The Journey Continues...

There is a powerful, life-giving current, called the Humboldt Current in the Pacific Ocean of South America.  Its positive effects reach for miles to unlikely places and in unlikely ways.  These are my education goals for the children I teach on the North Dakota prairie -- fall in love with learning, then go change your world…

Although this chapter has closed, I continue my ramblings in a new blog titled, "The Humboldt Diaries:  A Prairie Teacher's Journey."  

I cordially invite you to join me for the next chapter... 

http://humboldtdiaries.blogspot.com/

The End, The Beginning

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my first day of teaching.  On January 18, 2011, I became the first grade teacher in a tiny school on the prairie of North Dakota.  If you Google Earth our location, you would just need to type the words “middle of nowhere” and our town would pop right up.

I’ll retrace my steps of yesterday morning so that you can celebrate properly with me.

“I stepped across the threshold and stood for a moment in the semi-darkness before switching on the overhead lights.  The blue glow from the gel-filled ant farm was the only illumination in the room.  Seven a.m. means it is still dark outside mid-January in central North Dakota. 

My hand lingered on the switch for just a moment as the memory of a year ago tapped a gentle finger on my shoulder.  January 18, 2011 I had stood on this very spot, switched on the lights just as I was doing now, looked around the room before moving from my spot, and I had grinned.  I smiled because this was my room, my vision come to life with its paper tree in the corner and blue sky with puffy clouds.  My room, and my dream.  I had patiently waited years, entered the university world as a middle-aged woman, studied my brains out for two years, been hired before I even had a diploma in hand, and now….

Now is was time to bear the fruit of all of that turmoil, stress, and dreaming.  I was a licensed teacher in the great state of North Dakota. 

I took just a moment to let it all sink in and to savor that irreplaceable moment.” 

That’s what I had intended to write – something gauzy and sappy and sentimental. 

Here’s how it really went down…

Husband is out of town for a few days.  Leaves the Volkswagon Jetta with me and takes the van.  The Jetta only drinks diesel fuel (God bless the Germans).  Yesterday morning it was like, 500 degrees below zero.  Diesel fuel and subzero temperatures are mortal enemies (you remember poor Laura and her fatal star!)  Husband says to me via cell phone conversation, “better plug the thing in once you get to school.”  I left later than I wanted to, had to track down poor Harry the Custodian and played the damsel in distress card so that he would help me locate an extension cord and an outside outlet (God bless Harry). 

It was supposed to be science experiment day (growing crystals on pipe cleaner “snowflakes”), so the sheer volume of stuff I lugged from home was of U-Haul proportions.  It took a few trips getting everything into the classroom.  I had no sooner unpacked it all when suddenly it was time for our “team” meeting.  Which team that is, I am not sure. 

I knew once the meeting was over, the kids would have arrived and time to get prepared for the day would be over.  A quick look around the room, a quick spritz of water in the Walking Stick tank for thirsty insects, a gulp of coffee, and I ascend from my dungeon to the history room where my “teammates” are assembling.  A typical morning.  There was no time for reflective reverie.  Reverie is for the Rocking Chair Years, I guess.

But it was a good day, this, my anniversary day.  The Darlings were happy, content, and back to their compliant selves.  Peace and order ruled supreme.  I got the giggles when we worked on making sequential order paper snowmen.  As they glued their snowmen onto construction paper and added detail, I realized they had all added a picture of me to their scenery in one spot or another.  Mrs. Dahl standing on the brim of a giant snowman.  Mrs. Dahl hiding in a snow fort.  Mrs. Dahl coming down from the sky clinging to a giant snowflake.  I was like the Where’s Waldo of first grade art.

My Crown Jewel moment came mid-morning when we traipsed upstairs to the computer lab for MAP testing.  I had dreaded this day.  There is SO MUCH pressure for the kids to perform on high stakes testing.  I hate to talk shop here, but if you are not a teacher, I doubt you can fully understand this paragraph.  Tests scores translate to dollars.  It’s as simple and as complicated as that.  You are measured as a teacher by how well or how poorly your students perform on standardized tests.  Is a child is having an off-day?  Does not matter.  Child is sick?  Oh well.  Child didn’t get enough sleep or a decent breakfast?  Too bad.  Child just really doesn’t care?  Tough Twinkies.  The test score stands as the arbiter of all pertinent information and knowledge.  Report cards are of far less importance. 

I prepared them as best I could for the ordeal.  I sent a note home the day before.  I talked to the kids about giving it their very best effort.  And then I fasted for 40 days (OKAY! A slight exaggeration), and prayed like mad.

As the scores rolled off the printer, I held my breath.  Then I had to resist the urge to shout and possibly do a Happy Dance.  They performed like little rock stars.  Every score was up from the fall.  Everyone had gained in huge leaps.  The numbers were good, the gains impressive.  Truthfully, in the entire year I have been teaching, it was the first moment I felt validated as a teacher.  Creativity and good intentions in the classroom are fun and certainly aid in learning…. but is it enough?  That has been the taunting question that has clawed at my middle-aged, quasi hippie brain.  We have fun, sure.  But are they LEARNING?  Next week we take the reading portion of the test.  More fasting and praying ahead, but I feel a bit more confident than I had.  I feel like maybe I am earning my pay after all.

Now comes the reflective part. (This might be a nice time for you to exit quietly)… 

Truthfully, the last year has been everything I thought it would be, and it has been nothing like I thought it would be.

I knew it would be hard and exhausting.  I knew that I would be pouring my precious free time into this gig for a lengthy stretch of time.  I knew that I didn’t know what I was doing (and I didn’t).  The theory of the university classroom and the practical application in a living laboratory are miles apart.  Some things you can only learn by diving into the trenches and doggedly doing.  Student teaching is helpful but it is far different from the reality of being in charge of your own classroom.

As I allowed the feet of my memory to wander down that lane, I knew with certainty that I had come far in my teaching proficiency.  I have learned more in my on-the-job training than I did in all the coursework and required practicum hours in someone elses classroom.

I also know that I have not begun to scratch the surface of what I will and should know as a proficient teacher.  As I observe other teachers and listen to their conversations, it seems that there are parts of teaching that just become instinctual over time.  I am not there yet.  I am still too busy becoming comfortable with my curriculum, trying to get my students wherever it is they are supposed to be, getting the hang of managing my time wisely so that I do not have hours of correcting and next-day preparation every night.  The honest truth is teaching is harder than it looks. Teaching is hard work, requires many (MANY) hours outside of the classroom, does not provide for a lavish lifestyle, and has the potential for public criticism.  I have to wonder why anyone would pursue teaching as a career. 

Here’s why I did…

I love children.

I love pouring knowledge into their thirsty, inquisitive, curious brains.

I love children.

So that’s it.  I am closing the book on Chapter One and preparing for the rest of the story.  I have worked myself out a blog title.  The runner-up title was, “Middle-Aged, Quasi-Hippie Teacher Ditches Rookie Title.”  I have to tell ‘ya, it feels really good to be at this point.  My head doesn’t feel like it’s on a perpetual Puke Machine ride (famous playground merry-go-round at our school.  It has emptied the contents of many a stomach).  I am getting the hang of the perfect balancing act that is required to do this job well.  I can feel that confidence growing daily. 

So here is the Reader’s Digest version of how I see my teaching future:

My goals:  Make learning so interesting and even addicting that my students become life long learners.

My fears:  That I will grow complacent and stale in my instructional style.

My rewards:  Watching the joy of understanding cross a child’s dear face.

My trade-offs:  Meetings, committees, short nights, long days and never being able to truly “turn it off.”

I stand back at this moment and give that first day, first year teacher a critical eye.  Was she really prepared to teach?  I guess she was as prepared as could have been at that time.  She didn’t know a few things about teaching and made a few errors while shooting through the learning curve rapids.  I know of no way that can be avoided, really.  It is sort of like being handed your first baby as new parents and thinking you know all there is to know about raising teenagers.  It is on-the-job training, theory means squat.

Now that I’m an “experienced” second-year teacher (which means I didn’t lose my report cards last quarter), there are a few things I would like to say to that other me, the newbie.  (This is quickly degenerating into a Back To The Future sequel).  Regardless, here goes: 

1.     Let go of the drive to attain perfection each and every day of instruction.

2.     Pretend that you like meetings.  No, really.  Meetings are a part of the job, period.  Get used to it.  My superintendent once noticed that I did not look happy in a meeting and mentioned it.  People are observing attitude at all times. 

3.     Learn the strengths and weaknesses of each child.  Tailor instruction for them considering these things.  I have a couple of kids who are nuts over dinosaurs – Dino Month thematic unit is coming in February.  I know I will have their full attention.

4.     Take pictures often.  Parents love to see them and it makes for a fabulous documentary of the growth of the community children.  I always add color pictures to my Friday letters so ensure that my parents read the news for that week.  Who doesn’t like to see their own child in pictures?

5.     You can never communicate with parents too much.  This is an area I intend to get better at.

6.     Do something every day to make that particular day interesting for the kids.  Does it take planning?  Yes.  Does it take extra time?  Yes.  So worth it.

7.     Be careful what you say about coworkers and whom you say it to.  Remember that you work in a community within a community.

8.     You can never have too many pencils, erasers, tissues, disinfecting wipes, or extra clothes on hand.  First graders are messy.  There is just no nice way to say it.

9.     Buy Zycam cold fighting medicine by the case.  You’re gonna’ need it.  If getting sneezed on is a problem for you, you’re probably in the wrong profession.

10.  Don’t forget that you have a family who needs you at home once in a while.  Dedication to the day job won’t score points with those you love best.  Never stop trying to find that balance you so desperately desire.

So that’s it for this diary.  I have worked myself out of a title.  I can no longer pen my thoughts under the banner, “Diary of a First Year Teacher.” 

Now what?

Honestly, I do not know.  A few days to simmer on the stove is called for, I think.  If I do continue to write, it will be under a new title.  Stay tuned and check back every once in awhile.  You may find me back and yucking it up in a few days or weeks. 

There are a few people in my orbit that I would like to mention before I seal the canning jar of First Year memories.

A huge thank you to my school, its administrators, and the dedicated school board members for entrusting its first grade students to an inexperienced, middle-aged, quasi-hippie new teacher. 

I owe my students and their parents a huge debt of gratitude.  They have been warmly accepting, unfailingly forgiving, and lovely to work with on every level.  I told my students today that I write about them and that thousands of people from all over the world read about them.  Their little jaws fell open.  “They read about US?”  I smiled at their joy.  “Yes, and they love you almost as much as I do.”

I need to thank you, The Reader, as well.  Truly, I never dreamed at the outset that anyone besides my husband would have any interest in the minutia of my days or the thoughts in my head.  Your praise has been humbling, your encouragement warming. 

Thank you for walking beside me as I stepped onto this well-worn path of teaching.  I was nervous and insecure at times, but having you as company has buoyed my spirits on more than one occasion.  I have felt your love and heard your happy cheers.  You are rooting for me.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I am blessed…

Dear Diary,

Today ended my first year of teaching.  I am no longer the freshman, the rookie, the newbie.  I have one year under my belt and many more ahead of me, I trust.  I can say with the utmost confidence that I chose the perfect profession for me.  I AM a teacher, right down to my middle-aged bones.  I loved my years at home with my children, and am equally as happy and excited to embark on this new, thrilling adventure.  Life is good and always full of happy surprises.  I am thankful for the opportunity to be a presence in the lives of the dear children of this community. 

Until Next Time,

Vonda Dahl

First Grade Teacher

Roses Are My Favorite

Really, they are.  Any color will do.  The last roses carried into this house by My Man, (who understands my penchant for the flower), were the sunniest shade of yellow I had ever seen.  They are hanging upside down on a hook in my hallway, completely dried out and still spectacular.  On my last birthday he had two-dozen of the eye-poppers delivered to my school.  They looked just a bit weathered when they arrived so he called the florist.  Two days later another two-dozen roses arrived.  For the first (and last) time in my life, I had four-dozen roses in my possession.  There were vases of flowers everywhere.  I had them on my desk at school, in my bedroom, on the kitchen table… it was a little ridiculous, but really fun.  I felt like Oprah.

Did I mention that I love roses?

Fifteen years ago the sweetest blossom of all time was laid in my arms.  She was slimy and red and bawling her lungs out.  We named her Rose.  Hannah Rose. 

She was the culmination of our childbearing years; the youngest of four children and the only girl.  I knew she would define our family in a unique way.  She did.

Her arrival was all fireworks and screaming sirens.  She was fashionably late – 15 days to be exact.  I couldn’t figure out what she was waiting for -- spring?   An invitation?  An alignment of the planets?  My dear mother flew to Vermont from Colorado three days after my due date so that she could help me once I got home from the hospital.  The first few days of her visit were lovely.  We sipped tea and chatted about anything and nothing.  And then it got ridiculous.  One week overdue and she started to look at me funny, like I had control over it or something.  Hey, I was the one with the wrecking ball sitting just above my bladder.  I was miserable.  No one wanted that baby to see sunshine more than I did.  Oh crud, just hand me a hacksaw and I’ll cut it out myself.

Days eight, nine, and ten were the longest of my life.  My suitcase for the hospital had been packed for so long that my labor lollipops had passed their expiration date.  On day ten, things really got exciting.  I had just lowered my girth into the Lazy Boy, and vaguely noticed that I had slopped spaghetti sauce on my shirt, when I heard pounding steps ascending from the basement.  John was busy renovating it so that we could rent it out, and I could continue to stay at home with our children.  I was too large to jump up to investigate, but my mother’s alarmed exclamations gave me energy to propel forward.  I got to the kitchen sink and my husband’s side as quickly as I could waddle there only to find him bleeding profusely and shaking badly.  I peeked around him to see the damage and was horrified to find fingertips gone and a bone sticking out of one exposed tip. 

My mother was making motions towards the door.  “I’ll drive,” she announced.  Somehow I found my steely core and contradicted with, “No, I’ll take him.  You stay with the children.”  She looked at me like I had been sipping the real vanilla.  “I’ll be FINE,” I assured her.

The ER was a nightmare.  He was in unbearable pain and I do not do well with chopped off fingers (or stitches. Or paper cuts.  I am a world-class sissy).  The medical staff kept casting worried glances in my direction, asking if I thought I needed to lie down.  I did, yes, but didn’t want to admit my wooziness.  They also asked often if I thought I might be going into labor.  Ha!  Fat chance.  It would take a beheading to shock my stubborn body into labor. 

We left several hours later, exhausted, swathed (there was nothing to stitch), and with a laundry list of instructions that included seeing a specialist in a few days. 

The next day my mother gathered her courage, steeled herself for the task, and descended to the scene of the crime to scrub the remnants of John’s fingers off the walls of the basement.  He had caught his right hand in the router and his shredded skin had sprayed around the room in a perfect circle.  How do you go about properly thanking someone for doing such a nasty deed? 

But still, no baby.

On day fourteen, the doctor finally cried “uncle” and declared Baby No-Show the winner.  He scheduled me for inducement on the following day.  As we walked into the hospital (John walked, I waddled and gasped for air), we passed a father and daughter holding hands.  My breath caught just a little at the beautiful sight.  And I knew I could lie to myself no longer.  I wanted a girl.  I wanted a daughter so badly I nearly burst (which would have made delivery infinitely easier). 

Don’t get me wrong.  I adore my sons.  In fact, at the outset of this journey called Parenthood, I really wanted a passel of boys.  Boys are such fun.  But after three of them, something in me wanted a female child that was a part of me and my femininity.  I wanted a legacy, I guess.

Labor was a piece of cake.  Seven hours and all the pain meds I could want did the trick.  The nurse had said early, “Mrs. Dahl, when you are ready for pain med….”  I cut her off mid-sentence.  “Now would be a good time.” By the fourth child my labor and delivery motto had become, unnecessary pain is, well, unnecessary.  Natural childbirth is overrated.  It hurts like crazy.  I’m a sissy, remember?

Bringing her into this world was easy too.  She was my smallest newborn yet; seven pounds and ten ounces.   Her brothers were all nearly nine pounds.  She was a wisp of a thing comparatively.  One final push and the first words out of my mouth were (after thank goodness, it’s over),  “what is it?”  The doctor said to John, “I think you should tell her.”  John gazed at his child and said in wonder, “It’s a girl.”  I was filled with ecstasy, but made him repeat himself just to be sure.  John and Vonda weren’t in the habit of bringing girls into the world.  Maybe I had misunderstood.   

I melted the moment her tiny form was laid against my exhausted body.  She was so incredibly perfect.  Tiny features and a mass of unbelievably long hair graced my baby.  So tiny and so beautiful.

We were in the midst of calls to anxious family members, the doctor doing her thing to put me back to rights, when I heard the doctor say softly, “There’s too much blood.”  And then she disappeared, which I found odd and was contemplating that weirdness when suddenly a couple of doctors appeared at my side, whom I had never laid eyes on before.  “You need surgery, and you need it now,” was all I heard. 

It was like at that moment I settled into the eye of a hurricane while gale force winds swirled around me.  Things suddenly began happening at lightning speed all around me and I could only lie there observing.  My baby was wrenched from my arms and placed in John’s.  My bed was hurtled down the hall and into a waiting surgery unit.  Medical personnel and supplies were whizzing by me at an incredible pace. 

As I entered the OR, I now experienced the physical side effects of severe blood loss.  Somehow I knew I was going into shock.  “I’m going to be sick,” I said weakly.  After retching into a pan, I was now being prepped for surgery, and I was scared.  I knew I was dying.  I could feel my life evaporating and my strength weakening at an alarming rate.  I heard the anesthesiologist calling out my blood pressure readings and the numbers were dropping like a stone off a bridge.  I was losing my life and I didn’t want to.  I wanted to live to see my new baby and my sons grow up.  I didn’t want my life to end on that cold table, my daughter just yards away in someone else’s arms.

Surgery lasted for hours.  When at last they wheeled me back, I had lost three-quarters of my total blood supply.  They pumped so much saline solution into me to prevent shock that my own husband did not recognize me.  Every part of my body was swollen beyond recognition.  My face, my extremities, even my tongue were horribly swollen and distorted. 

I came out of the anesthesia aware that John was bent over me, near desperate with worry, declaring his love for me.  When I awoke again, I was in the most amazing agony I had ever encountered.  Puzzled, the doctors shipped me off for an MRI and found a blood clot in my abdomen that had become infected during the night hours.  I had dodged one bullet, now I faced another.  It would take ten days in the hospital on round-the-clock intravenous antibiotics to fight a life-threatening infection.

Somewhere, I have a picture of John and I and our new baby during my hospital stay.  I am still monstrously swollen, in unbearable pain, and poor John is holding Hannah, his hand in a huge white gauze bandage, his own face drawn and tired.  We were the most pathetic new parents on the face of the earth.  It was pretty awful. 

And yet, I kept stubbornly trying to figure out a way to get myself home to my own bed and my other children.  I knew I was sick, but I couldn’t just LIE here, for goodness sakes’!  I learned the routine of the nurses, and knew that if I asked for Tylenol about an hour before they took my temperature, then they would get a better reading.  Mind you, my fever was so high I laid there shivering under blankets most of the time, but I had to get home!  On one of the early morning rounds of doctor visits, they and their team of medical students gave me the rundown of numbers for various tests and procedures and I listened politely and nodded appropriately, but I knew the jig was up when they said on their way out, “And no more asking for Tylenol just before getting your temp taken!”  I smiled sheepishly.  Busted.

The one upside of that terrible time is, I could do nothing except hold my baby.  The nurses tried to give me rest and hold her in the nursery as much as possible, but I wanted her with me.  I was determined to breastfeed, as I had the other three, so the night staff would obediently bring her to me from the nursery.  But I found she slept better and longer, (and therefore, so did I), if I kept her in my private room with me.  By day seven, the hospital could not justify her presence in the nursery any longer (she was fine).  So it was either send her home with her dad (who wasn’t that great at breastfeeding), or keep her in my room with me full-time.  Not much choice there, really.   So I held her all day, and most of the night.  After lunch when my fever would spike and I could keep my burning eyes open no longer, I would tuck her tiny body between the bed rail and me and we would sleep, she and I.  Sleep all afternoon and into the evening.  Both of us resting and healing from the ordeal of her birth. 

Something tender and wonderful happened in those hours of her body lying against mine.  A bonding took place like I had never experienced before.  Insurance companies are so quick to kick mothers out of the hospital, that moms do not get a chance to properly greet their New Wonder.  Once we are back home, we are right back into the business of care taking.  It’s a little screwy, to be honest.

But since I could do nothing but lie there helplessly, I felt a deepening kinship growing between myself and her, this tiny elfin creature.  A metaphorical umbilical cord nourished us both and knit our spirits tightly together.  It was an amazing experience. 

I have always said that she was born in a ray of sunshine.  Many of you will question my truthfulness here, but that is because you don’t really know my Rosie.  The honest truth is, she has never given her dad or I a moment’s heartache.  She is respectful, compliant, obedient, and helpful without complaint.  She is the most emotionally even-keeled person I have ever encountered.  No theatrics.  No tantrums.  No fights.

Does she seem too good to be true?  She nearly is. 

There is a place within the soul of a woman from which the most special love on earth is generated and overflows to those she loves dearest; her children.  We love our husbands, and we love our parents and siblings and friends.  But that love is different by far from that which is reserved for our offspring.  It is the stamina that keeps us up all night with a newborn or a sick child.  It is the white-hot anger that places us between any potential threat and our children.  It is the unconscious urge to touch a toddler’s cheek or brush our lips across a fevered brow.  It is the all-consuming focus we have when college children are traveling in stormy weather, or curfew is ignored.  It is what makes us nurturing, perceptive, and strong in the face of devastating diagnosis.  It is the essence of Mother.

Hannah my Luv, I know you will read this (you always read these).  Please know that every glowing word I have written here is absolutely true and wells from that deep place in a mother’s heart that only another mother can understand.

I am thankful beyond words that God spared my life that night and handed me the privilege of watching you grow into the breathtakingly lovely woman that you are becoming.  I both admire and respect you, Sweetness.  I am honored and humbled to be your mother. 

You are Joy itself.

Thank you for being forgiving when I have made mistakes and thank you for allowing our relationship to grow and unfold into less one of a parent and child, and more of a mutual friendship.  I believe with all my heart that our future will be filled with warm interaction and deep fondness for one another.  Will I annoy you from time to time?  Of course.  I might even embarrass you once in while.  It’s what mothers do (and we are GOOD at it).  But you will look beyond that and see me with eyes of unconditional love, as I do my mother, she her own mother.

And someday, you will hand me your own newborn daughter, and the circle will be complete. 

I was wearing a pair of simple pearl earrings the night you were born.  I wore them when you took your first breath.  They adorned my head through surgery and all through that long night when life hung in the balance.  I discovered the next day that one was missing, and was alarmed until I felt around the bed and discovered it hiding underneath me.  At that moment, I knew I wanted to give them to you when you were old enough to appreciate what they represent.  When you have finished reading this, go find them in my jewelry drawer and claim them as your own.  I want you to have them.  When you look at them or wear them, be reminded that life is precious and sweet, even when your own may be difficult.  God loves you even more than I do and has an amazing plan for your life.  Embrace and enjoy each day of your own journey.

Happy birthday, my precious girl!  My Hannah Rose.  May your life be filled with blessings too numerous to count…

… just as mine is.

Mrs. Dahl Wore Her Crabby Pants Today

There is something weird going on inside The Magic Tree House.  Strange little aliens that look surprisingly similar to My Darlings walk through my door in the morning and create absolute havoc for the entire day.  I recognize these children but I do not know who they are.  They are distracted, they are noisy, and they act as though they hear not a decibel coming from my mouth. 

I am living a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Somewhere near the town’s limits, there are enormous pods growing cute little first graders that will deceive their quasi-hippie teacher into letting them inside her sanctuary.

They wore me out today.

The day started off badly.  Let’s start there and get the whole ugly tale laid bare on the table. 

We have a photocopier in the workroom that was manufactured by one of America’s arch enemies, I am quite sure.  This thing was sabotaged to work only twenty percent of the time, and sit idle waiting for the repairman to arrive the other eighty percent.  It has been kicked, cursed, and threatened to be dismantled (slowly and painfully).  There is not an employee in that school that has not fantasized about loading it into the back of a pickup and dropping it off the Ivory Coast.  It is nearly useless.  The worst part is, we are locked into a contractual lease agreement that won’t be expired until 2057, or somewhere in that range.  The repairman is there so often we mistake him for full-time faculty.  No wonder he looked puzzled when we tried to hit him up for Jeans Day money.

Back to this morning.

I arrived early enough to steal into the workroom and make copies before the daily flurry of last minute preparation.  The line to use The Beast is usually quite long.  I grabbed my stack of math worksheets and had run a few copies through when the darn thing started making gasping noises and alarms began to sound, like a mayday on a nuclear submarine.  “No,” I thought desperately.  No, no, no!!  Not AGAIN!”  I ran to look at the touch screen.  A cryptic warning was flashing on the screen advising me to “Call a service person immediately!”  There was scary red wrench in the corner.  I knew this terrible vision all too well.  The two previous days the exact same thing had happened to me.  Yes, that’s right.  I, Vonda Dahl, had single-handedly shut down all productivity for the entire school three days running.  I had visions of a shunning on an Amish level running through my head.  I dropped my cursed arms and groaned to no one, “Not again…” 

That was before school had even started.  It got worse.

My students were wired for trouble from the moment they sailed in off the bus.  I was now doing the unthinkable.  I was toying with the idea of leveling threats on a scale previously unwitnessed by first graders of any generation.  What those threats were going to be, I had not a clue.  That was a minor detail to be worked out later.

I could feel my frustration rising and my patience evaporating.  I have never seen these children behave like this before.  I spent this day feeling as though I own zero classroom management skills.  This was not a great day of self-satisfaction and warm fuzzy reflection. 

It never did get any better. 

To make matters worse, my reading group dissolved into chaos for an entirely different reason.  I like to utilize materials from an amazing website called Florida Center for Reading Research.  This site utilizes brain-based reading research and provides free printable materials and activities for every elementary grade level.  I had prepared an activity called Digraph Delight.  It just SOUNDS delightful, does it not?  It goes like this; each pair or group gets three circles with letters or pairs of letters on them.  The students spin wheel #1 for the first sound of the word.  Then they spin wheel #2 for the vowel that will give them the middle sound.  Finally, wheel #3 will give them the ending sound.  They are to write down the word created and decide if it is, indeed, a real word.

“I will demonstrate how you do it,” I offered.  I got down on the floor with the rest and spun wheel #1.  “Sh” was my initial sound.  A spin of wheel #2 gave me an “i.”  You have got to be kidding,” I thought to myself.  “Please don’t be a t… please don’t be a t,” I silently begged it.  Spinnnnnnn….. Yeah, you guessed it.  Of course the spinner landed on the t. OF COURSE IT DID.  “Okay, kids.  Yes, technically, this IS a real word, but it is not school-appropriate so we will not use it.”  But the genie was out of the bottle.  As I sent them off to do the activity on their own, each group managed to ask innocently, “Mrs. Dahl, is sh-i-t a real word?”  sigh…

The one bright spot of the day came when another teacher wandered over during our music break (the word “break” is used very loosely here) and spent a few minutes vomiting her frustrations to me.  I then returned the favor and vomited mine to her.  When the Pod Spawns returned in frenetic fever, she and I were both messy, but strangely rejuvenated.  Group therapy does miracles.

I would love to report that there was a golden moment today that redeemed all the difficult ones.  There wasn’t.  It was a hard day, end of story.  But life is like that, I guess.  Truly living does not mean that everything comes easily, or that we acquire all of our hearts desires, or that we are never touched by sorrow or disease.  I think true living means that we find defining perspective in the midst of those things. 

I read a story aloud today.  It is a Yiddish folktale of a man, his wife, their six children, and a set of grandparents that live in a one-room cottage.  The husband and wife feel cramped and frustrated in their tiny living quarters, so the husband goes to see the local Wise Man who advises Rueben and Sara to bring the farm animals inside to live with them as well.  They question his logic, but do as he asks.  After a few days of adding a goat, chickens, and a cow into their one-room home, they are nearly insane with frustration.  “This is worse!” they declare to the Wise One.  “We should not be living this way.”  “You are right,” he concedes and urges them to remove the animals back to the outdoors.  Immediately, peace and contentment settle on Rueben and his family and life seems bearable again.

A cute tale that conveys a deeper truth; things can always be worse.  Not matter how frustrating or overwhelming today’s circumstances are, there is someone, somewhere far worse off than you.  Part B of that Eternal Truth is, tomorrow will be better.

I think the root cause of my first grade mania is a shift in the group dynamic caused by two new students.  These new faces are not difficult or troublemakers in any sense.  No, it is just adjusting from a comfortable, predictable group, to something being created all anew.  We are not what we once were.  We are morphing into something else, and sometimes that takes a bit of time and a few growing pains.  Our Walking Stick insects shed their exoskeletons to make room for their growing bodies.  I think we are perhaps doing the same thing metaphorically.  We will adapt and grow and find that epicenter of peaceful interaction once again, but it may take a few days or weeks. 

“Help me to be patient with the process, Lord.  Help me to be patient with the children.  And help me to relax in the journey.”

I hope getting there doesn’t require turning a cow loose in The Magic Tree House.

Donated Soil Samples Turn Dirty

My appeal for soil and sand samples from around the country/world/universe has been an amazingly fun and successful campaign.  I have blogged about some of these and won’t dive into the specific origins of many of those that have landed in the Magic Tree House, but the stories attached to them are as interesting as the source of their origin.  Some of them are really pretty funny and some surprisingly touching.

I thought I should share a few of them.

Take the grandmother visiting New York City with a tour group.  Like the ardent supporter of first grade geography that she is, she remembered to pack plastic zipper bags, along with her toothbrush and jammies.  Her tour guide suffered through dirt-scooping at the base of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and even turned a blind eye when she bravely took a few precious ounces of Ground Zero sacred soil.  I will especially treasure that one.

Then there is the high school mommy who remembered us when visiting Florida.  She managed to pilfer sand from her vacation beach before boarding a plane back to North Dakota.  But white sand raises red flags at airport security, apparently.  She was whisked to one side of the TSA maze, and her precious cargo was laid open and tested for cocaine in front of her.  I am sure her husband stood there mentally cursing a certain middle-aged, quasi-hippie first grade teacher.

A friend of a friend was commissioned to gather soil on a trip to California.  My friend’s friend called my friend (still with me??) while driving to make sure she had the correct details for donation requiremements.  My friend could hear the other passenger in the car saying in the background, “You mean just plain old dirt?!?”  Yup.

The twenty- something son of the high school science teacher traveled to Hawaii over the Christmas break.  You guessed it.  I doubt he had much choice in whether or not to score some additions to our collection.  The legend goes like this:

He took black sand from a beach at the base of a volcano.  It’s intriguing stuff, really.  It resembles coffee grounds.  In fact, as much as I love strong coffee, I am having fantasies about finding coffee just that color.  But I digress.  While on his mission, he also snagged a hardened lava rock, about the size and diameter of a baseball.  Local Maui lore has it that the goddess of the island gets angry when anyone dares to steal her lava stones.  It ticks her off so much that she will curse the thief with terrible bad luck. 

Sure enough, my poor currier was stung by a jellyfish shortly after the heist and suffered a reaction severe enough to send him to the hospital.  If that wasn’t bad enough, he too was tagged as a cocaine transporter and had to stand patiently in airport security while his cursed samples were tested for the bad juju.  THEN, their flight back to the mainland was delayed for many hours.  His mother ended the sad tale with the warning that many frustrated lava rock thieves actually come crawling back to the goddess’ playground and return the cursed items where they found them.  

I personally do not believe such things to be true, but the kids and I have had fun telling and retelling the story to anyone hapless enough to wander by.

Finally, I myself have sunk to thieving lows.  Yes, it is true.  Mrs. Dahl is a dirt thief.  Not a dirty, rotten thief.  No, just a thief who steals dirt.  My sticky fingers are covered in grime.

Around September of this year, my husband suggested he and I take a weekend just before Christmas and spend a few days in Manhattan doing all those iconic New York City things that tourists do when in the Big Apple.  And so we did.  We had a blast.  Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Phantom of the Opera, Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a host of other things were all on our list.  And we ate our way through the city.  No lie.  We found as many wonderful things to taste as we did to look at.

Of course, I packed the obligatory zippered bags and a spoon for digging.  These did not seem to overly concern airport security.  I already had the samples from the traveling grandmother, and so I did not waste time or effort doubling up on those.  As I carefully considered where else in that vast city I might want to do a little digging, I wondered if there was any other place that wouldn’t be covered over in concrete and asphalt.  No kidding, I was agog to see “parks” that had not one blade of grass in them.  No wonder “Fresh Air” kids used to be shipped to Vermont for the summer every year. 

I knew Central Park would become a “must,” and I remembered to pack the tools of the trade into my purse the day we walked from our hotel to Central Park and all points north.  I stepped into the park near the zoo and quickly took my treasure.  My husband was patient, but a bit embarrassed.

The next day I threw a fresh bag into my purse and we headed out again.  This day took us to the tip of Manhattan where we saw the new World Trade Center being erected, viewed the Statue of Liberty from the shore (I was not interested in riding a ferry across open water in December – brrrrr!), ate at the best deli on the planet, walked Wall Street, and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the subway.

I knew that Battery Park was my next “mark.“ I cased the joint for a few moments before striking.  Handing my Nikon to my mortified husband, I instructed him to take pictures of me pulling off The Caper.  Great crimes should always be documented, I feel.  Battery Park is much smaller and more open than Central Park, so finding a private spot to do the deed was impossible. 

A few yards from the original 9/11 memorial – a metal sphere, dented and punctured from the falling towers, stands as silent tribute to that terrible day and the resilience of the city and our nation.  An eternal flame was added later and still burns ceaselessly.  It was just yards away from this poignant spot that I chose to fulfill my errand.

“Oh well,” I decided.  “I’ll soon know if this is against the law or not.”  With that shrugged carelessness, I stooped between two benches, with tourists like myself milling about, and began digging.  The difference between me and the other hundreds of tourists there that day is, I did not see one other person stealing dirt.  Apparently this is not a common thing to do when visiting New York City.  Who knew?  The good news is I was not apprehended by anyone in a uniform.  Oh, I had a few quizzical looks cast my way, but this is New York!  You could roller skate in pink curlers and a smoking jacket and no one would give you a sideways glance. 

And so, the donations keep rolling in, my darlings keep making homemade thank-you cards, and our box of samples from around the country/world/universe is getting fuller all the time.

A huge THANK YOU to those that have participated thus far in this little experiment.  I am tickled beyond words that “Soil Fever” has spread like the measles.  What fun!  The ancient, outdated globe now stands by my reading chair nearly full-time so that we can locate on the map where each sample comes from.  These kids ARE learning geography, doggonit! And having a blast in the process.

And so…

If you get the urge to be a part of an elite group of dirt-stealing smugglers, we would welcome you with open arms and dirty hands.

And if perchance, you are headed to Hawaii anytime soon, I have a rock I’d like to send back with you…

The Original 9/11 Memorial in Battery Park

The Caper

It's a Dirty Job, But Someone Has To Do It...

A Disturbance in The Force

I’m back.  Back to school, back to blogging, back to hitting “snooze” at four a.m..  It’s all good.  I am thrilled to be back in the teaching saddle.  I missed these kids, darn it!  Don’t get me wrong.  I loved every glorious moment of my Christmas break.  Loved and gloried in the daily reminder that teaching runs on the most amazing schedule imaginable. 

I had eleven days to myself over the holidays.  Eleven days!  I got to enjoy my visiting sons, I slept late nearly everyday, and I cooked up a storm.  For the first time in over two years, I felt like I had a life again.  I did go to school a couple of those days, but really tried to stay away as much as possible.  And it was a good decision on my part.  I walked into my classroom yesterday with the three R’s in my holster.  I was Rested, Renewed, and Rarin’ to go.

All was clipping along on my first day back (yesterday), when I happened to read an email sent by the elementary principal.  He’s a great leader and a friend, but he stinks at communicating by email.  Why, you ask?  Because every directive and piece of information he wants to convey for say, an entire year, is stuffed into a single email.  They are long, they are filled with dates and “need to know” bullet points, and I almost always miss some important piece of information buried between lines 43 and 57. 

Just before break I read such a message.  This one gave the heads-up that after Christmas we would be welcoming new students.  The details followed which I merely perused after reading that none of the new kids would be in first grade.

Yesterday afternoon while the kids were in music class, I quickly scanned my email for any do-or-die missives.  I opened one entitled “Team” (that would be me), and scanned the contents with one eye on the door for returning pint-sized musicians.  This one reminded the “team” that new students would be showing up (today).  Yadda, yadda, unimportant detail, unimportant detail… then, FIRST GRADER??!!  Noting that I had a few moments left on the Doomsday Clock, I bolted out the door and up the stairs, then sailed into the principal's office.  “Did you mean to say first grade?”  I asked without preamble.  Slow grin crosses his face.  “I did.”  “But I thought before Christmas you said he would be in second grade.”  Grin is fixed on face.  “I did say that.”  He shrugged in a don’t-blame-me manner.  “That was the information we had at the time.  I just found out differently today.”  I don’t remember if I said anything before billowing my sails to full expansion and leaving his office.  Wow, I had things to do.  I knew I better get my butt in gear and there was not a minute to lose.  I am the queen of personalized classroom paraphernalia.  I wanted this new child to walk in and feel warmly welcomed.  This would take time after school was over, but I was confident.

At 7:30, confidence was waning. 

I was tired, had begun to feel physically crummy about midday, and had not accomplished all I had hoped to, but the sun would rise on another day.  It was time to go home, take a hot shower, and fall into bed.  I did not want him to show up nervous and timid on his first day only to find a sub waiting for him.  Sleep, Mrs. Dahl!  I summoned all spare white blood cells to-arms, and slept like the dead.

I awoke with better perspective, still a little wobbly and not running on all pistons, but I knew I would survive, and so I met the day head-on.

I guzzled all the caffeine I possibly could without needing a catheter, made extra copies of the day’s activities, pasted on my most dazzling smile, and greeted The New One with sincere joy. 

I guess on some level of my brain I had anticipated some shyness and reserve on the part of my students. I DID NOT anticipate the Devil’s Spawn possessing my darlings the very moment they met New Kid. 

I’ll back up a bit.  Watching group dynamics is of infinite interest to me.  My first college go-round and degree had me interested in Sociology, because like everyone else in their early twenties in the eighties, I wanted to save the world from itself and “help” mankind.  I thought social work was my cup of tea and so I enrolled in countless sociology-related courses.  That lasted two semesters and ended abruptly.  There are two reasons for that.  My professors were boring beyond tears and I job-shadowed a social worker for a day.  One day was plenty.  We went into horrible homes, encountered horrible situations, and her pay was abysmal.  I guess I wasn’t the altruist I thought I was. 

However, I remained fascinated with the how and why of people, societies, and groups of people. 

I was a little knocked off-kilter today by the sudden rash of fresh attitudes and minor misbehaviors suddenly being exhibited by these formerly angelic children.  Fool that I am, I convinced myself that as the day wore on and the novelty of a new kid wore off, they would settle down and revert to their former selves.  It never happened.  They were borderline  naughty all day. 

At lunch I plopped my bones beside a couple of other teachers and laid out my bewilderment.  I ended with, “my voice is sore.”  I never yell.  I just don’t.  I get their attention so much better with a quiet tone than with elevated decibels.  Today however, my voice level was elevated.  Not yelling, per say, but trying to get attention enough to pull focus back to the tasks at hand.  It was a constant fight.  They were showing off, I guess. 

I used to have chickens, here on the ranch.  Chickens, like people, were very interesting to watch.  You’ve heard the term “pecking order.”  This is a true phenomenon with chickens.  For reasons unknown and invisible to humans (and possibly themselves.  Chickens have very small brains), one hen would start to be picked and pecked on.  One or two other hens would begin to peck at the poor thing with their sharp beaks.  Pretty soon, other hens would join the bullying fun and before long, the witless victim would be bloody and maimed, feathers gone and wounds agape.

This happens in the human world as well. 

We’ve all seen it.  Someone decides that someone else is inferior and worthy to be picked on because they don’t look right, or dress appropriately, or are too smart, or too dumb, or whatever.  We’ve seen it, and maybe participated in it at one time or another.  At the least, we have been silent witness to it and refused to intervene.  I am as guilty as are you, probably.

I think part of what I witnessed today is the Chicken Coop Syndrome.  In a child’s mind, it is better to proactively avoid being the one pecked to a bloody pulp by creating dominance as soon as possible.  My kids wanted the New One to know there is already a group dynamic in place, there is a certain placement of the leaders and the followers, and that he will have to earn his stripes in the jungle of first grade playground gangs. 

Overstated and over analyzed?  Possibly.  Just the workings of a middle-aged, quasi-hippie brain.

Anyway, the day ended mercifully.  I kicked off my high heels (what had I been thinking?!), and I thanked the good Lord that I had survived without permanently damaging vocal chords or tender egos. 

When I drug my still-not-feeling-right body through the door at home, there was a letter waiting for me on the table with no return address.

Tearing it open, I found a neatly typed note from one of my students.  He had typed it all himself, every word.  Not an easy feat when you are only six.  It contained the lyrics to Santa Claus is Coming To Town in its entirety.  He also assured me that he missed me over Christmas vacation and that in June he would be going to Florida.  And, neatly taped to the page, was a quarter. 

I held the paper treasure in my dog-tired hand and felt a tender smile cover my face.  Then I giggled over the quarter and was deeply touched, simultaneously.  I raised boys.  I know how they value money and what a quarter means to a first grader.  Little boys save those quarters so that on their next trip to the Tractor Supply Store they can buy another farm animal to add to their collection, or a pack of Double Bubble at Walmart.  A quarter is big deal to a six-year-old.  His simple gift spoke volumes of his love and affection for a certain middle-aged teacher who was loony enough to embark on a new career when most people her age are winding theirs down.

The stresses of the day rolled off my shoulders like rain on a slicker.  That sweet, sloppily-folded letter will go in my treasure box of Favorite Things and be a forever reminder that children are proof-positive that God loves Mankind and that teaching was the perfect choice for me.

Tomorrow is another day.  I hope sugar has been consumed sparingly tonight and that they come just a tad tired tomorrow. 

Hello New Year and welcome New Kid.

Laura's Star - Epilogue

Epilogue

     Besides Laura and Sam, five other individuals perished in the December storm of 1989, one of them Joe’s highway rescuer.  It took Joe the better part of a year to heal from his physical wounds, and more time than that to heal emotionally.  He felt he could never forgive himself for Laura’s death.  He was angry at her at first for leaving the vehicle at all, but as the pieces of the story began to fill in through the usual channels of small town gossip and local police reports, Joe began to understand better the events of that awful night.  He came to the conclusion that it must have been Sam that had picked up Laura and the boys in an attempt to help them.  An autopsy had revealed that Sam had suffered a massive heart attack and that is probably why he went off the road and crashed into the field.  It must have been the glowing star on Sam’s barn that had drawn Laura towards his farmyard.  She had died trying to save them all.  Joe often wondered why she hadn’t left the boys in the car, out of the elements.  But of course, if she had, they would have perished too.  Somehow, she had known the right thing to do.  Gradually, his anger slowly melted into gratitude that in giving her own life, Laura had saved the lives of her sons. 

     Joe struggled with his anger at God.  Why hadn’t he prevented the terrible chain of events from occurring that night?  Why did he let their car gel up in the worst cold of the season?  Why had he let Joe be involved in a car accident, and why did Sam have to have a heart attack that night? 

     His anger and depression grew when Laura’s obstetrician had called him a week after Laura’s funeral and delivered the news that Laura had been eight weeks pregnant.  Joe cried for four days.  Cried for Laura who had died knowing another life would die with her.  Cried for the child he would never know.  And cried for himself that his family had been separated by death.

     But larger than all these was the anger he harbored against himself.  He had failed his family.  He left them in harm’s way and it had cost his wife and their unborn child their lives.  He could not bear the knowledge that his beautiful Laura had died cold and alone.  He could not forgive himself. These questions and thoughts raced round and round in Joe’s tormented mind until one night when he was reading in Laura’s dog-eared Bible.  He found a quote carefully copied there in Laura’s handwriting.  It was by the great 19^th century preacher, Charles Spurgeon.  It read, “God is too good to be unkind, and he is too wise to be mistaken.  And when we cannot trace his hand, we must trust his heart.”  A peace had washed over Joe at that moment, and he knew that he must let go of his anger and trust in the almighty wisdom of his Creator.  He still didn’t understand any of it, but he knew God did, and that was enough.

     Matthew and Coty were treated for minor frostbite injuries, but faired amazingly well and were soon their happy, sweet selves, although they could not comprehend why Mommy was still “sleeping in the snow” and didn’t come home with them.

     Joe eventually decided that living on the East Coast was pointless without Laura, so two years after the accident, he and his children moved back to North Dakota to be close to family.

    It was late evening when Joe approached the stretch of I-94 where his life had forever changed, and he felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach.  Memories and waves of emotions welled up unbidden and he found himself pulling to the side of the road very near where their car and his wife had both died that fateful night.  Laying his head on the steering wheel, tears slid down his face and he felt it all come back in such a real way that the emotional pain was almost unbearable.  “Pretty star, Daddy,” Mattie’s voice exclaimed from the back seat.  Joe lifted his head and stared at his now four-year-old son.  Mattie was pointing off to the right.  Shining in the clear December night was the brightest star Joe had ever seen.  Its twinkling light winked and blinked so brightly that Joe was mesmerized.  “Mommy’s star,” Mattie’s finished with a whisper.  Suddenly Joe understood with clarity that Laura had not been alone that night.  The Sweet Presence of a Loving God had been with her till the end and then had ushered her into His brilliant presence.  Joe nodded silently as cleansing tears coursed down his face, and Hope began to push up tender shoots from deep within Joe’s battered heart.

The End