Mrs Shaw’s Fantastic Fourth Graders and the PG-Rated Day

 It all began when we viewed a science video on angiosperms and gymnosperms. Pollination was a bit risky as we took notes on the male and female parts of a flower. But the class was rather mature I thought, especially when asexual organisms like earthworms  were introduced.

They took it like adults.

But the animated  teenagers in the video discussing gymnosperms started to push the limits of 9-year-old composure. “Gym,” the perky cartoon figure explained, “means naked. So you see, a gymnosperm, such as a pine cone, is like an unclothed seed, it has no fruit or petals on. It is a naked seed.”

I tried to play it down—although I’m certain they’ll remember that fun fact—and divert the focus to spores and their vascular type of reproduction.

Along came Language Arts, where groups of five read around the teacher’s half-circle table. The nonfiction book at hand was about dams. The Aswan in Egypt, the Hoover in Colorado. It was all quite innocent until one sweet girl who wants to be pastor when she grows up could not quite get the words out. She was reading how dams are built with concrete walls. With extra emphasis, to spit the words out she had previously tripped over, she blurted, “...the dam wall!...” 

Then I, the teacher, became the least mature of them all and exploded into uncontrollable laughter which propelled the whole table and then the entire class into a roaring cacophony. I rocked and spun on my swivel chair for a good minute until we finally calmed down to let the next child read in turn. 

Every time the word ‘dam’ was read, snickers and giggles percolated up again. The last person continued to read about their construction and when she approached and read the word, buttress, a fresh tidal wave of laughter crested. I slapped my book closed, squelching a chuckle, collected the others and said, “That’s it! We’re done! I give up!” 

Aspiring pastor girl apologized profusely.”I didn’t  mean to say it that way, Mrs Shaw. I really didn’t!” 

“Of course you didn’t, Sabrina. That’s what made it so funny. You would never curse anything, much less a wall!”

It was a very PG-rated, hilarious day! The events of which most likely reached the dinner table and ears of many a parent!

The Least of These - Part 2

 Recently, I felt our nightly addiction to Netflex was a complete waste of time. Better that we did something significant. I suggested to Tim that we find and pray about some kind of missions trip to Cuba or Haiti or even nearby Belle Glade that we could join. He agreed. 

When we were first married, in the mid-70s, our bible study group took monthly visits to an orphanage in La Gloria, Mexico. It was a great adventure full of scruffy orphans, dubious bathrooms and cockroach-filled cinderblock whose residents visited us as we slept on the concrete floors. We helped with laundry on 50s vintage washer/wringers, played with the kids, built structures, donated food and clothing and swept screen-less stucco dormitories. 

I was hankering for a new adventure of loving on the least of these.

Be careful what you hanker for. A month ago, our prayers were oddly answered when Tim received a call from his mother-in-law's landlord. They said that her condo was in need of mold-remediation and roof repairs and that all residences had to be immediately evacuated. 

So, on Cinco De Mayo, my 92-year-old Mexican mother-in-law came to stay. And it doesn't look like it will be temporary. She took over the office/guestroom.

The first morning of her stay, the internet was strangely off. We called Xfinity and netgear to see what the problem was. Our Chinese exchange student was beside himself because he had to use a hot-spot to engage in his ever-so-urgent videos games. After a morning of trouble shooting, we learned that mom-in-law had unplugged the wifi and cable devices. (A worry of hers is that leaving lamps and appliances pugged in is a fire hazard). Tim, controlling his temper as best he could, told her not to touch the wires. "I know not to touch them," she replied indignantly. " I used to work in electronics on the space shuttle for crying out loud!" He bundled and fastened the wires so she could not detach them. 

Late that night, I get a text from the Chinese student that the internet is down again. I go into her room and sure enough, she's unplugged everything digital. I reattached them without telling Tim and all is well. This happens three nights straight. Finally when Tim reprimands her again, she blames me for unplugging them! "That woman did it." 

I am so happy she is here so we can feed her regularly. Even though Tim was delivering her meals at her retirement community condo, she would not eat the leftovers in between deliveries. 

She weeds the front and backyards, hand picking all the droppings from our messy Poinciana tree. The property has never been more beautiful. She cuts things she shouldn't, so we hide the trimmers. She feeds the dog our precious coffee creamer, so we are getting a small refrigerator to stash it in. She sneaks the dog her meals, so we quarantine the dog at breakfast , lunch and dinner, so she will eat.  The dog is getting a fur problem because of his new diet of hot dogs, sausage and pudding. Fortunately, we have geriatric drinks we can sit and watch her gulp down once a day. She feeds the dog people food, including orange juice in a small dish that often gets spilled on the carpet. Saturday was spent scouring the carpets with our carpet cleaner, followed by a rug topper in her bedroom.

Her laundry is interesting. We are finding ways to trim and wash her hair although she resists vehemently.

The least of these and our prayed-for, hankered-for missions trip all in one precious, beloved soul.

Mrs Shaw's Fantastic Fourth Graders

    Demetrius was short as fourth graders go. Just shy of four feet. But he stood ten-feet tall in personality, wit and intelligence. His cocoa-brown hair skirted his neck and long wispy bangs often draped his Eeyore-shaped eyes. When he smiled the brown eyes were more like Christopher Robin’s, sparkling with unpredictability. His words were soft, his vocabulary jarringly erudite, as if a seasoned professor was trapped in his 9-year-old body.

    He offered the adjective, "ungrateful" (the one I was looking for) to describe Magpie in the book FOX. Magpie had a burnt wing and Dog was carrying him through the forest. Magpie complained a lot. "Ungrateful" was the perfect description for Magpie's character.

    Demetrius was very good at parts of speech. During reading rotation groups, I had the class make a chart listing as many nouns, verbs, and adjectives they could think of or see around the room. If they needed a challenge, I said they could add a column of adverbs. “What are verbs, they asked? One bright student chirped ‘action words.' "Yes," I said, and adverbs describe the action word and often end with ly.

    My little Steinbeck brought me his parts of speech chart and proudly displayed his word, 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,' with a mischievous glimmer. I laughed. He was quite amused with himself. I complimented that he had indeed spelled it right and was surprised that this boy--a  grand-child of 1960s Mary Poppins movie--was familiar with the word.

Photo Credit - Education4equity.com

    My class had swollen from 19 – 22 students. I was happy I had more girls than boys and all were bright and gifted. When another class of 29 walked by ours in the hall, the envious teacher asked my class size. Little did I know that was a mistake. She marched in to the principle’s office and decried her large class. The law states that 22 is the max  for upper elementary grades. I was shocked yesterday that the principle moved 4 of her students plus another new one. My perfect-sized class became a whopping 27. I did not have enough chairs and small group reading rotations became an impossibility. I felt mistreated. Was it my age? Even after two emails and a comment to the principle, all I got was a surprise visit and, with the flair of a decorator, she showed me where I could squeeze in five more desks and chairs. "I haven’t had a moment," I said and mentioned that I had 27 students. “We will hire another teacher, “ she replied. I didn’t believe her, but commented on what a nice set of students I had anyway. I remembered a parent said their child was leaving at the end of the month, so I’d have 26 then.

But Demetrius’s Mary Poppins word made me forget the challenge of a large class and beamed a bright sunny spot on the whole situation.

“Number 1 – 25 on your paper,” I said after lunch. “We are going to take a flash spelling inventory.” I confided that the inventory was really a spelling test, but spelling tests have long since gone out of teaching fashion. The words were pretty simple at first. This was a diagnostic test to see what the kids already knew, this being the first week of school and all. After about 15 words, I looked up to see little Demetrius standing in front of me. He whispered, “Give them 'supercalifragilistic…..'” I half nodded and continued with the "inventory." At number 25, he raised his hand and said, “Don't forget the bonus word." So I gave them the word. As I spoke, little Demetrius chuckled, shoulders bouncing, eyes squinting, with the cutest giggle and half-snicker on his face. He was truly amused with himself.

 And so was I.

Oh yes. Did I tell you the sad news? Did I mention that it's Demetrius who will be leaving at the end of August...?

The Least of These - Part 1

 Yesterday, my husband recounted a high-school story to our church family. 

As a teenager and new believer, Tim was asked to lead a Bible study at his Southern California high school. While many friends promise to come, only one girl showed up, and she was his ride to the before-school gathering. She also had a crush on him. 

Week after week, it was the same story. One person to listen to a prepared expository lesson. 

The end of the semester drew near and a discouraged Tim questioned God, "It's just one, Lord. Why should I go to all this trouble and teach another semester for just one?" 

You know the response. "As you did it to the least of these, so you have done it to Me."

So of course, Tim acquiesced. 

At the start of the term, other friends asked Tim is he was still going to hold his morning Bible study. He said, yes, but was doubtful anyone would show.

Well, the first study came and there were more in attendance than just the infatuated girl who also was his ride. 

Week after week, the numbers grew. The Santa Ana Valley High principal called Tim in and offered him support of any kind for the meetings. Perhaps the principal knew that--in his rough, racially-strained low-income suburban district--the effects of students meeting to learn scripture would be nothing but positive.

Soon, the library where they met burst beyond capacity and the cafeteria became their new chapel. God was faithful even when Tim doubted. 

It's not the masses that count, but the one. Each individual soul.

Although Tim did not share this yesterday, I know that at one point, after he graduated, he was teaching studies in more that ten different high-schools. And later he took his speaking talents on a Jesus band circuit up the California coast to colleges like University of California at Santa Barbara and beaches and parks like Venice/Muscle Beach. 

 

Quarantined in Paradise

This could be really nice.

If most of us didn't have to think about the bills coming due in two weeks,

We could have been ordered to self-quarantine in the bleak of winter

or suffocating summer

or during hurricane season.

But instead it's glorious spring. I mean, sun-is-perfect, temperature-mild, and breezes-caressing, gorgeous spring!

Don't get me wrong, I am working. I blog on my iPad at the breakfast table, then do an editing session on the laptop on the patio, give a remote piano lesson, and hand stitch medical masks on the lounge chair with this view

quarantined in Paradise.

I hear the weather’s not bad up in New York either. Days are warming and the lucky few with rooftop patios enjoy taking their shirt off while conducting important business calls.

Do I wish I had a job in the "essentials” sector? Yes, I think so. The dubious financial future would fly away. It's taken a long time to settle into this idea of not running out the door every morning, and stay home,  disciplining myself to be productive.

But, as a nurse or postal worker or Total Wine clerk, I'd be in constant fear that the next person I service could be sharing his life-threatening disease.

There's no comfortable place to be.

So, we work at home with rambunctious children underfoot, make them endless meals, educate and contain them.

We discover new annoying idiosyncrasies in our spouses and roommates with fresh arguments to wage.

We fumble through the limitations of FaceTime, Skype, Zoom and Google hangouts for whatever work or social activity we attempt. The online unemployment applications are crashing like bumper cars at a carnival as millions claim distributions.

And just as cases climb in NYC, the cyberspace will continue to get more crowded.

Who is holding up the World-Wide Web? Atlas? Because whoever he is, I hope he’s been pumping planets and running laps around Orion to prepare for this satellite overload.

Speaking of solar systems, if nothing else, at least the seasons seem intact.

For those of us who are not connected to a ventilator, waiting in line for Covid-19 testing or riding out a terrifying diagnosis, the sun still rises, the crescent moon still glows, our gardens grow tomatoes, the Florida Jays still twitter and we,

we will somehow find our way back to a normal spring

quarantined in this charlatan paradise.

Photo credit - thesportysommelier.com

The Last Margarita

     Friday, my job ended due to Coronavirus school closures and I just wanted to do something normal. So at dusk, hubby and I took our Starbucks gift card, mancala game board and marbles and went to get coffee. We thought sitting outside in the open air would be relatively safe.

     The young girl at the counter cheerily took our vanilla and green tea latte orders. Reflecting on my own job cut, I asked her if her work hours were affected by the epidemic's restrictions. She said not yet, but there was chatter about closing indoor seating and offering drive-through ordering only. Was she worried about pay loss? She said that Starbucks would give them catastrophic compensation. I thought, Wouldn't that be nice if the school district did that for their hourly employees?

    The sunset did not disappoint, nor did the board game and conversation in the balmy spring air.

It was the last coffee.

    Monday night. March 16th,  most Starbucks stores closed their indoor seating. We discovered that while in Orlando for our son's engagement dinner. Arriving hours early for the party, we went to two different Starbucks in search of an afternoon pick-me-up. The first store showed chairs stacked on tables through the windows. The second was open for grab-and-go only, the blue- haired millennial baristas not so cheery to see virus-susceptible baby boomers. After the 3 hour trip I needed to use the restroom. "Sorry, for employees only, but try the Target down the street," they said. Feeling the heavy pall in the room, hubby didn't even order.

     Barnes and Noble was open. There was this respectful camaraderie between the few there. Each knew the other needed to retreat to books during stressful times. Somewhere in the leafing through pages, and sampling the buffet of words there lay comfort and refuge during crisis. Silent book lovers sauntered slowly down aisles, reverent and reflective in this sanctuary of thought.

     Nestling down into overstuffed chairs, I sipped coffee and read The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (döstädning), and Tim studied the Hebrew word for "wait" as in "wait on the Lord."  The diffused spring sunlight bathed us through the window. Naps quickly followed. A masked Asian girl sat nearby. At 6:45, the store announced its closing and we headed out to the restaurant.

The last Barnes and Noble hangout? 

     Fearing restaurants would heed President Trump's urging to close Monday at 5 pm, we made sure ahead of time that Don Julio's would stay open for the surprise engagement party. In twos and threes, friends of our son and future daughter-in-law filtered in. Balloons, menus and gifts adorned the three long tables. Our well-intentioned elbow and toe taps, air hugs and knuckle punches were quickly abandoned and replaced with bear hugs and handshakes. Hand sanitizer sat like another condiment alongside salsa bottles and salt and pepper shakers. I ordered the best frosty margarita - green for St Patrick's Day--and it worked its magic. When the newly engaged couple entered the restaurant, shouts and applause erupted, reverberating joy in every heart.

It was the last margarita. 

And perhaps the final fajita.  Restaurant workers joked they stayed open for us. It will be 8-10 weeks until the virus crests and subsides if it follows China and South Korea's pattern.

Until them we hunker, hole up, self-quarantine, miss work and social events.

I couldn't have imagined a more meaningful last supper to commence isolation.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 4

Every teacher knows it to be true. But few discuss it at length.

They experience it every day:

Kindergartners are generous.

Photo Credit - www.sparklesontheweb.com

They give you more than you could ever ask for. While some say that youngsters have trouble sharing, not this bunch! They share all that they have. Even a brief kid encounter can forecast a fever or cold.

Yes,

their sneezes adhere to your sweater. A hug leaves a soggy snail trail. Their fingers are forever in their noses and mouths, then on to your pencils and keypads.

They are the gift that keeps on giving.

At Christmastime they gave her lice

 In January scabies

God knows if she had stayed til March

They would have passed on rabies. 

Several bottles of Rid later, she still found an awful black pest dangling from a blonde hair just last week. Three months and still battling the bugs.

Then there was scabies. Just the sound of the name is hair-raising. I thought scabies was something only pirates got while months at sea, or that was found with India's untouchables, or in Auschwitz prison camps.

I was wrong. In an upscale neighborhood, an unnamed teacher contracted such a bad case that the Urgent Care wouldn't approach her to examine her. The doctor excused herself to don blue latex gloves and watched across the room while the patient lifted her shirt to reveal a mass of red dots, rashes and scabs. After a prescription of a insecticidal body cream, the teacher was tortured with a month of endless itching during the aftermath.

Besides the cream, Prednisone was prescribed as an anti-inflammatory for skin issues. Prednisone has a nifty little side effect that lowers the immune system. "Do not take if around infectious environments."  This was kindergarten, folks. A hotbed of germs! An infection factory! So after two days, said teacher came down with a scratchy throat which quickly turned into to a nasty lung condition, fever and cough. She called back Urgent Care to send a Z-Pack script, quick! All during the early days of this new flu epidemic called Coronavirus!

Confession No. 4:

Teaching is hazardous to your health, and I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

Besides, menacing physical ailments, teachers must deal with extreme behavior cases. If she calls the office for behavior support too much, it will reflect on her classroom management skills. So she has to figure out how to tame the wild ones, keep the class safe and still make sure all her students achieve their basic standards, even the ill-motivated ones.  Yes, even the ones that throw chairs and hit the teacher. It's a long process of referral forms, administration observations and paperwork before the child will be moved to a behavior module. Not surprisingly, the wake of stress and missed learning takes its toll on both the teacher and the good kids along the way...

Photo Credit - www.proudtobeprimary.com

I would be remiss not to mention other half of juvenile generosity. Like the bag of coffee they bring on your birthday, the cute compliments, the little love notes left on your desk, the apple, the rose, the morning (dry) hug. Sometimes they present their ice cream money. "No, honey, keep that in your backpack till lunch."

They are funny and innocent and creative. They are curious and inventive and clever. These are the ultimate gifts that educators keep for life.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 3

At first I was revolted. As an assistant, I'd watch a teacher dole out Skittles or Gummy Bears or Starburst to reward a small student for finishing an assignment. The delirious child would munch away on a sugar-high while the teacher slipped herself a sweet snack or two--all at 9:30 in the morning! In covert disgust, I'd wonder how an adult educator could sleep at night knowing she'd indulged in kid candy so early in the morning. Any self-respecting grown-up would choose chocolate covered espresso beans, Milano cookies or pita chips--and would do so with her afternoon coffee or La Croix.

Then I took my own kindergarten class. It was hard to instill the desire to finish their phonics page or focus on their computer program or take a simple test. They wrote sloppy and didn't care. They tore books, stuck pencils in perfectly good Pink Pearl erasers, peeled the paper off their crayons and snapped them in half, cut everything including hair with their blunt scissors. They scribbled daily on their desks, under their desks and on the wall by the 'safe spot' where they were often sentenced for misbehaving. They stole from the Friday Treasure Box when I wasn't looking.

It was a disaster. Where was Arnold Schwarzenegger (aka Kindergarten Cop) when I needed him? They ate breakfast over the floor, poured syrup on the table, forgot to wash their hands and didn't flush. (Was I their mother?)

All they cared about was recess, snack time and who was or wasn't their friend for the day. Or whose shoes sparkled most or flashed the brightest LED patterns.

My superiors said it was my job to figure out what would motivate my kids. I had to get them to achieve, come hurricanes or storm surge. My own evaluation and job security depended on it. "Bribe them," they said.

So I stocked up on Goldfish, Cheez-its, Blow Pops and every form of sticky substance that 7-11 sells.  I dangled the coveted treats in front of those wide-eyed 6-year-olds at math time, social studies, reading and rug-time.

For some of them the glucose enticements worked. For others it was sidewalk chalk at recess, a visited from Officer Timmy or Go-Noodle videos.

Teaching was a bit more successful. What I didn't expect was my diffused disdain toward the candy trove. On tired afternoons, I began to eye the bags of Starburst affectionately.

Then one day it happened. The Gummy Bears were talking to me. LOUD! I reached in, took a handful and popped them into my mouth.

How I hate to admit it, but

Confession #3:

I've come to like Gummy Bears  

Photo credit - Amazon.com

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 1 and 2

The last day before winter break, the school IT guy rolled in a spanking new smart-board.

They just don't understand. My whiteboard is cracking and mottled and almost useless. If anything, I need a new white board to teach math and phonics with my trusty dry-erase pens (which do just that-dry up in a week). Why was my white board the most decrepit in the whole school?

A veteran kindergarten teacher told me that she had my room when she first started. The front wall flaunted a meadow-green chalkboard. Since the school was about 30 years old, whiteboards had not become the teaching fashion.  But that year, she said the District updated the chalk boards and transformed them into whiteboards by applying a white plastic veneer.

After over a decade of use, the cracking veneer looked like the shell of an adventurous hard-boiled egg. Picture Humpty Dumpty after he fell. I checked the upper corners of the board and found that I could actually peel the darned stuff off. Being a picker by nature my semi-psychotic urge to remove the sheet of plastic was severely tested. I SO wanted to reveal the leprechaun green and get out my little cylindrical instruments to have at it!!

Notice the 7-year old writing in cursive - a foreign language to most 4th graders!
Photo credit - Pinterest

But I resisted, knowing it probably would not peel off uniformly and look worse than it already does. Picture Humpty Dumpty meets The Hulk.

Turns out...

I don't need to worry about removing the disintegrating gook any longer because they brought me a smart board. Something that will only distract and mesmerize the children. They will pay more attention to how my pen magically draws digital colors rather than the equations I am writing. The truth is,

Confession #1:

I want my chalk board back.

If it was good (and smart) enough for NASA, it's good enough for me!
Photo Credit- Rarehistoricalphotos.com

Then there's the joy of teasing the class with that grating screech made by holding the mineral utensil at just the right angle with the precise amount of pressure. You know you miss that, too.

 I want the classic board along with McGuffey's Readers that explain the diacritical marks so children can easily blend words, which, by the way,

Confession #2:

I consult McGuffey Readers on the down low every night to see how I can sneak in diacritical marks and the "Ann has a cat" lessons.

Enough of sight words and letting kids spell anyway they want!

I learned to read using the McGuffey Readers. (Along with "Dick and Jane"). My father bought the books at Knott's Berry Farm in the Motte's Miniatures store in the mid-60s and I still have the whole set, from Primer to Book 6.  It's a shame that book 6 is really our current college level. We have been dumbed down so.   I try to smart-up my kids using the books secretly--not 'smart' as in iphones, and security systems, but as in brain power.

Plans, Pots and Life-Pursuits

You can find them at Target (Thank you, Magnolia), Joann's, and Macy's. Pots are in. And in a big way. Rustic, country-fied, modern and suspended in 70s retro macrame pot hangers.

But where can you find something truly unique and customized? Is there a skilled ceramist anywhere around Wellington? Probably just a few in the alcoves of Loxahatchee turning their potter's wheels. That's not to say that a skilled potter couldn't find a start here in Wellington though.

Especially for one young man whose mother demanded that he do something more productive with his time besides staring at his computer screen.

Sometimes your own advice can come back to haunt you.

I told my teenage son (and the other three sons for that matter) that he needed to create something 3-dimensional in real time that we could see with our eyes and hold in our palms.

At the time, the choices in high school were to take wood shop, machine shop, some kind of visual art, or cooking. But he wasn't interested in those hobbies.

So he signed up for a pottery elective. And took to it like it was the latest version of Nintendo or X-Box or today's Fortnite.

At first, the only tangible thing my son brought home was a lot of red and grey dust on his pants.  But soon his classroom creations began to line up on every dresser. Then they were scattered all over the house on end tables and shelves like confetti. Set high on top of the kitchen cupboards. They were lumpy and misshapen, bearing oddly colored glazes. Pitchers had disproportionate handles. Dishes had uneven edges. But with each passing month, the pieces grew more attractive and artistic. More refined.

Graduation came and went and my son headed to NYC to major in business, not knowing what field to pursue. But with each semester, he enrolled in fewer classes. Until, much to my dismay, he discontinued school entirely.  And this is where my words of advice came back to haunt me.

That high school elective had sparked a career, albeit a tricky one to navigate. A season in upstate New York with a kiln and small shed resulted in a portfolio of pots and a possibility of apprenticeship. Eventually he finally found his way to a pottery studio membership in Queens. That is where his collection of functional pottery, like lamps, chess sets and vases blossomed so that he attracted a major boutique hotel. After his first big order he needed to find his own work space and collaborated with a well-followed sculptor to open their own studio in the old Brooklyn navy shipyard.

His company Episode has produced lamps and ice buckets for prestigious hotels in the Caymens and New Orleans. Not bad for a self-taught artist. Each family member this Christmas received a beautiful brown Petrie lamp with the most beautiful New York stamped hardware seen on any fixture. These are nothing like the China-made versions found in Marshall's or Home Goods.

The humble high school elective has come back to compensate and reward not only my son, but his family and more and more of the art-appreciative public. I've let go of the idea of college and stopped nagging my 26-year old son. It's about time I followed in his father's parental philosophy and, "Let the boy do what he loves and wants to do, for goodness sake!"

Good advice, indeed!