First Week: Cattle Herding, Wax Teeth, Students Sent Home to Certain Death, and the Ghost of Claude Monet

Friday closed the books on my first first week of school (my spelling/grammar check is having spasms right now) … it was my first foray into welcoming students in the fall.  “How did it go?” you ask.  Frankly, I could not be happier with the overall finished product.  There were a few hiccups and bumps along the way, but I stuck the landing as I was propelled into Friday. 

One of the biggest, and most controversial, changes this year is a greatly reduced lunch and recess time over the noon hour.  Typically, the elementary lunch time period has extended from 11:30 – 12:00.  After that, we all enjoyed a breather of another 30 minutes for outdoor recess (unless, of course, the thermometer reads -70 degrees).  Our new superintendent, in conjunction with the elementary principal, decreed that a full hour spent eating and exercising was tomfoolery (is that a great word, or what?  I’m not even sure what it means, but it just rolls right off the tongue).  Back to said school scandal…

So the edict came down that a full twenty minutes was to be shaved off our indulgent noon hour.  Only twenty minutes would be allotted to get the entire elementary through the lunch line, and then a mere twenty minutes for recess.  We teachers were assured that this was more than enough adequate time to meet the dietary and exercise needs of our little charges.  In fact, we were chided that it should really take no longer than seven minutes to push the wee lads and lasses through the line.  Where was THAT number plucked from?  And furthermore, how are we stressed, overworked, exhausted teachers supposed to renew in only 40 minutes?  You can barely sip a latte and take a nap in that amount of time.  I mean, C’MON!  We have rights, after all!

I’ve tried to get the kids there punctually, I really have.  But somehow, second grade always seems to beat us.  We had originally been told to leave our classrooms at 11:30 sharp.  But that didn’t seem to be doing the trick.  By the time we stopped at the restrooms to quickly wash our hands, plowed through the line (some of it self-serve.  “Here kids, I’ll just pour the pudding out of the giant pot in a steady stream and you shove your tray under the flow.  It’ll save time!”)  So now the new proclamation was, be IN the lunchroom at 11:30, on the dot.  “Seven minutes, people.  Seven minutes.”  The whole process has the feel of working cattle.  For you city slickers, that means prodding the bovines through chutes and then assembly-line doing things like, vaccinating, attaching ear tags or branding, etc.  It’s usually a very streamlined process and the cattle get pushed through in very short order.  That’s exactly how I feel once the clock hits 11:25.  It’s like a human version of the Running of the Bulls.  Don’t you dare get in our way!  We are on our way to LUNCH and we WILL knock you down, if need be (don’t think we won’t...).

Now that I have the whining out of the way, I have to say in all fairness, 30 minutes was way too long for lunch.  My kids usually had their lunches half digested in about 11 minutes and then would be forced to sit there watching the clock drag itself to the magic hour of noon and glorious recess.  Now the timing is perfect for eating and being able to go right outdoors.  That will change, of course, when winter hits and my students have to put nine layers of additional clothing on their bodies.  I anticipate that until they get things down to a science, recess will be reduced to roughly 45 seconds for most of them.

About mid-week, I had a horrifying mistake occur.  Our school’s system of notifying teachers of where students are to go after school suffered a breakdown.  Wait, did I use the word SYSTEM?  Ha!  My bad.  There IS no system.  Most of the time, the little darlings simply tell me what they have been commanded to do after school on any given day.  Many times they forget where they’re supposed to go or what they are supposed to do, and then said teacher must run up to the office (no cell signal in my room, remember) and try to track down a parent in order to get the child to his or her proper destination.  It’s a scary combination of recall, luck, and parent/guardians answering their phone. 

Such was a scenario this week.  First thing that particular morning, Student A informs me he is supposed to go to the babysitter’s house instead of riding the bus.  Wonderful and duly noted.  After the “get on the bus” bell sounded at the end of the day, he obediently stayed and waited for the second bell that signals the in-town kids may leave.  I am busy wiping down tables and answering questions from the two still in my care when the intercom crackles to life.  “Mrs. Dahl?”  I’ve never had opportunity to talk to the darn box on the wall by the clock.  I was a little self-conscious about for some reason.  “Yes?”  “Mrs. Dahl,” the faceless voice continued.  “Is ___________ still in the room?”  Yes, as a matter of fact he was.  “Mrs. Dahl, is he supposed to ride the bus?  The bus is waiting for him.  Can you send him right up?”  I erroneously made the near fatal mistake of second guessing his instructions and my gut instinct.  I wrongly assumed that contradictory orders had been delivered to the nerve center of the building, The Office.  The place that students feared and teachers either marched on, like Washington D.C., or avoided altogether. 

I looked at Student A and he looked at me, and without a word he picked up his backpack and ran up the stairs.  A couple of hours later, the secretary came to me with a white face and look of horror.  “I just got a call.  He was NOT supposed to ride the bus.  There was nobody home and the driver just dropped him off not knowing that.  He was home alone (this would be great title for an iconic Christmas movie) for quite a long time!”  I could feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets and my right hand instinctively flew up to cover my mouth (I think to stifle the scream that was coming).  Did he die?  No, thank the good Lord.  Not even maimed or emotionally traumatized.  His mother told me the next day (as I was kissing her feet and stumbling over an apology), that when someone finally showed up, he was happily riding his bike around their farm.  His parents were VERY gracious about it.  I WILL make a point of being SURE next time.  A SYSTEM for first grade is in the works.

One of my favorite things about this first week was the institution of our 24-Hour Words.  I got the idea from a study I had read based on the literacy research of an Australian teacher in the bush.  Her claim was that you can engage children in literacy if you can get them to take ownership of language.  To that end, on Wednesday I explained my plan to my students and had them choose a word that would be THEIR word for 24 hours.  Once they had chosen a word (ANY word, just had to be school appropriate), I wrote the word on an index card and handed it to them.  They were to look at the word, think about the word, try to learn how to spell the word, sleep with the word, and OWN the word until the next morning when they would transcribe another word to me.  I broke into the widest grin the next day when those index cards showed up wrinkled and stained.  They had taken me at my word and kept those words with them the entire time.  Most could spell their word and all knew the meaning.  This will become a first grade tradition, I am confident.

As the week wound down to a sliding end, I received a mobile upload from my son, a first year dental student.  It was a picture of a giant model of a mouth and he had added text that proudly informed me he had made his very first tooth replacement out of wax.  Now, you might find that to be not at all exciting, but I looked at that picture of the grinning, floating set of faceless teeth, and I was proud as punch.  A mother doesn’t care if the handiwork is finger painting, a touchdown on a 9-man team, or a wax tooth.  When our children shine, we beam.  I was beaming. 

As in most schools, I’m sure, Friday afternoons are just a little different from the rest of the week.  They are really not supposed to be.  They are a day, just like any of the other four, but the mood and timbre is just a hair more relaxed.  I chose Fridays to get in a weekly art lesson.  I want to make an important distinction here.  Many teachers erroneously think that CRAFTS and ART are the same thing.  They are not.  Gluing beads on a foam frame that says School is Cool is not art.  That is a no-brainer craft that will only be meaningful to that child’s sappy mother.  I’m not saying I haven’t done those sorts of crafts in class – ‘cuz I certainly have.  Mother’s EXPECT them, for crying out loud.  But true art is learning about line, light, dimension, and color, among other things. 

To that end, I chose to carry the tub of watercolor paints outside in order to make art come alive through real-world experience.  The kids were a little unsure what to think of having art OUTSIDE.  It was both weird and wonderful they felt.  I concurred.  I was a little giddy with myself.  It should be noted here that I am a quasi-hippie.  Not the drug-experimenting, sexual revolution sort of hippie, but the kind that finds great personal satisfaction with all things nature-related.  It feeds my very soul to be outdoors on a balmy day or to see an amazing sunrise.  I attempt to capture the essence of those miraculous things with my camera or with various forms of art.  Like I said – quasi-hippie.

I laid out the paints, made sure brushes were passed around, filled bowls with water (cups would tip too easily), handed out plain, white construction paper and told the kids to start painting.  They looked stymied.  “Paint… what?,”  one brave soul asked.  “Look around you and choose something you see that you like. Then paint it.”  “Paint anything we see, Mrs. Dahl?”  “Anything at all,” was my answer.  I could see excitement on their faces.  They had never thought about capturing something in their line of vision and recreating it on a page.  Pretty soon I heard water sloshing around in bowls and the bubbling conversations of engaged, happy children.  “Hey, did you know when you mix red and blue it makes purple?,”  I overheard my little dinosaur-lover announce.  They were rushing forward towards the outer limits of true art discovery.   

And so, as the day closed on the last day of the first week, we sat on the playground in the warm sun and talked about a famous artist named Claude Monet who loved to paint what he saw in nature and even painted the same scene at different times of day in order to capture it in different light.  And I felt a soft smile spread across my face as water sloshed and brushes stroked in bold line, and children ran to me for more paper in order to paint another picture.  I knew Claude would be pleased and surely was hovering close by smiling in approval. 

My first first week was wonderful and exhausting and mostly successful.  I made some mistakes and learned a few lessons the hard way, but I also felt more in control as a teacher than I ever have.  I saw, felt, and reveled in substantial learning from my students.  This is what I trained for.  It’s all a gigantic waste of time if kids aren’t learning, right?  Week Two is fast approaching and I still need to tweak lesson plans, but I am eagerly anticipating it.  This teaching thing is addictive.  I gotta’ tell ‘ya,  I’m hooked.  I know it is early in my career, but if enjoyment level is any indication, then I made the right career choice.  I think if a person is still smiling at the end of the day, then they are doing what they were born to do.

Still smiling…. 

More Magic Tree House Mania! (pictures for fellow teachers)

You are entering the Magic Tree House!  I used paint I found in the storage closet and oil pastel crayons to create my tree.

I just had to add a tire swing!

The leaves are paper die-cuts in various shades of green.

Found these great balloons at Hobby Lobby

Our theater area (used to be the coat closet)

The Best Laid Plans...

I slipped out of bed this morning with a song in my heart and coffee on my mind.  It was, after all, 4:45 a.m.  Yes, I know that’s an ungodly hour to be up but I detest feeling rushed and my early risings on school mornings allow me to get laundry going, eat a hearty breakfast, make sure my daughter is squared away before she gets on the bus, and just generally feel in control of my day. 

As I dressed and cooked my omelet I kept waiting for the nervousness over my first first day to kick in.  First cup of coffee poured and downed, and no nervousness.  Packing laptop, filling my lunch bag, and waving the hair spray can once over my head…. still no nerves.  “OK,” I wondered, “what’s wrong with me?”  I should be at least a shade fluttery.  Not happening.  I am one cool cucumber. 

I threw down the gauntlet in last night’s post.  I was READY, I had declared.  Ready to receive precious first graders into my care and classroom.  Ready to guide them through this first day of uncertainty.  Ready to teach them the first stepping stones of emergent readers’ instruction.   Ready, ready, ready.

I pulled up to the school at 7:06, nearly an hour-and-a-half before the opening bell.  I sailed into the main hallway the picture of sunny confidence.  “Good morning!” I greeted those early arrivees, like myself.

I flipped on the light switch in my room and just stood for a moment, grinning like the village idiot.  My room looked GREAT.  Each place at the work table had attractive first day activity mats and pencils that read, “First Graders are Great” and a sticker for each child declaring him or her “#1.”  There were lime green baskets lining the wall underneath the whiteboard, each basket bearing the name of its new owner, just waiting to be filled with leveled readers.  Everywhere I looked there were seven attractive, luring items just waiting to be claimed by each individual new owner.  Seven, seven, seven.  Such a great number, the number seven…

My first charge arrived promptly at ten minutes after eight.  Suddenly the room was filled with children and parents and guardians, all trying to find their place at the table and trying to hand me their year’s supplies at once.  The muffins and juice were a big hit (thank you Sam’s Club), and with the eventual settling in of the nervous children, the adults were now gravitating towards each other and talk of crops and weather.  The latest buzz was over the dire prediction in the Farmer’s Almanac that our state was doomed to receive two hundred inches of snow this winter.  Two hundred inches is apocalyptic around these parts and folks lay great faith in the ancient almanac.  It also gave the adults something to commiserate over and speculate about, offering their own prophecies based on such wizened practice as animal fur and moisture content in onions. 

I left the adults to down the last of their juice bottles and wipe the muffin crumbs from their laps while I floated and fluttered about my new charges.  It looked as though we were off to a marvelous start and I could not have been more pleased.  I glanced up in time to see a friend and foster mother standing in the doorway with a young girl’s hand loosely held in her own.  My friend was looking at me expectantly and I smiled and headed over to them.  “This is Mason,” my friend plunged in without preamble and stopped, waiting for me to respond.  Somewhere in the bowels of my nerve center there were soft alarm bells being switched on.  “Well, hello there, Mason.  How nice that you get to get to come to school here!  What grade are you in?”  The look of confusion on my friend’s face now had the Navy in my head on full alert.  There were depth charges being launched and evasive diving maneuvers being executed.  Mayday, mayday!  I knew what her next words would be before they were even uttered.  “Well…. she’s in first grade,” she said slowly, as if I had just lost all rational thought.  Without my permission, my head began to shake a “no” response before my mouth could form the word.  “This is FIRST GRADE,” I was saying too loudly, as if SHE were the confused one.  My friend is now trying to hand me Mason’s things and saying emphatically, “Yes, I know.  Mason is IN first grade.”  Wait…what??  How could this happen?  “I called the office a month ago,” she was continuing.  “The school knew she was coming.”  Well, that’s all well and good, but I DID NOT!  Was it just me, or was the room getting warm all of a sudden?

I suddenly caught the look on little Mason’s face.  She knew something was not right and her nervousness over a new school was now compounded by a quasi-hysterical teacher.  Breathe, Vonda!   It would be fine.  I would do whatever it took to make this child feel welcomed and part of the group.  Minor details, like personalized folders and coat hooks would be taken care of later.  I accepted Mason’s things and took her little hand in mine as I led her to the coat room to put her things away.

Mason is a lovely child and I fell completely under spell when she confided to me at lunch that her older sister, one of my student teaching charges, had told Mason all about me.  I raised an eyebrow and waited for the assessment.  “What did she say about me?” I asked carefully.  “She said you are nice and will always help us and do fun things with us.”  Big exhale.  Now I’m smiling…

The rest of the day was completely and utterly enjoyable for me.  I had waaaaaaaay over planned and didn’t nearly get through all the activities for the day, which is a good thing.  It never hurts to have something tucked away for later.  And my sweet darlings and I got to know one another just a wee bit today.  I know already that I have 2 dinosaur lovers, 2 horse enthusiasts, a Katy Perry fan, and a whole slew of hardcore John Deere believers.  These little bursts of personal information will help me plan instruction that will interest these kids. 

I decided twice today that a very short visit to the playground was in order.  I had so much information to share that I could see eyes glazing over and spirits sagging.  This first day of school here on the northern prairie was a picture perfect weather day (thankfully we haven’t got a jump on those 200 inches of snow yet).  As I sat on the teeter totter rail enjoying the warmth of the late summer sun on my shoulders, I marveled at the group dynamics already at play.  Little bands of friendships were forming and my new student was quickly assimilating into the group.   Very gratifying. 

I got the giggles as I watched one boy run around constantly tugging his too-large shorts back up over his hips.  At one point he didn’t react fast enough and he didn’t catch them until they were at his knees.  At least his new Superman boxers were fetching.  I toyed with idea of offering to cinch them up somehow, but decided if it bothered him enough, he would come to me for a solution.  Boys are funny and sensitive that way.

As instructed in my Classroom Management course, I asked my students during the afternoon to help me come up with our very own class rules.  I faithfully recorded on the board every suggestion, so as to validate all ideas and then helped guide them into consolidating and condensing until we had a short, workable list.  Some of the more entertaining suggestions that were left on the cutting room floor were unpardonable offenses such as breaking light bulbs and spitting in someone’s drink. 

Before any of us knew it, the day was over.  As I called names to gather their backpacks and papers, I asked them to tell me what they had enjoyed the most during the day.  You already know the answer, as did I before I asked the question. Recess!!  Recess and math.  Math time consisted of counting Honey Nut cheerios for me to informally assess for number sense, and then of course, they ate the testing materials. 

I walked out to the buses with the six that were to ride home and had no trouble getting everyone on to their respective carriage.  As I made my way back to the classroom, I heard the kindergarten teacher mutter to herself, “Well, I didn’t’ die…” Nor did I, my funny coworker.

It is now nearly midnight and I have only been home for 3 ½ hours, roughly.  I waited for my daughter to get back from volleyball practice and spent that time getting Mason integrated into the classroom.  Then I just couldn’t resist the urge to give my painted hallway tree a tire swing.  Again, I find it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Now I think its time for Mrs. Dahl to end her day and renew for tomorrow.  As I close this diary entry here’s what I know.  Next year, I will assume there will be extra children on the first day of school.  I know that recess will forever be a child’s favorite part of school, as it was a hundred years ago, and will be one hundred years in the future.  I also know I didn’t die. 

It was a good day.

The Eve of My Odyssey

Just hours away now from the first day of school.  I literally spent the summer getting ready.  I cleaned, organized, thought through curriculum, painted a giant tree in the hallway (what do you mean I was supposed to get permission first???), inadvertently stole furniture from the 5/6 grade teacher, and tried to think through every detail of the first day.  I made lists by the dozens, revised them, discarded some, carefully crossed off finished items and worked feverishly to prioritize the most important ones.  I didn’t get EVERYTHING done I had hoped to, but I came pretty darn close. 

And I am READY!

I’m almost as excited as the night before my own first grade first day.  My best friend and cousin, Sharlene, and I had matching outfits our mother had purchased for us.  I had new notebooks and a Charlie Brown lunchbox, and Mrs. Price was there to greet me with a smile and the most calm, soothing personality I have ever encountered.  Nothing rattled that saint.  Trust me when I say, I got into trouble plenty that year (for talking, mostly.  OK, fine!  It was always for talking…happy?).  I spent a large portion of my first grade experience facing the chalkboard.  I can still smell the chalk dust.  But somehow, I do not remember her ever being angry with me.  She meted out punishment so sweetly that I had to resist the urge to thank her for it. 

I LOVED first grade.

I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight.  I can’t wait to see those little faces with enormous smiles come hesitantly through the door.  They’ll be shy, a little intimidated, and spotless in their new school clothes.  I will greet them with gusto and pull them into my orbit as quickly as I possibly can.  Their mothers (and maybe a father or two), will get the grand tour and be treated to muffins and juice (no, not homemade… don’t think TOO highly of me).

Then when parents are gone and the bell has rung, we will launch into all The Firsts.  The first morning snack, the first time (of seven gazillion this year) that we will sing and march with the Good Morning Song, the first lunch and recess, the first opening of their crisp new workbooks, and the first bus ride back home (followed by the first collapsing of Mrs. Dahl into a chair).

Here on the eve of a new year, I can’t help but wonder what this school year will hold for us.  I do this same maze of questioning every New Year at the stroke of midnight.  I wonder what the coming year will hold for me and for those I love.  Will we know prosperity, health, and peace?  Or will troubled waters touch us and forever alter our lives?  Maybe its just my way of preparing myself for potential heartache.  Maybe.  Or maybe it’s my way of mentally documenting our place in Life’s Journey each year.  Maybe it’s a little of both.

So as I think about the school year, I wonder… Will my students be enthused about learning?  Will they struggle?  Will any of them know sorrow for the first time in their young lives?  Will divorce touch their universe?  Will a new sibling be added?  Will I be the competent and professional teacher I hope to be?  Will they learn everything they need to learn to be successful in second grade?  What will their lasting impressions of first grade be when they are middle-aged men and women reminiscing as I am now?  I doubt I can live up to saint status, but maybe I can at least provide a safe harbor in their young lives.  And just maybe they will learn a thing or two in the process.

The biggest question before me is, will they take the first step towards becoming lifelong learners?  I fervently hope so!!  I have such dreams and high hopes for them.  Maybe my perspective is too rosy and maybe I’m reaching too high.  I don’t know…. I just want them to fall in love with the CONCEPT of learning.  They can be anything they want to be in life, if they will make learning their companion.  Even now, it’s such a heady experience for me to learn new things.  How do I best transfer that enthusiasm and love to them?

It is a very daunting task I have before me.  First grade is pivotal.  Vista Printing made “free” business cards for me.  On the backside I am quoted as saying something like, “First grade is the foundational step towards lifelong learning,” or something to that effect.  True, no?

SO… the question on the floor is, am I up to the challenge?  The honest answer is, I don’t know.  Only time will tell.  I believe with all my heart that I am, but that faith in myself must be confirmed in a variety of ways and over a period of time.  Only the finished product at the end of the school year will bear testimony to my competency.  And yes, I have one semester of teaching under my belt, but those first graders had the benefit of a different teacher for the first half of last year.  This will be the first time I alone will be responsible for their learning. 

And so, as I lay my questioning head down on the pillow tonight, full of hopes and ideals, I will patiently wait for morning light to prod me into my first day of full-year teaching.  This is what I trained for, prayed for, paid for, and dreamed of for years, really.  It all comes down to now.

God,

Fill me with wisdom beyond my limited self, patience above my resources, and love outside human capacity.  Let me guide, nourish, and cherish each child as my own.  And may learning simply become the outflow of an environment rich in opportunity.  Thank you for bringing me to this place and setting me on this incredible journey.  My gratitude is without words. 

Amen.

Bring it on, First Day!

My Second First Day

School officially begins a week from tomorrow, August 22^nd.  On that day, my second crop of first graders will arrive with nervous smiles, loaded backpacks, and teary-eyed mothers who are sure their baby cannot survive this cruel world without them.  I know this, because I have been one of those teary-eyed, panicked mothers four times.  Four children, four launches into the unknown world of formal schooling.  I am confident that I will be ready to receive those children with a wide smile and open arms.  I am the first grade teacher.  I have to be ready.

And while it is true that this is my second first grade class, it is also true that this is my first FIRST day of school (are you dizzy yet?)  Let me explain…

As most of you know, I went back to college at the tender age of 47 in order to achieve a second college degree, this time in elementary education.  During those months of schooling, I had my eye on the job I currently possess.  I wanted to teach first grade in my daughter’s school.  I knew the first grade teacher was close to retiring and I hoped against hope that the timing would work in my favor.  This is how it went in my Dream World; former first grade teacher exits, and new teacher (me), enters.  No running all over the state searching for a job (they are hard to come by in our low population state).  I also knew it would take just the perfect alignment of circumstances, planets, and whatever else was needed to fall into place.  It was kind of a long shot.  I knew that.  But I am The Eternal Optimist.  It’s a little sickening (even for me) how blissfully sunny I am about how things will work out.  They don’t always, of course.  Nobody lives in a fairy tale.  But I not only see my glass as perpetually half full, I fully believe there is a waiter standing just behind me ready to refill said glass as soon as I take a sip. 

So as I wound down my course work and prepared for student teaching (joyfully granted in the same school I wanted to be hired in), I got the word that the standing teacher was, indeed, going to retire at the end of the school year.  Now I held my breath.  The school board decided to combine first and second grade for the fall.  Well, that was good news for me.  At least they hadn’t hired a new teacher to replace the former.  I still had a shot.  Still holding my breath.  The fall semester wound down to December and no word on whether I would be hired or not.  Still holding my breath.  Turning a beautiful shade of blue about now…. Still waiting, still hoping, still optimistic.  The December board meeting came and with it my last hope of securing the first grade position for the spring term.  By now my lungs were screaming.  That meeting was the longest night of my life.  FINALLY, the principle stopped by on his way home.  I had the job.  BIG exhale.  Now I could start planning (well, if you know me at all, you know I had been planning all along.  Actually getting hired was merely the last piece of the puzzle). 

And so, on January 18^th, 2011, I experienced MY first day of school.  Some of you joined me on that day when I posted my first blog entry.  My first graders had been first graders for four months already.  They were old hands at it.  It was an exciting day, yes, and I tried to make it new and fresh.  But it wasn’t the same as that magical autumn first day of school.  I felt just a little jilted.  Kinda’ like spending big bucks for a concert ticket and excitedly arriving only to discover that some minor band would be playing instead.  It just isn’t the same.

So when the last day of the 2010-2011 school year arrived, I began immediately making plans for the fall.  Not that I haven’t enjoyed summer.  Ohmygoodness, have I ever!  For the first time in two years, I was able to do something besides study incessantly.  I feel rested and renewed.  I have loved this summer.  If you are a Facebook friend, you also know how much I have enjoyed having all four of my children home for the summer as well.  My husband and I had to sell our wedding rings in order to buy enough food for this hungry and mostly male crew, but we have had a blast.  I’m kidding, of course, about the wedding rings.

But even in the throes of enjoying summer, I have also spent a great deal of time back in The Magic Tree House, preparing for the 22^nd.  We have a new superintendant this year.  He asked me one day with a completely straight face, “Do you live here?”  Well…. technically, no…..

My husband keeps giving me funny looks every time I head out the door for yet another summer vacation day spent at school.  And I know what question is coming out of his mouth next, ”Are you getting paid for this day?”   Paid in personal satisfaction, My Luv.  I know it’s kooky and over-the-top to give it so much effort.  But truthfully, (and I am not making this up), I LIKE to be in my classroom.  I feels like home to me.  What do I do in all those summer hours spent there?  Well, lets see… I never had the luxury of fully cleaning out and going through all the supplies left by the former teacher (thirty-nine years in that classroom.  There was lots of stuff to go through).  And then there are all the projects I want to undertake; thematic units and such.  And I wanted to save myself some of the immense and overwhelming weekend work that I did during my first semester.  To that end, I sent the copier into spasms trying to organize and fill tidy folders with handouts for the semester.  The fun part is, when I would get sick of being there, I could simply go home.  This is puttering at its very finest.  Work as much or as little as I like. 

As so, as I enter the last week of summer vacation and have one teacher in-service day under my belt already, I am calmly confident that my second first day will be a rousing success.  I have put thought and effort into that day, the first weeks, and the entire year as a whole.  I will still find myself burning the midnight oil at times, and weekends won’t be void of preparation.  But I dearly hope that I FEEL more in control and less hanging-on-for-dear-life than I did my first dive into teaching.  Last year I had seven first graders in my care.  Up until last week I thought I would have six this year.  Now that number is back up to seven.  Seven is the biblical number of perfection.

I think I’m ready…

Pieces of Me

When my oldest child, a son, was a junior in high school, I unknowingly began a grieving process.  As he moved steadily towards the end of his senior year and, ultimately, leaving home for college, I knew in the deepest part of my mother’s heart, that life would never be the quite same for our family.  The dynamics of our Six, who would soon be Five, would leave a hole in our home that would transcend the empty spot at the dinner table or quiet (and CLEAN) bedroom. 

It seemed that every family vacation was our “last” and small moments of quiet togetherness were savored and tucked away for future treasure keeping.  There is something mysterious and beautiful about the role each family member plays in the family.  Every parent will read this with understanding and add their assent when I speak of one child being away from home for a sleep over or week away at camp.  The family dynamic changes drastically.  You don’t just go through that evening or week blissfully unaware that a family member is missing.  No, the mood is quieter and the banter a little less boisterous.  It just feels different somehow, as if by common consent every family member saves the best laughter and fun for when the missing link returns.

I don’t mean that life is melancholy or depressing when one is gone for a while.  While I miss that person, I also know that their opportunity to experience new things and meet new people is irreplaceable in a kid’s life.  I welcomed those opportunities for my children. 

We used to have chickens on our farm; Rhode Island Red hens and roosters.  I loved hearing the crow of the roosters first thing in the morning and watching mother hens chase after errant chicks, tucking them under their wings to keep them at her side.  I’m a bit like that.  I know my children want to and NEED to spread their wings and fly away, but I’m always happiest when they are all home for a visit.  On such occasions, my husband whispers to me last thing at night, “rest easy, your chicks are all home.”  And I smile, because that is exactly my sentiment.  I trust them when they are away and I trust my loving Heavenly Father to watch over them, but when they are within the safe confines of my roost, I am at most at rest. 

So as Trevor prepared to leave for college in Kansas, I wondered and worried if I had prepared him well enough to leave us.  Sure, he could balance a checkbook and do his own laundry, but would he enter a big, scary world with a solid foundation underneath him to guide him into good decision-making?  You can’t know ahead of time.  It must be proved as he is living out his journey.

And so, as the weeks turned into days, we shopped and packed and I cooked all his favorite meals and I wracked my brain for sage advice and nuggets of Truth he could take with him.  I had never sent a child off on their own before.  Was I doing it right?

The days screamed forward with incredible speed and before I knew it, it was time to say goodbye.  One last hug and one last “I love you” whispered in his ear. I had other children starting school at the same time, so Dad was the appointed chaperon to get him settled in.  As I watched the tail lights of Trevor’s car disappear over the hill, I asked myself again, “what more should I have said?”  The answer to my own question hit me with force.  I had spent the last 18 years of his life pouring my life and limited wisdom into my precious child.  I had done my best as a parent.  There was nothing left to say.  He would either succeed or fail on his own merits now.  He was ready to face life.

Fast forward to present day.  I have lived that same experience twice since then.  Two more sons have traveled great distances to attend out-of-state universities.  My roost has slowly grown still and quiet.  Only my sweet Hannah remains.  My lone daughter and the last of our Living Legacy.  Every parting since that fall day, I have said my goodbyes with the same confidence that I have done my best to prepare my children for Life After Mama.  Trevor has since graduated from college, as has Ryan.  They are each in graduate programs now in different states, and Son #3 attends college in yet another state.  Our family is far-flung and busy.  Our once-enjoyed family vacations and summers together are a thing of the past.  We get together for holidays and short trips home, but the leisure summers together are a faded, treasured memory. 

And then…

God gave me the summer of ’11.  Inexplicably, our lives were interwoven once again for a lengthy stretch that has been the absolute joy of this mama’s heart.  My men came home to work for the summer, live for free, and daily eat roughly their weight in food.

I have loved every minute of it.

Cooking, caring for, and enjoying my family together again has been a gift.  Think about the very best gift you ever received.  I have received many wonderful gifts from my husband and children, but I still have to go with my seventh birthday.  I was given my very own, very brand new, very shiny bicycle.  It was a feast for the eyes.  It was purple and had a white banana seat.  The chain guard had the words, “Miss America” written in groovy font.  I LOVED that bike with all my heart and soul.  I knew beyond doubt when I laid eyes on that beauty that I was the luckiest seven-year-old on the planet.

These last eight weeks have been like my seventh birthday; my soul swells with the sheer joy of togetherness.  My men work late, so timing supper just right is a gamble at best.  But when they do finally arrive, we do not hurry through our meal.  We linger at the table after stomachs are full and talk about anything and everything.  Our nights run late with such a haphazard approach to schedule, but I don’t want to waste one precious moment of this summer.  It is waning so quickly!  I look in disbelief at my calendar and wonder how I can be thinking already about teacher in-service days and that magical first day of school.  It cannot really be time to look backwards and realize summer is nearly gone!

And yet…

I am thankful beyond description for the privilege of having my summer to myself.  What other profession lets you take one quarter of the year off to do whatever you wish?  This teaching gig is unbelievably perfect for me.  I get to work with children (the most honest and transparent creatures on earth), and my job not only gives me days off during the school year, but also gives me the entire summer to renew myself and enjoy family.  I must remind the reader who has never visited my fair state, that warm weather is a luxurious commodity that must have every bit of pleasure sucked from it while it is available.  Fall winds will soon begin to blow and temperatures will drop steadily beginning very SOON.  I have often seen snow in October (yeah, you read it right… OCTOBER!!)

So being able to step away from my job to do just that is intoxicating. I am blissfully, naively, sickeningly content.  I LOVE BEING A TEACHER!  What if I worked year-round?  This amazing, beautiful, perfect summer would have been handed to me, but I would not have enjoyed it with the intensity I have.  Supper would be hurried, and evenings short.

My adult sons will often suggest a night fire in our fire pit.  There is something incredibly mesmerizing about sitting in a circle with a blazing flame in the center.  It relaxes inhibitions and pulls conversation out of people.  We six have lingered around the dying embers unwilling to break the spell of its magic.  When we do finally tear ourselves away and come back into the house smelling of smoke and sticky from S’mores, we are always satisfied that another brick in the wall of Happy Memories has been laid.

And so…

I unwilling glance at the calendar and grudgingly count down the days until this beautiful bubble I am living in bursts.  It is only days, really.  Trevor is off to Grand Forks to take a summer course, Hannah has church youth camp next week, and Ryan must register for dental school in Denver the week after that.  The peaceful coexistence that we have lulled ourselves into is coming to an abrupt halt. 

It is really so wicked of me to whine.  I never thought we would get another entire summer together, just we six.  I had resigned myself to that inevitability. 

And yet, it was handed to me anyhow…

Knowing that this was a fluke of sorts helps me accept that we really will probably never share this experience again.  Internship opportunities, and summer classes, and future relationships will change forever how and when we can come together.  Those things will be wonderful changes in my children's lives.  We will celebrate and cheer each one.

But deep in this mother’s heart, there will be a wellspring of gratitude for one last summer of splendor and a private cherishing of precious memories made.

Thank you, God, for hearing a prayer I didn’t even know I had prayed and answering in perfection. 

The pieces of me that are my children came home for one last perfect summer.

I am blessed beyond measure….

Ode to America

The fourth day of July is just another day in most parts of the world, but in America, it’s a day really unlike any other.  We Americans LOVE Independence Day.  Basically, it is all about eating our food outside and igniting incendiary devices.  We throw enough charcoal and lighter fluid on the grill to power the grid of a mid-sized city, and then we spend the night either blowing things up, or watching others do it. 

I grew up in St. Louis, so finding a spectacular fireworks display was not difficult. Sometimes my family would venture to the Arch downtown and watch the brilliant colors cast over the Mississippi River.  But most of my adult life, I have lived in small, rural towns, and believe it or not, I much prefer the small town display over the million dollar glitzy blitz.  This year was no exception.

Son #3 (Cody) had to work the evening shift at our local truck stop (one of the few employers in our tiny town), so when the relatives were gone and the sun had set, the rest of us headed to nearby Driscoll to see what they had to offer in the KABOOM department.  We had often seen their display from our porch, but had never actually watched their fireworks show in town.  If we took the time to attend a fireworks display at all, we usually threaded our way through the clogged streets of Bismarck to watch colors light up the sky over the capital building.  And Bismarck never failed to disappoint.  For a mid-range sized city, they do a bang-up (pardon the pun) job. 

The 2010 census lists Driscoll’s population at a whopping 82.  Local businesses include a tiny grocery store, a diner, and the obligatory bar.  The public school closed years ago and town kids are now bused to either neighboring Steele or Sterling.  For some odd reason they have managed to hang on to their post office.  Small Town America and Driscoll mean one and the same.

The sun was now fully set and with few streetlights, it was dark along the main drag into town.  We quickly spotted cars parking in a rough cut mowed field and pulled in to claim our parking place.  We had been told that the fireworks would be set off from the spot where the old lumberyard had sat.  Well, that would be just across the road from where we were now.  Didn’t look like much was happening there.  Must be further back, behind Norm’s Groceries.

We pulled out our folding nylon chairs from the back of the Chrysler and started trudging through the prickly prairie grass to find the perfect spot for viewing the display.  Around us others were beginning to do the same and the street dance being held in front of the bar just a block away filled the sultry night with music. 

We wandered across Main Street and found a patch of grass not far from the railroad tracks, but far enough away from the glare of the solitary streetlight so as to not spoil our night vision.

Having located The Spot, we pulled our well-used camping chairs from dusty pouches and snapped them open so that we could lower our well-fed bodies into them.  I heard Hannah pronounce in disgust, “Great.  I got a table instead of chair.”  I scootched over and offered to share mine, but she chose to sit on the ground instead.  Seems we had no sooner settled ourselves in when the first volley went off.  Wow, that was close! 

I tried to peer into the dark distance to discover where the fireworks were actually being shot from and realized with alarm they weren’t more than about 200 yards away.  Holy cow, they were coming in close!  The next one was now raining little burning bits of paper around us as it descended back to earth.  I was focusing on the fire and brimstone rain when round number three was launched.  Incoming!  We were so close that we simultaneously craned our necks all the way back in order to gaze at the spectacle directly above us.  It was beautiful.  It was like sitting under a shimmery shower of crystals.  That is, until more burning paper lost its battle with gravity.  This time a flaming chunk landed in tall grass to our left and started a small brush fire.  Out of nowhere, a posse of boys racing on bikes careened towards the small flame, like Keystone Cops headed to save the day.  Before they could establish their hero status, however, a set of size 12 cowboy boots at the end of a pair Wranglers did the job for them in no time flat. 

We tore our attention away from this excitement to watch another burst of “rockets red glare,” and oohed and ahhhed appreciatively.  This is what we came to see!  The only thing that would have made it any better would be if we had had the good sense to strap a couple of Lazy Boy’s to the top of the van in order to save the strain on our poor necks.  Well, no matter.  We’d just have to work the kinks out later.

The show lasted far longer than we had anticipated and it was very well done.  When the finale arrived with lob after lob of brilliant color and impressive boom, we clapped our thanks, and the street dance paused its rotation of Country Western melodies in order to play the National Anthem.  This was Americana at its finest. 

We stood up and began to fold our chairs back into their dusty wrappings when another burst of color exploded overhead. What?  There’s MORE??  In unison, we sat back down and waited to see what would happen.  Did someone discover an unused canister and decide to give an impromptu encore, or was the show really not over?  To our delight, the bombs kept coming.  THUNK. (Ooohhh).  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.  (Aaahhhhh).  THUNK, (Beautiful)!!  I don’t know for sure how much longer it lasted, but we felt we had been given a lovely bonus.

As the smoke and sulfur hung heavy in the air and silence reined, we waited a moment to see if it was another fake-out ending, but this time, only silence remained.  The street dance had resumed and couples were dancing close and slow up the block. Our prairie neighbors were trudging back to the dark field where cars sat like black bubbles.  We threw our chairs into the back of the van and pointed the nose for home.  Another perfect birthday bash for the U.S. of A.

I love America.  You wanna’ know why?  Because all that is good and noble is embodied in this great nation.  No matter what the naysayers and pundits spout on the evening cable shows, this nation still ROCKS!  Both sides of the aisle may keep flinging mud at each other and spending money we really don’t have (when I was a kid, an empty bank account meant we ate Campbell’s soup until the next paycheck.  I think our government leaders should give that some thought).  But at our core, I’m just optimistic enough to believe that we are still a united nation.  We are a great and noble nation, even when we take a sucker punch to the gut.  We may stagger a bit, but we will not fall.

So why do I love America?  Because America is resilient.  And I love my country because at the end of the day, we stand together.  We may bicker like school-age siblings in the top echelons of government, and crowds of angry people may protest laws and ideology, but if someone outside our borders comes after us, we link arms and stand side-by-side.  On some level, we know that we live in a place like non other on earth.  We are free and proud and blessed beyond measure.  

On a rainy, overcast day in October of 2002, John and I wandered around Manhattan one year and one month after the incomprehensible terrorists’ attacks on America.  We had one delicious day to ride the train into Union Station and absorb as much touristy stuff as one day could afford.  As we ascended the stairs of that iconic train station, the partitions still carrying the haunting images of missing World Trade Center victims stopped us cold in our tracks.  We pored over posters jockeying for space to blare the faces and information of loved ones that had yet to be accounted for.  Husbands and brothers and girlfriends all tragically unaccounted for. 

By this time the city had been swept clear of its debris and was doing its best to right itself, but one year later, an entire major world city, and indeed, the entire nation, were still trying to make sense of it all.  How could the most advanced civilization on earth have allowed this to happen?  An even more fundamental question hounded us.  How could someone hate us this much? 

As my husband and I waited for our matinee showing of Les Miserable to begin, we worked our way toward Ground Zero to gawk at the gaping hole in the ground where the Twin Towers had stood proudly until that fateful day.  As we got closer to the tip of Manhattan an amazing phenomena began to unfold.  New York City is notoriously busy and noisy (the city that never sleeps), but the closer we got to our morbid destination the more we became aware that noises were becoming muted and voices hushed.  The throngs of people heading in the same direction and for the same purpose as us were aware that we were about to step foot on a burial ground and place of unspeakable horror.  It had a sobering effect on all of us.  Without instruction we were all following some unwritten rule of conduct that directed our behavior. 

John and I had noticed all day that we were surrounded by firefighters in dress uniforms.  Groups of three, or seven, or ten seemed to appear everywhere we went.  What was going on?  As we came closer to our Destination of Death, the sight of hundreds of firefighters joining us in our journey became a story within a story.  I learned later that firefighters from all over the country had chosen that day to gather at the sight of the worst firefighting disaster in American history to honor those comrades fallen in action.  They were meeting later in an auditorium to hold a ceremony honoring those precious lives.  But first, they needed to see for themselves the place that had demanded the lives of their brave brothers.  These men and women, like us, wanted, no NEEDED, to stand close to the place where the Ultimate Sacrifice had taken place for so many just like them.

The massive hole that stood before us was an ugly scar on some of the most prized real estate in the world.  It was fittingly shrouded in job site fencing to protect the buildings and people surrounding it.  But holes in the solid fencing were scattered here and there, enabling a glimpse for our curiosity.  The sheer amount of people coming to see for themselves had caused the city to erect a walkway for safety and for convenience.  We stepped into line with others and waited patiently for our turn to see all that we could from this vantage point.  I looked around as I waited and saw scenes familiar to me from the countless hours I, and the rest of the nation, had spent glued to the television coverage.  I instantly recognized the giant flag painted on the side of the high rise facing the destruction.  St. Peter’s Parish had been eyewitness on that awful day and its roof had even been struck by one of the plane’s landing gear.  The church stood old but undefeated on the corner.  It had become a makeshift memorial of sorts and the lawn and fence were covered with plastic flowers, cards, and pictures of the still missing.  The Port Authority headquarters was likewise covered with memorial paraphernalia. 

I was now acutely aware that it was nearly silent around us.  We were on hollowed ground.  The place where we stood had been sad witness to unspeakable horror and suffering.  Two planes had cast their evil shadow over this very spot and plowed full bore into unsuspecting office employees and business executives, and had forever changed how we all would live our lives.  Thousands died that day, along with Innocence itself.

I want you to know, America, that I believe in you more than ever.  You are still a bright beacon of hope the world over.  So stand proud and stay strong.  The ideals you were founded on are not obsolete.  Freedom from tyranny and the genius of free enterprise are your crowing jewels.  You have an iron core but a soft heart.  I love that about you.  Be true to your roots and heritage. 

Are you perfect?  No. Therefore, where I see a need for change, I will practice my right and responsibility to vote for it.  I will not allow myself to slide into apathy or despair.  No, the future of my country is far too important for that.

So as I sat in a dark field on the fourth day of July, sharing in the celebration of the birth of my nation, I was also aware that a sad anniversary looms just two months from today.  The events of September 11th, 2001 will be commemorated on its tenth anniversary.   As that sorrowful day approaches, I will mourn your pain, America, with as much passion as I just celebrated your birthday.  That day lies burned in my memory.  I will never forget.

We survived that day and we will rise now above our choking debt and shocking unemployment rates and our angry political parties.  We have too much at stake.  We will keep working until we get it right.  We are, after all, still a bastion of hope and light in a confused, dark, and ever-changing world.

I love you, America.

I am proud to be your daughter.