Change is Good

Here I go restarting my career  once again. Andy Warhol once said, "They say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself." So true. I love teaching; the daily interaction with the kids, the high you get from the lesson that just freaking nails it. Teaching. I'll still be certified, I can still jump in and teach it up, but now, I'll be coaching teachers. What the hell does that mean? Coaching teachers. Several years ago our school district opened up a new avenue for educators; Instructional Facilitators. IF's. IF's were meant to help teachers become better teachers through observation, collaboration, and feedback in a coaching cycle. The concept caught on, and some great work was done. I jumped right in. My partner in crime Stephanie and I decided we could do this shared gig. One of us would be coaching, the other would be in the classroom. The theory here was we could keep our noses in the classroom, where they belonged, and still coach our colleagues up a little. The practice was we both ended up with two full-time jobs. After two years I gladly took over the classroom and Steph took the IF role over. In other schools principals began taking liberty with the role and responsibilities of the IF's. Some became assessment coordinators others organized book rooms, took on the At-risk files, and filled any position the principal needed filling. Fast Forward to 2012. NCSD, in a move I applaud, decided they would not kick in money to fund an IF in every building. Whatever money the state supplied for IF's is what the district would fund. The number of IF's went from about 50 to 25. These coaches would be operating under a different model, and anyone present IF or not, would have to interview for the job. I did, I was hired, time for a change. I'll keep you posted on how it is going.

My Sister Died Yesterday

My sister died yesterday. She had been sick, and I knew she didn't have much time left, I just thought she had more than this. My wife and I were going to visit her the first week of August, and I was sure that would be the last time I would see her. This is not my first go around with cancer. Fifteen years ago, almost to the day, it took my mom. And I'm sure before it's all over cancer will claim every fucking one of us. It is an out of control monster that just doesn't kill us, that would be too humane, too merciful. It fills our bodies with pain, unbearable, excruciating pain. It leaves us weak, crippled, unable to breathe, or walk, or piss on our own. It forces us to become these skeletal shadows of what we really are, no matter how hard we fight. It takes away our ability to think, or reason, or tell our grand kids we love them.  Then after taking our dignity, our virility, our health, our very breath, then the fucker kills us and moves on to prey on another mother, or daughter, or sister. The fucker never stops.

I will always remember my sister as a sweet, understanding soul. Over the years I have drifted from my siblings for more reasons than I care to go in to. Jo Ann was always the one that stayed connected. She never let me drift completely away. She was always there. Last winter when I would get up early to go the gym I would quickly see what was happening on facebook. Many times she was there, and would message me, giving me crap about being up so early, about going to the gym, about being just like my niece. I'm sure she was up because she couldn't sleep, or she was puking, or having difficulty breathing. She never once complained to me, never seemed to feel sorry for herself, never even let on that she was as sick as she was. It was nice to stay in touch. I am going to miss that, I am going to miss her.

Doesn't Everyone's Toenail Fall Off In June?

For forty-seven consecutive summers I have unceremoniously lost my left big toenail. Not lost it like, "Hey kids, have you seen my toenail anywhere?" More accurately I guess I lose it like, you know, the damn thing falls off. Admittedly it is only half of the toenail, and I have more than once, way more than once, given the dying chunk of keratin the final tug. As the pictures show, it is not a pretty toe. "Oh my God look at that thing!" is a common reaction when people first see it. Not the Shakira dancing in tight leather pants "Oh my God look at that thing." It's more the closeup of Steven Tyler's face on American Idol "Oh my God look at that thing."I have never entertained the fantasy that I may some day become a world famous flip-flop model. Nail polish companies are not pounding on my door.

 So, what's the deal with my toenail. Some mistakenly blame it on a cinder block. My mom always told it that way, but it was not a cinder block, it was much more glamorous than that. It was a big chunk of conglomerate stone, a large fossil from the pile of small boulders my dad proudly called "The Rock Garden." I was three years old, but I can still remember it. Not like it was yesterday, I can't even remember yesterday like it was yesterday, but I remember the good parts. I can remember I was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a white tee shirt with two wide red stripes. Don and I were doing something, probably something we had been told in no uncertain terms not to be doing, in the yard. My guess is, and this is a guess based on years of research on the subject of Don always conning me into doing something stupid, my brother was  probably conning me into doing something stupid. Here is where my memory is razor sharp. Don had that big hunk of stone in his  five-year-old grip, but his grip was failing him. One look at his face, Don truly was an ugly kid, and I knew he couldn't hang on much longer. He dropped that heavy son of a bitch right on my left  big toe.  I can remember it vividly. I remember the explosion of blood, my scream, my mom charging out the back door ready to bawl me out for  screaming, blood everywhere-pumping out from under my mangled toe with each heart beat.  The only thing I don't remember is what Don did after he smashed my freaking toe. A nice thought would be that he ran to get help, apologizing profusely for permanently scarring his little brother to anyone who would listen. A more realistic scenario would involve him laughing at my shrieking and wondering how I could be stupid enough to let a huge rock fall on my toe.

My mom picked me up in her arms and lugged me to the kitchen. She was no longer pissed at me for screaming, she was now mad I got blood on my shirt and shorts. Keep in mind I was the sixth child of this woman. She had seen her share of bloody knees and noses. Skin heals but damn it clothes are not cheap. I remember my mom holding me up to the sink, it was in a different location in the kitchen then, and running cold water over it. That's it. The toe was crushed, the nail split in two. It truly is ugly as hell.

Now comes the weird part. Since that summer day in 1964 the big, gross, deformed half of the toenail falls off every June. A few times it was gone in may, a few more it hung around until July, but June is the target date. Who knows why it does this? I have never asked a doctor. I guess, I just like looking forward to June. As of today it is still with me, but loose as hell. I will keep you posted.

Fetching Whey

The other morning while putting my shoes on  at the gym a product on the shelf caught my eye. Whey Protein. One of my fondest childhood memories washed over me. Going to the cheese factory to get whey with Coon Pickle. For those of you ignorant of all facts whey let me fill you in. It is the odorous by product of cheese making. Wikipedia refers to it as the liquid remaining after milk has been curdled and strained. From that you might be able to conjure up a pretty good image of what it looks like, and even the consistency of the goo. The stench, however, is impossible to imagine. Coon had a tank in the bed of his pickup specifically for whey. He fed the vile gunk to his hogs. We would pull around to the west, I believe, side of the cheese factory. The whey would slosh down a narrow trough and splash into the tank. God it stunk. It was worth the smell just to be with Coon. He was an endless chain of cigarettes and cuss words. Coon not only knew all the usual words, and used them frequently to perfection. His forte was inventing new and improved words, hell the way he could use prefixes and suffixes he should have been an English teacher. Any body party with the suffix -less were some of his favorite adjectives. Nutless, dickless... you get the picture. And nothing was better than when Coon was pissed at someone. That is when his star would shine the brightest.  He would rip into a ten minute dissertation on what he was going to do (dehorn was always my favorite) to his nemesis, where he was going to do it (main street was also a favorite) and to what degree he was going to enjoy it. I liked listening to Coon talk, I loved listening to him cuss. Dan and I would spend hours repeating our favorite coonisms and laugh just as hard every time. Yeah, it may have been a little vulgar, and you couldn't repeat his words in mixed company, but damn it was great. The English language needs guys like Coon Pickel, the nutless son of a bitch!

The Poetry of The Hunger Games

Giving students the opportunity to respond to literature through poetry is a great way to truly test comprehnsion. Writing poetry based on what they are reading for school or pleasure allows them to tell the story how they see it unfolding, and recreate favorite characters and memorable scenes from their point of view. Being able to compose a poem shows a far deeper understanding than answering multiple choice questions or short answer regurgitations. My teacher partner has our students reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. You've all seen it. Most of you have read it, even more have seen the movie. I have piggy-backed on to her lessons by having the kids write poetry dealing with their feelings, thoughts, and ideas about the book. Fascinating stuff. Now, with sixth graders I like to give them a little structure when writing poetry. Free verse is great, don't get me wrong. For this unit I felt a strong foundation was important. I chose four different types of poems. The Nonet, Etheree, Ballad, and Blitz poems. I use http://www.shadowpoetry.com/ as a resource for teaching poetry. Visit the site when you are looking for poetry ideas, you will not be disappointed. Like always, I write poetry alongside the students. Every poem they write I write. So, I will post examples of each type I wrote.

    Nonet-A nine line poem. The first line has nine syllables, the second line has eight, on down until the ninth line has one syllable. We brainstormed a list of characters from the novel, and the students chose two to write nonets on. I stressed character, and selecting words and syllables carefully, keeping the character's actions, thoughts, and words in the front of their minds.

  Etheree-The Etheree is a ten line poem. The first line has one syllable, the second two until the tenth line is made up of ten syllables. I challenge students to go for the double etheree descending back down to one syllable. Both the Nonet and Etheree can stand alone or be verses in a longer poem. To set this this lesson up I read the first three pages of Chapter 11 aloud to the class. "Sixty seconds..." The kids were then given the task of writing the etheree to describe those first few hectic minutes of the actual games. The action at the cornucopia.

  The Ballad-By far the most challenging for the students. Ballads originally were written as songs. I have the students write at least three seperate quatrains with an abcb, abab, or aabb rhyming pattern. the difficult part is the rhythym. The first and third lines of each quatrain have four beats. The second and fourth have three beats. Interestingly, if you can sing a ballad to the melody of "The Gilligan's Island Theme Song" it is indeed a ballad.

  The Blitz Poem-This fast moving poem really lends itself well to the plot of The Hunger Games. Start with any phrase you choose. The second line also starts with the same word as the first line. The fourth and fifth lines start with the last word of line three. That pattern goes on until line 48. Line forty-nine is the last word in line 48. Line fifty is the last word in line 47. The title is found by using the first word of the third and first word of the 47th line. You will see.

  The Nonet

 Prim

 She’s the best little sister ever
Buttercup is her gnarly cat
always relies on Katniss
tougher than Katniss thinks
sells milk from her goat
loved in the Hob
sells her cheese
chosen
smart

 Gale

 So quiet, the toughest one of all
 loves to hunt daily with Katniss
 In reaping forty two times
 takes care of his siblings
 does he love Katniss?
 could have won games
 so loyal
 alone
 big

  The Etheree

 Blood
not mine
I should run
bow and arrow
on top of the heap
I should just turn and run
wham, no! maybe not ready
grab backpack, another grabs too
his foamy red blood splatters my face
run for the trees with my pack, don’t look back


death
not yet
set to run
but I am fast
fastest of tributes
could grab bow and arrows
but would not get very far
gong sounds Peeta distracted me
How come I was not ready to run?
Maybe Haymitch did not know I am fast
grab some bread and now the orange backpack
district 9 tribute also grabs it
our eyes meet for just a second
blood erupts red from his mouth
he drops to the ground dead
run and don’t look back
knife comes my way
pack blocks it
just missed
run

  The Ballad

 It All Begins With The Reaping

It all begins with the reaping
All kids 12 to 18
They gather in their own town square
Their faces sad and lean

The hunger games is on TV
And everyone must see
The tributes battle to the death
So the rest can remain free

Prim’s name was called by Effie
She was paralyzed with fear
But Katniss jumped out of the crowd
She shouted, “I volunteer”

The Hunger Games is on TV
And everyone must see
The tributes battle to the death
So the rest can remain free

So now Katniss takes her sisters place
She will hunt the tributes down
She and Peeta Melark were chosen
To represent their town

The Hunger Games is on TV
And everyone must see
The tributes battle to the death
So the rest can remain free


 Sixty Seconds 

Sixty seconds eternity
Standing waiting to die
Haymitch said when you hear the gong
Take off young lady, fly

 But maybe I can grab a bow
And those silver sharp arrows
I can outrun anyone
my chances are so narrow

 Sixty seconds eternity
Standing waiting to die
Haymitch said when you hear the gong
Take off young lady, fly

Katniss at the cornucopia
She hasn’t made up her mind
She doesn’t want to take the advice
She knows she’s one of a kind

Sixty seconds  eternity
Standing waiting to die
Haymitch said when you hear the gong
Take off young lady, fly

The gong sounds, she starts to run
But dang, she hesitated
Will she make a daring escape
Or has she been bad fated

Sixty seconds eternity
Standing waiting to die
Haymitch said when you hear the gong
Take off young lady, fly

  Blitz Poem

 Hunt the Careers 

Katniss is a warrior
Katniss can really hunt
Hunt food for her family
Hunt tributes in the games
Games to entertain the capitol
Games to show government power
Power belongs to the careers
Power is not always obvious
Obvious alliances form
Obvious skills by tributes
Tributes are so brave
Tributes line up to die
Die by poison
Die by weapons
Weapons from the cornucopia
Weapons honed by hand
Hand given to a friend
 Hand that brings death
Death by starvation
Death by fire
Fire from the game makers
Fire of a girl
Girl in the trees
Girl is an ally
Ally in Rue
Ally in Peeta
Peeta tries to protect
Peeta, the boy with the bread
Bread thrown to a starving girl
Bread purposefully burned
Burned by fire
Burned by love
Love for Prim
Love for Rue
Rue points out the nest
Rue nurses Katniss to health
Health because of medicine
Health thanks to the sponsors
Sponsors give gifts
Sponsors because of Haymitch
Haymitch, such a drunk
Haymitch the mentor
Mentor both Peetah and Katniss
Mentor to their strengths
Strengths can become weakness
Strengths of the careers
Careers train all their lives
Careers band together
Together…
Lives…

Jumping From The Republican River Bridge

Most of us started at a young age, I know I did. Long, hot, summer afternoons at the swim pool were great in early June, but energetic, thrill-seeking boys are easily bored. The rush of the high diving board could only take you so far, the taste for adventure would quickly creep into the pit of your stomach, begging to be slaked. It usually just took one of us to get the ball rolling, "Let's go swimming at the river." We were off. We jumped on our trusty 20 inch two-wheelers, Huffy's if Cliff Caldwell was your man, Hiawatha's if you were a Nate Guy, well, guy, and south to the river we pedaled. The jump wasn't the adventure, it was the landing. The hole you had to hit wasn't very big, about the size of a car tire, and you had to avoid some huge chunks of submerged concrete left from the previous bridge. Now, we didn't just pedal up climb over the rail and leap. We worked our way into it. Jumping off the rocks at water level we would swim around, play in the current, make our way to the middle of the river, where it was always shallow on the sand bar there. Finally someone would mention jumping, and one or two of us would run back up the road, and all the way down the bridge until we were above the river. Over the railing and down to the big steel girders. Sometimes jumping off the bridge was a two man job. One in the water, marking the landing spot. One on the bridge doing the jumping. The guy in the water would start upstream a ways and then come down through the current with his hands above his head. The spot where that guys hands disappeared, that was the landing spot. I know there were kids who wouldn't jump, but I don't recall who they were. I know I jumped. Many times. One day I came home from spending the day at the lake. My mom broke the news to me, "Rick Hansen got killed jumping from the river bridge." I don't remember her next sentence. Knowing my my mom a fair guess would be, "I don't want to ever hear of you jumping off that bridge again." We did. We slowed down for a while. Rick's death caused a heightened awareness of the dangers involved. Many of us were forbidden by our parents to even swim in the river, and a few who were not already scared of jumping, were now a little spooked. I kept jumping. We even had an encounter with the Sheriff. The summer after Rick drown someone reported to the sheriff some kids were jumping off the bridge. He showed up lights flashing and proceeded to give us an ass chewing, told us he didn't ever want to hear of us jumping off that bridge again, and sent us on our way. We left, but we came back. Again and again we came back. I wonder if anyone still jumps off that bridge?

Nicknames

It seemed like everyone had a nickname in Red Cloud. I couldn't think of a better thing to write a poem about.


Nicknames galore in my hometown
from old men down to young tykes
there was Tater Istas and Peachy Pear
Boodle, Brick Stokes, Cricket Reicks.

Big Ed Wiggins old Red Spencer
and Stub Gleason could produce a grin
The Copley brothers Scoop and Speck
and the McCormicks Fats and Skin.

Spider and Puck, Hippie and Hoss
The Feltons Fats, Fattles, and Ace
The Pierces Gooch, Pizzer, Bag, and Sac
Hambones, Horse Dick, and Horse Face.

Coon Pickle had a name unique and obscure
Chongo, Marrow, and Thorley
Big Small, Bubba, Drunt, and Peads
some gained by fun others a little more sorely.

Some guys in town I've known my whole life
and never used their parent-given name
So Chico, Gome, Snicker, and Huck
to me you're always the same.