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.

I Am Back

I took some time off from blogging over the last few months. I wish I could tell you I published a book, or even wrote one, but neither is true. I have been rewriting, revising, rewriting, revising on a book I thought I finished a long time ago, but I think I will never be done with it. There will be several new posts coming at you in the next few days, weeks, and months so read and enjoy.

Bill Crawford Had Applesauce and Blood Running Out of His Nose

Like you have heard me say before, I always do the writing assignments I give my students. It gives them an example of what their final product should look like, and more importantly they see me as a writer. Poetry can be a killer for 8th graders, the boys especially. Today we wrote Cascade Poems. These poems follow a simple order. There are four three-line verses. The first line of the first verse is also the last line of the second verse. The second line of the first verse is the last line of thet hird verse. The third line of the first verse is the last line of the last verse. Simple, hug. So, today after reading an article about safety issues with hot dogs, and the alarming number of kids who choke on them (now think about some of the comments you get from 8th graders when talking about choking on hot dogs) we wrote some cascade poetry about lunch. They could write about what they eat, what they do during lunch, a favorite lunch, a memorable lunch, etc. etc. Here is one of my Efforts.


It was the grossest thing I’d ever seen
Bill Crawford had applesauce and blood running out of his nose
I have not eaten applesauce since that day

My mom said sit down and eat, your lunch is ready
Bill shoveled in the applesauce so fast it ran out his nose
It was the grossest thing I’d ever seen.

That is sick I cried and ran to the bathroom
I puked and puked as I thought about it
Bill Crawford had applesauce and blood running out of his nose.

I recovered enough to return to the kitchen
Bill was still sitting there drinking milk with blood on his chin
I have not eaten applesauce since that day.

Hansel and Gretel

In class we started a fun new unit. We are putting kids in situations where they have to look at both sides of an issue, pick one side, and defend it. Hansel and Gretel was a great opening for this unit. The kids had to pick either Gretel's side or the witch's side and defend it in a five paragraph essay. As always I wrote along with the kids. So...Here it is.

At what point is enough enough? Home ownership and taking pride in your property is an ideal we all feel strongly about. If property owners are not allowed to protect their homes in any manner they see fit we will at some point be living in total chaos. In the story Hansel and Gretel the Witch was perfectly justified in keeping the little miscreants captive.
Hansel and Gretel were openly and willingly trespassing on the witch’s property. It is true they were lost and starving, but they did not even knock on the door. They didn’t look around and ask for help, they immediately began vandalizing the witch’s house. The witch was only doing what she felt she needed to do to protect her property.
The witch provided food and shelter willingly to the children. When she caught them vandalizing her house she did not yell or scream at them, she took them inside and fed them and gave them a soft bed to sleep in. Gretel herself said Hansel was given all the food he could eat. This hardly seems to be wrong.
The witch allowed the children to work off their damages. She could have very easily called the sherrif, taken the kids to court or turned them away. She allowed Gretel to work, to help pay for the damages. The witch was old after all, she could not do the work herself.
I am the last person to advocate child abuse. Locking kids up and keeping them against their will should never be acceptable. The witch was doing none of these. She was an old lady whose house was vandalized. She was providing shelter to some lost and lonely kids. That was hardly a reason to get shoved violently into an open fire.

A Boy Named Osama-A Man Named Adolph

Sometimes people are just ignorant. Sad to say that means all people, including me. My wife told me about a lady she works with. Not a close friend, just a colleague. This somewhat fastidious woman, and concerned mother, was upset her child had to read a story about a boy named Osama in school. Definitely a tough name to have in this day and age, and your heart has to go out to the kid. I did a little research and tried to find out what I could. The child is an Islamic kid attending school in New York. The constant harassment he received over his name left him severely traumatized and led to a botched (if you could ever call an unsuccessful suicide attempt a failure) suicide attempt and a transfer to a school for traumatized students. I guess it figures students would be pretty cruel to a kid named Osama. After all kids are by nature quick to jump all over strange names, and man can they be hateful. Osama, however, wasn’t bullied by other students, far from it. In his own words he described his classmates as being very supportive. No, Osama was bullied by teachers. Teachers, just like me. He was told he would never pass no matter what he did, he put up with comments like, “Oh Osama you’re here, and I thought you were hiding in a cave somewhere. The school principal went so far as to tell Osama, a Nigerian-born Muslim, he would be better off in an Islamic school. This went on for over two years and led to the eventual suicide attempt. In his new school Osama prefers to be called Sam, but will revert back to his given name when he reaches 18.
Where do my stupidity and a man named Adolph figure into this? As unpopular as the name Osama has to be for people carrying that moniker through life in this day and age, Adolph was equally hated in the post-war years. You know which war I’m talking about, the last one we won. As a child my neighbor across 4th avenue from us was named Adolph Lucas. Mr. Lucas I’m sure was a nice man. He never missed mass, always shoveled his walks, and his wife Mary was quick to share a freshly baked cookie. None of this mattered to Don and I. We were shitty to Adolph Lucas. We would see him get home from his job with the county roads department, park his pickup in his driveway, and make his slow purposeful stroll up the sidewalk to his front porch. Don and I would hide behind the bushes and yell terrible things at Mr. Lucas. You can imagine, especially if you know Don, what we yelled. The name Hitler or worse yet Heil Hitler, Nazi and a number of other equally insulting barbs were constantly hurled. Think about how cruel this must have seemed to Adolph Lucas. Imagine what he must have been thinking as he took communion and there stood Don and I as alter boys in our cassocks, doing the work of the Lord. My guess is he wasn’t mad, he didn’t consider suicide, and he wasn’t looking to sue anyone. My guess is he felt sorry for us.

I See This Kid

I See This Kid

I see this kid in front of the building
Pants way too baggy
The crotch at his knees.
A cap
Bill pointing straight to the side
Laughing, holding a skateboard
Waiting for the bell to ring.

I see this kid in the hallway
Her hair is pink, and orange, and maybe green
Big buckles, chains, adorn her
Baggy pants
Laughing and walking
With a friend

I see this kid in class
Polo shirt, shorts, flip flops
A hemp choker around his neck
Writing a poem, doing his work

Who are these kids?
What will they become?
My guess is..
Parents, teachers
And
Maybe engineers.

"Friendship Is Not One Big Thing, Its a Million Little Things"

Previously in this blog I talked about writing assignments I give my class. I always write what they are writing, and am quick to share. Today I led a great lesson on friendship. We watched three short videos with different friend-based themes and discussed each. The last video ended with a young man proclaiming "Friendship is not one big thing, its a million little things." I used that as my prompt and turned the kids loose. below is what I wrote, and no I won't share this one with kids. I did not use my school only language.

Friendship can either be the most comforting or most terrifying aspect of life. In the minds of some middle school children it is the only thing. In an ever-changing digital world where the number of friends you have on My Space or Facebook is a badge of honor to be worn proudly there cannot be a timelier topic. Last week The New Oxford American Dictionary named unfriend the word of the year. Unfriend is defined as a verb meaning to remove someone as a friend on a social networking site. Teenagers and young adults interviewed on the subject almost unanimously felt being unfriended on-line is more devastating than a face-to-face blow out. Is it no wonder the saying “Friendship is not just one big thing, its a million little things.” Is confusing to kids today.
Friendship is like a wedding cake. There is a big bottom layer. Sure I see these people as friends, but in reality they are acquaintances. People I know and like, but not really friends. You bump into them at wedding receptions and during happy hour. For the most part you are happy to see them, exchange pleasant greeting and move on.
The next layer, that smaller middle layer of the cake are the people I work with. The bond is obvious and we have a common goal. Because of these commonalities you grow close. Many times you travel to conferences and meetings with these Dudes, sit in meetings, and share that common pool of blood, sweat, and tears. With this group it is not one big thing, far from it, it is the million little things. You share joy over a kid acing a test, or finishing a paper. You cry together when a student loses a parent to death, jail, or desertion. You grieve when a treasured colleague changes schools. The million little things you have in common build a bond that knows no bounds.
The top layer, that small little chunk of sugar and frosting forgotten in the freezer, are the friends you love. You help them move with out complaining, even when the thermometer is topping out at 100 degrees. You drop what you are doing to go give them a jump start at 5:30 a.m. You leave for work 45 minutes earlier than usual so you can follow them to the mechanic then give them a ride to work. You make a million little sacrifices and get back so much more than you can count. These friends listen to you never ending litany of “fucked-up decisions made by dick-headed non-educators posing as administrators.” They pull over so you won’t puke in the car. They clean your fish and fix your lawn mower. Those friends you share a million little things with are the ones that are there when you need that one big thing.
Friendship is not an easy A. Many people grade themselves as friends closer to a C, but a high C. If you get what the saying “Friendship is not one big thing, it is a million smaller things” means that’s all that matters. You understand friendship, and live that value. Unfriend means nothing to you.

Fanning the Flames

Thank you Indianapolis. November 5-7 I attended the National Middle School Conference in Indianapolis. Teaching at the middle level is quite possibly one of the most hazardous jobs on the planet. Lacking HAZMAT suits, tazer guns, or pepper spray we wade into battle everyday armed with nothing but a laptop and a sense of humor. Dr. Sharon Faber, as entertaining an educator as you will ever see, puts it best when she describes the typical 8th grade boy. “They run everywhere they go, bump into something then make a sexually inappropriate comment when they get there.”
Seriously, I thoroughly enjoy teaching Middle School. The trials at this level are a daily reminder of just how much adolescence can suck. Each day brings Johnnies who’s heads are fighting a losing battle with gravity. “It’s weird Mr. T, as soon as I sit down gravity pulls my head straight down to the table, I’m weak I can’t lift it, oh I’m so weak.” And whose hormones are in the red zone, “I can’t believe that bitch said that, that is it, she is through, I will ruin her life.” To that one I step in and in my best Ward Cleaver intervene, “Excuse me Johnette, no matter how mad you are at one of your friends you must be respectful, think of more school appropriate language to express your feelings.”
Johnette stops texting, looks up blankly, pops a bubble and murmurs, “I’m talking about my mom you Asshole.”
God I love it. The conference in Indy stoked the old furnace. Each session I attended offered me hope, fostered confidence, and fueled the creativity I’ve always relied on in the classroom. The icing on the cake was the opportunity to be a presenter. For the second time in five years a few of my colleagues and I led a session on technology in the classroom. We once again presented to a jam-packed room. The feedback we received praised our enthusiasm and ingenuity, and validated our belief in what we are doing. And for that I say, Thank you Indianapolis.

My Best Day Ever At School

I gave my students the following assignment. Write a short personal narrative about either your best day ever at school or your worst day ever at school. When I give writing assignments I always write along side the kids. Here is what I wrote.

My throat was so dry no amount of water could slake my thirst. I had not slept for five nights. Every possible worst-case scenerio imaginable had been played and replayed in my mind like a favorite episode of Seinfeld. And yet, believe it or not, this was my best day ever in school.
From August 1980 until December of 1993 I trudged my way through college. To say my journey was more like a marathon than a sprint does not even begin to give the process the recognition it deserves. It was a marathon for sure, but imagine a marathon that at different times during the race you have various handicaps thrust on you. “For this mile and a half you will have a broken leg, wear a blindfold, and have a 100 pound bag of hammers tied to your wrist.”
I staggered, stumbled, fell in the mud, but always, and baby I mean always, picked myself up and raced on. December 19, 1993 I finished the race. I was a college graduate. And that day led me to my best day ever at school. On that day I had that degree in education and I was a teacher.
So, cotton-mouthed, sleep deprived, bowels of water and knees of jelly I stood at the front of the class, looked those 4th graders in the eye, smiled and sang to the mountaintop, “Good morning class, my name is Mr. Theobald, I am your teacher.” My first day of teaching was without a doubt my best day ever at school.

Nobody Smokes Anymore

I sometimes think my Mom’s two main food groups were cigarettes and coffee. Sure she would eat, usually after the rest of the family. With seven kids around the table, 8 if you include the old man, she had little time to sit down and join us. But during the day when children were off terrorizing their teachers, or hanging out at the pool, mom was on the cigarettes and coffee. For her smoking was a social event, a vice to be shared only with those few close friends who could appreciate a smoke filled kitchen and a pot of fresh black coffee. She wouldn’t smoke a cigarette with just anyone, no sir, that was a privilege reserved for only the chosen few.
A quick check of the contents of the ashtray was like reading the guest book after a wedding. The brand of butts ground out in the bottom of the tray revealed the afternoon’s smoking partners. If it was only Kents, you know Randi had walked up for a quick cup of coffee after lunch. These little chats usually revolved around Alter Society gossip and the latest troubles of their respective brood. Camel non-filters let you know Jeanne stopped by after her weekly trip to the grocery store. I can still see her, “I only have time for one cup Liz, I have ice cream in the car.” Jeannie loved those camels. She would take a hit, then daintily pick tobacco scraps from her tongue. A few ground out Marlboros and I knew Phyllis was up. Mom and Phyllis usually had the most animated, and longest conversations. Swim team, children, grand children, fights with spouses, and gossip, gossip, gossip.
These four women accounted for 24 children. I would be curious to know how many of those 24 smoke today. My guess is very few. I know I don’t. But I do miss the smell of cigarette smoke in the kitchen and the sound of my mom’s laughter. Nobody smokes anymore, it’s kind of sad.

School is In

Now that school is in session I am back on the blog. I had a great summer, short, but great. Over the next few weeks I will share some of my summer experiences, but today, I want to talk about school. As the year begins, my 16th as a teacher, memories of years gone by rush back. This year I find myself thinking about my third grade year.
I always look back at the old elementary school building in Red Cloud with a certain amount of reverence. The drinking fountains in the middle of the floors, the wooden stairs warped in the middle from so many Ked’s and P.F. Flyers tromping up and down through the years. My favorite feature was the little hallways each classroom had for the kids to hang their coats. It ran the length of the room and had hooks on the wall. There was a door at the end of it that entered the classroom at the back of the room. We put coats, lunches, boots and any other random paraphernalia we brought to school for the day.
My teacher in third grade, who will remain nameless at this time, was not the best classroom manager in the world. Jeff Neely and I did nothing to help her. Very early in the year we figured out a wonderful little fact. If you acted like an idiot in class she would send you out in the hallway. Neely and I were all over this. Class would start, we would get mouthy, boom, “to the hallway.” You would think she would have been wise to us, you would think she would have figured out to not send us both out there at the same time. My guess is she knew better, but having the two of us out of her hair, was the ultimate prize. Neely and I loved it.
We were supposed to sit on the floor with our backs to the wall quietly until she came out to to retrieve us. That lasted about 10 seconds. First we would check out the lunch boxes. There was always a bag of m & M’s, a Reese’s Peanut Cup, or a Nestle’s Crunch to snag. Having satisfied our craving for a snack we began inventing different games to keep us occupied. The one we truly loved was “How far can you get?”
It went like this. One of us would get up and take off down the big, wide staircase and then come back. “How far did you get Jeff?”
“ I made it to the second floor, down by Mrs. Stokes’ room.” Then I would try and outdo him. One day I made it all the way down to the basement, past Mrs. Barta’s (A freaking saint) and all the way to the music room then back up. Neely couldn’t live with this, he had to top it. Off he goes down the stairs, and then I hear, “Jeffery Neely, where are you going.” The voice of God? No Just Orpha. Seconds later, and I truly mean seconds, back came Jeff on a dead run, he slid to a stop and sat down quickly. Orpha was not that easily fooled, she was on his tail, and her claws were out. “Are you supposed to be downstairs young Man?’
“No.”
This was too rich. “I told him not to go, I told him to stay here.”
I looked at Orpha with my best Opie Taylor smile.
She looked at me, her eyes narrow, no trace of a smile. “you know Ted the less you talk the better off you’ll be.”
I still haven’t learned that lesson.

You'll Never Go Back

Sometimes the worst curse is to excel at something. From the time I was a small child I was a natural regarding athletic endeavors. Swimming and baseball occupied those pre-teen years, and I did well in them. When Junior High came storming into my life football and basketball became my passion. The skills required for these sports came effortlessly, and I enjoyed everything associated with both. Often on weekends, in the evening, or all summer I would play pick up games with older kids.
I loved football. The practice, doing drills, getting yelled at by the coaches all just thrilled me. By the time I was a senior in high school I was getting some ink in the papers and some college coaches were calling and knocking on my door. Small colleges, but colleges nonetheless. If you have never played football it is hard to describe the buzz I got during games. In the huddle when the play was called, and I knew I was getting the ball it was magical. Taking the handoff or the pitch and turning up field, stiff-arming some lowly safety or running over a linebacker, dragging some poor sucker for a few yards, even getting creamed were all huge rushes. Hauling myself off the ground and trotting back to the huddle I couldn’t wait to get the ball again couldn’t wait to hit and get hit.
Once the comfort zone we all know as High School was over I went on to college to play football. That is where the fun left the game. Everything was too serious, the coaches were too picky, and above all I partied way too much. Way too much. That whole “you have to go to class” just didn’t stick with me. Nobody gave a crap if I slept in, or skipped class, or didn’t do my assignments. No one cared, especially me. Before I knew it my grades sucked, my parents were pissed, and I dropped out of college. My Dad, never the great communicator, told me, “You’ll never go back, You’ll never graduate. The glove had been dropped, the line had been drawn, the challenge had been… You get the picture.
I didn’t go back for a while, and more than once I started to believe the old man. Maybe I wouldn’t go back, maybe I wouldn’t get that degree. There was months and even years that I didn’t think about college. I had a pretty good job. The paycheck wasn’t huge, but it was a living. Life could be worse. Sure enough, the idea started creeping back in my mind. Get that degree, get that degree. Slow was the way to go, I knew that much. I took a class here and a class there, then declared education as my major and started taking it seriously. Not one to ask for a lot of help I wanted to do this on my own. I continued working full-time and started taking 2 or 3 three classes a semester. I had a wife, two beautiful baby girls, a full-time job, and was taking as many classes as I could afford. No school loans for me, no sir, I was paying my own way.
Thirteen years after I graduated from High school, I got my Bachelor’s degree, and I did not owe one penny in student loans. I did all the work and I paid for it myself. I will never forget the look on my Dad’s face when I showed him that diploma. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many smart-ass, in-your-face little snippets I wanted to yell at him. I didn’t. Later I went on to get my Master’s Degree, and I am very proud of that, but not as proud as I am of that Bachelor’s Degree, not as proud as I am of being able to look at my old man and just shake my head, knowing he was wrong, knowing I would go back.

Mrs. Peterson, Mrs. Tupper, and Dr. Bob Kirby

The guy who worshipped basketball as a kid sometimes didn’t make the team. You know the kid, the one who could smell out a backyard game of horse from blocks away. That statistical Svengali versed in the most obscure stat on every baller who pulled on an NBA jersey. The kid who epitomized basketball sometimes just didn’t make the team. I empathize with that kid. My present attitude on writing mirrors his experience. I love writing; I study it, teach it, and practice it. Whenever possible I read as many new authors as possible. I just can’t make the team. Yet.
Three teachers, from very different levels of education, are at the origin of my current attitude about writing. In fifth grade Norma June Peterson struck the spark. She assigned writing assignments that were begging to be explored by a highly active, imaginative, disorganized, semi-rebellious, secretely-sensative boy. I loved Mr. Peterson. We wrote tall tales, the taller the better, and poems about football, and the moon. We memorized poetry. “I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth I know not where. Who has sight so keen and strong that it can follow the flight of song.”? I still remember it.
Barb Tupper taught me a completely new way to look at writing. We read Catcher In The Rye, stories from The Canterbury Tales, A Tale of Two Cities, and of course several books by Willa Cather. Through Mrs. Tupper I learned to look at literature as writing not reading. This sweet, sweet lady genuinely knew writing; I just wish she would have felt better physically. Symbolism, protagonist, theme, and conflict-terms I teach kids today first gained legs in her classes. Mrs. Tupper loved good writing, and she recognized something in me. Her feedback was always cherished, her praise always unadulterated. As a junior I won a speech-writing contest. Sponsored by the VFW, the Voice of Democracy contest that year asked young authors to write a paper titled “My Role In America’s Future. I can’t remember what I wrote, I’m sure it was bullshit. I can remember Mrs. Tupper calling me up to her desk, showing me the flyer announcing the winner of the contest. She smiled, “You’re a writer Ted,” She knew then. I just wish I had her confidence.
As my long drawn out years of undergrad study was winding down I took one last English class. Dr. Bob Kirby was my teacher. Dr. Kirby was teaching his last semester. He was looking forward to moving to Fairplay, Colorado to live in the cabin he built with his own hands. Dr. Kirby was great. A big fan of O Henry, he assigned several of the author’s short stories for us to read. In class discussing an assigned reading I always had a different slant on the story than my fellow students. I was at least 10 years older than most of them, and I’m sure that had something to do with my warped view on O Henry’s Americana. Kirby loved me, he loved my opinions, and he loved my writing. With each reading assignment came a writing assignment. Knowing we would be getting our writing assignments back that day always made me nervous as hell. What would he say? Would he hate it? He almost always had positive, encouraging feedback to offer. The last day of class with Dr. Kirby I stayed behind a few minutes to say goodbye. He encouraged me as he always did to change my major from education to English. I didn’t. He then told me “You have a knack for writing Ted, keep it up.” I have.

Young Authors

Pulling a nail out of petrified wood in below zero weather with your teeth is undoubtedly easier than getting 8th graders to write. “I don’t know what to write about!” “I don’t get it!” “Writing is stupid!” “How do you spell the?” You have all heard it. But when they start, when that idea starts to grow, when it gets legs, words like theme, protagonist, rising action, resolution, man vs. nature, all become part of your classroom vernacular. Damn! That is an incredible environment.
I strive for that, and sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Last week the district celebrated The Young Author’s Contest winners in a simple, classy, gathering. The winning and honorable mention authors were called to the stage and given a certificate. A local teacher, an incredible person, read an excerpt from each piece. The audience got a small slice of the heart-felt writing we were gathered to celebrate.
This evening was the highlight of my 15-year teaching career. A few of my students did very well, and I have to admit I felt an almost perverse sense of satisfaction. So many people in the district do not understand what we are trying to do here, but are quick to criticize-“They don’t teach any English over there at all.” Yeah, I got a little charge out of that. The students however provided the huge charge.
An ex-student of mine was a winner in the ninth grade poetry division. If you met this kid on the street poet would be the last adjective you’d imagine. Thug, gangster, wanna-be all would come to mind. How wrong you would be. This kid is a sensitive, caring individual who has been the primary caregiver to an elderly grandfather with Parkinson’s disease. His poetry was simple, concise, and teeming with emotion. After the ceremony I gave him a hug and let him know how proud I am of him. He reminded me of my role in his writing.
“You were the one that got me started Mr.T. Remember when we began writing poetry in class? I said I didn’t know how to write poetry and you told me, everything you say is poetry Will, just start writing it down.”
Another student won the 8th grade non-fiction category with his autobiography. Most 8th graders autobiographies would be pretty empty. Justin’s was brimming with detail. He wrote about the night of the fire, how we went out one door and the rest of the family used a different one. He wrote about the surgeries, the skin grafts, the skin harvesting, the fight against infection, physical therapy, months in the hospital, his incredible mother. As George shared an excerpt from this piece you could hear several gasps in the room. Tears were filling eyes, rolling down cheeks, and spotting clothing up and down each row.
Kids will write, and they will write well. But like that stubborn nail, it takes more than one person to loosen it.