Why I Stay--Slice of Life 4/16

Ruth and Stacey at Two Writing Teachers
host the Slice of Life every Tuesday.

A fellow blogger and Nerdy Book Club member, Beth Shaum,  recently put together a project about teacher retention.  She put out the call for submissions and I dropped the ball and didn't remember to write mine out and send it to her.

Then, a few days ago, I saw that the project had been completed.  I clicked on the link curious to find out how this project turned out and was amazed at this video.  What a powerful message and an important one for lawmakers and administrators to see.

In case you missed it:


You can go to the blog to continue the conversation here.


Why I Stay in education:

• Because I love my students and want to help them reach their potential
• Because it is the most challenging thing I have ever done...which also makes it the most rewarding
• Because each year I turn students into voracious readers that can't wait to share books with me
• Because I can help students learn to love math 
• Because I get to see amazing thoughts turned into thoughtful and well-crafted writing
• Because of the ah-ha moments and lightbulbs
• Because of the silence in the room when we read a particularly captivating book
• Because of the laughter from our attempts at humor and creativity
• Because every day I am reminded of how much hope I have for the future
• Because students need to have passionate teachers to guide them
• Because I get to help students learn how to get past intolerance to learn empathy and acceptance
• Because of the times that they take my ideas and make them better 
• Because of the learning that I get to do each and every day
• For the students who come back to tell me how much I influenced them
• For the students who come to school every day needing a hug or a smile 
• For the parents who love to see me when we bump into each other in the grocery store
• For the colleagues I can collaborate with in person and those in my PLN

I know this has been a popular subject today, but I can't think of another more important subject to write about than my passion for this wacky, challenging, infuriating, and amazing profession.  

  

Slice of Life: Easter 4/2

Ruth and Stacey at Two Writing Teachers
host the Slice of Life every Tuesday. 

When I was younger, Easter was probably my favorite holiday.  My mother dressed us up in matching dresses and sweaters that she knit for us.  I always got a new "Easter bonnet" and the day was filled with fun and family.

For us, the easter basket hunt began as soon as we woke up.  Would it be in the refrigerator?  the stove?  the cabinet?  maybe my closet?  My sister and I hunted for the baskets and inevitably I would find hers before I found mine.  Since I was five years older, mine was always a little more difficult to find.

My Easter basket was always a fun discovery.  My mother did not want us to just gorge ourselves on candy.  While there were always our favorites in the basket, most of the basket was filled with small presents.  The Easter bunny was very literate and I always got a few books that I had been asking for in my basket.  Aside from this, we usually got some socks, maybe a scarf or necklace, and some sort of cute little puzzle game.

After the Easter baskets were found, and sufficient time was spent exploring the treasures found there, it was time to get all dolled up for Easter Sunday church services.  This was one of the few Sundays a year that my father came to church with us.  I always felt so proud of my family.  We were all dressed up and looking quite spiffy.  The church service was always so festive with the music joyful.  Sometimes, we also had the treat of having my grandparents, my father's parents, visiting.  This was quite possibly my favorite church-going experience every year (a close second would be midnight mass on Christmas Eve).

Then, it was time to go home to Easter dinner.  We had ham and cheesy potatoes every year for sure.  Easter was also one of the few times in the year that I was allowed to have hard-boiled eggs.  My father had heart problems and had been placed on a strict low-cholesterol diet.  This meant very few eggs in our household---or at least few egg yolks.  I loved that we had our colored eggs to eat during this holiday and I savored the egg-salad sandwiches that we enjoyed for a few days after.

One of the things I miss the most about before my father died is the way holidays felt for us.  Yes, we still celebrate and try to have some fun, but it just isn't the same.  I know this would have changed naturally as we became adults and moved on to celebrate with our own families, but I miss that feeling of special family time.

Woods, Lake, and the Super Biffy

My sister and I at camp a few years back

     The creaky cabin door slams behind us and the smell of the pine woods follows us.  The cabin screens are protected with a tarp hanging outside which makes the inside of the cabin dark even in the bright sunlight.  There are four camp cots that have been improved over the years with slabs of wood under the cot mattress as opposed to the old springs.  The cabin smells like dirt and sand which is collecting on the floor and humidity that stays trapped inside.  It is rustic and perfect and more my home than any of my houses have ever been.

      If you talk to anyone who has never experienced camp, they cannot understand what the draw is.  We don't even actually camp as you would in a campground in tents.  There isn't much fishing happening, we don't always go for long hikes, but we always love our surroundings.  What we do have are an abundance of happy memories and a reminiscence that pops out around every corner.  This place fills us with a spiritual happiness and protects us from the rest of the world for a few days.  We have a vocabulary of words that only those of us that have experienced camp know: hopper, biffy, superbiffy, the real dining hall, and all the unit names that don't exist anymore but are forever burned into our minds and hearts.  We learned to wake up to the toll of the bell and show up throughout the day for meals summoned by that same bell.  We learned to walk through the woods with the help of a flashlight on nights with a new moon and without a flashlight on full moon nights.  We learned to build a campfire and enjoy staring into it well into the night.

My mother at the camp bell.  

     I literally owe my entire existence to this special place.  My parents were of the first generation to form ties to Camp Webb.  My father actually came up with his youth group and built many of the things that exist on the ground today.  Every time I take the steps down to the lakefront, I feel my dad with me.  He worked hard with the groundskeeper to maintain the camp property.  My mother came up to work at camp not through a church connection, but because my grandmother was friends with someone who was working there.  My parents met at camp and had a beautiful wedding in the outdoor chapel there (at least it looks beautiful from the pictures I've seen).  They continued to be friends with many of their camp friends and especially were close with the maintenance man and his wife.  It was through this connection that I came to know the camp as my home away from home even before I was old enough to be a camper.

The camp logo.

     My time as a camper holds many memories:

• The meals in the dining hall while Ruthie was still the cook were amazing.  My mouth waters just remembering the Ruthie rolls we used to eat.  
• The talent show each week in which the staff would put on these goofy skits for us.  
• The singing, I love the singing.  Camp songs for church and campfires alike and hilarious graces that made praying fun.  
• Lessons in the lake in swimming and sailing and canoeing.  
• Crafts in the arts and craft cabin.  
• And every Friday, for the end of the camp week, we had a dance.  

Every summer I went to camp for the week of my birthday.  I loved the goofy fun of being the center of attention at a camp meal for the few moments it took to sing happy birthday.  Each summer at camp, the place inched its way into my heart and soul a little more.

Little Hills Lake 

     My parents continued to be involved in the camp as well.  We went up to camp for family camping whenever we had the opportunity.  It became a yearly tradition to be up there in the same week in August almost every year.  We got to be there with the families of some of my parents' friends from camp and we all enjoyed this connection.  My father also served on the board of directors for a few years.  I was so proud of the fact that he was helping make some of the decisions that needed to be made for the future of camp.  The biggest way that we continued to be involved with camp is our frequent visits to the caretaker and his family.  We would drive the camper and later the motorhome up to camp and park it next to the house at the end of the driveway.  We spent countless weekends visiting our family friends and roaming camp land at will.  I got to know every inch of that beautiful space better than I would have if I just went there as a camper.

The steps my dad helped build.

   
     When my father died too young, his camp friends dedicated a cabin to his memory.  He had been such a big part of building the camp and I was able to feel his presence while on that land more than in any other space in the world.  The time I spent on the pier at night gazing up at the vast universe of stars, really helped me to grieve and to know that I would see my dad again in heaven.
     The summer I worked at camp, I felt my father's presence in everything that I did.  I enjoyed the goofy fun of camp as a staff person.  I led the music at camp and rejoiced in the way that I got to enjoy every shred of singing possible.  I basked in the sunshine and jumped in the puddles and lived a great life that summer at camp.  I made a whole new set of memories in this space that already held so many.
    And then, a few years ago, our diocese decided to sell camp.  We were frantic thinking about how this sacred space would become condos and lake houses instead of the campground we had learned to love.  We all went to camp to visit "one last time" and began to think about what life would be like without this special place to go to.  Luckily, the current owners came forward to buy the camp.  Although the space is now Camp Lakotah instead of Camp Webb, this is still our special place to go.
   Nowadays, I don't get up to camp very often, but when I do it is an awesome experience.  I recently returned from a women's retreat there at camp.  Being on that land is a peaceful and emotional experience for me.  The first breath of crisp pine air in that forest reminds me of a life connected to something bigger in this space.  Rejuvenated by my experience in the presence of memories, I return to my house thankful that this space that is "home" will be there for at least a while longer.

    Do you have a home away from home?  Did you experience camp as a kid?  Leave a comment below.

Andrea

   

My Life as a Book Nerd--A personal reflection

 

     I am not sure exactly when my love of reading started except to say that I was surrounded by books and literacy.  It was part of what we did in my household.  Some of my first memories are the weekly trips to the public library to pick out our picture books for the week.  I remember being upset because we had to narrow down our choices to fit within the strict 10 book limit.  From before I can remember, my mother had made it a point to read with us every night.  

     Then I started school at Crestwood Elementary School.  When I entered first grade, I had Mr. Szudy as my teacher.  I remember the magical read-aloud time and being introduced to Fudge and his hilarious adventures.  There was a loft in this classroom and it was so exciting when it was my turn to climb up into the loft and lose myself in a book.  At the time, I did not realize how lucky I was to be going to that school.  All over the country there were reading wars happening and I had lucked upon a whole language school that was going to let me feed my reading habit and devour books.  Over the years in school I was introduced to amazing literature and even got a chance to give feedback for the very first American Girl stories (the mother of a fellow third-grade classmate worked at the publishing company).  My school experiences certainly helped me to learn a love of reading.  

     Over the years, my reading was encouraged at home also.  In my house, reading was an essential part of life. My mother sped-read through all kinds of books, but mostly bestselling novels. My father always had a thick Stephen King thriller that he was making his way through. He stayed up way too late every night reading his books, even when he was sick and should have been sleeping more. For every holiday my most coveted presents were the new books that were sure to be in the pile. You loved the Easter candy in your basket? Well, the jokes on you because I got Anne of Green Gables in my basket, not those gross Peeps. There were books all over our house and I coveted and cared for my books as if they had feelings. Time for reading was treasured also. I loved bedtime because I got to lose myself in the world of my book for a few minutes before lights out. Then, once the lights were out and my mother was safely back downstairs, I would hang out of my bed just enough to catch the hallway light so I could sneak read. My mom knew enough to not let me have a flashlight anywhere near my bed, but she didn't know about this (or so I thought). I spent many nights staying up way too late to finish a book because I just had to know what happened to that character.

     My relationship with my grandparents had book love all over it also.  My grandpa was the type of person who read everything in sight.  You had to be careful what you left out on the table because he was not past picking up that piece of mail and reading through it.  He didn't mean to be prying, he just couldn't help it...if anyone was a reading addict it was him.  Although I didn't share the same taste in reading with him, my grandpa influenced my reading habits greatly.  He had shelves full of thick tomes about the Civil War and piles of old issues of The NewYorker and Vanity Fair lying around the house.  When I was there, he would read the newspaper every morning and always had a book around for those times when there was a lull in conversation.  My grandmother was just as much a reader as he was, but she influenced my reading habits in a much more direct way.  Grandma read with me and to me every time I was over at their house (which was most Friday nights--I used to call them up and invite myself over).  We had old favorites that we went back to again and again and she is the one who started me on my lifelong love of mysteries.  Grandma had read every Agatha Christie book there was and I made it a personal challenge to do the same.  I had great fun reading the books--I started when I was 10 and had read them all by the time I left high school.  Some of my fondest memories and most treasured possessions are books that I shared with Grandma.  

     I remember going to library used book sales and used book stores with my grandparents.  I would spend hours poring over the selection of books that were available as my grandparents went to their respective sections to look for treasures of their own.  When I was visiting them in Florida, we headed to the local used bookstore and bought a pile of Nancy Drew and Baby-Sitters Club books for me to read.  On a beach vacation that was what you did.  You got the trail mix ready, got in your swimsuit, and then proceeded to lie on the towel and read in the sun.  Yes, you might get up and swim once in a while, but then it was right back to reading for you.  

     Anne of Green Gables is one of my favorite books because of the special place it held in my relationship with my grandmother.  We spent many nights reading together from the books in the series and learning about Anne Shirley's adventures.  When PBS made the movies, my grandmother and I spent hours watching the telethons and experiencing the wacky adventures of Anne with an e.  We also delighted in The Adventures of Treehorn.  This was not a well-known book and I derived secret delight from the fact that we had a private treasure to share.  The book was illustrated by Edward Gorey so anytime I see his famous illustrations it makes me smile inside.  

    My love for reading did not stop in childhood.  In college, I decided to study engineering because I had always been good at math and science.  I knew I would have limited time and I did not want to give up reading, so I took literature classes as electives.  I loved it that my homework for those classes was to read good books.  I made my way through so many amazing classes with introductions to many great authors.  In fact, I took so many English classes that when I decided not to continue in Electrical Engineering my junior year of school, there were only three more English classes I needed to take to be finished with the major.  

     Now, as a teacher, I work hard to instill the same sense of wonder and enjoyment of reading in my students.  I read voraciously and make sure my students know this about me.  I read books that are written for middle grade students and young adults so that I can be sure to know what books to recommend to my students.  I eat, sleep, and dream reading.  There is never a night that I don't read at least a few pages before nodding off to sleep.  I share books with my mom and sister.  I even converted my husband from a person who never read to someone who I can share books with.  He even recommends books to me now.  My students know that when they want to talk books, I am the one to come to and I have taken pride in watching some students become the voracious readers that I hoped they would become.  The biggest compliment I have ever received as a teacher was when a parent gave me the credit for her daughter's love of reading and thanked me profusely for it.  

   Over the years I have found friends in books.  I spent many a stormy night with Meg and Charles Wallace.  I spent summer afternoons sluething with Nancy and Trixie.  I fell off the rooftop and into the lake with Anne.  I created a business with Claudia, Mary Anne, Stacey, Kristy and Dawn.  I traveled the Orient Express with Poirot.  I cried until my eyes could cry no more with Scarlett's heartbreak.  There have been many more friends and experiences along the way and I know there will be many more.  I continue to be astounded by the amazing talents of authors and will willingly transport myself to the many other worlds there are out there for as long as writers create those worlds.  

   To the nerdy book club bloggers and other teachers out there writing about their love of reading:  Thank you for giving inspiration to many to continue to raise readers.  I have been so inspired and re-energized by the amazing network of readers, writers, and teachers out there.  

Writing Project--Where I'm From

    In my workshop with the Milwaukee Writing Project, one of the presenters brought this powerful lesson for us to experience.  She used the poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon as a mentor text and had us brainstorm and write our own poems using that format.  I had tried this lesson before in my classroom, but did not do the work of experiencing it as a writer.  Needless to say it was not as successful as I had hoped it would be because I did not know what the hurdles would be for my students.   What a powerful experience writing this poem was.  I think that I would end up with a different poem every time I sat down to write.  So many small moments and experiences came back to me once I started writing.  I will definitely do this activity in my classroom this Fall and I know it will be much more successful because I now know how I need to support my students to make this writing accessible to them.

I had a chance for a quick first draft and now have gone back to revise it.  Here is the second draft of my poem (I would welcome any feedback):

I am from campfires,

from s’mores and lake swimming. 

I am from singing and baring

our souls in the moonlight.

I am from pop-up campers and motorhomes

From walking the dog through camp.

I am from wild raspberry sundaes

and Shish-ka-bobs on the grill.

I am from road trips

and stops along the way to Florida.

I am from visits to old friends

and arriving at Sea-Oats.

I am from drives with 

the sunroof open, blasting

Peter, Paul, and Mary.

I am from worry and pain.

Clutching chests and pacemakers

I am from don’t-stress-your-dad-out 

and don’t-worry-I’m-fine.

From reading in the dark with a flashlight

or hanging from my bed to get 

light from the hall.

I am from used book sales

and Nancy Drew

I am from Agatha Christie 

and The Adventures of Treehorn.

I am from cocktail hour with my Grandparents.

From liver sausage and cherries doled out 

from Brandy Manhattans. 

From 4th of July picnics at their house 

and weeks spent in Florida at their condo.

From Turkey loaf on Thanksgiving

with ice cream roll for dessert.

I am from marathon Monopoly 

that lasted all weekend.

I am from muted baseball games

and eating ice cream past my bedtime.

I am from The Music Man and Grease

from performances big and small.

I am from Little Mermaid and Dirty Dancing.

From belting out the songs with my sister.

I am from Sundays at church 

and midnight services on Christmas.

From youth group and choir

and funeral services too young.

I am from panic and loss 

From relationships strengthened

by tragedy. 

These defining moments wrap 

around me and give 

me the person 

who I am today.

I am from love 

I am from pain

I am from family. 

Some Excuses and a Quickwrite

     So, that commitment to making the time for writing is proving to be more challenging for me than I thought it would be.  I definitely have writing more on my mind lately and I know I have done a much better job of blogging about my reading, but I have not set aside the time at home like I said I would during week one.  I know that it has a lot to do with the commitments that I have had since school finished.  I have had a meeting or training to go to every single day since school ended except for this week (I know that I am just making excuses here, but I am only human).  Some of that training has made me more of a writer as I am spending my mornings in the Milwaukee Writing Project involved with writing.  It helped last week to have "homework" to write about the writing circle topics.  I have to write before Monday, but this week was a week off because of the holiday and I have used my time to feed my reading habit.  I am rather obsessed with reading and the challenges like #bookaday and #nerdbery might have made me feel a little competitive and given me an excuse to be reading non-stop (I am accomplishing a goal here...not procrastinating or being lazy or avoiding housework).


      I was really inspired by Jen's blog last Sunday and read Ralph Fletcher's book A Writing Notebook: Unlocking the Writer Within You this week.  I need to figure out what will work for me and my students and get my notebook going.  Just having the thoughts about what I might put there has brought ideas to my mind.  I start every school year with a lesson I got from Nancie Atwell's books, sharing my writing territories.  I cannot wait to share that list this year and actually to have written some stories and quick writes about those territory ideas.  I know this will be one of the sections in the notebook along with a section for quotes.  I know that part of the appeal of Tumblr for some of my creative students is the ability to capture great ideas there...I want them to have that in their notebooks too.  I also have been musing about how to use my class blogs better.  I like the way a lot of bloggers have certain memes that they do on certain days.  I would love to get my students to think about their blogs this way...Mondays we talk about what they are reading, Tuesdays it's time for a top ten list, Wednesdays is about food, etc.  I just really need to think about requirements and workshop and how to set everything up.  Okay, that was a complete teacher brain moment.  I was talking about my own writing here.  It never fails to astound me how my brain never stops thinking about what might work best for my students.  


     Now that I have spent more time than necessary talking about why I haven't written this week, I decided that I would give Monday's quick write a shot.  I have actually been mulling over this idea for the past few days after having read it on Monday.  I absolutely love the idea for story stew and can definitely see using it on multiple occasions this year in writing. 


     The woman sat there stroking the well-worn fedora as if it were a cat on her lap.  She rocked a little bit in her seat every time her hand moved lovingly down the rim of the hat.  She couldn't believe she was here.  Just this morning she and Edwin had been crunching on cereal in companionable silence at the dining room table.  She with her new P.D. James thriller, and he with his New Yorker.  This morning had been one of those pleasant oasis mornings that she looked forward to each and every night and had learned to depend on throughout their 50 years of marriage.  How could she be here now?  He was just there, in that chair, engrossed in a story one minute and then babbling nonsense to her the next.  She had known something was wrong when his magazine slipped out of his hands.  There was no way he would carelessly abandon his reading unless it was involuntary.  She had hesitated, not wanting to recognize the signs.  Then, without really knowing how she got there, her hand was dialing and she was soon connected to the dispatcher.  
"9-1-1, What's your emergency?" The voice of the operator was all business.  

She hesitated again for a fraction of a second then, "My husband, I think he is having a stroke."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Okay, Ma'am? We are sending out the responders.  They will be there momentarily."  It was all so calm and efficient.  How could they be so calm?  When the fire truck got there, the two firefighters started to administer first aid and to try to stabilize Edwin until the paramedics arrived.  Then it was a whirlwind with sirens waking up the whole neighborhood.  She had come in the ambulance with them and had to sit to the side trying to stay out of the way as they administered to Edwin.  She had grabbed the hat as she left the house.  Edwin would want his hat for when they came home.  He was never outside without it.  

     "GRAN!" Ellie screeched as she barreled into the waiting room.  The five-year-old was filled with an exuberance that she envied sometimes.  The old woman cringed slightly and then grinned at Ellie, not wanting the young girl to see her inner turmoil.  

   "Ellie, we walk inside and use our inside voice," her mother admonished.  Katherine looked haggard with dark circles under her eyes.  She let out a big yawn and approached the older woman.  "Geez, Mom.  I am sorry you had to go through that alone.  Any news?"

"Nothing yet.  The doctors seemed to think that they could stabilize him, but we won't know about the damage until he wakes up." She looked down at his fedora and started stroking it again as a tear made a path down her face. There were so many years between them, and so many years to look forward to.  She clung to that piece of their shared history and prayed that it would be a part of their continued future.  She looked at their beautiful daughter and recognized the fright in those pale blue eyes.  Katherine sat down next to her mother and placed her hand over the old woman's hand, trying to still the movements.   

     While the two women spoke, Ellie had found a piece of paper and her crayons in her mother's purse.  She sat contentedly on the floor and used the coffee table in the waiting room as her own personal writing desk.  Her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth as she squinted in concentration.  

"Look, Mama" Ellie ran over to Katherine with a grin on her face.  She handed the paper to her mother who gasped and shoved it toward the older woman.  The old woman looked at Katherine and saw the tears threatening to spill over in her eyes.  She took the paper and read what little Ellie had written there.  On the paper was a drawing of a man and a woman.  The man had on a nice hat and the couple were holding hands.  In her kindergarten handwriting Ellie had written the words, "Don't be sick and sad, Gran and Gramps."  If only it were that simple.  

As happens frequently with my quickwrites, this one got away from me and took on a mind of its own.  I am collecting all these little seed ideas from these exercises.  One of them will germinate soon, I'm sure.  

     

Thursday Quick Write 6/28

     Today the quick-write prompt that I chose was to write a story from the perspective of another character.  This prompt actually coincided nicely with the topic that my writing group chose in my workshop today, although I am tweaking it a bit. 
     Before I start with my writing, I want to say that I really liked the idea of using a word cloud to help to discover a theme in a piece of text.  I think this would be a great experience for students. I also think it would be a good exercise for them in word choice. 

 Summerfest from the perspective of an inanimate object

Brainstorm: Stage
Spitting      Different types of music    Breath      Heat     Over-worked      Different shoes
Loud     Back breaking with dancing    Equipment scrapes      Annoying screams 

Here are my attempts:

Heat spills off my back
Stomping, jumping, and twirling
Can't they just stand still?

      Ear-piercing sound vibrates through me. Tonight it is one of those pathetic boy band groups.  I know I will have to hear teenage screams all night as well as the nauseating music.  Every year it seems to get worse.  When I first started, the music was decent at least and that made it easier to have the stamina to get through it all.   Now, the endurable music is few and far between and I feel exhaustion creeping in.  Night after night crews scrape and bump equipment on and off my back without even trying to take care.  There are scars and scrapes everywhere showing the long years of service.  Every night I endure an endless barrage of mediocre music while supporting multiple areas of my body so that I won't ache so much in the morning.  The worst is when the band is energetic and likes to move.  I cringe as their heels dig in every time they jump, twirl, or stomp their way through another song.   Each type of shoe brings its own particular brand of torture.  Stilettos seem to be made especially to bring pain.   Thank goodness I only have to work during the festival season.  I am not sure I could survive this workload if I had to do it all year. 




Not a lot of writing here but an interesting exercise.  I would like to revisit this sometime when I have more time to spend refining it.  I can see how an activity like this would work well in the classroom as a prompt.