Blue SKies

End of Semester---Heeeeeeeeelp!

2012-01-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

(Thanks to former students Alyssa and Hannah who visited me last week and bullied me into posting again:)

Today, January 20th is a snow day for most schools here in the Midwest. Yippee? Not really.

You see, at PHS we had the first half of exams yesterday and today was to be the last three. Monday we have a work day to do grades, but we can't do the grades until the exams are all taken and graded. I know, boo hoo.

As I blog, a squirrel is sitting in the doorway of his home in the knot of a walnut tree out back doing the same thing I am: watching the snow fly, reflecting on life, and eating leftover nuts from the holidays.

The end of the semester is a stressful time. For teachers, it is a time of exam preparation and review. And, for many students it's fraught with desperation: "How in the heck can I push that C up to a B in these last few days?"

We teachers listen to much begging, a bit of bargaining and even some bribing during this point in the semester. Some students don't want any more assignments for fear their grade will go down, and others beg for more work so they can boost their grade as much as possible.

"Can I do any extra credit? Please, tell me what I can do. My dad will kill me if I get a D."

"I have all A's except for this class. I really want to keep my 4.0. What can I do?"

"Hey, do you need your driveway shovelled, Mrs. Kies?"

"My mom promised me a trip to California if I get all B's. Your class is the only one that I have a C in. What can I do?"
"It's not fair. I have an 89.2. Can't you boost that up to an 89.5? I'm so close to an A. I need an A!"

"Hmmf. You don't like me, do you? Otherwise you'd give me a C. How come you don't like me, anyway?"

"Mrs. Kies, I was looking at my grades, and I see I am missing several quizzes from three or four weeks ago. Can I make those up now? It's really hurting my grade. You should have told me I was missing those."

Two weeks ago nobody seemed too concerned about his or her grades and seemed to be satisfied with how the class was going. Now, it's like they just noticed the elephant that had been there all along. Panic sets in and their brain goes into reality mode.

Now that students can check their grades online, slackerism becomes an art form. Just think of the math these students are doing to figure out the least amount of work (down to a tenth of a point) they need to do to get their desired grade.
"I only need to get a 63.7% on the final exam to get a C for the semester."

One student asked, "I'm not saying I'm going to do this, but, what happens if I don't take the final? I can get an F and still pass the semester."

"If I study enough to get a B on the exam, I'll still get an A in the class."

"Three wrong. I can get three wrong and pull off a B-!"

Those who are challenged in math or just plain lazy will sometimes ask, "Can you put numbers in the grade book to see what I need to pull off a C?"

"Sure," I reply. "Come in after school, and we'll sit down and play the 'plug in the numbers game.'"

"After school? I'm not coming in after school. No way. I've got things to do."

It works every time with slackers.

Away we go!

2011-09-11T18:37:00.000-07:00

We're off and running in a new school year. Thanks to my ambitious nature in the spring, this year's AP class turned in two assignments. Forty students times two makes eighty assignments. At about fifteen minutes each, that's approximately twenty hours of correcting. And, why do I love this job?

It's the students. Really. They are worth it all. No day is the same, and they teach me so much. Besides the two classes of AP, there are the three of English 11 and Creative Writing. Oh, I'm Literary Magazine advisor, too.

So far everything's been rolling along like a well-oiled desk chair. The first day I walked someone to the office to see the principal. I was subbing for another teacher during my prep time, and one the guys, out of four obnoxious ones, wouldn't stop making fun of another kid. Thought he was Eddie Murphy or something. He kept up the chatter all the while we walked. Said I was racist. I said, "Yeah, right. I was Miss America last year, too." (Really I didn't say anything.)

Too hot in my room at 8:00 a.m. so I emailed the responsible people because if it felt that ghastly that early while I was sitting in my chair and no one else was in the room, think what it was going to be like teaching 28 students! Said it was NOT too hot in my room. So, the sweat soaking my armpits and staining my new green dress were a figment of my imagination. A dream, maybe? A hot flash?

Several new foreign exchange students: three from Germany, one from Portugal, and one from Norway. One student who moved here from Miami has never seen snow. Boy, is she in for it! The young man from Portugal says that whenever he goes to a country where it is supposed to snow, it doesn't. I hope his luck continues.

Student quote of the week: "Yeah, my brother tried to catch his fart in a jar once. He's so dumb, you know?"

2011-09-03T14:28:00.000-07:00

Today, our dog Angel went to doggie heaven. Her years of chasing rabbits and her pal Brady stay with us. I can see her sitting on the steps to look out the window, waiting for the kids to get home from school, only to be dressed in clothes and played with like a doll. I can see her tail wag like a fly swatter when we come in the room, and then lying by the couch while we watch TV. She's sit on the deck or the front porch like a proud lion surveying her domain, ready to bark and snarl if a stranger set foot on her turf.

She helped raise Brady as a pup, nipping him into submission, training him to behave and leave his annoying puppy habits behind.

We love you, Angel and will miss you every day. Thank you for your seventeen years of companionship. No dog could top your sweetness. RIP

lunch bunch and videos

2011-08-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

Part of the fun of a teacher inservice day is getting an hour for lunch instead of 27 minutes. Today we went to Pizza Hut and caught up with what everybody did over the summer. (Good luck having those twins, Liz!)

Also, cleaning the room is part of the get-back-in-the-saddle ritual. I threw out many VHS cassettes, and I'm officially updating to DVDs and Internet videos. Got to get with this century. For the past three years I've asked for a projector in my room to show student projects, videos, and educational YouTube interviews and such---and I never get one. The young teachers all have them, and I guess they think we seasoned veterans won't use 'em. So, I had a hissy fit in the library, complete with stomping my feet, to show I'm not that old. And---I'm getting one!

You know the old saying about the squeaky wheel?

Technology and Thoreau

2011-08-29T19:16:00.000-07:00

Ahh, as summer slips away, I'm back to work. First day of inservice includes meetings, meetings, more meetings---and technology training. It takes the year for me to master the new technology, software, hardware, etc., and then the next year they change it again! New laptops are great, but with them comes more new stuff to learn and use. Thoreau was right about technology. It doesn't really make our lives simpler; it just adds to the things we need to learn and do.

"We don't ride the railroad; the railroad rides upon us." ---Henry David Thoreau

2011-08-05T17:25:00.000-07:00

Summer is so sweet---the cherry on the sundae, the kiss before bed, the dog's underwear (you know, way better than the cat's pajamas).

Did some serious hammock time today. Glass of iced tea, the New Yorker, and a nap. Heaven.

And, an ice cream cone for dessert tonight.

It doesn't get any better than this.

August 3 Musings

2011-08-03T17:41:00.001-07:00

Yup, been awhile, but here I am again. Went to 2-Onion farm this afternoon and hoed the cauliflower, cucumbers, carrots and beets. It was hot, but there was a breeze. Drank lots of water and worked through an aching muscle in my backside. Will either feel great tomorrow or won't be able to walk. Came home and cracked open the best watermelon we've had all summer. Mmmmm! Lots of vitamin P!

Six years ago today our son, Kelly, passed away. I hate how distant he has become. He's forever 25, and we keep aging and changing, plugging away at life and doing the best we can. I see his smile in the sunset as I look out the window right now. He may be frozen in time, but his essence is a part of us every day.

It's August, and soon I'll be back in the classroom. Don't tell anybody, but part of me is looking forward to it. I know; I'm sick. You know, that chalk dust, or white board marker ink gets in your veins and what ya gonna do?

If only winter didn't have to come as the school year progresses. In my bible, hell is cold, not hot.

Plantin' and Pullin'

2011-06-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday morning I worked my first shift at a local, organic community farm near Belmont. The payment for this work is a reduction on the price of my family's box of vegetables we receive every other week. The first one comes Friday. Yum!

Six other people were there to work, five from Madison and one from Platteville. We dressed as told: old clothes and shoes, hats, sunscreen and bug spray. My husband and I used to farm, so I had been looking forward to this activity. I am no horticulturalist, but there's nothing I like better than fooling around in the garden.

Our first task of the day was to plant seeds, onion and fennel, into tiny cubes of soil with holes in the middle. We sat on chairs with trays of dirt on out laps, poured some seeds onto an index card, and used a nail file to push them into their respective holes. The fennel was easy, one per hole, but, the onion, ten little black seeds per hole. Tedious!

Next we went out to the field to weed. Chris, the owner, and our taskmaster for the morning, held up an implement and said, "This is what you'll use to weed the eggplants," and he showed us how to scratch along side of the plants without damaging them. I thought he was being a bit patronizing, until---

"What is that called," one of the women from Madison asked, pointing to the implement.

Big pause. We looked at her. I thought she was kidding. I laughed out loud. Turns out she wasn't kidding.

"This? This is called a ho," Chris said, holding it up again.

I never should have laughed and I'm sorry for it. Here she was, brave enough to come out and dig in the dirt and find out where her food comes from, and I laughed. Like I said, I'm sorry.

Later, we were on our hands and knees weeding the broccoli, and the same woman says, "Hey,what's this weird looking plant? It's fuzzy and prickley and looks kind of like a cactus.

Because I was in the row next to her, I answered: "It's a thistle."

I want you to know I didn't laugh this time. The teacher in me surfaced, and I was patient and understanding. Later, I pointed out a pea plant to her, and a tomato plant, too.

Like I said, I am no horticulturalist or master gardener, but that day I felt like one. If only my back hadn't hurt so much the next day.

Summer, ahhh!

2011-06-15T14:19:00.001-07:00

Long days, moderate temps, blossoms and birds---it doesn't get any better than this! Thoreau had it right camping out near the pond. Wonder what he did about the damned gnats, though? No Absorbine Jr. then; must've used garlic rub or something.

Eight students in summer school for two and a half hours---not bad. Squirrelly students, though. Can tell they were in eighth grade last year. Laugh at nothing and poke each other, thinking it's a hoot. Glad I'm past thirteen. Wouldn't mind being nine or ten again, though. No worries and not a care. Ahhhhhh! Blissful.

Wheee-Awww!

2011-06-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

Last day of school for the year. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Oh, that's right. I start teaching summer school on Monday. Awwwwwwwwww!

Guided twirling?

2011-04-17T17:54:00.000-07:00

Every day we have a 20-minute guided study so students can do homework and see teachers if they have questions. During the 1st and 4th quarters, guided study is at the end of the day so student who are in fall and spring sports and activities won't miss as much class time.

For those who are left, it usually amounts to talk time, 'cause what high school junior (my guided study consists of 17 juniors) wants to study at the end of a long day of school? Tuesdays is silent reading day, and they are to quietly read a book or magazine for the 20 minutes.

Last Tuesday my advisees were talking, and I kept shushing them.

"Get something to read from the shelf and be quiet," I kept telling them in various ways, some of which got a bit snippy.

Until, one girl asked me what my first job was---and I stupidly took the bait and told them: "I gave baton-twirling lessons."

"Really?" they asked.

Well, the next thing you know it, I'm in front of the class teaching two of the girls how to twirl a wooden dowel, showing them my old tricks, as the others look on.

"Uh oh," they said.

In the doorway stood Dr. J, the principal. He looked at us, shook his head, smiled half a smile, shut the door and walked on. Why couldn't he have walked by when I was telling them to be quiet?

No Blarney

2011-04-13T05:37:00.000-07:00

My white board collects a lot of stuff throughout the year, besides the invaluable stuff that I carefully post for the good of all students on a regular basis. Last week my white board became adorned with stuff that twenty, or even ten, years ago would never have been possible.

It began when I posted a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, as we are studying transcendentalism. I told students that while watching the local news, I saw Mayor Dave C give his consolation speech after being defeated by Paul Soglin during which he quoted Emerson: "What lies before us and what lies behind us are small matters compared to what lies within us." We talked about what the quote meant and why the loser of an election would use it as he was leaving office.

After we got our work finished, Ramona, an exchange student from Switzerland, translated the quote into German. Next hour, Hyeon wrote it in Koren; then, Mindy in Chinese, Cagla in Turkish, Firas in Arabic, etc., Now, we have Thoreau's quote in eleven languages, not counting the one that Matt tried to pass as Gaelic as he is from Ireland---for upon checking Google translate, I found it to be blarney and erased it.

What a cool place to

a poem

2011-04-11T06:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, 80-degrees in Wisconsin after a long, long winter sent me into closets and corners of the yard tossing and tidying, and inspiring a poem of sorts.

mornings, spring and being 10

anything is possible then

my hours unspent,

my seeds just sewn,

my life imagined

and nothing to regret, yet

Is that a chunk of moron in your teeth?

2011-04-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

Today I attended a writing conference in Madison. In one of the sessions we were advised to observe and even listen in on conversations. So, I did. Not that I had much choice with this one.

A number of us wannabes were sitting around talking and waiting for our turn to pitch our work to the agents, when this guy, Joey, pulls out a container of dental floss, tears off a serving, and starts flossing. Right there in front of us.

And I thought high-schoolers could be uncouth.

If that wasn't gross enough, the lady next to him asked for some, like most people ask for a piece of gum, and there they sat, the two of them contorting their faces and digging that thread into their gums, while the rest of us tried not to look, which, by the way, didn't help because, guess what? They had to have a conversation about it, too:

"Did you know that Dr. Oz says you're supposed to floss four times a day?" says Joey.

"No, I didn't," says Ann.

"Yup, it can cause cancer."

"Wow. I didn't know that. I'm just glad I could get that piece of apple out of my front tooth."

"Yeah. But, nobody would have noticed," Joey says. "It's the same color as your teeth---unless the peel was still on it."

They laugh as they work the food bits outta those back molars.

"Gee, that sure is refreshing," says Ann.

"No kidding. That minty taste is invigorating! I feel so much better."

I'm glad he did. I don't know what they did with the used floss; I looked the other way and another woman got up and walked out.

Vote Kloppenberg for Justice

2011-03-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

The Wisconsin Supreme Court election will be held next week on Tuesday, April 5.

You have no doubt seen the ads depicting David Prosser as a “rubber stamp” to Gov. Walker. Additionally, Prosser, rather than report a priest for sexual abuse, talked to the bishop who reassigned the priest to a different parish where the abuse continued.

I support JoAnne Kloppenburg because her record as a prosecutor and litigator has shown she will stand up for the law, fairness, and the people. She says she believes in “independent, impartial courts and judges, free of partisan politics.”

Those of us disgusted with Gov. Walker have been accused of resenting the rich and being in favor of socialism. Somewhere between Walker’s dictatorial rule and the total ownership of a society by government is a big field where capitalism and government can coexist. Businesses that make a profit, treat their employees and the environment with respect deserve our utmost praise. It’s those who abuse power and their workers, ship jobs and earnings overseas, and pollute the environment to line their pockets exponentially that earn our disdain.

Gov. Walker and David Prosser have both expressed their distrust of government. Yet, both are major components of the government. In essence, they are telling us they can’t be trusted.

This election for a new justice is for a ten-year term. Please make an educated, responsible decision and vote for Kloppenburg. If you want to know more, the web address is www.kloppenburgforjustice.com.

And all that jazz!

2011-03-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

It's spring, the season for love and romance, for prom and flirting---and teaching The Great Gatsby.

I tell students it is my favorite of the classics, and if you pay attention F. Scott Fitzgerald teaches you everything you should avoid in life and love. Drinking and driving, infidelity, lying, cheating and snobbery are all laid out in the style of the 20s, with words that sculpt characters and their dreams.

On Friday we talked about how Gatsby wanted both his and Nick's house to be perfect for the afternoon tea when he and Daisy would reunite after five years. Gatsby commented on how Nick's lawn could use mowing and how he had someone mow it in the rain.

"My dad says that's not a good thing to do because the grass clumps up," Joanie said.

And, Joey said, "Yeah, my dad won't let me go near the lawnmower until the grass is dry."

"How many of your dad's are particular about the lawn?" I asked.

Twenty out of twenty-two hands went up, and we spent the next ten minutes digressing into "dad and lawn" stories.

Tracy said that one time she offered to cut the grass because her dad complained about having to do it all the time. He happily got her started on the riding mower, and she said she cut designs into the grass because it was fun. She was going to go back over it, but her dad came out and got her and said that from now on HE would cut the grass thank you very much.

I told my tale about my husband who got disgusted because our former neighbor used to cut about three feet into our lawn down the adjoining property line. I told him, "Who cares? He's cutting grass that you don't have to cut." "But it's my grass," my husband said, and he began mowing three feet over into the neighbor's yard. So, there was a strip of about six feet that always got cut double. Dueling lawnmowers. My husband should have just gone out and peed down the property line to mark his territory. What is it with guys and their lawns anyway?

OK, back to the book. Most students like reading The Great Gatsby but end up hating almost all the characters except Nick, the narrator. I think they enjoy the trek into the past age of big parties, flappers, gangsters and rousing recklessness. Tom and Daisy are the epitome of total superciliousness, and if they didn't know what that word meant before, they do now.

"We always read sad-ending books," Allen says.

It's true. Most classics have sad endings. But, sometimes enough Disney sap crap is enough, right?

If you like or are familiar with The Great Gatsby, you'll get a kick out of the youtube video a former student (thanks Angella) alerted me to called "Daisy's Lullaby." It's pretty cool. Let me know what you think.

Take that! :)

2011-03-09T07:15:00.000-08:00

Some people have told me that if I don't like working in the public sector, I should switch to private. Anybody who knows me has heard me say that I LOVE what I do way before this whole attack on public workers. Kay, I have heard you do the same. We have pride in what we do. We provide a service, and we all know that if you want good services you have to pay for them. If you don't like the service, you complain. All this hoo-hah sounds like complaining to me, and it is hard not to take it personally.

I teach and mentor 123 teenagers per day. When they are absent, I get them caught up (whether they were sick or gone on family vacations); when they are having problems, I listen and encourage them to see the counselor; I give out band-aids, even at the high school level; I give career advice and much more. Sometimes I spend my own money on class projects, and this week I spent 15 hours beyond class time grading papers and planning lessons; sometimes it is more than that.

I am NOT complaining but defending what I do because I have been attacked. People wonder why we are rallying? It's because we feel disrespected and blamed for something we did not cause in the first place. Am I perfect at what I do? Absolutely not. Every year I try to get better. I've got my master's and every summer take a class or workshop to try to get better. So, all you critics out there who think I'm an overpaid whiner: if you are so envious of what I do, come do it and stop punching me in the stomach.

It's time to stop attacking each other and work together.

Doused with a Slushie

2011-02-27T10:04:00.001-08:00

As I looked out at my students last week, I couldn't help but wonder how long I'd still be doing this teaching gig under the current proposed governor's budget deficit bill fix. I feel like I'm under siege. Or, my profession is, anyway. I feel slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, doused with a Slushie.

The Boss and the Bossed

2011-02-27T09:22:00.001-08:00

Attended the big rally in Madison yesterday. Very inspiring. This recent attack on unions is a whole other realm of being a teacher that I wasn't prepared for.

Both private and public sector entities have agendas, and both could work on getting better at what they do. But, eliminate one, and there will be problems. They tend to make each other better and add some healthy competition.

The private sector's bottom line is dollars, and I don't want to go back to the days when workers are discouraged from thinking about how they could do their job better and make services better and SAFER for the public. Then, we are simply hired hands and backs who take orders no matter how stupid they seem: it is the boss and the bossed. And, the bossed are pretty much at the mercy of the boss, unless, in case of sexual harassment or dangerous working conditions, they decide to sue. And, what "little" person can afford to take on the boss?

The public sector makes an attempt at cooperative services. Sometimes, this works, and sometimes it doesn't. One can get an education, but that doesn't mean that person is necessarily qualified for a job. This is what makes private sector people disgusted with public, as they see pubic employees as their employees, even though those in the public sector pay taxes too.

It's Only Rights

2011-02-21T06:43:00.000-08:00

Recently, there has been much unrest in our state and our community due to the sudden introduction of Gov. Walker’s controversial budget bill. We can’t let it divide our community.

We all live in Wisconsin; we all pay taxes; and we all want a good standard of living and hope for a better future.

Upon thinking the situation over and listening to all the talking heads on both sides, the one thing that seems to surface repeatedly is fairness. We all get disgusted with the Wall Street bankers; we don’t like it when we have to pay for something and someone else does not. We are being pitted against one another in this political controversy, and that gets us nowhere.

Unfortunately, this has turned into a private sector versus public sector battle, but we need to realize that we need each other. If public employees don’t have money to spend in the community, the private sector loses, too. I have an uncle who worked for a private company in Wisconsin and belonged to a union. He is now comfortably and happily retired thanks to the work their unions did for him. He agreed that good pay and working conditions attract better workers. He, as well as my brother who owned a business in Madison, voted for Walker so he would balance the budget. Neither had any intention of voting for union busting.

When I asked my uncle if he would have given up his bargaining rights, he answered a vehement: “No---never!” Both my brother and uncle said they would call their representatives tomorrow and tell them to vote no to the bill. The middle class needs to fight for this, or there will no longer be one. Nurses, snowplow drivers, sewer workers, police, postal workers, military personnel, firefighters, teachers, etc. are all rallying in Madison to preserve the rights of the middle class. These people may be you, your family or your neighbors.

We are all in this together. Don’t let this controversial bill pit us against each other. Please write emails and call your legislators throughout the state and voice your opinion today. They work for us, both private and public employees of the middle class.

Letter to P'ville Journal 2/20

2011-02-20T08:16:00.000-08:00

Editor,

The faculty and staff of the Platteville School District would like to thank the parents and community for their support and understanding as we struggle to uphold our commitment to our students and our profession. Many of you have expressed your support directly and through your children. Again, thank you.

We are doing our best to come to school and do our jobs as teachers, counselors, secretaries, librarians, cooks, aides, custodians, coaches, advisors, and mentors while our minds and hearts feel the pull of duty to support our fellow Wisconsin educators in Madison who are rallying to preserve the long-standing quality of education for the students of Wisconsin. As you may know, many of us have taken personal days and spent our evenings and week-end making the trip to the capitol. We strongly believe this is necessary to uphold the quality of education in our state and our community.

Education and children are our priority; we work in the schools because we know these young people are our future. We teach them to stand up for themselves when they truly believe in a cause, and we are now modeling that behavior.

Platteville has always stood up for education; we are not going to sit down now. We would appreciate your continued support.

With sincere appreciation,

Mark Ludlum, President

Platteville Public School Educators and Staff

Wisconsin May be Open for Business---but our Schools Will be CLOSED

2011-02-18T05:58:00.000-08:00

Everyone understands Gov. Walker’s attempt to balance the state budget, but snatching the bargaining rights from hard-working people is like hog-tying the cow before the slaughter.

Here are some points to consider:

People who have owned successful businesses have had good workers, good customers, good lenders or investors, as well as public services such as schools, postal services, roads, etc. Why are we giving big businesses tax breaks and picking on public employees in order to balance the budget?
How can you be a Badger fan without supporting the educational system it is built on?
Public schools educate the minds of children no matter how much money their parents make. Is taking away people’s hope for a better life for their children a good way to balance the budget?
One argument for Gov. Walker’s bill is that public workers do not pay toward their own health insurance or retirement; however, those who work in the public sector make at least eight to ten percent less than those who hold comparable positions in the public sector. Years ago, teachers and other public employees were offered benefit packages in lieu of higher wages. Now that health insurance has turned into a "golden cow," they want it back without talking about it.

So far, elected officials have used the “Do as I say, not as I do” approach. They need to take the proposed insurance and retirement benefit cuts first.

People who enter jobs in the public sector do so knowing that they will not get rich. These people understand that cuts need to be made, but the sacrifices must be done across the board.

Please let your elected officials know how you feel about this.

Walker Rant

2011-02-13T15:13:00.000-08:00

When we study Thoreau in junior English, I talk about how Martin Luther King got his idea for peaceful protesting from Gandhi and Thoreau. These people believed that if the government did something objectionable, then it was the citizen's job, and right, to object.

So, consider this an objection.

Governor Walker's stance on refusing to negotiate with unions because "the state has nothing more to give" is infuriating and unfair. If it were not for unions, workers would not have decent wages, conditions and benefits. Granted, the state and national budgets need balancing, but why not set an example and start at the top?

Why can't the Governor show that he and the other elected officials are going to do some cutting too. I want to see them slice their salaries and benefits as much as they are proposing to do to the other state workers. Then, maybe people wouldn't resent it so much. It has begun to feel like a dictatorship that is accusing the workers for being at fault for the state's budget problems.

Walker should sit down with union reps and talk about what they can do to help make the most efficient cuts so that education is not compromised. This may take some time, but this budget deficit began many, many years ago, and it is not going to get repaired easily.

One would think that Walker would want his own two high schoolers to receive a good education from well trained, well educated, well paid teachers. Or, do his kids go to a private school? I don't know. But, that is what could happen if education and teachers become disrespected. What young person wants to spend five years learning and preparing for a profession that is not respected by our state's highest official?

Only the rich will be able to afford a good education for their children by sending them to private schools. Do we want this elitist attitude? Too many good, smart people have been educated in public schools.

MOST Creative Writing Class

2011-01-20T07:14:00.000-08:00

Thanks to all my creative writing students this semester:) I will SO miss first hour with you all, and you surely did yourselves proud on your final projects---the movie, the readings at the coffee shop with bongos and everything! Wow. It only occurred to me after I got home why you were all laughing when I was going to read a poem about my dogs. How could I forget about the standing joke about me throwing the puppy out the upstairs window when I was two?

In honor of you all, here is the song I wrote for you that is to be sung to the tune of "Winter Wonderland."

Tiffany sings, oh so loudly

While Grant drones, monotonely

Megan G. says, "That's enough,"

And Paige says, "Hey, shut up,"

In my MOST creative writing class.

Amanda draws, 'cause writing's a bother

And Daniel writes about his mother

Taylor puts her work off

While Emily doth scoff

In my MOST creative writing class

In the back, Samantha is texting

to Meg P. who's visiting Hollywood

If you look close, Caleb is dozing

And Anthony is late and in "a mood."

Erin says, "I saw a movie,"

And Sophia says, "I'm from Germany"

And Nick takes it all in

And sits there with a grin

In my MOST creative writing class!

Thank you for the great semester!

Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie

2011-01-15T12:38:00.000-08:00

Finals week is next week, and this semester of Creative Writing will soon be a memory. A good one, at that. This year I've had an interesting mix of students, all of whom can write, despite what they say about themselves.

Let it snow!

2010-12-28T12:19:00.000-08:00

Ah! Christmas vacation! Snow, rest, lights, fire, hot cocoa, walks, cookies, books---all the things that make being away from the daily duties of teaching worth while.

On Christmas Eve I walked the dogs up the hill after dinner as the flakes fell on as silent o' night as I can remember. Lights glowed in the neighbors' warm houses as they celebrated their various seasonal rituals and traditions. In the quietude it was easy to seize the moment for its beauty, unlike those precious ones lost in the clatter of dishes and crackle of paper.

As I returned home, down the hill, our house glowed with warmth too.

On Christmas Day I walked the dogs again, this time in the other direction. I noticed that the snow sparkled, and I tried to think of a simile to describe it without using a cliche. So, that ruled out diamonds, frosting, sugar, pieces of glass, etc., even though they were apt.

While pondering, I decided to make a snow angel, so I put down the leashes and turned my back to the snow bank and sat, then lay down. Angel, the older dog, took it all in stride, but Brady cocked his head and looked at me like he was the smart one.

I began to move the snow with my arms and legs to form arcs for my "dress" and "wings." Only, I noticed I couldn't quite get my arms above my head like I remembered doing in the past. I tried harder, but it pained my shoulders.

My angel as fully formed as I could manage, I attempted to stand up. I didn't want to put my hands down to ruin the outline of my creation---but I couldn't get up.

Brady pranced around, laughing. He trotted over to help, and I said, "No, You'll ruin the angel."

It was no use, though. Wiggle and grunt though I might, I had no choice but to put my hands down in the snow to hoist myself, which left two deep impressions on the side of my perfect angel and a sprinkle of paw prints to boot.

I thought about trying another one to improve my technique, but the dogs were impatient. The important thing is I made the angel, and it was still pretty, though imperfect, there in the snow bank that looked like a frosted, sugary cake, decorated with a sort of angel-like impression.

When I got home, I told my husband the story and said my wing span isn't what it used to be.

He laughed and said, "That's because our body span is more than it used to be.

It was funny, only because he said "our."

To Fiction or Non?

2010-11-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

Writing fiction is fun. It's like playing God to a world; in fact, one creates a world and the characters, the setting, the plot. It's heady stuff. It's also hard to do well.

I also enjoy writing nonfiction, though, then one is limited to the facts, or at least your version of the facts. Really, there is no such thing as nonfiction. Everything written is someone's rendition of something that really happened. Even biographies tell only the writer's side, and if that writer did interviews to give a more balanced approach, it helps, but it still is limited in perspective.

Maybe fiction is more honest and true than nonfiction, for at least the author does not claim it to be real and factual. It's been shown that even studies and statistics are skewed, depending on the survey questions, the demographics of those surveyed, and the prejudices (either outward or subliminal) of the researcher.

That being said, I do like reading and writing "nonfiction," but I always keep in mind that it is one author's perspective. Both fiction and nonfiction have a basis of facts, or else we wouldn't be able to relate to it at all. Even Star Wars has characters we can relate to. We all know a Han Solo or a Luke Sky Walker. Right, Mr. Ludlum?

What do you think? Fiction or non?

NoNames Ramble

2010-10-24T08:25:00.000-07:00

The piles of papers I have to correct has driven me to blog. Yeah, anything to avoid them. I figure the stack will take me a total of 24 hrs. to grade, so there's no way I'm getting them done today. Why even try?

Went to see a movie last night at the Avalon, the local movie hub in downtown P'ville. They're hosting the Driftless Film Festival in the area, and the feature film I saw was called "NoNames." It was pretty interesting, really, but certainly not in an uplifting way. A group of townies in central Wisconsin spend their days getting drunk and getting high as a way to escape the town without leaving it. All seem to have no end of problems and no jobs to speak of, so they bond together in their hopelessness.

Every small town seems to have these characters who graduate from high school to the locar bars. Alcohol must make life seem challenging, or why would they keep going to the same establishment, paying good money to take part in the same stupid banter and suffering the same sickening hangover?

Darren Borrows (Ed Chigliak) of "Northern Exposure" fame portrays a local deputy in the flim who tries to talk some sense into the main character, Kevin, who insists on screwing up his life, over and over again, in a cycle of stupidity. Baxter, Wisconsin is a disgusting, toilet of a town, or at least that's the side of it that we're privvy to.

I couldn't help but compare it to "Northern Exposure's" Sicily, Alaska, where life in a small rural town was portrayed at quaint, serene, and fun, though immensely quirky. The viewer would love to be a part of the simple life in Sicily, whereas life in Baxter is seen as a prison sentence and the dwellers dopes for staying there.

Small towns can be OK, I think. It all depends on how you spend your spare time and brain cells. No different than in a city, really. Cities have bleak, seamy sides, too: homeless, jobless people, crime, gangs, etc.

The film had great music; lots of accoustic guitar and folksy songs. I liked that much better than the country, Farm and Fleet musak they could have chosen for realism. The soundtrack gave the film some flavor, in a good way.

All the World's a Stage

2010-09-28T18:12:00.000-07:00

Love the suggestion from Shakespeare for my Elvis story. Thanks.

Speaking of "All the world's a stage," I bussed on up to Spring Green to the American Players Theater with 50 or so high schoolers and Mrs. C last Friday to see Shakespeare's hillarious, As You Like It.

That "stage" quote is from that play, and oh, how true it is.

'Twas a glorious production, with costumes and music from the '3os and even a performance from Mother Nature mid-show. In the scene where Ganamede is speaking to her cousin about Orlando's love notes she's found dispersed throughout the forest, the wind blew one of the notes from its nail and carried it back and forth, dancing in front of the characters for about 20 seconds or so. She played her part beautifully.

The thing I like most about Shakespeare is the humor, and the APT players know how to ham it up to the hilt. Audrey and Touchstone stole the show with their innuendo and slapstick antics. The crowd of students in the audience seemed to take it in with relish.

And, our PHS seniors conducted themselves like seniors; how awesome!Wait, is Logan a senior? Well, almost all were a delight to chaperone.

About 14 years ago I chaperoned a group of sophomores to see As You Like It. I remember it distinctly. The actress who played Audrey had on a pretty revealing costume, and a student name Logan was rather smitten with her. When we returned from the play and I asked the students how they liked As You Like It, Logan said, "I liked Audrey."

"She was a good actress," I said.

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But she sure had on a pretty dress."

Of course, the class laughed.

Yes, all the world's a stage, and that includes the classroom.

Becoming the King

2010-09-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. Somehow that teaching school thing gets in the way of my writing, but---it also gives me stuff to write about.

Not today, though.

Today, I want to relate an experience I had last weekend at Platteville's Dairy Days. My cousin Peggy invited me to go see Tony Rocker, an Elvis impersonator performing in a tent on the main stage, actually, the only stage. He was asked back by popular demand, as everyone loved him when he was here last year.

I sat in the front row with Peggy and her friends, visiting until the show started. Tony's back-up band played tunes from the 60s and 70s to get us going, and they did. They're a rockin' bunch. They put out every thing they had into a myriad of standards, like Wipeout, Sweet Caroline and Daydream Believer. Very talented musicians. It would have been enough just to listen to them.

Then, the lights dimmed, the drums rolled, and Elvis, aka, Tony, was escorted to the stage sporting the black leather and chains of the tough Elvis. And, he WAS Elvis. He owned every little facial tic, from the sneer to the sexy smile, and every sexy move, from the gyrating hips to the perfectly timed karate chops. He sang ballads and rock, and walked through the audience distributing handshakes, beads and sashes, and he never left his character. Never.

In the second set Tony came out in a replica of Elvis' famous all-white, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. He rocked some more and his moves got increasingly harder, including several pantsplitting, leg-stretching moves to the floor. He was sweating, big time, even though the tent had open sides and the night was cool. He was workin' it, and the crowd loved it, especially a drunk lady who danced around in front and almost fell into the audience.

I saw Elvis at the Colliseum in Madison in June of '74, and he died in August that same year. The person I saw was a rather large blob trying to move around, but with little success. He began songs; stopped the band; and tried again. I think he may have sung one song all the way through without interruption. But, the crowd cheered and loved him just the same, because---well, he was Elvis. Ironically, he died as a result of the people who loved him. He was a victim of his success and lost himself in the bargain, or the fame, somewhere along the line.

Most of us spend our lives trying to "find ourselves" and our "comfort zones." Last weekend I saw someone who spends his life trying to be the best he can at being someone else. And, it was a bit eerie how good he was at it, too. He was a better Elvis than the real Elvis I saw.

Actors pretend to be other people, too, but they have different roles. Tony's got one, and he portrays it over and over to crowds who love it. It would be hard not to lose yourself in the persona, wouldn't it? There's a short story here somewhere; I know it. I'll call it "Totally Elvis" or maybe "Resurrecting the King" or "Lost in a Game." Let me know what you think.

Ed's Cafe

2010-08-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

On Sunday mornings Ed's Cafe, known locally as "the truck stop," serves freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth, big, honkin' cinnamon rolls. One can either order caramel pecan or vanilla frosted---if there are any left to be had.

My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.

The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.

You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.

It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."

One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.

Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.

We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.

I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."

Shoo!

2010-08-20T05:51:00.000-07:00

For a few days the humidity cleared and we slept with the windows and patio doors open. We were serenaded by the frogs croaking rhythmically in the trees, while the cicadas sang the lullaby. An easy breeze played with the curtains, and it was almost like camping, maybe too much so.

At 2:00 a.m. I was awakened by a noise out on the deck. I listened, still as could be, and sure enough there it was again. Last summer there were a number of break-ins by someone who entered homes in the early morning in search of purses, cameras and easy-to-carry valuables lying around. Some friends of ours awakened in time to frighten her away and warned us to be vigilant and keep doors locked.

I got up, and by that time the dog was barking wildly and trying to jump through the screen door. I flipped the outside light on. And, there they were, the little rascals: one on my lounge chair, one tightrope walking on the rail of the deck, and the other inspecting the gas grill.

There was a party on our deck, and the baby raccoons were having a good 'ol time.

I watched as they gathered at the grill, for they smelled food, or what was left of it. One crawled on top and was trying to open the lid, while the others inspected the bottom and licked the grease from the deck, the bottom of the grill, as well as the propane tank.

Okay, they were cute, but enough fun for one night; it's time to go back to bed. I grabbed the broom and shooed them. They sat there and looked at me until I began to wave the broom about. They slowly walked away and then turned to watch me like I was their entertainment, so I put the broom down and slid it across the deck at their feet, and they took off running down the steps.

Hmpf. Got rid of you, you little stinkers!

I went back to bed, but not two minutes later I heard a tapping sound, over and over. What were they up to now? I flipped the light on again, and there they were playing with the broom, hitting it with their paws and watching it rock back and forth as it hung off the edge of the deck. Then, they went back to the grill to try to figure out how to get inside to scavenge the bits of food they knew were hidden in there.

Yes, they were adorable, waddling around, chattering at each other, like cartoon characters or something: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Moe, Larry and Curly or the Three Musketeers. But, enough is enough. I've got to get some sleep.

How do I get rid of the scamps, though? They didn't really seem to afraid of me or my broom, and I didn't want to sic the dogs on them for fear of an all out battle of bites and scratches. I didn't have a BB-gun and probably wouldn't use it if I did.

I went to the sink and filled a big cup with water and ventured onto the deck. All three of them sat by the grill and looked up at me with shining mischievious eyes, like, "What ya gonna do now, sucka?" I was about six feet away, and I threw the water over them and they high-tailed it outta there and never came back.

My husband and daughter slept through the whole thing. When I told them about our early morning visitors, they thought I'd been dreaming---until I showed them the evidence. All the little pawprints had dried on the deck and left a trail from the grill and down the steps.

Auntie Mae

2010-08-11T06:42:00.000-07:00

You've probably heard of the Broadway musical about eccentric, bizarre, and borderline crazy Auntie Mame who could "coax the blues right out of the horn." She may have been something, but I have an Auntie Mae, who is the antithesis of Mame, and I'm right glad she is. She's as down to earth and non-eccentric as pork 'n beans. My Auntie Mae has been a dependable staple in my life, providing me with kisses, hugs, smiles, and birthday cards for as long as I can remember.

When I was little, Auntie Mae, whose real name is Marian, called me "Lulu" after the girl in the comic strip who enjoyed getting into mischief. "Uh, oh, Lulu's here. Now there'll be action," she'd say, laughing.

And, she was right. None of that dull sitting-around stuff for me. When we went to visit her house, I found the much-needed fuel for fun in her four kids, for I lived alone with my parents. Greg was older, and a cool teenager, so he brooded in his room much of the time, but the others were always game for tag, bicycle riding, red-light/green-light, or whatever. I'm sure my high energy hi-jinx drove her crazy, but she never let on---too much.

In a day and age when good men are hard to find, Auntie Mae lucked out and nabbed two fine husbands in her life time. Virgil, the first one and the father of her kids, was a noisy, kind-hearted, fun-loving sort who was into nature and camping and architecture. He created a fish pond in his back yard, and once, just for kicks and under the influence of the deceased, he and my dad had a funeral and buried an empty whiskey jug near our campsite in Yellowstone Park. Such hymns they sang! I remember riding in the back seat of Auntie Mae and Virgil's station wagon and going to get milk from the store, all of us kids singing and joking, and for a little while I wasn't an only child; I was part of a big family.

At far too young of an age, a brain tumor took Virgil's life, and after awhile Auntie Mae became reacquainted with and married Bob, a guy she had known growing up. Bob enjoyed fishing, gardening and outdoor activities, and he and Auntie Mae had much fun relaxing and having a few "berrs" (beers) together at the end of the day. She often bragged about Bob's cooking, but "Oh, that man's messy," she'd say. (Auntie Mae, my mother, and their sister Doris [Dottie] were raised by their mother to be the patron saints of cleanliness---and they were.)

Auntie Mae loved simple things: a good laugh, good friends, good food. She steered clear of conflict, and I never heard her say anything bad about anyone else. Though she had endured the horrific pain of losing a child and did not feel well much of the time in her later years, she didn't make a habit of complaining.

In all the family pictures, she and my mother have their arms around each other; Mom was the girly girl who cooked and polished the stove, and Marian the tomboy just back from milking the cows. They exchanged letters on a weekly basis back in the day, but switched to calling as their arthritis made writing difficult. Auntie Mae could write the best letters. Kind of like "Seinfeld," they were about nothing, really, but her personality was revealed in them. She liked to write something funny and then put "Ha!" after it. Her letters always made me feel like I was a special part of her life because she shared it so honestly.

Mom passed away in March, and I began calling Auntie Mae about once a week to sort of fill the gap, but I think maybe I filled in for my mother for her, too. Now, Auntie Mae, age 80, is gone as well. There were three sisters raised on that farm in Squirrel Hollow in Glen Haven, and all have passed away.

I will miss you Auntie Mae.

No Reservations Vacation

2010-08-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

The ferry ride that totes cars and people from one side of Lake Michigan to the other rocks. It's a four-hour mini trip that will get you in shape for a longer ocean cruise. And, it's a heck of a lot simpler and faster than driving around the lake through Chicago if you're headed from Wisconsin to Michigan or vice-versa.

We purchased our tickets online for the S.S. Badger and boarded in Manitowoc, Wisconsin for the trip to Ludington, Michigan, arriving forty-five minutes ahead of time for the 2:00 departure time, but we didn't do any departing until 2:45. Oh, well. We explored the ship and relaxed in lounge chairs watching sea gulls and people, so it wasn't too bad---until the air horn behind us sounded our departure, knocking our ears off and blasting our blood into high gear again.

The ferry has two decks and offers much to occupy time when you reach mid-lake and see aqua blue every which way you gaze. Bingo, movies, TV, video games, two restaurants, a lounge deck and cabins to rent are the fare. The ferry does a run at night too, so I suppose some passengers want to get some shut-eye "or something."

Older kids ran around investigating the nooks and crannies, while younger ones napped in strollers. Many passengers were reading actual books. I was impressed. Beware, though, the food and drink is expensive, like anyplace where they know you can't really go anywhere else. They've got you, and they know it.

When you get to the ferry, you leave your keys in your car and they park it on the boat, while a drug/bomb-sniffing dog inspects your vehicle for safety purposes. The poor dog barked almost the whole trip; I don't know if he was seasick, scared or mad, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.

When we docked in Ludington, we stood on the second deck and watched the "runners" as they drove the vehicles from the ferry. They whisked it off, parked it, and ran back for another one, a process that took about 45 minutes, total. The boat was full, and apparently there were about 400 passengers that day. Many of them rode bicycles and took off immediately when we docked.

I wanted to make reservations for a hotel, but my husband said, "Oh, there're always hotel rooms. Let's go see what there is instead of booking ahead." He's just not a reservation type of guy.

Right.

After seeing a bevvy of no vacancy signs posted, we stopped anyway, and the innkeeper said there was not a room to be had from Ludington up to Traverse City. Hmm. So, we thought, we're sleeping in the car tonight. Well, we drove a few miles up the coast and stopped to get a pizza. Apparently, there was a big casino up the road; one would think they would have ample rooms to keep their clientelle captive and satisfied.

Wrong.

Yes, I was disgusted, but I held my tongue, pretty much. The lady at the casino desk said she'd call an out-of-the-way resort outside of Onekama, about twenty minutes away. She did, and lo and behold they had one "doll house" left. (A doll house is a cabin with a bed and bath and a front porch.)

"We'll take it," I said. Ha. It's only right my husband get to sleep in a doll house tonight.

Portage Point, it was called, and it was pretty cool, I must say. There was a lake, a lodge with a restaurant and bar, hiking trails, shuffleboard, a dance hall, boat and jet ski rentals, and all the amenities a summer vacationer would want. It reminded me of the resort in the movie Dirty Dancing. And, we never would have found it had we made reservations. I guess it pays off---sometimes.

We had a relaxing breakfast and spent the rest of the morning sunning ourselves on a sandy beach of Lake Michigan a few miles away. It was a perfect day: sunshine, gentle breeze, and, we had it pretty much to ourselves. Awesome!

The next night we spent in Traverse City at a time-share hotel. We went to the beach and then had a meal at a Mexican restaurant across the way. Very relaxing.

The next day we bought fresh Michigan cherries and peaches at a roadside stand. (Delicious!) And, we stopped for a piece of pie at a little diner in a small town, and my husband and I agreed it was one of the best, if not THE best, we'd ever had. (Not counting mine, of course. But, it came pretty close.) He sampled the blueberry, and I, the raspberry. Yum!

We spent the last night in Green Bay, and I took a dip in the hotel pool in the morning, and we headed off for home. All in all, a delightful four-day get-away, with no reservations!

Summer Reading

2010-07-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

Eat, Pray, Love the movie comes out on August 13th and stars Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem. I'm excited. I loved the book, though books are usually better than movies, so we'll see.

Started the summer getting lots of books under my belt and have slowed a bit. Cape Cod Magic was a good read if you like a man's perspective on how his parents' relationship affected his marriage. It's funny, introspective and sometimes slow. But, that is good for a summer read.

The Elephant Keeper kept me interested, though the writing was very basic. It's historical fiction and set in England, so it gives an interesting glimpse into the past. The ending is somewhat weird, as the main character and the elephant have long conversations with each other. It was entertaining, though.

For Book Club I read The Help, and it was by far the best book I've read in awhile, with thought-provoking perspectives and historical references to the racial tension of the 1950s and early 60s. It was uplifting, kind of like the "Rocky" of African American maids. I wanted to give a cheer at the end for the women who, in their own way, stood up for themselves.

Today's a good reading day, too. A gentle breeze, no humidity. Have to take a blanket and Leap into Darkness to the back yard for some contemplation.

Almost forgot, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was the best reading of the summer after The Help. It was bizarre in places, but the creative voice of the narrator and glimpses into Oscar's family were memorable and real. It shows how we all have a history, and it affects us greatly, along with environment and circumstances beyond our control. Cool book, but beware if you don't like swearing; the narrator tells it like he sees it, no words barred.

Poofing the Japanese beetle

2010-07-27T05:33:00.000-07:00

Summer is simmering to a full boil. Ample rain and sunshine have pushed the flora into aromatic bloom on lush foliage, and the Japanese beetles love every bite. They chomp their way through leaves like Pac Men through mazes, leaving skeletal leaf veins in their wake.

I get out my Seven Dust and poof it over anything remotely green and tasty, and the pesky buggers still chomp the white-coated leaves, then die. No sadness here. I sweep them off the deck with gusto.

With all the rain we've had, I'm out there "poofing" dust and sweeping a lot. But, those plant vultures will not win. Let them eat cake!

Birthday Blog

2010-07-20T06:43:00.000-07:00

This is my first birthday without the woman who made my birthdays possible. On this day every year she would recall the hot, humid day I was born at 3:15 a.m. at the old hospital. She said she didn't remember my actual birth because back then doctors used ether to calm patients. In other words, she was pretty much knocked out.

My father was in the adjacent park, pacing and smoking cigarettes, waiting for the news, also common for the times. She said when they showed me to her, she counted my fingers and toes and looked me over. I was long and skinny with blond hair and a ruddy face.

We went home after about five days, and my father and older brother did the wash and hung out the laundry on the clothesline for the first few weeks. When my father first showed me to his Uncle Bert and Aunt Vera, he unwrapped the wrong end of the bundle of blankets carefully, and proudly displayed my tiny feet.

In later years, we always vacationed over my birthday. Until I was five or so, we rented a cabin on Diamond Lake in Cable, Wisconsin, where we roasted hot dogs on the beach, caught fireflies, fished, swam and boated. Later, we got a camping trailer and traveled throughout the South and West, and, one year, to Washington, D.C., usually with my cousins and their families. I learned to play mumbly peg, black jack and do a back flip off the diving board.

Today, I will have coffee with a good friend, lunch with my husband, and visit Mom's grave to thank her for her gift.

Not so Flagpole Neighbor

2010-07-02T06:55:00.000-07:00

When I first began teaching, I was part time and had no room of my own: I was a scholastic nomad, a cart teacher. Everything I needed for my classes that day had to be packed, stacked and organized on that little four-wheeled vehicle so I could push it to other teacher's rooms and teach during their prep periods. (If you've ever been in a crowded high school between classes, you know that this was a navigational nightmare.)

All my handouts and supplies had to be on this cart, which, I must admit, forced me to be better organized than I am now. Too many places to stash things in a big room. A few years ago, one of my former students came back to observe my class as a part of his university requirement in preparation for becoming a teacher. When he arrived, I was pawing through piles of papers for a copy of the day's schedule to give him, and he said, "Still looking for stuff, huh, Mrs. Kies?"

During that year of the cart, one veteran teacher was very fussy and never failed to chastise me if a desk was out of place or a scrap of paper left on the floor. Daily, I scrambled to straighten the desks, erase the board, and pick up the room, only to have him glare at me as I headed off to my next classroom. I didn't know if it was me, or the idea of sharing his room that irritated him, but I came to think of him as Mr. Persnickety, and sometimes worse, depending.

When I went to full time and FINALLY got my own room in the new part of our school, guess who became my next-door neighbor.

At first, I avoided him whenever possible. Then, I began to pick up on his quirks. He taught three classes of freshman geography, and one of his winter traditions was to confide in them that school was being let out early because of an incoming snow or ice storm, "but don't tell anyone." Of course being freshmen, unless someone had filled them in (and who wanted to ruin the fun?), they swallowed the bait. They looked out the windows expectantly and knowingly, and spread the word, not suspecting they'd been horns waggled. This only works once per year, but Persnickety thought it good fun and a proper initiation, I guess.

Because I had been part time and did not eat lunch or spend time in the teacher's lounge, I had not realized that Persnickety used his perfected poker face for challenging the inexperienced "rookies," both students and faculty. It was his forte---his MO. After I became full time, I found out at lunch one day that he had told one of the other teachers during her first year that, as a new teacher, she wasn't supposed to go to the Christmas party; it was only for veterans. So, she didn't go.

"Don't believe anything this guy tells you," they said. Now they tell me.

OK, I get it. He's old school. He loves high-jinx and respects experience and chutzpah. One day in the teacher's lounge he was bragging about one of his pranks, and I referred to him as body part that rhymes with "flagpole." He roared with laughter. Loved it. I'd put a stamp on his preferred persona and mailed it back to him.

He retired this year, and I'm going to miss Persnickety more than I ever would have imagined. We've been through a lot the past fifteen years, sharing our stories and commiserations while watching traffic in the hall between classes. One day two girls were beating up on another one, and he intervened; one jumped on him in anger and hurt his back, and later that spring he had to go to court and testify in the matter. Somewhere in those years, he discovered he had cancer, and has now been free of it for more than five years. Before one of his nauseating chemo treatments, not knowing what else to do, I gave him a package of Hershey's Hugs; he liked that, too.

During my prep time, bits of the lively and compelling discussion from his Social Problems class would lead me to shirk my work and eavesdrop, especially on the day he had the maximum security prison guards as guest speakers. And, when the AP Gov class decorated the room for the holidays using a cardboard soldier, their own political cartoons and Christmas lights, it could be a tad distracting.

The past two years, his grade-school age grandson Austin came to his room almost every day after school so they could walk home together. Grandpa, or Pop, as Austin called him, helped him with his homework and spelling words while preparing his room for the following day of classes. Austin always visited my room to say "hi" and sometimes drew me pictures and filled me in on his school day.

After my son passed away five years ago, and this past year, my mother, Persnickety came to my room offering sentiments of compassion. We watched each others' guided studies and each others' backs (except for that one time in the hall.) Before he left he bestowed on me a few of his plants, including Ol' Betsy, a ten-foot cactus, and his podium, embellished with layers of stickers and student autographs and laden with 30-plus years of experience and memories.

He and his wife deserve the best of retirements. Now, every day will be a snow day, only without the snow.

Herman's Hermits Invade Again!

2010-06-26T08:43:00.000-07:00

Last night I time traveled to being a young teenager again. Who would want to relive that time? The insecurity? The angst? The pimples?

I thought the same thing when I ordered tickets to see Herman's Hermits at the Mississippi Moon Bar at the Diamond Jo Casino in Dubuque last night. I talked my husband, and myself, into going: "I know, there'll be all these aging old fools like us who are trying to recapture the past, and, well, we know that just doesn't work. It'll be corny and silly. But, what the heck. Let's go and have fun."

He said he'd go. And, we did have fun.

In fact, I'm hoarse today from singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I am--- 'enery the eighth I am--I am/I got married to the widow next door/'n she's been married seven times before/'n every one was an 'enery ('enery!)/she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (No Sam!)/I'm 'er eighth ol' man I'm 'enery/'enery the eight I am. Second verse---same as the first---and yelling out H -- E -- N - R - Y at the end.

Sorry. Once a person begins, it's hard to stop.

What made the show fun was Herman's self-effacing humor: "Yes, I'd always dreamed of this. I called my Mum this morning to wish her a happy 86th birthday, and she asked me where I was. I told her, 'You'll never believe it, Mum. You'll be so proud. I'm playing tonight at the Mississippi Moon Bar in Dubuque, Iowa.'"

He said he gets to be seventeen every night, and he and the lads still get underwear thrown at them. "They're just a little bigger than they used to be is all."

In case you don't know this important era of rock, Herman of the Hermits is Peter Noone, originally from Manchester, England, was part of the British Invasion of the early 60s rock bands, along with boy bands like The Monkees, The Young Rascals, The Kinks, The Dave Clark Five, The Rolling Stones and, of course, The Beatles, and a host of other rockers with long hair and rebelious notions, or so my father thought.

"What is it with those long-haired British hoods? Why is everyone so hell-bent on giving them our money?" he'd say, as if threatened by their popularity. They were on our side in both world wars, I thought. I don't get it. He forbade me to buy any of their albums with my allowance, but I snuck a few into the house anyway, and I drew a picture of Herman that I still have in a box somewhere. Over time, Dad mellowed about this subject, but I can imagine his remarks about the autographed, Hermans Hermits t-shirt I'm wearing at this moment.

Young people need to have their own brand of music because it offers a protest to getting old. We all love the music we grew up on, and be assured my tastes have changed over the years. I like good music of all genres. Country is a little iffy, but I even like some of that, too. Still, I can't imagine being married to someone so much older, or younger, that he couldn't recognize and sing along with these tunes. And, yes, my husband sang along, too. We had a blast! (Do they still say that?)

There's nothing like the nostalgia of watching Peter Noone (can he really be 62?) singing live: "I'm Into Something Good," "Listen," "Sillouhettes," and "There's a Kind of Hush." Admittedly, somewhat bubble-gummy, these are some of the anthems of my coming of age. My recaptured youth, if only for a night.

When I was thirteen, I would have given anything to do what I did last night. After watching him sing, I shook Peter Noone's hand. Oh, the unexpected journeys of life!

M&Ms, anyone?

2010-06-22T06:17:00.000-07:00

One thing most new teachers don't realize is the breadth of their job. Not only do you get to plan lessons, teach, correct papers, manage discipline, communicate with parents, attend meetings, and coach something, but your most demanding job will be as a supply clerk.

Yes, students will request just about every item needed for any school assignment or project: paper, folders, pens, pencils, sharpener, markers, colored pencils, construction paper, poster board, note cards, paper clips, glue, rubber cement, Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, stapler, three-hole punch, scissors, Post-its, erasers, paint brushes, etc. Jump drives and DVDs have become a popular request too, especially when a video project is due. Oh, and hats, wigs and costumes are in demand as well. And, let's not forget the extra books because they lost theirs.

Some students pride themselves in being able to successfully complete a day of school and not carry a thing. They walk from class to class, swinging their arms, no backpack, no nothing. And, sympathetic students and well-meaning teachers enable them to mooch.

Mind you, supplies do not only relate to school needs. I have been asked for money,finger nail clippers, nail files, lint rollers, dental floss, tampons, safety pins, band aids, rubbing alcohol, spot remover/ laundry stick, air freshener, cough drops, breath mints, gum, needle and thread, hand sanitizer, hair spray, mirror, tissues, paper towels, and the ever popular: hand lotion. (Note: free hand lotion samples from hotels work perfectly, as they can choose their favorite scent.)

What do they think we are, Wal Marts?

One student wondered if I had a phone charger so he could charge his phone in my room. Yeah, right.

And food. OMG! Whatever you do, don't feed them. Once they find out about your stash of Ritz Crackers, Tootsie Pops, M&Ms or whatever in your desk drawer or filing cabinet, they will stare you down and whine daily like shameless puppies, until you toss them a scrap.

And the best request, yet, though it wasn't for a supply, persay: "Mrs. Kies, can you give me your password so I can get into YouTube and show you and the class a funny video?"

Yes, they will ask for just about anything. So, new teacher, it's up to you to immediately set up the boundaries and decide how willing you are to supply them with things other than knowledge.

Hazy, Crazy, Lazy---at last!

2010-06-18T05:23:00.000-07:00

Summer feels like waking up to a new day. Lots of them. Anything is possible! But, one has to complete a year of teaching to feel that utterly joyous exhileration of accomplishment and freedom.

I liken the school year to the nine months it takes to have a baby. Fall begins with limitless potential and antsy anticipation of great things to come, and I'm happy and priveleged to have signed the contract that allows me this opportunity to teach teenagers: the writing lesson I've been perfecting for 15 years, the sure-to-inspire reading technique I read about in The English Journal, and the organized computer files last year's student teacher created. (No more of my precious time spent looking for misplaced folders.)

Even the 1st quarter parent/teacher conferences cause my heart to beat faster, as parents and I conspire to turn their children on to the miraculous world of writing and reading. Pink or blue? Makes no difference.

In the second trimester, sticking to those organizational routines becomes a little troublesome, and I notice the piles have appeared on my window ledge and a stack of papers next to my computer. I'm feeling a little bogged down with the extra weight of morning meetings and Literary Magazine deadlines. At this stage, though I HATE cold weather, I consider myself fortunate to live in the magical Midwest where a zealous weather forecaster and reluctant school superindendent can work together and bless us with a SNOW DAY due to blizzard conditions. Instead of tackling tasks to get me ahead, though, I loll at home and catch up on rest, watching movies, and baking chocolate chip cookies. (One's appetite increases midway through a pregnancy.)

And, then there's the third trimester.

The downward---which feels like upward---slope to the end. After spring break, time slows to counting the weeks and days; and, if the weather turns nice early, like it did this year, look out, for summer fever sets in. Eighty degree temperatures tell the brain it's quitting time, and convincing it to continue to think and complete school tasks is a ponderous propostition.

And, after Memorial Day, each hour of labor is documented. It's time to get this baby outta here, and that's all there is to it!

Then, the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and the jubilation of being done rejuvenates the exhausted body and mind. No papers to correct. No lessons to plan. No classroom to organize. Sheer and utter joy.

Until---the baby blues set in for a brief stay while adjusting to the weight loss. I miss the students, mourn their parting.

But, not for long.

My list of projects becomes feasible because I have TIME. Let's see---there's the picture for the living room I've been wanting to paint, the upstairs closet to clean, my mother's stuff in the garage to sort, the gardening, the endless list of books to read, and, of course, the writing to do and blog to write, just to name a few. Oh, and my teacher's license needs renewing by next summer, so I need to either take classes or finish my PDP, Professional Development Plan. Whew!

I'm sure I'll be glad when fall comes around again and I won't be faced with any more summer projects and vacations to plan, just another nine months of hatching.

Until then, a little deck sitting and tree watching seems in order.

The Penis Syndrome

2010-05-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

I taught sophomores for 17 years, and as most teachers will attest, they not only learned from me, but I from them. One bizarre behavior I observed was that boys at that age were enamored by, proud of, or obsessed with their penises---to the max. They drew them on folders (not necessarily theirs), in books, on posters I had in the room (Shakespeare would have been thrilled with his endowment), on the board when I wasn't looking, or even when I was.

One year they nabbed my poster putty, the whitish gray sticky stuff I use to hang posters, and for several days I found tiny putty penis sculptures hanging indiscriminately throughout the room.

One would think that after sixteen years living with this body feature that they wouldn't be so hell-bent on displaying crude replicas. All males have them for heaven's sakes, and all females by this point know they have them. Are they reminding us or themselves? Is this a display of mature potency or male immaturity? (My vote is for the latter.)

In my 19 years of teaching, I've never once seen one girl draw anything resembling a vagina anywhere. When you think about it, wouldn't you think that boys would be drawing girls' vaginas instead of their own penises? There's probably some sex psychologist out there who knows the answer to this, but it surely is hard for me to understand.

When I switched to teaching juniors two years ago, I thought the whole penis syndrome would subside. And it has---somewhat. I no longer see penises all over the place, but every so often one pops up.

Take, last week. As a reward for reading, studying and giving my class their all, I took the AP class outside to fingerpaint. The educational connection was that we had studied movies and stories where water was the main theme, either in a romantic or realistic or naturalistic way: Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Melville's Moby Dick, Crane's "The Open Boat," and Norman Maclain's A River Runs Through It.

We took out the paints, water and paper and they went to work. Their objective was to make a piece of art by finger painting, and it had to have water in it. They had to be able to explain to the class whether their work represented romanticism, realism or naturalism and why.

It was cool to see students kneeling on the ground using the different colors, making different shapes, and getting their hands into the mess. As I walked around and looked at the creations, I noticed Matt was making a big gray whale whose fins were suspiciously round, and whose smile was suspiciously positioned at the end of the big whale in just the right place to look like---Moby Dick, literally.

And just when I thought boys matured by the time they became juniors. (Deep sigh!) Thanks, Matt.

Readin' Write

2010-05-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

Been readin' a lot lately, that is, compared to what I usually get done during the school year. Need to get writin' now, too.

Every time I get into a book I like, I get inspired to write a book like that book. I remember reading The Shipping News by Annie Prouilx and get sucked in by the the non-pretty, but alluring characters and charmed by the illustrations of little knots at the the beginning of each chapter.

I was writing a novel at the time called Closing Words about a woman who gets raped and identifies the wrong man, and I got the idea to begin each chapter with a different postage stamp because each chapter alluded to closing words from a letter or note, e.g. always, sincerely, etc. I sent for a brochure from the Postal Service which had pictures of every kind of stamp one could order, and my plan was to choose one that was symbolic for the closing words or the chapter. The novel is finished, but the postage stamp idea? Didn't quite happen.

Most of the time I don't even get the writing finished because I'm on to reading another book that inspires me in a different direction. Last summer I began a series of essays about teaching because I was romanced by Michael Perry's Population 485. It's my goal to finish those this summer.

But, I recently met fictional Olive Kitteridge thanks to Elizabeth Strout, and went to Italy, India and Indonesia to Eat, Pray, Love with Liz Gilbert. Both deposited some fine, rich starting soil over my ideas, so now I need to plant and water them so they grow into fine, strong stories. And, this morning I did yesterday's paper's cryptoquote puzzle, and it was by Albert Einstein: "Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind." Hmmm. Have to be blind not to see some writin' potential in that topic.

So many ideas---so little time!

As the end of the school year winds up, I find myself tired but inspired. This summer I will make a list and check the piece off when I'm finished. Yes. This summer I will write everything I ever wanted to write and finish everything I start!

I suppose I should put blogging on that list. Right, AZ?

Mom

2010-04-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago today I last saw my mother the way I want to remember her: smiling, hugging, joking, walking, driving.

She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.

One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.

The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.

My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.

She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.

She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.

She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.

I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.

Love ya and miss ya, Ma!

(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)

Spring is Springing?

2010-02-28T11:25:00.000-08:00

Every year at this time, students come out of their shells---not like snails peeking out, but like nuts cracking open.

Could be the weather.

Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.

Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.

One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.

Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.

The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.

One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.

Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.

Teaching Trials

2010-02-09T12:06:00.000-08:00

Part of the women's literature unit that I teach in AP Language and Composition consists of students performing a mock trial based on the play by Susan Glaspell called Trifles, also written as a short story called "A Jury of her Peers."

Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.

I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!

But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.

All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.

On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.

I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.

OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)

MAPs are our Friends

2010-01-24T08:39:00.000-08:00

Got paid to attend a seminar at school yesterday. It was on interpreting and implementing the data we get from our MAPs testing, which we do with freshmen through juniors every spring and fall. Sounds like fun, huh?

MAPs (I know I should remember, but I forgot what the acronym stands for) are tests which students take on the computer, which zero in on their skills and aptitudes in Math, English and Science. When the student answers a question correctly, the questions get progressively harder.

In the past, we have recorded the scores and done nothing with them. This seminar has provided us with some resources to help us evaluate the data critically so we can see the possible gaps in students' learning so we can fill in the missing pieces of their education by creating "learning ladders." I did like how the program gave a suggested reading list in the student's lexile range. More reading---makes sense to me.

The whole thing sounds great in theory. Finding the time to do this, not too realisitic.

"Maps are our friends" is the mantra of our geography teacher. I doubt he was talking about MAPs, the test.

Weird: I've noticed when a group of teachers get together to take a class, we become our students. Though we may get disgusted with the chronicly late student, the one who asks all the questions, the talkative ones, the clown, and the ones who don't quite get the directions the first time, we become a class of those exact students. OK, maybe not the one who throws a wad of paper across the room only to miss the wastebasket, but we certainly are not the model students that we say we want in our classroom. And, I notice by the end of the day, we become our last hour class, watching the clock and trying to get out of the last fifteen minutes of work.

We did refrain from bunching by the door like a herd of mooing cows, waiting to be let out of the barn. Just barely, though.

Here's to New Beginnings

2010-01-18T18:52:00.000-08:00

I'm back! I must have needed a break.

Can't wait for this week! It's 1st semester exam week! Yippee!

Should I tally how many students approach me about what they can do to raise their grade? (I'll resist telling them to time travel back 18 weeks---and this time try doing their work.)

Shall I count how many students come to me five minutes after taking their final exam to see what they got and what their final grade is? (I'll resist telling them to ---well, let's just leave it that I'll resist.)

Yes, exam time. Students cram. Teachers grade 'til their eyeballs crack from dry air and not blinking. And, everybody is a bit---sometimes a lot---testy. (pun intended)

But, the good thing is students get half an hour between each exam and an open campus lunch. That can make even an Algebra II test worth taking.

Teachers look forward to a new semester and a fresh start hoping that the students who didn't do their work the first semester will have learned. And, even more hopeful we are that the students who DID do their work have learned.

Hope. The thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings. Thank you Emily D.

Swimming?

2009-12-14T05:03:00.000-08:00

This year when my juniors studied romanticism, we read the usual stories: "The Devil and Tom Walker" by Washington Irving, the modern-day "Quitters, Inc." by Stephen King, and "The Open Window" by Saki, a.k.a. H. H. Munro.

They seemed to get that romanticism isn't just lovey-dovey stuff, but EXAGGERATED elements, as in supernatural happenings, good versus evil, emphasis on nature, symbolic names, and, of course, a happy ending. "Quitters" was the favorite, probably because the story is more contemporary and relateable.

Several students suggested we watch The Notebook, as it exemplified much of what we discussed in the unit. My husband and I had seen the movie in the theater and liked it, which surprised us, because the previews had made it look a bit sappy. I didn't recall any supernatural happenings, but some of the other elements were definitely there.

"We'll watch it on one condition."

"You name it," they said.

"You have to be able to recognize and give examples of the romantic elements we studied."

"Yeah, yeah. We can do that."

Most everyone (even the guys) enjoyed the film and could recognize the elements, especially the scene where Noah takes Ali out in the boat to look at the swans. It is nature at her finest, and the visual beauty of the water and trees and birds reflects the growing feelings between them, and then there is the storm, rendering the tension. And then they run to the house and begin taking each others' clothes off.

Students are rapt, even those who have seen the movie before, but the silence becomes uncomfortable.

One of my more outspoken students blurts, "What are they doing, Mrs. Kies?"

"They're going swimming." Note to self: need not reply to rhetorical questions.

"Swimming" has now become the class code word for having sex. When we read The Scarlet Letter and were discussing Hester and Arthur's tryst, the Puritans would have been proud of, or maybe baffled by, our euphemism.

One day in the midst of a discussion on a related topic, I extended the metaphor: "It's never a good thing to let anyone talk you into going swimming if you don't want to . . . and . . . if you do decide to go swimming, remember to be safe and wear a life jacket."

What comes after?

2009-12-05T17:08:00.000-08:00

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, my AP Language and Composition class read the poem "Thanatopsis" by William Cullen Bryant. We are studying transcendentalism; you know, the Emerson and Thoreau stuff? Trust your gut instinct, your sense beyond your senses, your natural inclinations.

The poem is a "meditation on death." Some students were not thrilled about the topic, but I assured them that transcendentalists have a positive outlook on death, so it wouldn't be too depressing.

So, they read it stanza by stanza in groups and wrote down what they thought he was saying. They did a keen job interpreting Bryant's "cycle of life" attitude that we are all part of nature, and when we die we just take a different form so we can feed other living things, like oak trees. (Yuck, they said.) They saw that he was advising comfort in death because it is something everyone experiences, and there is an equality in it, with no preferences given to wealth, race, or gender, kind of like when you join the armed forces. And, in death we are not alone because we have been preceded by many; in fact, more people have died, than are now living. (I'm not sure if that's true, but that's what he says.) Life for others will go on after we die, and then they too will die: the circle of life, as in "The Lion King."

The last line of the poem states that when death comes we should welcome it, wrap ourselves up in a blanket and lay down for a much-deserved rest.

"What do you think of that last line?" I ask them.

"Well, it's not true---at least not for everyone."

"What do you mean?"

"Some people die horrible deaths, wasting away from cancer and suffering, or being blown up by a bomb in Iraq," one students says.

"Yeah. And sometimes even babies die. They don't need rest. They haven't even had a chance to live."

I tell them about my grandpa who went to bed one night in his own bed and never woke up. He was about 75. Too bad it couldn't be like that for everyone.

This opens up sharing time for death stories. I hadn't realized that that's where this would go. I had intended on ending class with students rewriting The Pledge of Allegiance, putting it into different words, coming up with their own versions, just to be transcendental, thinking outside the box.

But, here we were talking about death. One relates a story about an aunt, another about a cousin.

"This is depressing," some said.

I tell them it is important to talk about it, otherwise no one will ever know what you want when it happens. We talk about the "60 Minutes" segment that told about how many old people lay in hospitals waiting to die, kept alive by machines. In the last three months of their lives, megabucks are spent trying to keep the inevitable from happening.

This leads to me telling them how our son passed away four years ago. It is a sad story, but an important one. I thought I could pull it off with no tears. I couldn't. It wasn't horrible, just a few trickles down the cheeks, but I left them with sadness right before Thanksgiving after telling them that transcendentalists have a positive outlook on death.

I don't know why I chose to share that story; maybe because Thanksgiving was our son's favorite holiday, and he was on my mind. My guess is that even Bryant shed tears over loved ones after tucking them in the blanket and laying them to rest. It's hard to eliminate the "depressing" out of death. The trick is not to let it overwhem you and make the most out of your own life while you're here.

As Robin Williams says in "Dead Poets Society, "Seize the day!"

Are you gullible?

2009-11-21T13:55:00.000-08:00

Every week I write five vocabulary words on the board, and on Monday we talk about the words, their spellings and meanings. Does the word have a root that is recognizable, as in servile, which means servant-like? Or, is the word identifiable because of its foreign language derivative, like amity, meaning friendship, coming from the Latin amicus, and evolving into both Spanish and French words for friend, amigo and ami?

This process is supposed to be a learning tool, not just a cram the gray matter activity in which students memorize the words for the quiz on Friday and then they become soundly and totally lost in space.

Invariably, every year students complain: "What do we have-ta learn these words for? We'll never use them again anyway."

I tell them the ACT test preparers recommend this list as those that juniors should know. And, I add, "What if someone else uses them? Don't you want to know what he or she is talking about?"

"Nobody in their right mind would use these words," they tell me.

To prove them wrong, I dangle extra credit points for those who run across the words in our reading or in their lives. A few swallow the bait and find the words in song lyrics and commercials of all places. I tell them how I even heard two of them on "Dancing with the Stars" last week. Len, the British judge, said one of the dances was ephemeral, and then went on to say one dancer was an enigma.

They are soooo not impressed.

At the start of the year, I prepared sentences with one of the vocabulary words missing and with a multitude of mechanical errors so we could review the words and grammar rules as well as students viewed them on a transparency. I soon found this was more work for me than it was for them. Not a good teaching practice.

So, now I save a portion of the board where they can write their own sentences with the words used appropriately. This is working much better.

Last week they were taking their Friday test, and just to mess with them, I told them "gullible," which was one of the vocab words, was written in small letters on the ceiling.

"Yeah, right," several of them said and grinned.

I told Lindsey to come up and I'd show it to her, and she said, "No," and I could tell she was afraid of being thought a fool---gullible.

I tried with several others, and no one believed me. Finally, I led Alec by the arm and pointed to the exact place on the ceiling. Reluctantly, he looked up and a grin spread over his face.

At first, they even thought Alec was in on it. But, they couldn't resist looking and soon the whole class flocked to that area of the room, looking at "gullible" and laughing.

A number of years ago, a clever student, one whose identity I never did discover wrote it on the ceiling. Maybe it was a prank to see if I'd notice, or maybe he or she did it to cheat on the test to ensure it was spelled correctly.

"How could someone write on the ceiling without you noticing?"

"I must have been out of the room and gullible enough to trust someone I shouldn't have."

Sad

2009-11-01T16:37:00.000-08:00

It's been a tough few days. A beautiful boy left us, and his mother is bereft---no---knocked down flat---whammied.

He was artistic and sensitive, and, probably, the world became too much. It can do that sometimes.

There is no sense in a young person dying. None at all. It should be prohibited. No one under seventy-five should be able to leave us. I suppose that's selfish, for there are worse things than death, I guess. Like suffering. No young person should be allowed to suffer either, mentally or physically.

But, that would be fair, and we know that life isn't. Maybe death will be. We can only hope.

You are loved, Eddy. Say "hi" to Kelly for me.

Get a Life

2009-10-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, sixty students turned in their "Who Am I" essays. And, of course, today, repeatedly, I heard, "Mrs. Kies, are we going to get our papers back today?"

"Yeah, right," I said to the sixth hour class. "I've got a life, you know."

"You do?" Sam asked.

"Yes, I do. Last night I went to yoga, then my book club meeting and . . ."

The whole class began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I suppose you sat around and talked about what you read."

"Yeah, it was fun."

The laughter increased in volume.

"You call that a life?" I heard from the back.

It just might take me awhile to get those papers corrected.

Gas Mask

2009-10-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

Every so often I get a class after lunch that is goofy and full of---air. Smelly air. Flatulence. Gas. OK---farts.

Being juniors, one would think they could handle themselves in a mature manner and do what most adults do: breath shallow until the odor subsides and, in the mean time, SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

But, no. This goofy bunch kept it up, no matter how hard I tried to change the subject:

"Do you smell that?"

"OMG. Who did it?"

"It wasn't me."

"Yeah, right."

"It came from over there. I know it did."

"OK, let's get busy on the quiz," I interject.

"Jeez, that's disgusting," Maria says, tucking her nose inside her sweatshirt.

"No kidding. Somebody let another one. It can't be the same one."

"It was you, wasn't it Jerry?"

"No, really it wasn't. I like to claim these kind of things, and it wasn't mine."

"All right, you guys. That's enough. Get busy and finish your quiz and turn it in, OK?"

They hand their quizzes in and everyone navigates around the smell as they come to the front of the room.

"I just went by it. Stay away from Monty. He did it, didn't you?"

Monty grins.

I stay in the front of the room where it's safe. And here I was worried about the spread of H1N1.

Creative---But Not Writing

2009-10-10T07:03:00.000-07:00

I took my creative writing class to the computer lab last week. Getting them to produce on the spot can be a chore, for they, like many writers, procrastinate by checking email and surfing the Net instead of writing.

Creativity usually doesn't bubble to the surface like crude oil, I tell them. It's work, and you've got to dig. So, get busy and write!

Most of them were trying to write. I was correcting papers at a table where I could casually see the computer screen of one of the worst procrastinators my class and the world has ever witnessed.

Sure enough. He had the computer camera on, goofing around. When I looked up and saw him doing this, I, like a good teacher, chastised him, as I have to do on a regular basis.

"Avi---get to work and quit fooling around."

He laughed at me, saying, "Oh, that was soooo perfect."

I was getting pissed.

I got up to tower over him and assert my authority, and he replayed the video he had been recording and turned the sound up.

"Just watch," he said.

There he was with me in the background of the picture, and he was narrating: "Well, I'm sitting here doing nothing, having fun recording myself, trying to be creative, but any minute now Mrs. Kies is going to look up and yell at me."

It was at that moment, as if on cue, that I looked up and yelled at him.

The class got little writing done that day. Several helped Avi slow my voice down and then speed it up so I sounded like I was on crack.

Creativity abounded that day, but not much writing.

Cell Phone Wars

2009-09-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

Cell phones. Can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em. What's a teen gonna do?

Last year students were told to leave their cell phones in their locker or turn them off, but the habit of being connected and having a toy in class was so addictive they felt bare and vulnerable without them. So, when the phones went off in class or students were caught texting in class, phones were taken away and then given back at the end of the day.

An old fashioned rap on the knuckles. Did no good whatsoever.

This year, we were ready for 'em. Brought out the BIG guns, so to speak. The new policy was distributed to parents when they registered their kids in August: Phones would be taken away and kept for one week after first confiscation, and two weeks for the second, etc.

And, you know what? It worked. I didn't see a cell phone in my class at all. That's not to say there weren't some stealthy, inside the sweatshirt pocket texters out there somewhere, but---what a relief. I could teach without phones beeping or buzzing or distracted texters hiding phones in pockets, behind books, or up their sleeves. And, kids were still allowed to use them in our commons area before and after school and during lunch.
What a deal!

There was peace in the classroom, until---some "parents" began to whine when their kids had their cell phones taken away for a week. Duh. They knew the policy. But, they argued: "What if my kid were in an accident and couldn't call home? Would the school be responsible? My response? "Parents: you want your kid to keep the phone? Take the blasted thing away before he or she comes to school."

I do not get parents who continuously make excuses for their kids. Kids already make enough excuses for themselves without any help. Shouldn't we all be teaching them to live with the consequences of breaking rules? Shouldn't we be teaching them that it is rude, inconsiderate and distracting to have a cell phone on during class time?

I guess I should't be surprised. Last year, the reason the cell phones were going off a lot of the time is because their parents were calling them.

Many critics say schools are not doing their jobs of educating. But, schools cannot do their jobs if parents aren't going to do theirs, or if parents do not support school policies.

Homecoming Wipeout

2009-09-19T17:59:00.000-07:00

Homecoming week is done, and so far no toilet paper is donning our trees and bushes. Yes, in Platteville it has been the mischievious custom for high-schoolers to go out at night and throw toilet paper all over the yards of classmates and teachers.

One year a student was toilet papering THE house to get, which happened to be Bo Ryan's house. Yes, the current Badger basketball coach hated the blasted white stuff when he coached at UW-P, so much so he stayed home and guarded the house the year his son was on court and his daughter was little queen.

Anyway, this student was dressed in black, flinging rolls into the trees, when someone yelled, "Cops!" So, he ran and ducked into the back seat of a parked car---which just happened to be a cop car. Busted!

Scarlet Letter Blues

2009-09-14T17:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, Hester. How couldst thou fall for such a man of air, who spouts fine words and looks comely in his Puritan frock up there in the pulpit? If he hast no substance, why bother? Why doest thou enable and humor him when all he thinks of is himself with no concern for thy humiliation? And Pearl, his daughter? Doth he not ask of her or support her? Is he absent of a heart? Oh, thou art smitten by a rogue, a rogue in minister's clothing.

---What Hester's best girl friend should have told her, had she had one.

AP class read The Scarlet Letter this summer, and we are currently hashing over the happenings and psychological implications. The first day students design letters to wear that begin with the first letter of a wrongdoing they have committed, such as lying or speeding or tattling. They wear it for a day and have to answer questions about it. Then we talk about shame and if it is an appropriate punishment. They are usually divided in opinion.

The universal, timeless issues addressed in this piece of literature amaze me, considering the time period: single parenthood, deadbeat dads, equal rights, church and state, child rearing, etc. It seems no matter how much time goes by, people are still people, with the same basic desires and temptations.

Back in the day, I remember being utterly shocked that the minister fathered Hester's child. Oh my God! How could this be? Mind you, this was before we knew about JFK and Marilyn and the secret lives of some Catholic priests. Back then, leaders were infallible heroes, and there were people who were willing to deceive and more to protect their ideal images for the public. Bill had no choice but to fess up about Monica, and considering how keeping secrets played out for old Dimmesdale, Bill should be appreciative that the press pressed him to spill the beans.

Tomorrow we will have mini talk shows where students interview the characters, trying to get into their heads. I'll let you know how it goes.

Dealing with the Natives

2009-09-10T19:01:00.000-07:00

We are studying Native American culture in junior English, one of my favorite units. We read "High Horse's Courting" from Black Elk Speaks, "Way to Rainy Mountain" by N. Scott Momaday, and part of "Song of Hiawatha" by Longfellow.

Today we had a quiz on "Way to Rainy Mountain."

"I couldn't understand it." ---You mean you couldn't get that in the five minutes you spent looking at it?

"It was too hard." ---I guess it is a bit beyond your 3rd grade reading level.

"It was so boring I fell asleep three times." ---I noticed you were more alert today.

"We shouldn't have a quiz on something we don't get." ---Good idea. Let's discuss it thoroughly and then have the quiz.

Why do we label people who whine about doing something physical, like playing football, running, or exercise of any kind, wimps? Whereas, whining about using one's brain on a quiz is OK? Isn't there such a thing as brain fat?

"Wait till you get to college. Wait till you see the reading you get then," I want to warn them, the instinctive idle teacher threat. A couple years ago one student called my bluff: "No offense Mrs. Kies, but that doesn't work with us any more. When we're in elementary school, the teachers tell us, 'Wait till you get to middle school,' and when we're in middle school, they say, 'Wait till you get to high school.'"

This year our faculty council established a school-wide emphasis on reading. During our Guided Study time on Tuesdays, all students and staff are to get out something and read. We know that twenty minutes a week is not going to improve their ACT Reading Score, but we are trying to model and practice what we preach.

So, as a dedicated English teacher, I try a different approach of encouragement: "The reading IS hard, yes, but you need to work at it. I'm not giving you things that are simple because I want to challenge you and make you think. When I was your age (they always love anything that begins with these words, so I try to use them often) I remember liking stuff that had a plot that moved fast as the Lone Ranger after a bad guy. I get that. (take time to explain who the Lone Ranger is) But, if I give you something to read that is slow and that you don't like, suck it up and read it because it's good for you. It will make you a better reader, and you might learn something, like some new vocabulary. (maybe I shouldn't have said 'suck it up' here)"

Some heads nod in "game face" fashion, but the "yeah, rights" in their eyes are portals to their true feelings: How's reading this crap about some Native American dude visiting his grandmother's grave going to help me now? I've got plenty of time to worry about the future. I'm young. I can read OK. I don't want to read stuff that makes me think. I'd rather watch the movie.

They don't know it, yet, but at the end of the reading, which includes a Native American myth out of our Lit Book, "The Man to Send Rain Clouds" by Leslie Marmon Silko, and part of "On the Rez" by Ian Frazier, we are going to watch two movies: Lakota Woman, the story of Wounded Knee told by Mary Moore, and Smoke Signals, a modern Native American comedy/drama road trip.

However, I'm not sure the complainers in the class will have time to watch. I'll need to reserve the computer lab, so they can get started on their papers about their cultural heritage. They'll need the four hours of movie time to get all their whining out of the way so their papers won't be late.

Missing Italia

2009-09-08T16:51:00.000-07:00

Foreign exchange students bring much to my teaching experience. I like to quiz them about the cultural similarities and differences of our countries. This year, I have a variety of visitors: a young man from Germany and one from Denmark, and a young lady from Italy.

Last year, Anne from Sweden was not a happy camper. She was homesick. She even began crying in my class one day and in broken English told me she missed her family. Luckily, she was able to go home after a few weeks instead of a semester, but I'm sure it seemed like the longest few weeks of her life. I wish I'd have noticed her droopy walk and sad eyes sooner. Maybe I could have directed some friendly, good-influence natives in her direction.

I have travelled abroad, three weeks being the longest, and I can't fathom going all alone as a teenager to a foreign country to live for several months in a strange family's home, let alone attend a school where I didn't have anybody familiar to hang with at lunch time. It would test one's social skills and inner stamina, that's for sure.

My Italian student has not been smiling very much. So, today I asked her, "How's it going?" She said she misses home. "Be assertive," I told her. "Just go up to people and start talking." "It's not that easy," she said. "People talk so fast that I can't keep up with the conversation. I get lost." I think she's telling me she feels like a duck out of Italy. "Tell them to talk slower," I told her. She smiled. It's a start, anyway.

Unexpected Shopper

2009-09-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

OK, this was a first. I was at the grocery store this a.m. and saw a bunch of people a couple aisles up laughing and pointing. "Hmm," I thought, "must be a baby drooling cute or something." I got to the end of that aisle and was walking by the frozen foods when a squirrel ran by me followed by several store employees, one with a scoop shovel.

That little critter had the Labor Day crowd in a tizzy: "How did he get in?" "Throw a box over him!" "What was it, a rabbit?---No, it was a squirrel looking to buy nuts." Ha.Ha. "He'll probably bite someone." "Nah, just scratch and claw 'em if he's cornered."

I bought my stuff and left, and they still hadn't nabbed the rascal. Suppose they'll set a trap tonight and hopefully let him or her loose tomorrow. Sure will have quite the story to tell the treemates when he gets home, just like I'm tellin' you.

Whew, First Week Done!

2009-09-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Went to bed at 8:30 or 9:00 every night this week. Makes me wonder if I can keep this up for ten more years like I planned.

When I issue books to students, I have them put their "last name, first name" on a notecard, along with the name, condition, and number of the book they've been given. In Madeline Hunter fashion, I modeled it on the board using my name so they could SEE what I meant. When I collected the cards, one student had turned his in with my name at the top, just as I had put it on the board. Oh great, a smart aleck I thought. When I confronted him, he got embarrassed, "That's what you showed us to do." Love those literal learners.

First unit for juniors is the Native American Unit. Began with reading "High Horse's Courting," from Black Elk Speaks. All could relate to the "sick in the belly" feeling of liking someone and wondering if that person liked you back---a cross-cultural connection. Can't wait to study Wounded Knee and watch Lakota Woman.

Very impressed with my AP class. So much fun to be in a room with those who love to read and write. Yay!

Our President wants to talk to students about the importance of education. On the first day of school I shared an article about B.B King who wishes he'd had the chance to graduate from high school and college. Said he'd major in computers and minor in music.

Really confused about the fear factor that some citizens are voicing about letting our students hear this address. Too political, they say? Doesn't freedom of speech apply to the President, too? If we are to be good teachers, citizens, and parents, shouldn't we encourage our kids to hear the President out and then discuss his message?

We're educating kids, not ostriches.

2009-09-02T10:53:00.000-07:00

I was so exhausted I couldn't write more than one sentence yesterday. Had a sore throat from allergies and talking. To bed at 8:30 last night.

Juniors presented song speeches today, and they've been very entertaining. They chose five songs that represent their lives thus far, explained each, then chose one for a personal anthem, which they played or sang for 30 seconds. Had everything from Weird Al to AC/DC to some I've never heard of.

AP student did book talks about the nonfiction book they chose to read this summer. Again, great variety, but the most popular by far was "Tuesday's With Morrie" by Mitch Albom. It IS a good one, and they thoroughly enjoyed it and analyzed the themes and style in good fashion.

Tomorrow: more song speeches and book talks. Gotta get sleep so I can stay awake. A lot harder to listen than it is to teach.

Finally---First Day

2009-09-01T11:45:00.000-07:00

I love the first day. Everyone is there, everyone behaves, everyone is well-groomed, and everyone is pretty much happy to be there.

Gettin' 'er Done

2009-08-31T06:38:00.000-07:00

A comic strip in Sunday's paper showed three kids at the beach trying to cram everything into their last day of freedom. Kids may not realize it, but teachers do the same thing.

I've got a huge list of stuff to get done today, but I'm determined to work in a leisurely walk with the dogs, for the skies are sunny and the temp moderate. Perfect for strolling along the stream. Maybe I'll even bring a book along. But, before that the closet needs rearranging---the shorts and T-shirts bumped to the back, and my teacher duds to the front. The house needs vacuuming and cupboards need stocking. Oh, and zucchini bread needs baking. Don't want to forget that. And, the flower bulbs I wanted to order----

I think I'll begin with the walk.

I know I chose the right vocation for me because I not only get excited about the first day, but I can still reach the point of hyperventillation over a new unit or an innovative concept that I'd overlooked before. And, the kids are great; never know what the day is going to bring, intelligent discussions or a bomb threat.

But, there are always things we'd like to improve, right? My biggest pet peeve about teaching is absent students. When I was a kid, I had to be coughing up blood or breaking out in huge puss-filled sores before I could miss. And, the thing is, I didn't want to miss. Now, students are excused by many parents for wimpy reasons. Like, they had a sporting event the previous day and they need to catch up on sleep, or, even worse, they went to a hip-hop concert in Milwaukee the night before. Oh, and maybe they need a haircut or need to begin their vacation a few days early. Or the best one, yet: they need to go shopping for a prom dress or a car.

I know people want their children to have it better than they did, but, come on. We're teaching these young 'uns to be selfindulgent, excuse-makers.

Some students are responsible and get their work ahead of time when they know they're going to be absent, so when they get back to school, it's all finished. Even this can be a pain for teachers because we have to guess how far we're going to get while the student is gone. Other students don't even bother to worry about their work until they return. And, then they look at you with those sweet little baby blues, smile, and say, "Did I miss anything?"

"No, not a thing," I want to say. "We sat here and did absolutely nothing while you were gone. Thank heavens you're back so we can continue with our learning."

Work Day

2009-08-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

Friday was a work day, an apt name for the last prep day before students return to the hallowed halls of PHS. I made seating charts for five classes, a total of 115 students. That's a lot of names to learn, so I like to alphabetize them by their first names so it's easier. "J" is the most popular letter for first names this year: Jason, Jeremy, Jenny, Jacob, Jenna, John, Josh, Jesse, Jessica, Joe, etc. If I start stuttering, you'll know why.

Hanging the posters that fell down over the summer is frustrating. Seems there are always those stubborn ones that do not respond to poster putty, masking tape---or even duct tape. I have a full-size one of Mark Twain that always folds in the middle, the top half lapping over the bottom like he's taking a bow.

I made out my Sept. calendar, plugged in the holidays and special schedule days, like early release, then put in my lesson plans. I'm teaching the same classes this year as last, so it was a snap; just a few things I wanted to tweak. Then---there is cleaning out and pitching stuff I don't use anymore. Knowing what to keep and what to throw out---that's everything in life---and writing.

Reflection: Being a teacher in a small town makes me a mini-celebrity. When I go to any of the local eateries, or shop at any of stores, no doubt some of the other customers or the hired help is one of my students, or has been one. Once I was out walking the dogs on a spring night enjoying the solitude, and someone in a white tuxedo popped out of the moonroof of a limo, waved and yelled, "Hey, Mrs. Kies, how ya doin'?" On Monday I found out it was one of my AP students who was on his way to prom. Last week I was walking by McDonald's and one of last year's students bellowed out the drive-thru window, "Hi, Susan Kies!"

How do they find out we teachers have first names anyway?

If I feel furtive, I might risk a visit to the beer tent during our Dairy Days celebration in two weeks. I'll have to come up with a better disguise, though, for the sunglasses I wore last year didn't work.

On a smaller scale, I know how Brad Pitt feels.

Teacher Inservice

2009-08-27T18:59:00.000-07:00

My previous posts have read more like articles. I will occasionally post one of those, but they take longer to write---and my first day of inservice for school was yesterday. That means less time. So, to keep writing on a daily basis, I've decided to post more often and keep it more casual, for now.

Going back to school after a summer break is like jumping in cold water on a hot day. It feels good, but it's still a shock. My pre-school jitter dreams began last week, so I know it's that time of year. My dreams range from going to school to find out they've moved my classroom on me, and I look and look and darned if I can find it. Another has to do with students showing up and I'm not ready. Yup, not a lesson in sight and there I stand wondering what to do.

Today we had technology training. We have a new electronic gradebook program that goes along with our attendance software, so it should make life a lot easier and save time. But, as Thoreau noticed, "We don't ride the railroad, the railroad rides upon us." Technological advances ease our lives, but then we are expected to do more with that extra time. And, sometimes the "more to do" can be more drudgery that the original task the technology replaced. Still, I wouldn't go back to keeping grades by hand and adding them up with a calculator. Nope. So, bring on the extra work.

The school without kids is peaceful, but hollow. Schools are meant to be filled with students. I'm looking forward to Tuesday!

Meetin' Mike

2009-08-15T05:44:00.000-07:00

Critiquing writing with a room full of good writers can leave you feeling like you ran a marathon up Pike's Peak in 90-degree heat. I attended Michael Perry's workshop in Mineral Point's Shake Rag Alley this past week and am currently in cool down mode. Decompressing.

It is a satisfying exhaustion, though. Like I've progressed in some way. But there is also a tinge of the let-down feeling I get after Christmas when the presents have been opened, the family goes home, and life returns to a routine.

Shake Rag Alley is an Eden for inspiring creativity, flora-filled gardens and a trickling spring right outside our door. It was here, in the reconstructed carpenter's house, that we fourteen wanna-bes gathered because we coveted what Mike Perry has: artful story-telling ability, success, readers, savvy, humility---and, most importantly, an agent and a publisher. (Perry is the author of the nonfiction memoirs Population 485, Truck, Off Main Street, and most recently, Coop.)

Mike candidly revealed the work involved in writing. He helped us see that hours of observing, thinking, jotting, stalling, writing draft upon draft, and, simply "putting one's ass in the chair" for long periods of time are necessary. I knew that part, but it was still comforting to hear it from someone who makes writing look so easy.

The element that yanked the paper from under my pen was the marketing. I thought if you write something good enough, someone will notice. A publisher will call, or an agent will request to represent you, and you can just sit back and write and harvest the kudos. Mike shared anecdotes of self-publishing and piling boxes of books in the car to peddle throughout the Midwest and wherever he could. He did benefits, radio spots, anything to stay alive and write and be known.

Even today, he spends 100 days on the road promoting his work. He is not complaining, however, and heartily admits that he is a lucky guy to do what he loves. "Yes, it's work," he says, "but look at my brothers' hands and look at mine. They are loggers. They do real work."

Horse farms, berry-picking, hitchhiking, philosophy, parent-care, love and loss and canoeing---the composition topics and personalities of the participants ran the gamut---in a good way. We cheered and chastised each other, in that order, and Mike got a few wise words in here and there, too. We were Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Stein, etc., the expatriates meeting in the same room every day to dissect and mend our words. OK, so I'm exaggerating a bit. A lot.

Mike began the workshop by telling us he'd never done one before and that he was really, painfully shy. And that he digressed a lot. I thought, Oh great, thanks for the apology up front. This guy's going to talk in circles and give us illogical spurts of absent-minded brilliance and look at the ceiling the whole time. I've had many a professor like that.

On Tuesday evening when he read and performed before a paying audience, I was dumbfounded: Is this our introverted sensei, mimicking voices, aping characters, and doing wacky improvisational asides? The audience laughed so hard, we barely noticed the hard pine benches of the Alley Stage, nor the hungry mosquitoes. Mike ended with a reading about strong women who go on after losing children. His wasn't the only teared-up eye in the cool night air.

As the week went on, Mike used his cell phone to keep himself and the class on task, though there were a few frolicking off-topic jaunts into storyland. He wholly shared his writer's mind and musings with us.

I took notes, so I could share some Perryisms, words to write by: "A little more cinema needed," "Peggin' the wanko meter---dial it back," "The elegant variation---don't try too hard," "I'm lookin' through the window, but it's not really well lit, yet," "Give it the mirror test," and "What are you feelin' in your tummy---hearin' in your head?" And the ever repeated, "That sounds like a little bit o' throat clearin' to me."

Mike reminded me of somebody. All week, I strained to think who it was. I've heard tell he's been compared to Garrison Keillor, but that wasn't who my mind was conjuring. That hammy personality and devotion to his large family. That quick, clever humor and "Aw, shucks" niceness laced with an occasional naughty comment. Ben Logan? Nope. The high forehead and deep-set eyes forming dramatic facial expressions. Finally, on Thursday the connection connected. That's it! Just push the front teeth together a smidge, add a little coiffed hair and some trendier clothes, and you've got it---Donny Osmond.

I am relieved, for had that not clicked, I'd still be unable to seriously concentrate on my writing. Free at last!

As I edit this post, I keep Mike's helpful words in mind: "TMI is in the eye of the beholder. We WANT to know."

House

2009-08-09T18:48:00.000-07:00

This house is not the house where I spent my childhood, prenatal to ten, where I bounced out of my crib, hid under the sink, threw a puppy out the second story window saying, "Doggie fly." That house, but not the memories, was sold years ago.

This is the house where my first date rang the doorbell and picked me up, where I listened to Janis Joplin's "Pearl" on our stereo, watched "Dark Shadows" on summer afternoons, and shoveled the driveway in winter. I helped Dad plant the trees at this house, and this is where he fell from his recliner after having a massive, fatal heart attack 27 years ago.

We threatened to take Mom's power tools away, but we knew she'd just go buy new ones. Her favorite was the leaf blower, which she used to clean up the pine needles shed by the giant blue spruce which now towers over her driveway and sidewalk at 410 Camp St. When Dad and I planted this tree, it was two feet tall, and I could run and jump over it. Now, only Superman could perform this fete.

"You've got to hand to these rural women," the neighbor woman said to me on the morning of my mother's moving sale. "I'd see her out there with the weed trimmer and the blower. And she's such a tiny woman."

"Yes," I said. "She'll miss all that. But, she'll be safer now. Have less to worry about."

Mom was raised on worry and never weaned of it. "I heard that siren, and I prayed you were OK." "What if we get too much rain?" "What if it doesn't rain?" "What if I can't sell my house?" "What do I do if I sell my house?" etc." I believe she worries because she believes worry wards off bad things. She is convinced if she worries enough about something and puts herself through enough grief, it will ward off the actual bad consequence.

Praying and worrying seem to be one and the same. She seems to live in constant fear of something, and I try to think back to see if she was always like that, or if it is a result of old age and her inability to do the things she used to.

Old people seem to go one way or the other. They either get jolly and accepting, figuring that can't really control anything anyway, so they'd just as well go with the flow. Or, they get cranky and negative for the same reason. It's all perspective. Mom, recently, has taken the latter path.

She is never content.

No matter how much we help her pare down her life. Now, no house to worry about, no pine needles on the driveway, no taxes, no snowplow filling up her driveway, she still sounds overwhelmed with all she has to do. All that is put upon her. What, you ask?

Well, the doctor changes her medication every time she goes, so she has to change that; the garbage needs taking down to the basement; her drawers need cleaning and sorting; she's got too many papers to deal with, and on and on. Malcontent, i.e. depression. She just doesn't want to deal with anything anymore.

Yup. Until two years ago, Mom cut her grass by herself with a push mower she bought at Farm and Fleet. Then, of course the bushes needed trimming, so out comes the electric hedge trimmer. One winter about six years ago, Mom was using the snow blower to clear her driveway, and she slipped and fell backward and cracked a vertabrae. But, did that stop her for long?

Her physical activity used to help her feel in control of things. Helped her burn off frustrations.

The neighbor girl and I used to play duets on the old upright grand piano that Dad somehow lowered into the basement of this house. Our favorites were from a book of folk songs, like "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley," "The Bo Weevil," and "Jesse James." One time we put on a show for our parents and wore short outfits and pretended to be magicians. Dad had shown us how to coil a rope in the corner and hook a thread to the end of it. We ran the thread up the wall and over the pipes in the ceiling and tied the other end to my finger. While Deanna played snake charmer music on her recorder, I waved my arms around, wrapping the thread through around my hands to make the snake climb the wall. Deanna's mom got so freaked out she screamed and got up to run away. We couldn't have asked for a better response.

I also experienced my first date at this house. When the young man came to pick me up to go to the movies, my dad had jokingly set out a shotgun in the next room. We went to the movie, and he walked me home. More dates with others followed, but then I met THE ONE.

I guess Mom has had a lot to worry about in the past, and I was one of the major contibutors to that worry, and, sometimes, it was warrented. I do wish that she could relax and go with the flow, though. She deserves it.

When she sells that house, she will lose part of her independance and her past with my dad. We will still have the memories and each other. But, I know she will find many things to worry about because that's what Mom does. Maybe it's what keeps her alive.

To Butte and Back: Part I

2009-07-31T06:13:00.000-07:00

Summer time. The sun stays up till nine or so slathering me with that much needed Vitamin D, and my brain kicks into automatic road trip gear. A full tank of gas, a clean windshield, an ice chest in the back seat, and the horizon’s the limit. Roll the windows down and the scents of newly mown grass or hay, honeysuckle, or even wet dirt and worms after a shower tempt me to hang my head out the window like a dog.

It sure beats waiting in line to get frisked, waiting some more, and then dozing in a cramped seat looking out at acres of clouds, not to mention jiggling to those lovely bumps and grinds of turbulence. Feeling the lay of the land leading to your destination is surely preferable when time permits, and, what's really cool is you can change your destination on a whim. Drive the road not so frequently taken. Stop and stretch your legs and have an ice cream cone or visit with the lady in the gas station about the storm they had last week. Did you know that when you fly to the mountains by plane, you’re much more apt to get altitude sickness than if you drive because your body doesn’t have a chance to gradually accustom itself to thinner air?

Every year my dad insisted we get out of Dodge when his vacation rolled around no matter how many household projects needed tending."Time to hit the road and see how the other half live," he'd say. So, we always took a two-week vacation in mid to late July and were on the road camping over my birthday, July 20. (Having a summer birthday was a bummer, for I missed out on birthday parties and classroom treats, but now that I am a teacher and stepping into those “later years,” I cherish my summer birthday because I can ignore it if I wish or celebrate it to the extent I want without well-wishing staff hanging up black balloons or bras all over my yard or room. I'd rather sneak into the sunset, thank you.)

Baba, my grandfather, called his children "the gypsies." Every summer my mother, the oldest, as well as her two younger sisters and one brother, would load up families and campers and away we’d go, sometimes just a general direction in mind: East, South, North, but most of the time it was West, a wagon train of sorts, more like pioneers than gypsies. Truth be told, my grandfather, was envious. If he’d have been younger and in better health he’d have joined our band for sure.

This year my husband and I trekked out to Butte, Montana to attend the National Folk Festival. He had read an article about it in the travel section of the Dubuque Telegraph Herald, so we checked the website, and our plans began to gel. The Festival is a yearly event that is held in the same city for three years, and then moves to a different location. This was Butte’s second year of hosting the Festival. It will be there again next year, so if you enjoy good music, food, culture, horses and fun, give it serious consideration. A recent poll reported that Butte is rated one of the top five places to retire, considering housing costs, recreation opportunities, beauty, and services. I concur, but what about the winters?
We made our plans four weeks before the festival and hotel or camping accommodations in Butte were all booked, so we opted for Bozeman, seventy-some miles this side of Butte. I90, four-lane and scenic, zipped us across the mountains to the festival in about an hour. Butte, once a copper-mining mecca of one hundred thousand people during its hay-day is now home to less than thirty thousand. As we rounded the last curve into Butte, our gaze was immediately drawn to the humongous human bite from the mountain, revealing a gaping wound of orange rock.

The journey: the first day we left about two-thirty in the afternoon and decided to stop at Hutch’s Motel in Presho, Nebraska at about 11 p.m. We thought about resting in the car, but a comfy bed and hot shower were too tempting. We walked into the lobby; a TV and lights were on, and we were greeted in a friendly, straight-forward manner by a sign on the counter: "Self-Registration: Please choose your room and take a key; fill out the card and in the morning pay $45 at Hutch’s Café and Restaurant next door. Thank you."

Never experienced anything like that before. The trust system of hotel management. The rooms were clean and the shower hot, and the next morning at Hutch's Cafe we paid our bill and bought our breakfast which was delivered by a wry and dry comic character; if her name wasn’t Flo, it should have been.

She the Boss

2009-07-25T06:39:00.001-07:00

Today, Saturday, July 25th, 2009, blue skies and a gentle breeze greet us in Platteville, Wisconsin, about 70 miles Southwest of Madison, and 22 miles Northeast of Dubuque, Iowa.

Yesterday, not so much.

At about 4:30 p.m. I was reading Michael Perry's "Off Mainstreet" in my den, which I call the purple room because it is painted a hue called midnight iris, and gradually, not just the walls, but the entire room became midnight iris. I looked outside to see a massive, ominous cloud slowly descending like a giant's big, bare foot.

Instead of going to the basement as all Midwesterners are instructed to do in weather like this, I, like most people, went outside to watch.

Beyond the giant's dark gray sole, clear skies and sparks of sunlight reflected off the football stadium's scoreboard in the north, like she had chosen our neighborhood as her path and spared others. It was only moments, however, before the giant lay down on our town and belched wind, rain, and hail indiscriminately.

I've lived in the Midwest all my life and never seen hail the size of big jawbreakers pelt the landscape like this. Our dog barks wildly when someone knocks at our door, but with the hail banging on all sides of the house, he didn't know which way to turn. I opened the door to show him the ice chunks bouncing on the deck, but he backed away in fear and utter confusion: What the heck is this stuff?

After a few minutes, the hail piled up, and the ground in my flower beds was white as the fleece on Mary's little lamb. We are well accustomed to white ground in the Midwest---but not in July.

The hail ceased, but the winds and rain beat on for another hour or so, and the result in the area was completely destroyed field crops, stripped of their leaves; shattered windows, a number of which filled Main Street sidewalks with shards of glass; downed trees and power lines; plugged up street drains and gutters which caused some flooding; and awed residents.

This morning as the sun shines and the breeze blows, I hear an orchestra of chain saws buzzing as cars of curious survivors survey the spoils. My husband and I were lucky, as we just have to clean up some small downed limbs and leaves. Otherwise, thankfully, all is intact. Including us.

As we uprighted our potted plants and surveyed the slaughter of our tomato plants, I commented how helpless we are when Nature decides to go on a rampage.

"Yup," my husband said. "She the boss."

Call Me Frank

2009-07-20T18:50:00.000-07:00

I'm a high school English teacher, and as you may guess, most of us have no life whatsoever beyond grading papers and making sure the world speaks in grammatically correct sentences. After all, we are the hopelessly optimistic people who continue to think up creative ways to teach classic literature like "Huckleberry Finn," "The Scarlet Letter," and "Romeo and Juliet" year after year, even though students don't even pretend to read them anymore and openly stroll into class reading a freshly printed copy of the Sparknoted assignment.

Oh, well. That's a whole other blog.

One of the perks of being a teacher used to be the conventions we were encouraged to attend before the economy went South. I once met Al Pacino and the late Gene Siskel at an NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English) convention in Chicago when they were promoting Pacino's documentary "Looking for Richard," which followed the creative process of the conception and production of his feature film, "Richard III." It struck me as bizarre how Pacino portrays glib, glossy characters on the screen, but when presented with questions in a live interview, his sentences veered and lurched, as he unsuccessfully attempted to keep his responses between the ditches. A bad night? The workings of a creative mind? Or, maybe he missed having a script in front of him.

About ten years ago in October, I attended another NCTE convention, this time in Milwaukee. The keynote speaker was Frank McCourt who was there to promote the film based on his Pulitzer Prize-winning book, "Angela's Ashes." I adored the book and his no nonsense, yet blarney-filled, story-telling style. Though steeped in the darkness of his poor and pitiful childhood, the memoir is chuck-full of humor, honesty, depth and philosophical musings, all qualities I admire in a book---and an author.

Being of Irish heritage and an aspiring writer, I envisioned my plan to be noticed by him: "Hello, Mr. McCourt. Would you please sign my name tag? I loved 'Angela's Ashes.' I saw in your book that you included a picture of the Leamy School in Limerick which you attended when you were young. My maiden name was Leamy. (I hand him my name tag and point out the name.) I'm a writer too. Love to write stories about families.---You'd like to see some of my writing? Sure, I can send something to you. Oh, why look. I happen to have a story right here in this folder.---Why, yes. I'd love it if you'd read it and comment on it.---I've written a novel, you know. Really? If you like it, you'd consider writing a promotional blurb for the cover? Oh, thank you, Mr. McCourt.---What? Call you Frank?"

Frank McCourt delivered a wry, spot-on, hour-long monologue of quips and ditties about his 30 years of teaching in the New York Public School System to an audience of a thousand teachers or more. He then took questions, and the stories flowed full-bodied and smooth, as Guinness from the tap in an Irish pub. If there were an Academy Award category for Best Live Performance at an NCTE Convention, McCourt would take home Oscar, and Pacino would be left in the dust.

After the standing ovation, McCourt signed autographs, so I stood in line going over my spiel in my mind. All the women English teachers were gathered around him, ogling in admiration, as we tend to do in the presence of a notable author. Finally, it was my turn. (I hate how the pressure builds when you're waiting in line for a long time.) Anyway, I spouted the business about my maiden name being Leamy, and how my ancestors were from Ireland, etc. He signed my name tag as he listened, gave it back, and in his Irish lilt said, "You know those Leamy people were pirates, don't you?"

"It figures," was all I could think of to say, my shining Pacino moment.

***Frank McCourt, author of "Angela's Ashes," "'Tis," and "Teacher Man," died at the age of 78 in New York City of meningitis on July 19, 2009.