??  This practice no longer happens, and I have seen a few other very non-PC customs go by the wayside (sadly), but for the most part, we do as we wish, and no repercussions have haunted us yet. 

We love our country, our town, our school, and our children.  We love them more than anything.  Some of those very children will grow up to enlist in our nation’s military.  And they themselves will stand with wobbly gait, weathered hand over proud heart, and gladly identify themselves with veterans everywhere.

I salute you, my nations veterans.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your sacrifice that has afforded me such a life of rich blessing and prosperity.  I am living and enjoying the American Dream every single day, thanks to you.  God bless you for your service.

If you ever happen to find yourself in my little town for Veteran’s Day, please come enjoy a sweet reminder that you are applauded and appreciated.

Will enthusiastic kindergartners still be singing God Bless America at such a time?  I fervently hope so…

Mrs. Dahl Collects Weird Stuff

I admire people that are serious collectors of valuable items.  Things such as limited edition prints or works of fine art.  Vintage cars would be another nice thing to have in possession.

My tastes are a bit more…. earthy.  I like dirt.  Not things that are dirt cheap, or antiques that need cleaning up.  No, I mean literal dirt. 

It really all began for me when I was a child.  I am fascinated with anything that comes out of the ground.  I made mud pies when I was a preschooler.  I once dug for hours at what I thought a priceless piece of pottery.  I was disappointed to discover it was only a tree root.  I began collecting rocks somewhere in grade school.  I amassed pounds of the things and single-handedly added minor tonage to the family car at the end of every vacation. 

If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have told you an archeologist.  I wanted to keep digging my whole life!!  (Well, it was either that or a spy.  Both sounded adventurous).

In adulthood, my yearnings stayed rooted in the soil.  I took to gardening like stink on a skunk.  Just ask my children about that.  I doubt that any of them will so much as pick up a hoe in their entire adult lives.  When I say I gardened, I mean I GARDENED.  We used to pick green beans by the 30 gallon trash can full.  I was out of control. 

Even just this morning on the ride in to church (a 30 mile jaunt), I commented to my family that I am still utterly amazed by the way the earth replenishes itself.  The idea that a seed can lie dormant for decades and still produce life when given the right conditions blows my pea-sized brain away.  Every spring when I stand and marvel over tiny green shoots in my garden, I am thrilled and in awe all over again.  When God spoke the words, “Be fruitful and multiply” to the new world he had created, he wasn’t just a whistlin’ Dixie. 

So here I am, a middle-aged, first year, first grade teacher.  How do I transfer that awe to my students?  How do I help them understand earth science and geography on a level they can understand?  Their horizons are still so confined.  It is difficult for them to grasp much beyond their comfortable universe of home and school.  A trip to Bismarck is a big deal.  Going out of state might as well be a trip to the moon.  They will grasp those concepts as their minds mature and their experience base is broadened.  But for now, how can I make this big, wonderful world we live in understandable to them?

I started by hanging a world map on the exit door at eye level, just to the right of our reading corner.  It is not uncommon for a story or discussion to be interrupted so that they might scoot over to the map and find the part of the country or world we are reading about.

Pictures help shrink the world even further.  Having a visual reference moves it from an unfamiliar concept to a mental file they can access at some point in the future.

Finally, there is our soil collection.  It is in its infancy, to be sure.  It began when I was taking courses to earn my education degree.  One of my methods instructors, Dr. Gutensohn, a lovely lady and teacher to the marrow of her bones, mentioned that in all the places she had lived and visited, she always brought a soil sample back home with her for her classroom.  My ears perked up like a Great Dane’s.  Hey, I LOVE dirt.  She’s speaking my language.

And so it began.  A few Ziplock baggies tucked in the suitcase is all that is needed. 

Why dirt?  Because dirt is the common currency of my students.

These kids connect with the soil.  Most of their families make their living from the earth.  They come from farming families who rely on the generosity of the very earth to feed their families and carve out a life for themselves.  Our base of understanding is dark brown, the color of coffee beans.  Not as rich and dark as the Red River Valley (the finest in the state), but richer and more full of nutrients than arid areas of the country.   We grieve and worry collectively when the rains are withheld and the dirt dries up and blows away.  We know we have had too much moisture when mold and other fungi grow on standing crops.  We are weather and soil-watchers.  It interests us to know what other parts of this big, wide world are like.  There are so many discussions started from staring at the soils of other places.

My cache is small, but growing.  A co-worker’s daughter brought United Kingdom soil home from a summer trip.  A visit to my family had me scooping Wyoming soil into empty pop bottles.  The Garden of the Gods yielded red dust that used to belong to the rock sculptures (maybe I wasn’t supposed to take any.  That thought just occurred to me.  I guess if they need it back, they’ll let me know).  A first grader traveled to Texas for a wedding and brought sand from the beach, still damp from the ocean’s salty waters.  I wish you could have seen the looks on my kids’ faces when I poured some of that sand in a bowl and let them smell it and touch it with their fingers.  It was surprisingly soft, almost like the texture of cornstarch.  They were incredulous and delighted beyond description.  Of course, we found Padre Island on the exit door map and discussed its locale.  Now they had a sensory visual of another place in this world that many of them will never have opportunity to visit.  But they can say they know what the sand feels like.

Another student has an aunt going to Florida soon.  She has already been instructed to do a little digging for the benefit of eight curious first graders.  We are looking forward to a new spot on the map to discuss. 

There are limitations to my strange requests.  A friend was going on a Caribbean cruise and I boldly asked for a “wee, small favor.”  In the end, he decided that going through customs with two ounces of a white substance might not be worth the risk of arrest on foreign soil.  Who can blame him?  However, if he had stuffed it in the lining of his suitcase, then maybe… OK, ok, I’m getting a little crazy with this stuff.

So if you are a fan of Mrs. Dahl’s first grade class and would like to make a very small donation to our Soil Sample box, we would be delighted to accept any and all.

I do have a crazy, fabulous, beautiful idea for geography, but I need more space to write about it, and a sizeable grant to put it in to motion.  I’ll keep you posted.

I am completely serious about the dirt.  Send me an email message and I will provide a mailing address, and thanks in advance!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Dahl and Her Dirt-Loving Students

My school email address is:

vonda.dahl@sendit.nodak.edu

Chicken On Sale Makes a Run For It

This was one of those weeks that I would rather skip.  You know the kind I mean.  The alarm goes off on a Monday morning and after the fourth time of hitting “snooze,” you know you can put off the inevitable no longer.  No amount of snooze-button-hitting or avoidance-wishing will keep the march of time from throwing cold Gatorade on your head.  You eventually accept that you must get up and face The Beast.

This was such a week for me.  I groaned when Y93 came on at four a.m. on Monday morning.  Halloween Day, Parent/Teacher conferences, and my daughter’s district volleyball tournament had all converged into the Perfect Storm of maniacal busyness.  It was going to be a whale of a week.

I’ve already shared Halloween Day; I won’t rehash that here.  On Tuesday, two major incidents occurred in my life.  It was the first day of fall parent/teacher conferences, and our class pet, Chicken On Sale (name chosen out of the newspaper), made a prison break.  That’s right, he’s on the lam.  Ask Yahoo says that, “On the lam is American slang meaning on the run. It is derived from gangster slang from the turn of the twentieth century. “  I guess he figured he had done enough hard time in stir.  Having eight first graders watch your every move would be enough to cloud anyone’s judgment (come to think of it, that’s MY life…). When he saw his opportunity, he went for it.

It happened like this.  I had added Critter Corporal to our list of daily classroom jobs.  We have Pledge Police, Garbage General, Snack Security, and so on and so forth.  What’s with the law enforcement/military theme, you ask?  I dunno’.  I guess I just like a man in uniform.  ANYWAY, my Critter Corporal that day was a bit squeamish about sticking his hand in C.O. S.’s habitat, formerly known as a Sam’s Club pretzel tub (I just love buying in bulk).  There sat our green friend, blending in beautifully with the stick he was perched on.  Fine, I’ll do it.  Just come with me and watch.  We headed up the stairs to the outside exit that leads to the playground.  Mr. Clean was not about to come within three yards of that frog.  I took the lid off the tub and reached in to grab a handful of decomposing grass.  It didn’t smell too awful bad in there.  I reached for another handful and realized that I no longer saw our Croaking Crooner.  Uh-oh.  I held the bottom of the jar up to eye level to see if he had decided to take a swim in his lid-off-a-tin pool.  I am just not seeing the darn thing.  I frantically searched the brown grass for anything moving.  Nothing. (He was probably holding his breath while thinking, “BE the grass, BE the grass…”

My phobic Corporal is tuning in to my vibe about now.  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Dahl?”  Lying will only make it worse, Mrs. Dahl.  Just ‘fess up.  “I can’t find Chicken On Sale.  I think maybe he hopped out.”  He accepted this bit of alarming news with all the professionalism of a trained animal “corporal.“ He threw open the door to the stairwell and shouted to his classmates, “Chicken On Sale is gone!!  Mrs. Dahl lost him!”  Seven horrified first graders were at my side in a flash.  “He’s GONE??!!??”  Grief and dismay shadowed their little faces.  They loved their class pet.  The little fella’ had had no idea what was in store for him when he errantly wandered into our building and didn’t have the good sense to hop out of the clutch of a quick fourth-grader. 

We searched, we double-checked the jar, and then triple-checked.  He was simply gone.  Honestly, I never saw a thing.  He had probably been planning that escape for weeks.  Watching for opportunity, learning our ways and schedule, pumping iron to strengthen his little frog legs when no one was watching.  When he saw his big moment and knew it was The Time, he just went for it.  Then he “crawled to freedom through five hundred yards of foulness I can't even imagine, or maybe I just don't want to.”  (Shawshank Redemption is on Direct TV about every third Sunday).

I quick shot off an Amber Alert email to the principal, which he forwarded to all faculty members, telling folks to be on the lookout for a frog in prison stripes and shackles.  But no one ever came forward.  I suspect he had help on the outside.  Chicken On Sale is gone forever.  I just keep hoping one of the kids doesn’t discover him glued to one of our sticky traps.  Better to remember him as he was… full of life and everyone’s donated flies.  Enjoy your life of freedom, you rascally amphibian.  What say you, Fuzzy Britches?? (Sorry for all the movie quotes.  My sons will get a kick out of them, anyway). 

As it turned out, my first graders handled the loss of class pet with dignity and very little mourning.  Frogs are plentiful.  We’ll find another. 

Parent/teacher conferences went swimmingly and no one blamed me (yet) for academically ruining their child.

My gut-buster moment of the week came on the last day.  My students were behaving as if they had consumed half a pound of Halloween candy (oh wait, they probably had).  I got their attention and asked (rhetorically), if they knew what they were supposed to be doing at that moment.  A boy’s hand shoots into the air.  "Yes, Sam.  Tell me what you are supposed to be doing right now."  He grins at me.  "We are 'posed to be waiting for erections (directions)."

It took everything within me to keep from bursting out in laughter.   Somehow I managed it.  Samster, I see you have memorized the Male Creed.  

Sorry for the crassness.  Such funny moments must be shared.

Oh, and if you see a frog trying to buy hair dye and a saw, give me a call….

Once Upon a Time...

We just observed Halloween a few days ago. 

Halloween is a very big deal in our school.  Yeah, yeah, I know it is going the way of all celebrations in public education.  That is, down the proverbial toilet.  There always seems to be a noisy minority that must be appeased and catered to.  But that reality has not touched our school yet.  We not only corporately observe Halloween as a major holiday, but we celebrate it like you can’t believe.  Now, I am not a big fan of Halloween.  I do not like scary stuff and I hate to subject children to goulish subject matter, but those that were here before me love the day and love making it special for the kids.  Costumes are allowed all day.  Lunch is UNBELIEVABLE.  The cook and her minions decorate the lunchroom elaborately, complete with a fog machine, scary music, and a frightful menu.  That small town, small school mentality is just so refreshing to me.

Did I mention that party days are a total waste of educational effort?  Shhh…. Please don’t tell the principal.  He thinks we actually had a normal instructional day (naïve lamb…).

In my defense, have YOU ever tried to teach Batman, a ninja, a vampire vixen, a cowboy (with real spurs.  Yikes!), a teddy bear, a fairy butterfly, a Musketeer, and superhero–something-with-big-puffy-muscles?  Not an easy task.  So many differentiated needs represented.  Batman, for instance, keeps thinking that the ninja is an arch enemy and is just itching to ZOW! him right in the kisser.  And Mr. Musketeer is absolutely lost without the other two.  Anyway, teaching anything lasting was difficult on that day.

I was a little distracted myself.  I found this great Glinda the Good Witch costume on ebay about a month ago.  Trust me when I say, this is a great dress.  Pink, poufy, sparkly, and yards and yards of netting.  I added a sparkly wand, and POUF, I am ready to find Dorothy and Toto and get them skedaddling right back to Kansas.  I am totally bypassing all that ridiculous traipsing to OZ.  I am putting them on a direct flight – no layovers.

The only problem was my big dress kept getting in the way of trying to navigate around my room and the school building in general.  It kept getting caught on or under whatever got in its way. 

But my students loved it, as did all the elementary, it seemed.  Children from all grades kept popping in at odd times to gawk and ask me to grant wishes.  Of course, I was happy to comply.  My most unusual request was a whispered appeal for “a real chameleon.”  A little challenging, but with the power of the pink, poufy dress behind me, anything is possible.

At lunch, a fifth grade boy suddenly appeared beside me at my table.  He was grinning from ear to ear.  “Mrs. Dahl,” he began.  “Would it be alright if I ate lunch with you today?”  I suppressed a smile.  “Of course.  I would be delighted.”  He either was hoping I would wave that pink, sparkly wand over his head or more likely, eating lunch with the goofy teacher in the pink, poufy dress WAS his wish. 

As the day wore on, I knew that our afternoon was going to be trial.  A party was looming.  A party AND an art project.  What was I thinking?  The Dress was going to be problematic, I feared.  Cupcakes with chocolate frosting and the use of a utility knife for art had me envisioning myself by 3:15 looking like something out of a slasher movie.  This was going to go badly.  I needed to wave that wand over my own head and magically produce a pair of comfy jeans. 

With the clock suddenly dragging its hands around its face, I settled my children in for our story time just after noon recess.  All nine of us absolutely adore this time of day.  We always read whichever Magic Tree House book we happen to be working our way through at the moment and it is an incredibly relaxing and enjoyable time for all of us.  We turn off the overhead fluorescents, turn on our groovy hippie lamp, and each child grabs a stuffed animal or pillow from the basket in our Imagination Station (the former coat closet).

On this day I sat regally amidst the folds of my gigantic dress, leaving a puddle of glitter on the seat below me.  All students were comfortable and anxious to hear of Jack and Annie’s latest escapades.  Eager faces looked up at me and a few hesitant hands reached out shyly to touch my skirt.  “You look like a princess,” one of them ventured.  A soft smile spread across my features.  “I feel like a princess today.”  Their little faces were so adorable at that moment.  Such precious, uninhibited adoration.  Without thought, I began…

“Once upon a time, there was a lady who made a wish.  She wished with all of her heart that she could be a teacher.  Not just any teacher, but a first grade teacher, because she loved children and wanted to teach them how to become good readers...”

As I sat on my throne, all covered in iridescent sparkles and pink netting, I told of waiting for “ever so long” to go back to college, and hoping, always hoping that I would find a job as a teacher in a wonderful school just like this one, teaching first grade children.  They listened in rapt attention, and smiled appreciatively as they realized it was my own self I was talking about.

“I guess wishes come true.” I ended with.  “’Cuz you’re OUR teacher,” they shouted out.  “Yes,” I replied.  “’Because I am your teacher.”

One year ago I was just a bit desperate.  I was five weeks away from wrapping up student teaching, I was also trying to finish up a graduate level course, a children’s literature course, and a horrible, ulcer-inducing, stroke-producing biology course.  I was stressed, and exhausted in ways I had not experienced since my days of bringing new babies home from the hospital.  Finding a job was both the last thing on my mind, and the foremost thing on my mind.  I wanted to teach first grade in this school.  I hoped and prayed it would happen. 

It did.  At the December school board meeting, hiring me as the first grade teacher was approved.  I had a job!  Finishing all required courses and getting that coveted teaching license went down to the wire for me.  I did not have license in hand until three days before second semester began.  NO STRESS THERE!  But obviously, it did all somehow work out.

Now, nearly one year later, I was sitting in a pink, poufy dress, leaving a trail of glitter on everything I touched, and eight precious, priceless faces were beaming at me.  Me, their first grade teacher. 

No wand needed for this wish. 

I guess dreams really do come true…