Technology and Thoreau

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

Wheee-Awww!

Last day of school for the year. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

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

Guided twirling?

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

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

And all that jazz!

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.

Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie

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.

All the World's a Stage

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.

Not so Flagpole Neighbor

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.

Hazy, Crazy, Lazy---at last!

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.

MAPs are our Friends

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.

Swimming?

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?

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.