Whadaya Know

Many of the students with whom I worked at the high school had struggled for years and, consequently, often built protective walls around themselves. All the empowerment in the world would have no effect without first making a connection with each individual, and finding out where they were academically and how they learned best. Only then could we begin to work toward filling in the gaps.

With some small successes under his belt, one such young man was finally beginning to come into his own as a student. As with many of the kids who came into the high school learning center for help, writing was especially challenging and required more focus than he was seldom able to command. On this particular occasion, he was actually motivated to complete a writing assignment largely on his own. His one scant page of typing had taken more effort than the two pages written by his peers and he was quite proud of it when he held out a printed version for me to check. Impressed that he had done so much under his own steam, I offered congratulations and marked a few errors for him to correct, reminding him to double space the document before printing out the final copy. He flashed me a very downhearted look, like I had slugged him in the stomach, but dutifully turned back toward the computer lab next door. I quietly marveled that he didn’t shrug off the corrections and hand the paper in “as is.” He was gone such a long time, however, that I finally broke away to check on him, afraid that he might have given in to the temptation to get sidetracked. What I found, instead, was him finishing up the last sentence of his paper, adding double spaces between words instead of lines! Oops. I had assumed too much when flipping out my instructions. I hadn’t been completely in touch with what he knew and didn’t know. This was my error, not his.

Years later, when I subbed a first grade class for three weeks, I saw again how important it was to make time for individual students so that they wouldn’t shut down. I was there long enough to get into an academic routine, but short enough that I hesitated to make too many changes. However, by the second week there was no denying that a few students were having some problems in math; fast learners were going too fast and missing some concepts and a couple slow learners were not making the connections they needed before being pushed on by the schedule to the next concept. Remembering how closed off some of my high school students had been after years of failing, I realized that this is where it started and that I couldn't risk letting these few students get lost in the cracks as well. With the generous permission of the teacher for whom I was substituting, I spent the third week focusing on small groups and individuals; assessing problems and learning styles, rearranging groups and routines, and tutoring. It was difficult to make time for everything, but, in the end, I felt that I was in better touch with individual abilities and needs, which promised better outcomes.

I think knowing where each student is in their learning is key to teaching any grade, and uncovering this involves establishing safe, respectful relationships. Although working one-on-one requires time, a commodity which is in short supply for most classroom teachers, it is a worthwhile investment because teacher and student get to know each other better. I believe that then a greater trust is established that motivates students to take risks in their learning and that benefits teachers with a deeper understanding of the skills, learning styles, and needs of the students.

Inspiration

Italy has Michelangelo’ and Bernini’s Davids, France has Rodin’s The Thinker, Washington DC has French’s Lincoln, and Eastern Oregon has Logs to Frogs. What started as a community’s unique way to capitalize on its nickname, Muddyfrogwater, has turned into a contest of creativity. These chainsaw artists are sculpting a lot more than hopping green amphibians these days.

Although I have driven by the event many times, this was the first year that I spontaneously stopped and walked around the booths. Mid-afternoon was much less crowded than when I had driven by in the other direction that morning so it was enjoyable to stroll around and take pictures. Each craftsman was engrossed in his work (Don't even think it, D.; I prefer you keep all your digits!) and no one tried to sell me anything. Grandstands were available for any who wanted to linger and a few finished items were scattered around with price tags attached or marked as items for the evening auction.

It always fascinates me how sculptors can take a lump of clay, or rock, or wood and fashion something beautiful, moving, or intriguing.

This year there was an abundance of bears and eagles as I went through, but one renegade artist was carving a couple turtles that I would have loved to have while another focused on island motifs such as a palm tree.

This character is a great representative of the modern Old West, don’t you think?

I think we are all sculptors when it comes to our own lives. Whether we start out with a master plan or spontaneously look for inspiration in the medium, or both, we are responsible for the outcome. Through our goals and our choices we gouge and carve and scrape our way through life, honing and smoothing our skills, beliefs, and values as we go. Sometimes the environment or media is difficult to pierce, dulling our senses and spoiling our vision, but how we adjust and persevere is what determines the shape of the final product.

Artists are seldom completely satisfied with their work, but I think we need to move beyond our flaws and consider, instead the journey. How did I respond to grains of adversity, to knotholes of selfishness, to unforeseen imperfections in the raw material I was given? What did my design bring to others? What did I learn? What difference did I make? And always: What’s next?

Taking a Break with Friends

I spent some time at one of my favorite parks recently. Although I didn’t take anyone with me, I managed to make some friends when I got there.

I like this park because it is large enough to give everyone some private space, open enough to feel safe, and sculpted enough to be beautiful and interesting. The ornamental varieties of flora create a soothing background and canopy of green, an accommodating combination of shade and sun, and bursts of color. Picnic tables are provided for picnickers, a gazebo for weddings, play equipment for the young at heart, an outdoor aviary for the curious, and a scenic pond and benches for the loiterers. My children have all had senior pictures taken here and I think Dad even came here as a kid. (Said children may now breathe a sigh of relief with this confirmation that I am refraining with great self-constraint from inserting said senior photos here.) I am drawn into this park by the aesthetics of the place, but I am rewarded by the calm quiet that pervades my visits.

This time, after eating my #2 Value Meal at a table in the shade, unharrassed by the very polite squirrels that watched me from a distance, I wandered, library book in hand, toward the pond. Coming to a 12-inch rock ledge, behind a Do Not Feed the Birds sign, I sat on the edge with my feet on the narrow, paved path determined to take a few pictures before retreating to a shady bench with my book. Immediately, however, the picturesque ducks and geese that I had my eye on swam smoothly over to me and, much to my surprise, unhesitatingly stepped right out of the water and came across the path to my feet. Knowing how testy and territorial geese can be, it was a little unnerving to see how close they were coming as they looked me directly in the eye and honked their intentions. I gently spoke back and kept the camera to my face, however, and they politely stayed within two feet of me while I clicked away. When I put the camera down and they decided I had nothing to share, they continued to waddle beside me to the grass. Eventually, I moved over a few feet into the shade and read my book while another lone duck came over, got out of the water, nestled at my feet, and dozed, his beak resting against his chest and one eye watching me for awhile to make sure I didn’t wield any surprises.

It was a peaceful way to spend a couple hours and I feel rejuvenated with every visit. I am learning to surrender more willingly to opportunities that offer moments of diversion from my well-worn routine and to spend time in places that build my energy instead of depleting it. Besides, time spent with good friends, even new feathered ones, is always a joy.

Courage Doesn't Always Roar

I think it was something about her salt and pepper hair that made me think she was severe. She wore it pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck; no curls, no barrette, no loose strands. She went to our church, but I had never seen her smile nor heard her talk so when Dad informed me that my horses would be spending the summer in the lot behind her house, I was less than enthusiastic. It was up to me to water them daily, which meant I would have to traipse into her yard and use her hose to fill the trough. He might as well have sent me to eat gingerbread off the witch’s house with Hansel and Gretel. Only love for my horses gave me the mettle to go there alone the first day.

For a long time I quietly stood next to the trough, gazing at the hose left like a snake in the grass a whole backyard-length away from the fence. The grey, shingled, neglected old house at the other side of the shaggy lawn taunted me with the faucet that I would have to climb through a barbed wire fence to reach, leaving me vulnerable to her. How could I be sure that she wouldn’t come out and yell at me for trespassing? What would I do? Was she watching, ready to pounce?

Before I dared to move, she was suddenly there beside her house. Worse, she was moving toward me. To my eleven year old mind, she was old, which meant anything over 50, but still independent. She might have been tall and robust at one time, but now was slightly stooped. As soon as our eyes met, she smiled and I quickly learned the adage about not judging a book by its cover. Mrs. F was soft-spoken, kind, and funny and, although I never had much opportunity to talk with her after that day, she continued to teach me volumes from her actions.

As the years marched on, I watched her frame bend until her face was parallel with the floor. Several Sunday mornings Mom and I spotted her walking along the highway, even in the brutal winter, determined to get to church. Usually her son would bring her, but if he failed, she didn’t let it stop her. I remember Mom fussing that she should strike out so, but I think it was just a testament to her faith; she knew she would make it to Mass one way or another. On the days that her son helped her, we would all silently watch as they entered the side door at the front of church, Mrs. F struggling to walk as Mom does now. I think the whole parish collectively held their breath. Her son had his own personal struggles to wrestle in life, but I mentally blessed him every time he brought her in. He, too, will have some stars in his crown.

By the time I was in high school, she was in a wheelchair. Seconds before Mass started, the side door would open and her son would wheel her next to the end of the front pew. Then, after Mass, both of these shy souls would slip back out without a word.

I don’t remember when Mrs. F died; she just seemed to silently slip away. I don’t suppose she ever knew how much she touched my life in her later years without even saying a word. Now, thirty years later, I think of her every day as I watch Mom with some of the same physical struggles; self-conscious about how hard it is for her to walk and worrying that using the walker or wheelchair to get to our pew would make a scene. Then I remind her of Mrs. F and how people felt about her and she quiets.

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’" (Mary Anne Radmacher)

The Pipes Are Calling

Our little town may not have seen any fireworks on the fourth, but we certainly heard bagpipes this weekend! Our annual Caledonian Games celebration went off without a hitch. The week preceding it is always hectic for me because of all the last minute signs and setting up that I help with, but this year was worse than ever.

The week started out with Mom needing a change in her meds to compensate for the buildup of fluids in her system, causing shortness of breath. Fortunately, a call to the cardiologist and the reinstatement of her “water pill”, as she calls it, and potassium began to bring relief within a few hours.

With the distraction of Mom’s increased physical needs, the frequent interruptions of a panicked Caledonian president, and the ticking of the clock, I had to really hustle to finish the signs, tickets, and computer work by Thursday night. Although I felt that some of the signs were a little “thrown together,” our Saturday afternoon stroll through the park with Mom in her shopping chair confirmed that it all sufficed anyway. I guess it just forced me to prioritize, quit obsessing, and just get done. Thank goodness for happy endings!

Restless

It’s the pervading emotion around here. Don was gone most of last week, the house was quiet; it was the perfect time to get things done. But we couldn’t. Or, is it that we wouldn’t? Maybe a little of both.

Until the surgery site fully heals around Mom’s new pacemaker, a danger remains that she may push, pull, or lift too much or too high with her left arm, thus pulling the leader wires out of place. Ironically, in doing its job of stimulating her heart to beat more regularly, the little medical marvel has brought renewed energy that she cannot put to much use yet, which spawns her restlessness and indirectly leads to mine.

Since Mom is forbidden to use her walker because she may lean on it with too much pressure, I have become its three-week replacement. Although I am glad to do so, it definitely shortens the leash for both of us. While it makes her feel like she should refrain from bothering us any more than she can help, I struggle with the frustration of trying to do anything for myself because it either takes me out of the house or I get interrupted multiple times and lose interest. The result is that we grind through our days repeatedly trudging at snail pace between the bathroom or the chair and count as our accomplishments only that of getting dressed and undressed. The highlight of our days is lunch and a DVD.

Although Mom and I tend to sit and mourn what we cannot do, I think that we both circle back to the fact that it is still better than the alternative losses we could have suffered. What’s a little short-term inconvenience? The fact that Mom is restless to be doing more is a good sign of her recovery and, to be truthful, I doubt that I would be any more fruitful if I had a chance, anyway. I find that I mostly feel industrious when I can’t do anything about it; as soon as I’m free, the notion leaves me entirely. So, for the week that’s left of Mom’s restrictions, we will continue to endure, if not with grace and cheerfulness, at least with fortitude, politeness, and thankfulness. Six more days and counting…

Where Are the Fireworks?

Fourth of July? This couldn’t possibly be the Fourth of July; it’s far too quiet! I didn’t hear any canon blasting the start of breakfast in the city park at 6 a.m. Where’s the parade with the fire engines draped with children and the solemn color guard? No chalk art decorates the downtown sidewalks. No free snowcones are being given away. Children aren’t racing, hunting for coins, or swimming for free and go-carts aren’t escaping the hay bale barriers. There’s no sign of a street dance, sparklers, or fireworks anywhere. And what’s a Fourth of July without a barbeque, family chatter, and homemade ice cream?

There is none of that here in our little town like there is where I grew up, but we just didn’t have the umph to go there this year. I always think that I won’t miss it because of all the effort we have to go to, but, alas, I do. Happy Hard-Won Freedom Day, America. Treasure it always.