Saturdays. Where Did They Go?

It is Saturday (it was when I began writing this entry, but by the time I posted it, it was Sunday). A day that many people get “off”. Counted as a Sabbath by some, a day of rest. A day to do what you want to do if you are blessed enough, a day to clean the house if it’s been awhile, or a day to browse in a bookstore, go shopping, trim the dogs, take a nap, put in volunteer time for one’s church or one’s community.

Saturdays, sweet, sweet Saturdays.

I remember when our son was a baby and Saturdays were for sleeping late, snuggling in bed, the three of us, doing nothing more than spending time with each other. Lots of laughing, and playing, and learning. Saturdays were delightful and warm and unrushed. They were babbles from the baby‘s room, and I, getting out of bed just because I had to see his baby face, rewarded with a big smile first thing in the morning, always grateful. So very grateful for that adorable face and those charming eyes.

And then he was a toddler climbing out of a crib that he outgrew a year earlier, but his parents refrained from buying a bed until they moved into their new home. Saturdays were eating scrambled eggs for breakfast, and pulling all the toys out of the box, sitting on the floor with a pillow and reading the book he loved the most, and reading it again, and again. Saturdays were listening to loud country music on the reel-to-reel tape deck, a red Irish Setter lounging in the yard by the yucca plants, and a little two year-old boy swinging gleefully in the wooden swing his daddy made for him. There were trips to the lake on Saturdays, and washing the cars, and his daddy scraping the long gravel driveway with the old green tractor.

Cartoon Saturdays became a routine with kindergarten, or maybe even before that, I don’t remember. For a few years, Saturday mornings were He-Man, Transformers, Speed Racer, french toast or pancakes for breakfast, and washing clothes while he watched the cartoons. He loved it when I threw the warm clothes from the dryer on top of him as he lay on the couch. Sometimes a friend came over Friday night and they would watch the cartoons together. Soon, there were Scout trips, Mom and Me Week-End, hiking along the Haw River, and flying a kite in a field somewhere in southern Alamance County. In summer, there was fishing on the Haw, and in winters, sledding down the snowy, ice covered driveway with the neighborhood kids. There were video games. Atari first, then Nintendo. Nothing could stop them from playing their favorite games. Until team sports came along.

Then, came the rushing Saturdays, getting up early, a bowl of cereal to start the day, driving to the bowling alley for three hours of bowling practice or a tournament. In the spring, baseball took his time, his body, and his heart, and Saturdays were getting sunburned watching the boys compete against each other. Time to talk with other parents, compare notes, swap stories, and advise the young coach on how to handle the boys. He was a fast learner.

Saturdays changed when he started driving. He could drive himself to the games now. We didn’t have to get there as early as he did. When baseball season was over, he had jobs on Saturdays, or motorcycle racing with his friends. These were new Saturdays for us, alone without him because he was with his friends at the beach, or at a game, or on a fishing trip, or somewhere not here. Sometimes he’d be practicing his baseball swing or his golf swing in the back yard. Sometimes he would run around the block, getting in shape for Cross Country, or just because he had to stay in shape for baseball. Saturdays for us, then, were often sleeping late, and eating lunch instead of breakfast, or having a country breakfast instead of lunch.

And then began the quiet Saturdays, when he left home for college. No more baseball games, no bowling leagues to rush to, no cartoons to watch, no little boys running down the hall shooting each other with the Laser Tag guns. There was no stopping it from happening. In a way, I was glad that it was happening, and at the same time sad.

I started serious journaling then. The peacefulness of the early mornings allowed me to be still inside my head and heart, and open to the fullness of life. I found words to express my doubts and fears, and penned them for rememberance. I didn't want to forget where I was at that time, or what I was thinking. I knew that it would never be the same again. Like the river passing quickly by as we stand on the bank, no day, no hour, no minute would ever be the same as the one preceding it. Time would move on, and I would never be the same person I was, and neither would they. Those were Saturdays of personal discovery that would never have happened if I had not had the time to be still for a few hours, to reflect, to meditate, or to pray.

The quiet Saturdays were scary at first. With no child to respond to, no funny antic to laugh at, no stories to listen to and none to tell, what would we do? Could we even remember what it was like to be alone like this? It took awhile, but then we remembered. And Saturdays were sweet again. Lovely, lazy, lounging, luxurious Saturdays.

Not any more... Saturdays have lost their consistent promise of a day off. My husband often works on Saturdays, and the days he has off, I’m working. We seldom have a Saturday and a Sunday off together. Where did our Saturdays go?

What did I do with my Saturday today? I went to school to work. I wouldn’t have had to if I could have gotten all my work done before I left the building on Friday, but the truth is, I couldn’t get it all done. I tried to get it all done. I guess I could have taken work home with me each night and got it all done, or I could have worked at school until 6:30 p.m each night and gotten it all done. I have worked at school that late on more than one occasion, and so have other teachers. It's not something I want to do every night, week after week.

Saturdays are no longer a part of the week-end for me, and it’s my fault. I take the blame. It’s my fault because I forgot something I told myself five years ago. I was a still a novice teacher at the age of 47 then. I had told myself that if I had to take the work home with me every night and on weekends too, then I was in the wrong field. I was old enough to realize that working 7 days a week was not the way I wanted live, nor to be remembered. Why would anyone want to work 6-7 days a week? Only if they had to, I’m sure, but not because they wanted to. When I went in this morning, I felt somewhat defeated. I did not want to go in, but I wanted to be ready for Monday. My husband was working, so he wouldn’t even know that I was putting in overtime.

Am I in the wrong field? Or am I just a poor time manager?

I want my week-end back. I’ve got to re-think this problem.

I know I want to continue working in the classroom, I love being a teacher, and I enjoy planning the lessons. The problem is the time factor. I need more time for planning lessons. Some really good, dynamic lessons. I want to implement all those great ideas I hear about and see at the workshops I attend. They require planning, making materials, collaborating with other teachers.

I also want time to be available for my family. Small as it is, it is still a family. I want to be able to go visit my son in Durham once in awhile, take him out to eat, talk with him and his girlfriend. I want some time to do absolutely nothing if I want to because I've been working hard all week. Saturday is the seventh day, after all, the Sabbath, a day of rest recognized by people of the Book, and by others who don't profess a faith at all. Common sense tells us to take a break at least one day a week. One should not work seven days a week. It isn't fair, it isn't ethical, it isn't healthy, and it just isn't good practice. It's a bad habit that ruins family relationships.

Time. It all comes down to time. Teachers are notorious for bringing home their work because they cannot get it all done in the classroom during an eight hour shift. Many cannot get it all done in a ten hour shift.

I could stay at school until 6:00 pm every night, which is possible. I have no problem with that. Except by the time I get home, I am too tired to cook. And no one else in the house wants to cook either. We live too far out to run to town to get something to eat, and I don’t feel like running to town to get dinner anyway. I just want to kick back in the recliner and rest awhile. I deserve that much.

It’s a major problem that I’m going to think about. I need to get creative with my time, the way I plan for it, use it, and I need to be disciplined about it.

Of Finding a Big, Fat, Green Caterpillar near the Playground

Monday, one of the second grade teachers brought me a styrofoam cup. She tipped it toward me so I could see what was inside. She didn't know what kind of caterpillar it was, but thought maybe I could tell her.

The pictures above illustrate better than words. It was the most beautiful speciman of caterpillar I have ever seen, but I didn't know what type of caterpillar it was, either. I didn't know whether it was a butterfly or a moth larva.

In the past, teachers and students have often brought the bugs they find to my classroom. Somehow, over the years, they have heard that I like learning about bugs. I have a few insect books in my room so it's easy for me to help them identify the little crawlers. Also, I find insects most fascinating. I like reading about them, I like looking at them, and I like discovering something I've never seen in person before. A carry-over from childhood, I suppose.

The little insect book I had showed pictures of a couple of possibilities. It could be a Polyphemus moth or a Luna moth caterpillar. I was surprised because I had thought something so pretty would certainly turn into a  a butterfly, which is rudely suggesting that butterflies are prettier than moths. Which isn't always true. The Luna and the Polyphemus moths are just two examples when a moth can be as pretty or prettier than a butterfly.

I asked Kathy if I could take it home with me, and she said I could. I put it in the Bug Barn before I thought too far ahead about the needs of the caterpillar. I took the little guy home last night, added some familiar leaves to the Bug Barn to make its captivity more comfortable while I searched to find out more about it on the internet. Perhaps, after the kids got to look at it and after I told them what I had found out about it, we would let it go the next day.

After I got home, I took some pictures of it just before the sun went down too far, then tucked the little critter in for the night in my garage.

Imagine my surprise the next morning when I picked up the Bug Barn and looked inside and could not find the green caterpillar anywhere, but in its place, tucked inside a curled oak leaf, lay a plump,silky, cottony pillow, a snow-white, silk-spuncocoon. It was faintly transparent... a pale green showed through its silky veil.

I couldn't wait to tell the second graders and their teacher what they had found during recess yesterday, and made an appointment to stop by their classroom at 2:00 to tell them the news and to let them all get a look at the newly spun cocoon with their caterpillar inside.

When the time came to make the presentation, they were all waiting eagerly to hear what I had. After I explained about the moth, and the cocoon, and that it would likely be in this state until spring, I called up the two girls who had found the caterpillar. I let them look first, and then took their picture holding the bug barn with the silk covered treasure inside. Then the other kids came up two or three at a time to take a look as I held a flashlight to the inside of the box.

I hope the caterpillar can last until spring in this box. However, if it is a Luna or even a Polyphemus, it may not be able to come out of the box on its own. The wide wingspan of the Luna could prevent it from making it out through the 2 1/2-inch wide doorway. I thought we'd wait and see if the cocoon frees itself from the wall of the box so we can transfer it into a proper moth house that the students will make for it. What a great educational tool to teach life cycles!

In the meantime, I'll find out more about these intriguing creatures so I can better answer the kids' questions when they ask them. 

Speaking of insects, what ever became of the ant habitat and the Harvester Ants? The story is not a pleasant one. The last time I reported about them, last month I think, I may have had about 20 or so alive, but they were looking depressed, and there was noticeably less activity than during their first weeks in the blue, gel habitat. Over the weeks that followed, they began to die, one or two at a time. I have about six alive now, the discoloration has turned to black in some parts of the habitat. Obviously a mold has somehow taken over, blocking off several of the tunnels. I check them every day, and I don't know what to do for them except let them die off as nature would have it. But I'm pretty sure that nature wouldn't have trapped them in a moldy nest like this... in nature they would have been able to flee the tunnels and perhaps build a new nest.

I probably won't do the space gel habitat again unless I can find out what happened. I don't want this to happen again.

Of Students and Seminar

Every Thursday morning, our students participate in Seminars.

On Wednesdays, students are given a copy of a current event story of global concern from a newspaper or magazine article, or from the internet. They are supposed to take it home, show it to their parents, the parents read it, the student may read it himself, and there might possibly be some discussion between the parent and the child regarding the article. Ideally, the student returns to school Thursday morning with the article, prepared in some way to participate in a classroom discussion on the topic. If they don’t read the article at home, which happens often, they’ll hear it again in the classroom. The teacher asks some questions that probe their understanding of the event, and help them to make connections between their classroom and what is going on in the world, how it impacts the world in general, how it impacts our country, and how it impacts them personally as children with a future to prepare for.

So far, we have covered topics like the significance of discovering ice on Mars and why we as people of Earth are interested in Mars; the implications of Hurricane Katrina’s devastating destruction on the Gulf Coast, our nation as whole, and the world; how higher gas prices affect their families; and the possible results and implications of making the lottery legal in North Carolina. Last week, the article that went home with them was concerning the Avian flu virus, and its potential threat to our populations throughout the world, and the need to isolate and contain the virus should an outbreak occur.

I don’t assume that the kids have read the articles we send home, for usually, they have not read it. I make extra copies for them to follow along while I read out loud, and I give them each a highlighter pen to highlight points they find interesting, or main ideas in each paragraph, or some other reading comprehension concept they need to practice. As I read, I will stop and ask them to paraphrase a sentence or paragraph I had just read. Usually two or three students will be listening and comprehending well enough to raise their hands in response to the questions, and the others will be raising their hands to ask their own questions.

I like Seminars on Thursday mornings. It gives the teachers and students a chance to share global news, to talk about it, to respond to it some way. It gives us a chance to think and talk about what it means, and why it’s such a concern. Why should an elementary student be concerned about what goes on in the world across the ocean? Why would they want to know about things they don’t understand just yet? Heck, they don’t even know where India is, or Thailand, or Texas for that matter! Well, some kids know where Texas is, but the fact is they don’t have a good sense of where they are in the world at this age. Why even bother discussing things so far from home that do not involve them?

That is precisely why we should talk about it and show them where these countries are as we talk about them, and ask them to think about why they should be concerned. Why should they be concerned that Hurricane Katrina hit Louisiana and Mississippi? Aside from the human compassion issue, should we bother them with the details of water pollution, dead bodies, destroyed homes and lives, and the controversy over rebuilding a city that sets below sea level? Why should they be interested in a planet that is millions of miles away from earth at any given time? So what if there is ice on it? And why does our government pour billions of dollars into space exploration and the International Space Station?

These are the kinds of questions our kids raise, or teachers raise, when such discussion worthy topics come up during Seminar. It is good for them to consider the pros and cons of worldly events and decisions. It is good for them to think about other people around the world who more than likely experience a different culture from ours, but who are no less important in this world, and no less responsible for making it a better place in which to live. It is good for them to learn of the wealth of our own country in comparison to the rest of the world, and to gain a perspective that such privilege brings with it a greater responsibly to care for the environment.

The interest we generate in them with such topics as these stimulates their thinking. We ask them questions, and you’d be surprised what they think about when given such a topic. Don’t think that kids who play video games in their spare time have no concerns for their world. They do, but often they don’t have the organizational skills to express their thoughts in a logical manner. Seminaring, as I see it, is one opportunity for them to do just that. They will ask the questions, and in asking the questions, even the ones we can’t answer, are lead to discovery and learning.

In the classroom, we attempt to equip the students with ways to tap into their own thinking skills, their own abilities to figure things out. Sometimes there is laughter during a seminar as ignorance or preconceptions about people and events are brought into light, and clarifications are made. Misunderstanding is what leads to distrust and arrogance.

For some, taking part in a discussion is something they are not familiar with, but in the safety of their classroom, among other classmates they are willing to take the risk in saying something that may not come out right or make sense. I didn’t realize how difficult it is for some kids to speak coherently before I became a teacher! I thought I was the stupid one growing up because I had trouble doing that myself. As a child in a classroom setting, I experienced repeatedly the inability to come up with the right order of words to speak what was clearly in my mind. God bless my patient teachers, the wait time they gave me, and the prompting and rephrasing of questions!

Last week, as I said earlier, our topic was the potential pandemic threat of the bird flu. Two of the kids in my Seminar group had not even heard about it despite the fact that they were supposed to have shown the article to their parents. Two had brought the article home, said they had shown it to their parents, but had not had a discussion with them about it. None of them had heard anything on the news about it.

So it seemed it was my job to make them aware of the potential danger of bird flu, and to read the article out loud to them, and to lead them into exploring the potential scenario facing our world leaders and health care people.

I wanted them to really understand the seriousness of it without frightening them, and I didn’t have very much information on hand beyond the article that was given them. Fortunately, I had a current National Geographic magazine with a picture of a medical person outfitted in disease prevention gear and many photos inside from Thailand and Viet Nam of people who had battled and survived avian flu.

As I read the article, I checked their faces for understanding. I asked them to paraphrase for me a passage. I drew pictures on the board (a man, a chicken), and I wrote the virus name, H5N1, on the board. We talked about how it wasn’t yet contagious person to person, but how the virus could mutate, and how that could be disastrous for the human population. I asked them the questions, what did “potentially” mean in that sentence? What did it mean that it may be necessary to “isolate and quarantine” a country? How could that be done? There were others. They were interested, they asked good questions, and then one of them said something that worried me.

He said, “I’m not going to eat chicken anymore.”

With only a couple minutes left for this class, I knew I had to dispel their fears. I didn’t want them to go home and tell their parents that I said that eating chicken would give them the bird flu, and that they could die. I didn’t want them to think they had the bird flu if they got the flu. Hadn’t we talked about the meaning of potential? And hadn’t I made it clear that this was affecting people who were exposed to chickens, turkeys, ducks, who raised them, bred them, handled them in far parts of the world?

I told them the chicken they buy in the grocery store was inspected before it got to the stores, and that they would not be eating infected chicken in this country. However, if they were to travel to the southeast of Asia, perhaps they would want to avoid eating in the less frequented restaurants. “It’s safe to eat chicken in your home, and in our restaurants, and in school. It’s not in the chickens in our country.” (Yet, I thought to myself, and hope it stays that way.)

The next day, one of my Seminar students sat down at his desk and said, “I got sick last night. I threw up.”

“Why? Was it something you ate?” I asked because he didn’t look sick sitting there in front of me.

He nodded. “Yeah, after dinner. We had chicken. I told my mom I didn’t want to eat chicken. I couldn’t stop thinking about that bird flu.” He paused, the other kids listening attentively.

“Remember, it's okay to eat your mother’s chicken,” I said.

“I know,” he said, “But I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. It made me sick.”

After explaining one more time that the bird flu was infecting birds thousands of miles away, and that right now there is no avian flu outbreak, we moved on to division by two digit numbers.

Yes, I like the time we spend in Seminar on Thursday mornings. I just need to get a handle on the topic, and anticipate their questions and fears before I walk into the room so I’ll have something more sustaining to say, something more reassuring. I guess I'll be watching the news more since I don't get the newspaper.

Still, I think it is okay for them to experience these thoughts, and have these concerns. It is my hope that this will open the dialogue between them and their parents, and that it will motivate them to watch the news, to attempt to understand some small or great part of what is going on in the world. And even if they don’t understand, which they very often won’t since there is a lot I don’t understand even now, at least they will be aware of some world and national events, and they will have some words to carry home with them, words they can speak, words they are comfortable with, rolling from their mouths, impressing their family and friends with their opinion on a world event.

Perhaps someday one of them will find a cure for some life-threatening disease, or be an influential leader in the cause for world peace, or influence someone who is a leader dedicated to environmental health. In our midst could be someone, or several someones, who will someday be part of something very important to the well-being of our world and of our people. Even if not in such a high position of power, but most likely in a personal way, they will grow up to be involved in community matters, helping to make improvements within their families, neighborhoods, schools, towns, or states. This too will affect the whole country, and the world.

Of A Conversation With My Dogs

I started reading this sweet little volume by Zig Ziglar, Conversations with My Dog, about a man having conversations with his dog, a Welsh Corgi. As they discuss the every day events in their lives, the author reveals personal insight and wisdom of relationships, faith, trust, health, and hope.

I bought it several weeks ago while browsing at one of my favorite bookstores, Borders, in Greensboro. I haven’t finished reading it yet, but I’ll probably have it read by Sunday. As I read the first two chapters, I realized that I could have written my own book using the conversations I’ve had with my dogs over the past few years, for we really do have them.

Take this morning for instance. They knew I was getting ready for school. I had let them out earlier to go do their business in the woods, and both had returned on time. I opened the door and let them back in. They trotted in expectedly, not too wet in the feet despite the rain we’d had these past three days. As I moved about the kitchen getting things together for my lunch, I looked down for a moment and there they were, both of them standing politely and expectantly on the rug at the back door.

“What?” I asked.

They looked at each other, then at me.

Misty was the first to speak. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she asked gently.

I thought for a moment, then it hit me… “Oh, I’m sorry, puppies! The dog biscuits…. I forgot to give you one.”

Ever since they were old enough to eat the dog biscuits, it’s been a routine that when they returned to the house, whether we were out with them or they came back on their own, to give them a treat. The theory was that they would look forward to that treat, and always return when we called them home. In actuality, it works for Max, but Misty continues to come home whenever she is ready to come home. She either has no sense of our urgency to get off to work, or she doesn't think she has to abide by our rule to come home when we call. I still give her a biscuit no matter when she comes home. The fact is, she comes home.

“Well, here they are, crunchy, tasty, yummy dog biscuits,” I sang as I reached into the ceramic biscuit jar and pulled out two of them. I held one out to each dog, and in turn they came forward. Max snatched his as though he thought I might change my mind, while Misty sniffed hers first before she gingerly took it with her teeth and walked away.

I could easily identify Max’s manners from hers with a blindfold over my eyes. Max grabs hungrily, his teeth, nose, face hair, everything touching my fingertips. He‘s never bitten me, not even accidentally, but he always approaches in that aggressive posture of hit and run that might frighten away someone who didn‘t know him better. Misty, on the other hand, takes pride in removing the food item from the giver‘s hand with precision and ease. If you had your eyes closed, you’d hardly know she had been a hair’s breadth away from your hand when she removed a tasty tidbit from your fingers.

Max’s habit is to carry his treat to the front of the recliner in the living room before he chomps it in half, letting a piece fall on the floor as he relishes the one in his mouth. Misty quietly slips over behind the same recliner to nibble at hers. They seem always to have an agreement, these two dogs. One has never tried to take the food away from the other. They know the rules. What’s Max’s is Max’s, and what’s Misty’s is Misty’s.

After she had eaten her treat, Misty sat down on her haunches. Max did the same. I hardly noticed them as I rushed between the bathroom and the bedroom getting dressed and curl-ironing my hair into a slight wave. Sometimes they would play for a few minutes after they come in from outside, running off the excitement they had encountered out there. But this morning, it was quiet, and somber even. When I was ready to go, I flipped off the bathroom light and headed down the hall toward the living room. There they were, still sitting, following me with their soulful eyes. That look was there. The one they save for me before I leave the house for the day.

I glanced at the digital clock on the VCR in the living room. It was 6:50 a.m. I had a few minutes before I had to leave. I still had not had breakfast.

“Now what?” I asked the dogs as I passed them on my way to the kitchen. Silence. Neither spoke. Just those big, almost black eyes peering from beneath their longish, Schnauzerian eyebrows.

I poured some milk, the last of the lactaid (I’m lactose semi-intolerant), dropped two halves of an English Muffin into the toaster, then stepped into the living room and sat down. I had a minute before the toaster clicked.

The dogs came and sat by my legs, Max leaning in for a petting session, and Misty standing a few inches away waiting for an invitation. “I know, guys, but I have to go. I’m sorry. But the good news is, it’s Friday!”

Misty sighed. “Yeah, mom, good for you. You get to leave the house for anywhere from ten to twelve hours. We get to stay. Same tomorrow as today.”

Max added, “I don’t care, just let me sit with you while you wait for your muffin. Can I sit with you? Huh? Can I?” And without waiting for an answer he leaped into my lap.

“Yeah, I know… here Max, let me pet you real good. There, how’s that?” I asked as I rubbed him furiously around the neck and shoulders, and down his back toward his tail, and back up to his neck again. He likes it rough.

“You’re rubbing too hard, too hard, too hard, too fast, slow down!” he growled. Well, I thought he liked it that way, but I eased up a bit, and he settled down into the space between me and the arm of the chair. A faint click alerted them, and their ears perked up instantly. I love those expressive and sensitive, uncropped, schnauzer ears.

They eagerly followed me into the kitchen. “Can’t we play for awhile before you go?“ asked Misty, her toy laying between her feet. “Please?”

I spread peanut butter on the muffin halves, picked up the glass of milk, and sat down in the dining area, which is open to the living room and kitchen. “Let me eat this first,” I replied. “It’s going to be a long day, and I need some morning nourishment. Steve has already fed you, and I made sure you have fresh water in the bowl for the day. You’ve been outside. You guys are good to go.” I reminded them between mouthfuls.

But Misty wasn’t through with me yet. She stood up on her hind legs and laid her front paws on my thigh. “Okay, here’s the deal. You leave us alone every day. It’s not so bad when Steve is here during the day because he lets us out once in awhile. But when you are both at work, well, some days it’s just about unbearable. We know you have to go to work, but we want to play with you more. We want you to go outside with us more. You don’t spend as much time with us as you did before you started teaching.” She stepped away and sat down at my feet.

I patted her silver-grey head, took a sip of milk, and looked at both of them, looked into their beautiful, dark brown doggie eyes and saw a little sadness there.

“You are right, Misty, I don’t spend as much time with you these days, and I am working longer hours away from home, but I do get home before 6:00 usually. You have each other, though. That’s why we brought Maxer into the family, remember?”

Max perked up when he heard his name. “You brought me into the family because you thought I was the cutest thing. Remember? I heard you say that, Mom.”

Misty shook her head slightly. “Well, Max, yeah, she told you that, but the truth is, Mom thought I’d be lonely when she started working full time, so she decided to look for another puppy to keep me company. You’re my company.”

Max’s ears lifted slightly, then dropped. He stood up, his front paws laid across my lap, his head leaning into my stomach. He searched my eyes for reassurance, for truth. “Is this true, Mom? I’m just company?”

I leaned over and held his black face between my hands and nuzzled him with my face. He licked my chin.

“Max, you were and are the cutest thing, and we did find you when we were looking for a dog to keep Misty company, but you are much more than company. You are like her own family, like our own family. You have all the rights and privileges she has. We love you both very much, you are like our own children.”

Misty stretched out on the floor, dejected it seems. “Yes, but you are leaving to go off to work. And you are going to sing that silly song before you leave, and you’ll think everything is going to be just fine until you get back home.” I tried not to be hurt by the slight she had made.

“I like that song she sings,” Max chimed in. “It’s comforting. It reminds me that she’ll be back, and she always doescome back.” He looked at me. “I like that song, Mom.”

“Thank you, Max.“I offered him a bite of the peanut butter muffin, and he snapped it off my fingertips. I offered the last piece to Misty, and she made a show of eagerness as she took it, but I could tell her heart wasn’t into puppiness this morning.

I walked into the living room, the dogs close at my feet. I had only a few minutes before I had to leave for school, so I sat down again on the recliner and flipped it back so there’d be room for two dogs. No sooner had I laid it back then both of them were on top of me, vying for a choice spot to be petted.

“Look,” I began, “I understand that you don’t like being cooped up in the house all day, but Steve did put in that doggie door for you, so you can at least spend part of your day on the front deck, outside in the freshair.The rest of the day, you can lay around, or play with your toys, which I know you do, and you’ve got upstairs and downstairs to run around in. And you have each other.” I didn’t know if I was trying to convince them or myself.

Misty snuggled between my arm and chest, and just laid her head there for a moment. “I know, Mom, but it’s just that I’m not getting any younger, and I still like to run around like I did when I was two. I miss running around, and the neighborhood walks. You know how much I like chasing things. You don't throw my toys down the hall like you did when I first came to live with you. You keep forgetting about my needs. You said the doctor told you to get out and walk more. You could take us out walking like you used to. It would be good for all of us.”

She had a point there. I looked at Max for his opinion. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, Mom, you know that. I’m good just laying around the house all day, or I could follow you around the block. Tell me what you want me to do, and it’s done. I’m good!” Then he licked my hand.

I leaned over and picked up the stuffed football. Misty immediately leaped to the floor, fully alert and postured for a chase. I flung it down the hall, and she flew after it, tossing it around before carrying it back to me. I threw it for her several more times, and realized she truly was joyful when she was chasing her toys. She was right, I had been somewhat neglectful of their needs lately.

I glanced at my watch. It was 7:00 a.m. I was going to be late, but I had to resolve this issue with my puppies.

"Look, guys, it's time for me to go, but I will be back, andMarlene will be here around three-ish o'clock to let you out." As I gathered up my bags, they followed me to the back door.

"I will think about what you said, Misty. I'll see how I can get outside with you more often. Maybe we can go for a walk tomorrow." I rubbed them both behind the ears and around the neck. "Let me see what I can do, okay?"

"Okay, Mom, that's all I ask. Just think about what we need from our point of view. Don't forget why you wanted us in the first place, and don't forget that we need physical activity as much as your students at school do."

"Okay, well..." I almost started to sing the song I had made up last year, but caught myself. I thought it had a catchy tune and I thought they liked it, but I deferred to Misty's opinion and didn'tsing it. Instead, I said, "I've got to go... see you later. Be good."

"Bye, mom. Have a good day at school," said Misty as she wagged her tail. "And thanks for throwing the football around for me."

"Bye mom, I'm going to wait here until you come back," Max, my little, furry comedian said. "I love you. Have a good day."

"I love you both... be sweet. Don't tear up any trash." I called as I closed the door behind me.

So it seems I have some serious thinking and changes to make if I'm going to be taking them out for walks around the neighborhood. Finding the time is the main problem, and at the end of the day, most of days, I'm just too pooped myself to get dressed for a vigorous walk. However, perhaps I could begin with an easy stroll, just me and the puppies. Even that would be an improvement.

Wallcome Back, Mrs. Gellmore!

It was good to be back in class today.

Several of my students acted so surprised to see me again. “Where were you, Mrs. Gilmore?” one asked. “You’ve been gone for two days.” Another boy did a double take in the hallway as he headed for the library. “Mrs. Gilmore!” he exclaimed. “I thought you weren’t coming back until Friday!” A girl popped into my room as she walked by on her way to another class and laid a note on my table. “I missed you, Mrs. Gilmore.” I told her thank you, and I had missed her, too. Her thank you card, a folded piece of notebook paper, opened to reveal an interesting pink and red heart-shaped face inside with long red hair. The words written in red marker read, “Wallcome back, Mrs. Gellmore.” I smiled and taped it to the shelf above my desk so I could see it every time I stood in my room. I wanted her to know, when she saw it there, that it was treasured by me, Mrs. Gellmore.

I  am seldom away from school. They are not accustomed to me being absent. I had told the kids last week that I would be away at a conference on Monday and Tuesday, but I guess they had forgotten.

It was a strange feeling to return to my routine in the middle of the week like this, to see all the comfortable and familiar things I had left behind while I attended the Elementary Educators’ Conference. I truly was glad to be back. The kids had made me feel welcome today. They warmed my heart.

The reality, however, sank in pretty quickly as I had to orient myself to it being Wednesday and not Monday. Like other folks in their work, teachers have a schedule to follow from day to day. For me, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are not the same as Tuesdays and Thursdays. For instance, every morning a few children, one in a wheelchair, gets off the short bus at 7:20. There are five of us who take turns each day meeting her there to bring her in, and Mondays is my day. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I am one of two teachers who maintain order and peace in the cafeteria for breakfast before school starts. On Wednesdays, we have scheduled IEP meetings after lunch and/or EC department meetings. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I get a 45 minute planning session while all the fourth and fifth grade students are in a Specials class (music, PE, computer lab, library, or the Science Resource teacher comes to their class). I love those planning periods.

Except for those changes, my days pretty much follow a routine of reading, writing, and math with various groups of students, both in the regular classroom, and in my own resource classroom.

Today, there was a pleasant surprise in my co-teacher’s 5th grade classroom. The students had brought in their Social Studies projects. Their assignment had been to choose a North or South American Indian tribe to report on. I was able to observe the first few reports this morning, and was very impressed with the information they had learned about the Aztecs, the Cree, the Toltecs, and another tribe I can’t recall. Mostly, I was impressed with the students’ attempt to present their posters, clay villages, foods, and other visuals with enthusiasm and expertise. I could tell they had really studied the tribes they had chosen. A couple of young ladies had written notes on little index cards and occasionally glanced at them to remind them of what they wanted to say, but other than that, they spoke from what they remembered, from what they had learned, easily retelling details of sports played, religious rites, and styles of clothing. I could tell they had enjoyed working on their projects.

Also, today was the day they had to select a book for a book report. Our media specialist introduced them to the genre of mystery as they sat in the library. She held up various books at reading levels ranging from second grade to middle school, for which I was truly grateful that she had selected several at the lower grade levels. She spoke about Cam Jansen, and Nancy Drew, and of Tarheel Ghosts, and Loch Ness monster. The kids, their eyes closely following every title she held up, whispered to each other that there was the book they wanted to read. She reminded them that this book was rather long, and one might want to read it when one had an entire month, or this book is short enough to read and give a book report in two weeks. She opened them up so they could see the elaborate illustrations of one author or the many chapters of another. By the time we had spread on the tables all the mystery books she had found, the students were on them. Some stood in line eagerly discussing their found treasure, while a few others looked on with gentle envy that another had picked up the book they had wanted. It was good to see their excitement over finding a book, and knowing that another student wanted the one they had. I look forward to hearing their book reports in two weeks.

I helped one student who had to make a second choice by enticing her into another book. I explained that she could retell one of the ghost stories as she gives her book report. That seemed appealing to her, so she checked it out, and for the moment she was able to forget her first choice.

I am crunched for making plans for next week, but, what the heck, I can't think of anything else I'd rather be doing.

Of the Elementary School Conference

Have you ever gone away from home for awhile, then come back with so much to talk about that you don’t know where to begin?

Sometimes that happens to me after a great vacation at the coast, or in the mountains with my family, or following a spiritual/work retreat with my church family.

I just returned from the 2nd Annual Elementary School Conference in Durham, and I wanted to write about the highlights of the two day event while it is all still fresh and vibrant in my mind.

To recall with the best of my ability, I will record as I would for a dream I remember upon awakening. That is, what happened last is the most recent and best remembered, and so it will be reported first, followed by the events leading up to that point, and as one who is retracing her steps back from room to room to find the missing thing, the beginning shall be last.

The staff of the Elementary Education Division of the North Carolina Department of Instruction did an outstanding job of lining up speakers for the two day conference. I thank them with all my heart for the closing luncheon speaker and entertainment this afternoon. I had no idea what a special treat it would be.

We ate a savory meal, and after the coffee and carrot cake were consumed, the guest speaker, Toody Byrd was introduced. I had never heard of this woman before, but after hearing her today, education has changed for me! Hailing from Texas, diminutive in size, grey haired, and wearing glasses, this woman could have been anyone’s grandmother or former teacher. She seemed quiet as she stepped up to the podium. Within the first minute, however, she had us all laughing in surprise. Her humor was pleasantly shocking and wildly entertaining, and with the skill of a sage comedian, she shared her wisdom with all the teachers who filled the room, some 800 of us we were told. I heard one teacher say “Toody, you made me cry.” The bio in our handbook said that she was “declared a ‘State Treasure’ by the 71st Legislature of the state of Texas in recognition of her unique contributions to education and community life around the state.” I can understand why. I wish I could have recorded her 30 minute speech/performance to bring back for our teachers who could not attend.

Preceding Toody, the younger students from South Graham Elementary School, under the direction of their music teacher, sang with fresh enthusiasm and innocent expression the songs that helped them to remember books they had read in their classrooms. The eleven teachers from my school sat close enough to follow the gestures and faces on all of them, and they had us cracking up. There's always one child that shines on the stage, and this little Hispanic girl was that one. She was blissfully unaware of how many pairs of eyes were on her and her theatrical antics.  It didn't seem to matter to her that she was unsure whether she had to hold up nine fingers or ten, and proceeded to count and recount them to our delight as she sang on, oblivious that she was the one that stole our affection. Their performance was a testimony of what children can do when they are “bathed in the language of a story,” a Dr. Gonzalez quote. I glanced over at the faces of the first grade students’ principal and assistant principal, and felt the love and pride that poured from their eyes.

But I was already in a heightened mood even before I had entered the Imperial Ballroom for the luncheon. Two 75-minute sessions prior to lunch had left me excited about teaching math. Both sessions had been presented by Dr. Johnny Warrick: Making Sense with Math, and Algebra: the Equation to Get Students Involved. The man had revived my interest in teaching math, providing us not only with handouts of his activities, and there were several of them, but he demonstrated many, many more using materials he had purchased at the Dollar Store. He spoke fast, dropping humorous lines and stories as he worked. A little faster, and I would have thought Robin Williams (Mork) had tutored him! He used cheap little props like flashing disco glasses, flashlights, beads, transparent cards, magnetic balls and bingo chips on the overhead. Another teacher from my school also attended both sessions. We agreed our school system had to invite him to do a math workshop. In the meantime, we decided we had learned enough during those two and a half hours, and had laughed enough, generated enough excitement that we wanted to do a staff development workshop for our teachers. You might say, we wanted to share the wealth of what we had seen and learned.

Yesterday’s sessions were interesting as well, but for some reason, I laughed more today than I had yesterday. Monday, the first day of the Conference, we could only attend three sessions during the entire day because our school staff made a presentation, cleverly named by our principal, “It Takes a Whole SWAT Team to School a Village: Specialists Wielding Academic Techniques.” She is proud of how all her teachers are serving all levels of learners, and of how we work closely with our regular education teachers, and she wanted us to showcase that fact during the session. I was pleased to be a part of the presentation, and now that I have taken part in it, I know what I could do better if I were to be invited to present again next year.

There was a wide range of presentations by vendors, and by school staff like ourselves. Some of the topics presented included student led conferencing, creative non-fiction writing, social studies activities and projects, the balanced curriculum, National Board Certification, Reader's Theater, computer/technology skills and the interactive Smartboard, global connections in the classroom, active questioning, parenting and healthy school connections, inquiry-based science, designing powerful curriculum, health education, creating winning classroom climates, immersion and FLES, Art and math, teaching gifted students in the regular ed classroom, poetry, and action research. These were but a few we could choose from over the past two days.

There is nothing more that I want to do than to improve what we do for the benefit of our kids. I live in this community. I run into the kids in many different situations all through the years, and they are growing up. Soon, my first students will be graduating and going to college. I want to hear that they are indeed graduating, not dropping out.

Tomorrow I return to school. I can't wait to see the kids again. To hear how their day went in my absence. And I can't wait to show them all the wonderful things I learned about numbers.

Paper Journal vs. Blog

I miss writing in my paper journal.

Ever since I began blogging (8-2-05), I have not inked the first impression, thought, reflection, poem, insight, quote, or any other word in my original paper version.

Prior to blogging, quiet Saturday mornings were the best time of the week for me to get up and recall the past week of events in school, at home, at church, among my friends and family. Unhurried, unguarded, without pressure, instructions, or direction, I would sit at my dining room table and breathe deeply, relaxedly, and reflect on it all, what happened, how I reacted to it, how it affected me, changed me, who I interacted with, how it might have affected them. Inner prompting would lead me to focus on one thing. Often I would dwell on a particularly difficult situation, or a word that was spoken, by me or by another, and the significance of that utterance. Usually, I would briefly describe the event, and then write several pages thrashing out my point of view or the other’s. Or I might pose a question, setting me on the edge of familiar, discomforting darkness. In response, my writing would be an attempt to answer the question, sometimes finding in the end some light to guide me, but many times not. Generally, more questions would develop from the one.

Writing in the blog has provided a new feature I had not known with my paper journal: an audience.

I don’t know who they are, but often as not, they are my friends, co-workers, family, and other acquaintances who may have received my blog address through my emails. No doubt I sent that address out on purpose. Part of me wanted an audience. A little ego trip, I suppose.

I was thrilled when I received my first AOL journal comment alert! Someone had read my journal entry… actually, three someones: my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece. So sweet of them to take the time to read something as verbose and common as a personal journal, then leave a comment so that I knew they had stopped by for a visit! For the most part, however, I don’t know who reads my blog. Strangers, parents of my students, other friends and family? It doesn’t matter. Someone else is reading what I write.

In both the blog and the paper journal, my writing reveals the joys, wonders, discoveries, and whimsy of my heart. Although the blog provides an audience, there is a part of me that does not want an audience. I cannot write to the length and degree of boldness that a private paper journal provides.

Anyone who has been journaling for a very long time knows what I am talking about. A journal is not merely a diary, a record of secrets or daily events. A journal is more than that. For some folks like myself, who take journaling seriously, it is a habit, a routine, a daily ritual, a part of their lives that is sorely missed when it comes to a sudden stop. I’ve known of people who are addicted to running a certain number of miles a day, to counting calories or to watching a certain TV show each week, or to having their first smoke of the day, and that first caffeine boost in the morning. Journaling is kind of like that for me. I had a routine each morning, and Saturdays were especially important because the time factor was lifted.

When I started blogging, the time it took to journal in my book was taken up at the computer, writing about things that are safe to share with the world, especially my known world, and the world that knows me. Many times I would make a blog entry, then delete half of it after I remembered that someone else was going to read it, when I remembered how it might affect them.

As a responsible writer, I must keep the reader in mind. I cannot be as bold here as I’d like to be without misunderstanding and critical judgment coloring everything I write. Perhaps, if I was a journalist and got paid to seek out and speak out, with a particular agenda in mind, regardless of who it offended or praised, and perhaps if I didn’t have a compass to guide me in a certain direction, I would be blatant and caustic, critical and demanding. But then, that is not me, and my thoughts often don’t carry me in that direction.

Thoughts are sacred. To write of them is a sacred act as well. When one writes of them, one has to lay them out first, as cards on the table, exposed, and regard them all, the good, the bad, and the ugly. One then tries to make sense of these thoughts, organize them, decide which ones to hold and which ones to let go, which ones to table for another writing session, and which ones demand immediate attention. The danger comes when something written is taken out of context. Such preliminary, organizational thinking can be misread or misinterpreted by another. Often the polished piece is never written. Meanwhile, the journaler has discovered the solution and implemented it in her life, which does go on, leaving some pages of the book unwritten. But the journaling itself is what led her to the answer.

I suppose the thing to do would be to write one’s disappointments, fears, sorrows, and other disturbances on paper, then burn it. That solves the problem of privacy, doesn’t it?

However, the journaler has an agenda. A person on the course of journaling is trying to solve the great mystery of life, to answer the questions of life, unravel the knots of daily interactions. Every person is on such a course, whether they realize it or not. We are all searching for answers, and the quality of the answer can only be measured by the quality of the question. We each have questions that we are asking of ourselves, whether we send them out to the universal cosmos, keep them shut inside and never reveal them, or address them to God. They are the big questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do with this life that was given me? Where will all this living take me?

I don’t know many other journalers, nor do I know anyone who blogs in my circle of friends. For me, the purpose of journaling is threefold: 1) it helps organize my daily thoughts and put things into perspective; 2) it gives me a baseline from which I can measure all future things that happen in my living experience; and 3) it provides a doorway that links my conscious life with my unconscious life, that is it helps me to connect with the stories and images of dreams.

When I journal regularly, I am able to keep a focus on my purpose in this world, for I have already considered the alternative on pages of lined paper. I am able to contribute calmly when chaos breaks in, for I have already visited the darkest corners of my mind through the tip of my pen. I am able to interact with others more compassionately, for my own heart has been carefully and lovingly nursed through scripted words. Old, forgotten wounds are revealed with the scratch of a pen, yet healed with the balm of a dialogue that never took place in real time, and the only scars left behind are the ball-point pen dents felt on the back side of the page. I am not reduced to making demands of others to hear me out, for I have already been heard. 

When I am ready to do some spiritual spelunking, journaling is my preferred tool to gain inner guidance, problem solving solutions, counseling sessions, and to find interesting paths of exploration.

I wish I could blog it all out here. It would be easier, and take up less space than a collection of composition books. But it would not be practical to lay all my cards on the table at any given point for the world to see.

I prefer to journal on paper.