Elderly Woman Crashes New Teacher Seminar

You should have been there.  I walked into the room and headed straight for the name badge table.  I could feel eyes on me, and not because I was wearing my favorite gray silk blouse and fetching accessories.  No, this was more like curiosity staring, like when you see a balding woman in the produce aisle.  You’re not trying to be rude, but you just can’t help but gawk a little.

I picked up my badge and began looking for a place to sit.  Quick sweep of the room and I’m headed towards the big guy sitting by himself at the furthest table…perfect.  I sat down, introduced myself and asked about him.  Turns out he’s the new music teacher in a neighboring town.  Hi, how are you.  I could read his mind and knew his thoughts were echoing those around the room.  They went something like this, “Uh, excuse me, ma’am.  The seminar for nearly retired teachers is down the hall.  THIS seminar is for NEW teachers.  You’re a little confused.  But that’s OK because senility is fairly common in people your age.  Do you need assistance getting to your meeting?  No?  Well, be sure to take your time getting there so you don’t fall and break a hip or something.”

When the mentoring seminar for new teachers started there were the obligatory introductions.  I resisted the urge to explain myself.  Why do I always think I have to tell my entire story, as if I’m required to apologize for beginning my career when I’m nearly fifty?  I guess on some level I still feel the societal pressure to conform to How Its Usually Done.  Being the only middle-aged woman in a room full of twenty-somethings should probably make me just a hair self-conscious.  And truthfully, it did (a little).  But WHY??  What have I got to be apologetic or self-conscious about?  I lived my life and made my decisions with clear objectives in mind.  I have no regrets.  I would do it the same way again.

So I’m having this internal debate with myself as others are introducing themselves and when it is my turn, I simply give the same brief introduction that everyone else does.  I was quite proud of myself.  No apologies.  No explanations.  I would take my rightful place at the table.  This is who I am.  Deal with it. 

I was feeling pretty good about melding into the group throughout the course of the morning until we got to the part where we were supposed to do some small group brainstorming about classroom management difficulties.  I felt the generation gap begin to widen.  The first to share with the group described how he had a large enough classroom to afford boys and girls bathrooms within in his classroom (unimaginable luxury!!).  His problem, he went on to lament, was that some prankster/thug/mentally unbalanced student had been smearing their poop on the walls of the bathroom.  And this poor rookie teacher had been unable to determine the culprit.  How should he handle it?

I was completely amused by the reaction of the group.  Gasps and outcries exploded around me.  One poor male reading specialist to my right moaned, “I did NOT just hear that!”  The teacher with the Mad Pooper seemed just a little gratified that he had the full sympathies of his compatriots.  The Gap is now a yawning chasm.

Me?  I’m sitting there thinking, “Really?  This kind of reaction is warranted for a little feces?  It’s not like its radioactive waste or The Black Plague.”  I guess it’s a mother thing, I don’t know.  Once you’ve changed diapers for four children, fecal matter is not really such an awful, end of the world thing.  I’m not saying I miss it or liked it, I’m just saying it’s not a deal breaker. 

One of my most trying mothering days came when my oldest son was three, and his younger brother was a one-year-old. Older Brother wanted to help mommy out and decided to change his baby brother’s diaper…on my newly upholstered sofa.  It was Poopapalooza in the Dahl house.  It was EVERYWHERE.  That was a baaaad day, for mommy and for poor Trevor.

The second event in my life that prepared me for Teacher’s Worst Nightmares was raising sheep for eight years.  This may be a revelation to you city slickers, but livestock are not potty trained.  They poop often and everywhere.  I had a friend show up one day to look at my baby lambs wearing white canvass sneakers.  Oh, you are really going to regret that…

Back to the seminar.   I did enjoy the camaraderie of being with others who understood my frustrations, anxieties, and the overall roller coaster of a first year teacher.  Someone commented that they were completely blown away by all the meetings that are required of a teacher.  Amen to that! (I attended three today.  THREE!  One before school, one during lunch, and one after school).  Teaching is my hobby, I guess.  Attending meetings is my vocation.  And to my fellow attendee’s credit, I really don’t think they were thinking disparaging thoughts about me.  Everyone was very gracious and kind.  If they thought my situation odd, they didn’t show it.

So I guess maybe its OK to have some life experience in my corner.  There are drawbacks, certainly.  Like, do you have any idea how old I’ll be before I can draw a full pension?  Waaaaay old. But I love that I don’t have the pressures of a young family to worry about, and years of mothering a passel of young ‘uns is marvelous training for effective classroom management.

Elderly?  Not quite yet, but I’ll gladly claim the title of Older Than Average.   I think that maturity and wisdom are a pretty good trade-off.

Neon Dry Erase and Sharpie Manna

You know what manna is, right?  In the book of Exodus, the Children of Israel fled persecution and slavery in Egypt, led by God’s hand.  They cut a path through the desert on their way to Canaan, the “land flowing with milk and honey” (sounds like the first grade lunch table on most days).  Naturally, any length of time touring the desert is going to involve some hardship, especially when you run low on provisions, so God sent manna to feed His Chosen People until they were able to conquer Canaan and grow their own food.  According to scripture, manna appeared out of nowhere six days a week, tasted sweet like honey, and was a nutritionally complete food source for the hungry Israelites. 

Well, FedEx delivered some manna for a certain prairie first grade class today.  An acquaintance from my younger days found me on Facebook and has been following my blog.  She sent a message a few days ago letting me know that she works for a company that produces a variety of office products, and would it be OK if she sent a care package to my first graders?  Would it be OK?!? Do pregnant woman cry at commercials??  Yeah, it would be GREAT!  True to her promise, there was a box waiting for me in the workroom first thing this morning.  Smiling, I eagerly carried my treasure chest down to my room and popped that bad boy open.   I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo when he dove into the cavern lake and found unspeakable riches, just as the priest had described to him in prison. 

Before my eyes were every color imaginable of markers, highlighter, pens, Dry Erase products and various and assorted other very usable and appreciated products.   Rapture!  OK, you are probably thinking, “get a grip, lady!  It’s just ordinary office supply stuff.  Don’t you have STORES in North Dakota?  (Yes…, but not that many….)  the POINT is, while the school does a great job of supplying necessities for every teacher and classroom, the fact remains in our, (and every other school in the nation), there is only so much money.  We do not have wealthy benefactors or a steady revenue source, other than the taxes dollars of you and me.  And because we derive our income from the good people of this state and nation, we must and should be careful with how that money is spent.  So if I walk into the supply room, I may certainly take a blue, red, green, or black dry erase marker for my classroom, but if I want hot pink, for instance, Tough Twinkies!

And really, its not so much about the items in that package, although I am genuinely pleased and grateful for them.  No, its much more than that.  It touched me in a deep place to know that somebody else cares about my Little People.  I love these kids, you know?  They have wound their way into the depths of my heart and I hope that gets conveyed through my writings.  I’m thinking maybe my friend Sue, has sorta’ fallen under their spell too. 

When seven adorable first graders arrived this a.m. and I showed them the box and explained how it came to us, they wanted to know if they could look at everything.  Well, of course!  It was meant for them, after all.  I set the open box on the floor and watched in amusement as they pulled items out one by one, shouting, “Mrs. Dahl, look at THIS!”  I really never expected them to be so captivated by non-toys or candy, but they were.  It was priceless.

And so, I am glad that I introduced my first graders to you, The World.  This web site keeps stats for me, my son Trevor, showed me one night.  I can tell you how many of you have visited this site (3,832 as of tonight), how many countries have been represented (11 outside the US, including Malaysia, Russia, and Iran. IRAN??)  It just blows me away, this doorway to the world. 

So when a nondescript, middle-aged woman starts an online journal describing her first year of teaching in a rural, wind-swept town, and people world wide are interested enough to stop in for a visit once in awhile, I have to believe it is because seven precocious, adorable, lovable, unforgettable first graders have captured the heart of someone besides me.

Thanks, Susan.  We love you too.

Treasure!!

First Footprints

The snow’s first footprints are magical. 

When an imprint is made in virgin snow,

One feels they are traversing a path untouched by human kind. 

First footprints are like…

Your first real friend,

Someone you shared a connection with and kept for life.

The first and best birthday gift you ever received.

A memorable trip.

The first ghost story told to you that gave you nightmares.

Your first kiss,

Surprising you with its softness.

The first time your heart was broken.

The first book that spoke to the depths of your being.

The first teacher you genuinely liked.

Your first airplane ride,

Feeling the surge of power on take-off and wondering in amazement as you look down on Terra Firma.

The first time you watched someone be treated unkindly

…and did nothing.

The first adult in your life, outside your parents, who “saw” you and cared.

The first time you experienced the gladness of practicing generosity.

Exchanging vows with your True Love, witnessed by those you love best.

The first cry of your newborn, quavery vocal chords singing the most beautiful song your ears had ever heard.

The first smile of your infant.

The first word of your toddler.

Your baby’s first day of kindergarten (who is far too young to spend an entire day away from you!).

The first time you feel protective rage when another kid bullies your child (God help them!)

The first day of your dream job.

The first time you transfer knowledge to a child and watch comprehension dawn.

The first time you are the recipient of unconditional love.

Signing the papers on your first house.

Spending the first night in your new house.

The first moment your house feels like a home.

Your first fight with your Beloved, wondering…

If you’ll ever be happy again,

And then discovering that it became a growing experience,

That drew you closer than ever.

The first time your teenager rolls their eyes at something you had said…

Or done…

Or felt…

Or thought…

Or thought about thinking.

The first time you really “get” that your parents are aging.

The first time you are sacred witness to death,

Watching the light go out of someone’s eyes,

Suddenly knowing that the body is just a shell,

But the spirit lives on forever.

The first time it hits you that your life is perfect. 

(You can’t fully understand this truth in youth). 

Age and experience provide perspective that glistens with contentment.

Money, status, and material things are not the end result of happiness, after all. 

The FIRST time you comprehend this ageless truth,

Will be the last time you’ll need to be visited by this revelation. 

To have found true love,

To have given birth to living legacies,

To be fed and sheltered,

To have faith that there is indeed a God in heaven who cares for mankind,

And to have a purpose in life,

Is all a mortal needs to know pristine joy.

The first steps are magical,

Because they are the beginning of a journey

Who’s outcome will be determined by you…

One step at a time.

This is how North Dakota welcomes Spring

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The Storm Of The Century Has An Ugly Sister

Eleven days ago the fiercest winter storm I have ever witnessed swooped in with such suddenness that motorists were literally stopped in their tracks and most spent many hours stuck in their vehicles waiting for a break in the weather or a rescue of some sort.  I won’t relive that experience here.

The Weather Gurus have been predicting another 1-2 punch for several days now.  This time it was to begin with freezing rain and then morph into snow and high winds.  Areas of the state may see up to 16” of snow by tomorrow night… a fairly significant amount for middle of March, even by North Dakota standards.

Sure enough, on my way to work this morning, I saw raindrops begin to hit my window.  The skies were low and leaden.  It just LOOKED ominous.  As my happy first graders began arriving around 8:20, we began to hear the first thunks of ice against our classroom window.  I was fervently praying that our Super would make the call quickly as to whether we should head back home or take our chances sticking out the day.  A quick peek out the front doors showed the street covered in white; not snow, but ice pellets.  Well, this can’t be good…

On our way to visit another class’ castle exhibit, I gave a beseeching look and raised eyebrow to the Superintendent.  I didn’t even have to say the words.  He just knew what I meant.  “Ten fifteen,” was his reply.  Holy Cow!  That was only a half hour away.  We breezed through the exhibits (they were wonderful!) and back in our room with the constant pinging of ice on the glass, I gave them enough free time in order to get their assignments organized and into their take-home drawers.  All of a sudden it was time to get coats and boots on.  One child who lives a block away wanted to know if they would be walking home or riding the bus, like last time.  “This time you’ll walk.”  Disappointment was evident on his little face.  “I think we should ride the bus again.”  Big smile from me.  “I think you’ll make it just fine.”

And then our school cook walked in carrying a tray of the most delectable frosted cinnamon rolls you have EVER experienced, all wrapped and ready for the kids to take with them on the bus.  She couldn’t see letting them sit around a day, waiting for appreciative munchers.  And besides, suppose they get stuck in a bus out on the road for any length of time?   A very real possibility in this sort of nasty weather.   At least they would have a little something to fill hungry bellies.   I LOVE that woman!  (another reminder of the many benefits of a small school.  We function like a big, wonderful family).

Bell rang…bus kids out the door…frantic sister appears at my door, “No, my brother wasn’t supposed to ride the bus!”  Ooops!  Retrieved in time…all is well.  Another bell rings for the dismissal of town kids…goodbye, be careful…janitor’s head pops in, “Mrs. Dahl, why are you still here?  Get going!”  Thank you, I will…throwing work-to- do-at-home into bags (I love the reusable shopping bags for haulin’ school stuff – I never use them for actual shopping)…asked a friend of my daughter’s if she rode the bus, “I think so…”  OK, then I’m outta’ here!

The outside stairs and street are covered in icy pellets, my van looks like a giant snow cone.  The streets of town are slick but not terrible.  However, as I pulled on to the highway, suddenly the ground beneath me felt like it was on rollers.  Dear Jesus, get me home in one piece! 

Contrary to very popular and mistaken belief, North Dakota is not comprised of flat terrain.  I have seen the heartland and can tell you that there are other states far flatter than my home state.  As I inched my way towards home, the gently rolling hills between work and home now seemed bigger and more menacing than ever before.  Would I be able to make that big hill just south of town?  Gunning the engine was out of the question.  It merely caused more sliding.  Phewww, made it!  But on the other side, my van began an uncontrollable slide towards the ditch.  Screaming “NOOOOOO!” was my best first reaction.  Well, that didn’t seem to help.  OK, throw it in neutral.  All of a sudden I couldn’t remember which way you are supposed to point the wheels in such an emergency.  Head into the ditch so you don’t roll?  Try to point them back towards the road?  I followed my gut instinct and decided to go with staying out of the ditch.  With wheels pulled hard to the left, I rode the shoulder like a skateboarder on a half-pipe.  Yeeeehaaaaawwww!!  OK, Guardian Angels…do your thing…..

To my amazement and wonder, my carnival ride ended on the shoulder as I slowed to a stop.  No cars on my back bumper to collide with.  THAT was close!  I pointed Ole’ Bessie back to the miserable road and started on my journey again.  I was able to manage 30 mph or so and arrived without further incident.  Hallelujah!

Husband is very glad to see me safely home, and (glory be!), Hannah made the bus ride just fine.  It is now 2:00 in the afternoon and the freezing rain has not let up for a moment.  The highway is covered in white and the only vehicle I have seen go by is the snow plow, futilely trying to clear a path.  For whom?  Who would be mad enough to go out in this rottenness?  Not me.  I’m HOME!!

What Color Am I?

In the hectic first few moments of our day recently, the clamor of seven voices competing for my attention melded into the lone voice of one.  “Mrs. Dahl,” he began, “This morning when I was looking in the mirror, my skin looked darker. “  Now he had my attention.  “I think I’m changing colors.”  I stared at my very European white student for a full ten seconds before speaking.  I thought maybe he was joking.  After the stare down I realized he was completely serious.  Now I had to clarify what I had just heard.  “Do you mean,” I said slowly,  “that you think you’re turning into an African American?”  I waited for him to confirm what I couldn’t believe I had just heard.  A solemn nod in the affirmative, “yes.”  Now he waited for my reaction.  His eyes never left mine and I could tell he was completely serious, his brow furrowed in consternation.

I had to put some effort into matching my tone to his.  Believe me, it was an internal fight.  Every muscle in my face wanted to break into a smile.  I so wanted to laugh at the mental image of him staring at himself in the mirror, thinking his entire identity was metamorphosing into another color and race.  But now I turned my attention to him because he had asked a serious question and he wanted an equally serious answer.  He wanted to know if such a thing were possible.  He would take my word on the matter as gospel.   I couldn’t be dismissive with trite laughter and tone.  He was all business and so must I be.  I called him by name and smiled (not too broadly I hoped).  “It’s impossible to change skin color.  The color of skin you are born with is what you’ll keep for the rest of your life.”  It took a moment for this news to sink in.  “Oh,” was his only reply.  No sign of relief or disappointment, just acceptance of my statement.  He turned and immediately immersed himself in conversation with a classmate.  It was over.  As quickly as it had come up, it ended. 

Oh, the funny, funny things kids think and say!  Can you imaging such a thing?  I’ve thought quite a lot about that short conversation.  It has caused me to go down some “what if?” pathways.  What if that WERE possible?  What if one day out of the blue, you looked in the mirror and found your looks changing into another race and color, and everyday thereafter the changeover became a little more pronounced until the day you looked at your reflection and saw Asian or Native American or African American?  What if your naturally curly hair became straight or your straight hair curly?  What if your dark skin became porcelain-white?  What if the very traits you have mocked in others now stared back at you in the mirror?  What IF???  Preposterous, you say.  Yes, but let’s just think about that for a minute…

Just maybe there would be more empathy and less ridicule.  Maybe less arrogance and more attempts to understand.  Maybe a kinder and gentler society.  I don’t know…maybe not…but MAYBE.  If I knew I might one day find myself becoming like my neighbor or a coworker, I MIGHT just treat them with more care and respect.  What if  “walking in someone else' shoes” really meant those shoes would eventually belong to you? 

I was intrigued by my little darling’s reaction to the news he couldn’t possibly become a man of color.  I really don’t think the idea of becoming black was all that alarming to him.  Jesus Christ said a little child would lead us.  Maybe we should all take our cue from my seven-year-old chameleon.

A Mother's Gift

When I was six, I brought home from school the book, “Green Eggs and Ham” by Dr. Seuss.  I was thrilled because it was a big book with many pages (by first grade standards) and I could read it all by myself.  I joyously announced after supper that night that I had a surprise for my parents.  They were going to get to listen to me read my book to them.  Like the troopers they were, they planted themselves on our 6 ft. long brown sofa (I know this because I remember my father lying down on it to measure it when it was purchased to ensure he could comfortably nap on it), and it had industrial-grade upholstery fabric.  Like the Queen Mother with her loyal subjects as audience, I prepared to wow my parents with my superb mastery of the written word.

I could not tell you exactly how long it took me to toil through that book, but when I had read the last words on the last page, my parents were nearly comatose.  With glazed eyes they heaved an almost audible sigh of relief that it was finally over, but then they did what parents around the world have done countless times.  They gushed and praised and made me feel like I was the best reader that had ever walked this earth. 

I remember that day, because that’s the day I fell in love with the written word.  It changed my life to be able to decode the mysterious symbols on the pages of a book.  Now I could go anywhere and live vicariously through any character.  I could visit exotic locals and meet interesting people.  It opened the doors of imagination that had previously been closed to me.  Now I found myself learning to survive on an island with the Swiss Family Robinson, I drank goat’s milk with Heidi, and fell in love with the miracle of a dormant seed in the The Secret Garden.  Reading became my second favorite past time, enjoying the outdoor being my first. Those are still my top two favorite activities, and in that order. 

This love of reading came directly from the woman who gave me life…my mother.  She gave me two incredible gifts in my life that have been formative in shaping who I am and what I have become.  They are the ability to laugh at myself, and the love of reading.  My earliest memories are of her curled in a chair, or propped in a corner of that brown sofa, nibbling on a fingernail and engrossed in a book.  She used to belong to the Reader’s Digest book club and would receive a volume every month of condensed versions of the latest literary offerings.  She would unwrap her book and I would think that surely it would take her weeks to complete that gigantic tome.  But several hours later she would close the book with a satisfied sigh and to my wonderment, have finished the entire book in less than a day. 

To my mother a book was akin to priceless treasure.  She cared for and about good literature, nothing trashy here.  She filled her mind with good and noble stories and it reflected in her everyday life.  It was always a joy to head to the public library and get to choose new books to take home, and for free!  That pink card with the metal strip bearing my library number was magical to me and a thing of great pride.  I could get all the books I wanted with that baby.  Those early trips to the library were the beginnings of a literacy bond with my mother that is still in place today.  Her love of reading was transferred to me, and even today, we share books and talk books, and revel in the joy and wonder of the printed page.  When she visits me or I visit her, we scour each other’s cache, and will freely borrow each other’s treasures.  I doubt that either one of us possesses the original books either one purchased.  We have steadily over the years created a floating library that is fluid and ever changing.  Most birthdays and Christmases, books were a regular gift to my siblings and me.  And every time, every single time I receive a book as a gift, I feel as though I have received pure gold. 

Good readers are also good writers.  My mother discovered that she had a knack for writing and over the years has done a fair amount of published writing.  She penned a weekly column for the local newspaper when she lived in Vermont.  She also wrote a book chronicling her life with my dad and their journey of faith.  Obviously, writing is a creative outlet for me as well, and I fully credit my mom for making writing seem like an important part of life. 

Writing helped ease the grief process when my father was in his final days of cancer.  As we watched his mortal frame waste away and knew the end was imminent, pouring my feelings onto paper helped me cope with an incomprehensible event.  By using words to capture my emotions, I found solace.  In the act of freezing time, you also have a record that allows for looking back to see how far you’ve come.  To be quite honest, I don’t go back and read those tearful entries, they are still painful reminders of a difficult time, much like the photo taken of my father just days before he died.  His siblings knew the end was near and flew to his side to have one last reunion before the window of that opportunity would close forever.  My mother had the good sense to hire a professional photographer to come to their house and record this meeting.  The picture itself is beautiful, professionally done and vivid.  Everyone is smiling and posed beautifully.  I’m glad I own a copy because my two aunts and my uncle look dapper and beautiful, smiling like their hearts weren’t about to be broken.  But my poor dad, skin yellow and waxy, dark circles framing his sky blue eyes.  He is literally just days away from losing his fight, and the shadow of death can be seen hovering near. It’s too difficult for me to remember him that way.  I choose to dwell on healthier mental pictures of his smile wide, and his eyes twinkling.  The framed picture lies buried deep within a drawer somewhere, not forgotten, but not a daily reminder of That Time.

Even now as I chronicle that event, I can feel the cleansing that writing affords.  Yes, it was a difficult and dark time, but the sun did shine again, and life is sweet once more.  There is a dull ache there that will never fully be removed, but that’s OK.  Dying is part of living.

So when I pay tribute to my beautiful mother, who is Sunshine itself, and smart and capable and funny, I want to thank her on the world stage for the gift of literacy.  Not simply because reading and writing are enjoyable experiences for me.  No, it is much, much more than that.  Those GIFTS handed to me have helped me excel in school, they have broadened my base of experience, and yes, they have helped me cope with life’s disappointments and sorrows. 

Thank you, Mom, for giving me all of that and more.  Thank you for pulling me into the circle of the things that brought you joy, and thank you for letting me share that very special part of your life.  As I feebly try to convey my gratitude, those symbols that I spent these many paragraphs penning, now fail me.  There are no words in the English language to adequately describe my love and appreciation for you.

So I will end with simplicity, sort of like that excited first grader who pulled you to the sofa for my first book. 

Thank you.