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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I'm Back
As you can tell, it has been a while since I have added a post. Sorry. Joanne and I were in Italy for 10 days, then I was busy at school making sure there was "No Child Left Behind." I'm back, the posts will be piling up again. Read and enjoy and please let me know what you think.
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