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."
Monday, December 14, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
What comes after?
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.
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!"
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Are you gullible?
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.
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.
"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.
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."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sad
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.
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.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Get a Life
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.
"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.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Gas Mask
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.
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.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Creative---But Not Writing
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.
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.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Cell Phone Wars
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.
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.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Homecoming Wipeout
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!
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!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Scarlet Letter Blues
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.
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Dealing with the Natives
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Missing Italia
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Unexpected Shopper
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.
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.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Whew, First Week Done!
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Finally---First Day
I love the first day. Everyone is there, everyone behaves, everyone is well-groomed, and everyone is pretty much happy to be there.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Gettin' 'er Done
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."
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."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Work Day
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Teacher Inservice
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!
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!
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Meetin' Mike
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."
Sunday, August 9, 2009
House
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.
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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
To Butte and Back: Part I
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
She the Boss
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."
Monday, July 20, 2009
Call Me Frank
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.
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