Around here

Sometimes I wonder why education is in such dire straights. Then I look around here at some departments and then I realize, "This is exactly why education is in such trouble." It just amazes me how some programs do next to nothing yet get a majority of the money. Another teacher and I write a grant for a projector to use with our comp class and it gets shot down. But if another department wants something, it's a carte blanche. It makes me damned sick.

But what are ya gonna do about it?

Instead of getting frustrated and burned out, this is what I do -

I think of how a couple days ago in my fourth block American Lit class I was trying to get the kids to analyze John Updike's "A&P," particularly poor Sammie's trouble. Then Jeremy pipes up, "Boy those are some spiffy shoes, mister!" He calls everyone mister.

"Just shined them this morning," I replied and went back to the notes on the board.

Then from the back, Blakely chimes in, "Who are you trying to impress?"

Sensing a moment, I turned around and declared, "Just you, baby!" and gave him a hard wink.

The class roared and I chuckled. So much for poor Sammie's trouble.

I think of how my College Comp kids laughed and squirmed as they read David Sedaris's "Big Boy" essay in class. I think of how one writer, Amanda, pours her troubled personal life out and into her essays. So much potential amongst so little.
I think of Erica who wrote her narrative about being witness to a fatal para-glider accident and how later she was in the same diner as the pilot's wife and she overheard her wondering to her friend why her husband hasn't contacted her yet!

I think of how my fourth block American Lit class sat in stone silence and rapture as they listened to me tell two brutal, and totally true, accounts concerning the Vietnam war (one about how our principal escaped the draft via a knee injury and another told to me by a former teacher whose brother was in Vietnam and what the incredible event that he witnessed). That's the power of narrative.

I think of giving Amanda grief for choosing to take Comp II over my College Comp class. She was amazed that I remembered two of her essays - two years after she had taken my Comp I class.

That's how I'm going to make it through today.

SSR

Now that I have first block prep, I miss SSR. I should be reading like everyone else in the school (yeah, right. Like about 60% of the school). And I used to read for SSR all the time - when I had a first block class. For those who don't know - SSR is silent sustained reading. We have 15 minutes tacked on the end of block one for everyone in the school to stop whatever they're doing and read silently.

I should be doing this, but I haven't gotten adjusted to my new prep hour - which is shorter than my old prep hour. So by the time I read essays, check off reading guides, get my room in order (and it never really is), and grades updated - I look up and it's already 9:30 and I haven't even made copies yet for my American Lit classes. I need to get used to that. I never had to make copies of anything - well, maybe some crappy grammar worksheets - for my Composition classes. But now I need to make copies (and for 50 students no less!) of stories. That takes time. I loathe our old American Lit textbook (I maybe use 20% of it). The rest is in the form of handouts. So during SSR I'm printing like mad. I gotta remember to bring a book along. Then I'll just have SSR in the copier room.

Now, on to College Comp. More later.

Theola

Kristie's grandmother, Theola, is now in the final stages of lung cancer. We visited her on Sunday night. Kristie got quite the shock when she ventured into the living room of her small apartment to see her. She is just a skeleton. She has changed so much in just a month. It wasn't that long ago that both Theola and Dad were over at our house for dinner.

But Theola's family has rallied around her. Her daughter, Gail, worked with Hospice for years and is helping out. Her son, Ed, Kristie's father, is up yet again from Custer, SD to lend his support. Donnie, another son, actually came up from Arizona to move in with Theola for the final months. Ed refers to him as "Saint Donnie." When no one else stepped up to the plate, Donnie did.

Theola wasn't able to visit much on Sunday. She is pretty out of it. She is on morphine for the pain, but she has no breathing problems whatsoever - unlike Dad. One of the most surreal images I've ever seen was watching Donnie light a cigarette and hand it to Theola. She doesn't inhale anymore, but she wants her cigarettes. Ed even noticed the irony as we sat visiting and chuckled. He has the right attitude. Keep your sense of humor. And besides, she's made it 83 years - 70 of which she has spent smoking. What can it hurt now?

I think of poor Koko and Casey - yet another funeral. They have been through two on their dad's side. Then they went through three on our side. All in the span of three years. Now Theola doesn't have much longer and their great uncle has a precarious health situation too (he is need of a heart, kidney, and lung transplant).

Donnie and Ed were coming down for dinner last night, so I had to run to the grocery store. On my way in, I noticed a man pushing a shopping cart with an oxygen tank sitting in the spot in the cart designed for kids. I froze. If I never see one of those miserable things again I'll be just fine. So I went down a different isle. But as soon as I came out, he was at the end of the row visiting with a man who could only talk with one of those devices that have to be held to his throat and speaks for him in a chillingly mechanical tone. That scene is at least a short story waiting to happen - if not a whole novel.

Monday - Week two

On my way to work today I thought, "You know, I haven't dreaded going to work one single day this year." I've not always been so fortunate. Of course, I do dread leaving my home and family each and every morning, but I deal with that and start to feel the stirring inside of doing good work with kids.

My second block American Lit class went well. We are continuing with the theme of "The American Dream/Nightmare." We just finished the short story "A&P" and the poem "The Ex-Basketball Player," both by John Updike. Then we read "Harlem" by Langston Hughes and compared that to "Like a WInding Sheet" by Ann Petry.

My third block College Comp class was great as usual. We are discussing what makes good writing. So I had them bring in samples of writing that they consider 'good.' I already see some articles from Sports Illustrated and a selection from Stephen King, so it's going to be interesting. I also asked them to analyze and explain why their writing selections are 'good.' Once this was done, I handed out pieces of writing that I deem good "Out, Out --" by Robert Frost, the soliloquy from Macbeth that Frost alludes to in his title, "The Eagle" by Alfred Lord Tennyson, and a selection from the conclusion of "Winterkill" by Gary Paulson. Of course, I filled the kids in on the story behind Paulson's novel and how it is now banned and almost finished his career.

After that, the bell rang and I quickly began to get ready for my fourth block American Lit class - only to realize that I had lunch next and not American Lit. I was al set for another class. That has NEVER happened to me before.

Sad

"One day you're going to find yourself in a dead end job and a dead end life, just like Jurgis (from The Jungle)." This is a note I left on one student's paper after his fifteenth minimal effort. I'm under no illusions that it will do any good.

The turtle and the hare

On my way to my room this morning, I saw a freshman girl round the corner. Even though I was 30 yards away, I knew she was a freshman from the stack of books cradled in her arms and the speed with which her legs horsed her down the hall. She reminded me of a just-born colt: energetic yet awkward. Freshman all have too much energy for their bodies. They can't contain it all so it manifests itself in twitchy hands, legs that move too quickly for the rest of their bodies, eyes that fidget in their sockets, arms that - if not cradling every single book for every single class - swing wildly from side to side, trying to keep up with their legs. We met and she stared straight ahead, intent on reaching her destination (and judging from the load of books she was hauling, I hoped her locker wasn't far). She didn't make eye contact or even smile. By the time I had taken another three steps, she had rounded another corner and was gone. What I like about freshman is that energy. Their thoughts seem to come just as quick as their actions. Now they might not know a damned thing they're talking about, but at least there's some energy.

Seniors, on the other hand, are the exact opposite. They are the tortoises to the freshman hares. I hardly spied a senior on the way to may room. They have been around the block enough to know how to manipulate their schedules so they don't have classes until at least second block (after 9:40). After four years seniors are way too cool to hurry (unless it's exiting the building, tearing out of the parking lot, going to an athletic event, or finishing an essay test). While a freshman may be a new born colts (hope I'm not mixing too many metaphors in here - colts, turtles, hares - what the hell am I talking about?), seniors are sloths. Check that. They are sloths ready for the retirements homes; they practically SNEEZE slowly. They meander down the hall with a single notebook and most likely no textbook. While freshman weave in and out of the hallway traffic (oh boy, another metaphor), the seniors just slowly plow through. Everyone else will get out of their way. What kills me about seniors is that they think slowly. They have many more experiences to draw from than the freshman, but few ever utter much of anything.

Of course there are exceptions, but it's mostly true. Just watch the hallways sometime. Maybe I'm not dreading teaching Composition to freshman instead of sophomores next year after all.

Balancing Act

My classes have become quite the balancing act. My second block American Lit class likes to work on their own. Keep the lecture/notes/discussion to a minimum and just give 'em the work and they'll do it. My third block College Comp class is still a bit reticent right now. They're still coming out of their shells, so I'm blathering more than I'd like. Though we have looked at some cool essays and I've gotten them writing right away. My fourth block American Lit class doesn't like to work. So I make sure to extend the lectures/notes/discussions. I don't turn them loose to work with less than 20 minutes. If I do, it's chaos.

But that fourth block is fun. They'll drive me nuts, but they're fun. We had a five minute argument over one bonus question from yesterday's quiz - "What weighs more a pound of gold or a pound of sand?" Since gold is weighed in Troy ounces, there is less gold, so it weighs less. They were outraged. That lead to a discussion of wording and tricking and reasoning.

Then on today's quiz, a student asked "what does 'swindle' mean?" I replied, "it means to bamboozle." You should have seen the look on his face. The guy sitting next to him burst out laughing. Then the poor kid had to ask, "What does bamboozle mean?" Ha. Luckily, I had a former football player of mine in there who said, "Quite being facetious!" It was a good end to a very good day.

Textbook Expo

I spent Wednesday morning at a textbook expo in St. Cloud. As far as an expo went, I guess it was pretty pathetic. But I've never been to such a thing, so it was new to me. We met with two reps. One from Glencoe and one from McDougal Littell. In my opinion, the choice was easy, McDougal Littell.

I think it would be fascinating to work for a textbook company. I've been out of the loop for so long, using older textbooks, and supplementing them HEAVILY with may other selections, that it amazed me at all the stuff that comes with a textbook.

First, we get the textbook itself, which is a monster. I wish they would have been like this when I was in high school - I would not have had to lift weights for football. Unlike our current textbook, which has pure text on most pages - and only a few pictures or connections or strategies - this textbook is littered with pictures, additional articles, reading strategies and so on. Each chapter begins with a reading model. There is a selection and in the margins are reading strategies for students to model.

Next, the work books. We get new workbooks supplied each year. In addition, the workbooks come in three levels - based on students reading levels. What is unique about this is that the texts in the workbooks (say, "A Modest Proposal") are all the same. They are not abridged or dumbed down for struggling readers. What differs, though, are the activities for the three levels. The lower level has more reading comprehension strategies while the advanced level has more higher order thinking skills work - all the with the same text. So we could say, please turn to page 175 - and each students' workbook would have the same text on the same pages. The only differences would be the activities in the margins and at the end of the stories. I'm not totally sold on this (first, how do we know which kids should get which level of workbook - NWEA results? BST scores? Guess? Second, what happens when Joe (an advanced reader) looks for at Carl's textbook (for a struggling reader) and sees that they're different? WIll he want an 'easier' text? Will Carl be mad or insulted? That could be a headache).

Third, the supplements. They give us reading strategy books, comprehension books, lesson plan books, graphic organizer books, grammar books - all that work in conjunction with our text. I don't know how much of this I'll use - but it's nice to have the options.

Finally, the flashdrive. McDougal Littell issues a flashdrive for each teacher with all of the lessons, assignments, tests, and so on already on it. Just plug it into your computer and you can build lessons and assignments and tests. How cool will that be? Again, I'm not saying I'll use it all, but it's nice to have the option. Just looking at some of the lessons our rep was building on his laptop had me excited. Also, students will be able to access assignments via the internet and find critical texts and other resources. That is way cool too.

I can't wait to get started.

New classes

I'm still in the process of getting to know the personalities of my classes. My second block American Lit class is pretty laid back. I can let them work on their own quite a bit. They stay focused and work well. My third block College Comp class is a treat. These kids love writing and learning. I'm blessed with that bunch.

My fourth block American Lit class is hell on wheels. A lot of characters and personalities. So I have to take the reigns more. That means a lot of 'traditional' old-school teaching - lecture, notes, forced discussion, and reading check quizzes. They can't handle more than 20 minutes of free work time. That's how it'll have to be until we can come to an understanding of how this class will work. If I could eliminate five or six young men from this class, I think I could give them 45 minutes of time to work on their own, but that's not reality. They aren't maliciou kids; they just don't want to work. And those few are in danger of turning my class - and those who want to work - into total chaos. That can't happen.

BST Test

Judging from the looks of bewilderment on most of the kids' faces taking the BST test in my room this morning, we're screwed!

First day, third quarter

Whoa. This new schedule is going to take some getting used to. First block prep is much more productive, but then three straighter classes makes for a grueling day. I'm going to miss that long break after lunch.

So far my classes are great. I was, though, a little worried. Last night I was looking at the demographics for my classes. For my College Comp class, students have to have at least a 3.0 and be in the top 1/3 of their class. Their class ranks and GPAs were outstanding. Hardly a B average in the bunch. Then I looked at my American Lit class - what a contrast. Of course, there are no requirements for American Lit - it's just a general class. But there was hardly a B average to be found - and that was the highest the GPA ever made it. I had one student whose class rank is 143 out of 148. Oh my!

I am looking forward to a literature based class after all of these composition classes. I just hope we can keep up our momentum.

Tomorrow I leave for a textbook expo in St. Cloud. So blogger will be silent for awhile. Maybe something interesting will happen that I can blog about when I get back.

Last day of the semester

Tomorrow is the final day of the semester. I say goodbye to all of my Comp I classes. And that's fine with me. I also must say goodbye to my first College Comp class. They were a great bunch. I had a couple guys who needed a kick once in awhile and I had a few girls who whined now and again. But overall, they are the best bunch of kids I've ever had. I'll miss them.

Now I turn my attention to two American Lit classes and a new group of College Comp students. My prep block goes from third to first. That's okay. I'm good with first block prep. I get a lot of work done. But then it's American Lit, College Comp, second lunch, and then American Lit. It'll be a hectic day after first block.

I swear I don't know what our counseling office thinks most of the damned time. No American Lit classes were offered first semester. So now third quarter, we have three American Lit classes. The only problem is that we don't have nearly enough textbooks for that number of kids. Ridiculous. So now Lisa (the other American Lit teacher) and I have decided that I'll teach short stories for the first half of the quarter (so we'll have enough textbooks for the kids to take home) and she will teach "To Kill a Mockingbird." Then we'll just switch at midquarter. You'd think in a school district our size such things wouldn't be a problem

But, then again, you'd think a lot wouldn't go on in a school district our size. But it does. Whatdya gonna do?

I'm out of here early today. I have to pick Koko up from 'Fun and Fitness' at her elementary school by 4:30. Then I've got to run - I'm up to a mile and a half. After that we have a girls' basketball game in RLF tonight.

Grading Scale

I need to do some research on grading scales. As it stands now, my grading scale is this - themes/essay (60%), Quizzes/SSR (5%), writing process (20%), journals (10%), and daily work (5%). At first I thought this scale was fine. And it probably works about 90% of the time. It puts the emphasis on the final products (their essays) and motivates them to use their class time wisely to write and work (hence 20% for writing process). We do a ton of grammar and other worksheets, but I'm not convinced that makes anyone a better writer, so I de-emphasized those. But the problem that arises, and it's usually one or two kids per class, is that some kids will do relatively well on their first three themes (description and narrative) and then really bomb on the more complex themes (analysis and review). Yet, because they have worked hard and turned in everything and kept up with their journals, they squeak by with As when they writing is really C quality. This drives me nuts. I'm not preparing these kids for writing out there in the real world or college. Maybe I should switch to an overall point system. But I know nothing about that. Suggestions?

Next to last day

This is my next to last day of the second quarter. The end can't arrive soon enough for my first hour Comp class. Their attitude has been 'get it done and get it in.' Now some will pay the price for it.

My desk

I can't help it, but whenever I walk into another teacher's classroom or office, I examine their desk. Is it orderly? Chaotic? Does it fall in the genre of realism? Or is it like mine, totally abstract and surreal?

Right now, in the upper left corner is a bin full of papers awaiting evaluation/reading. To the right of that is a small stack of Ru Ready prompts from earlier today. They cover my Kleenex box, the DVD remote, several Expo dry erase markers, and another stack of rough drafts and peer edit sheets for students who have been gone. Near the edge of the middle of my desk are a set of speakers for my computer and ipod. Next to the left speaker is a volcanic rock a student brought me from a trip to Hawaii. Next to the rock is a Snapple cover. This is from a choir trip to New York I chaperoned three summers ago. A student opened it as we walked down Times Square and read the trivia on the back of the cover. It says, "Facetious is one of the only words in the English language to include all of the vowels in alphabetical order." As soon as the student read it, he ran up and gave it to me because I use the word facetious at least 10 times a day. Next to the cover is a Post-It Notes dispenser partially covered by a stack of College Comp outline forms. Also buried beneath the stack are my stapler and a Post-It Note stickies dispenser. To the right of that mess is a black mesh metal holder for pens, pencils, and highlighters. Next to that is a hand out from Bemidji State University with little book marks for students whom I think would be interested in English or writing. That lies on top of a laminated drawing Koko made this summer while we were getting my classroom ready. Now it waits for me to hang it on my wall. Finally in the upper right corner of my desk is my ever popular "Teachers Have Class" candy jar.

The bottom half of my desk is a similar disaster. Piled on the edge of my desk are new text books from McDougal Littell I need to examine as part of our new curriculum cycle. next to those is the book "My Favorite Horror Story" that I'm saving for my buddy Justin, whom I blogged about some time ago, and who is no longer in my class, but I see him in the hall once in awhile and I know he'll love this book. That book is on top of one of my 'Bibles' - "Building English Skills - the Yellow Level." This sucker taught me the ins and outs of grammar. I use this damned near every day whenever I have a dilemma or am typing up a worksheet. That book is stacked on top of the recent Time article I finally finished on how to get American schools out of the 20th century. Just to the right of that stack is another stack: catalogs of books and videos, the new English Journal, a copy of Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451" and finally, on the very bottom, the newest Newsweek. Next to that is a mess of rubrics, assignment sheets, student essays, and rough drafts that beckon me. To the right of that, in the lower right corner of my desk, is my new MacBook. And that brings us to me. I should be doing something about this messy desk instead of blogging. But, truth be told (and this would drive Kristie nuts), I like the mess.

My desk and most of my corner of my room is an unquestionable disaster, but what I like about this disaster is that something interesting is always within reach. I can reach over to two tables that stand between my desk and the wall and grab a text on writing or teaching English. I have several novels (ones I have read and ones I will) close - "Catcher in the Rye," "The Year of Magical Thinking," "Paradise," "The Scarlet Letter," "The Picture of Dorian Gray," "The Traveling Vampire Show," and "Making Connections." All of this is in addition to the various magazines I keep piled up next to and below my computer. Right now I can look and see this month's "Poets & Writers" peeking out (I'm looking to get my thesis out somewhere), below that is yet another book, "The Reading and Writing Connection," and that is on top of what looks to be a Time magazine - yep, it is, just checked (it has a giant DNA strand that braids itself into a Rosary on the cover and says "God vs. Science"). I also see the bottom of an Anna Quindlen article in a December issue of Newsweek on the powers of memory and emotions around Christmas. Finally, I have copies and printouts from English Journal, Education Digest, and God knows what else piled up at my feet. I also see my Mystery Friday binder gathering dust. I also see copies students have made of their essays for me to save and reread later. There is also a stack of notebooks from various classes and conferences and inservices I have gone to. Wow. What a lot of crap.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. You know what, I think I'll actually get some work done.

But then again, there is a hell of a horror story called "The Pattern" by Ramsey Campbell in the book I was going to lend Justin. Maybe I can get it finished before College Comp . . .

Ruddy fire-eaters

Just as I thought. My second block Comp class are a bunch of ruddy fire-eaters (to quote from my favorite short story "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"). My first block just trudged through it. But this second block are taking charge of their writing. First they complained that they had to get it done in one class period. Tyler said, "Mr. Reynolds, someone from a college will be looking at this. I gotta put a good effort into this. This is serious." Others have hounded me for ideas about form and structure. Others still are bouncing ideas and words off on me all hour. What a contrast between the two classes.

Of course, I still have two or three who are clueless. Those who go right to their myspace page or to youtube rather than to their text program to write. What can you do? Next year when I teach Comp I again, I'm telling the students that if I even see the internet opened before they are finished writing, I'm kicking them off the damned computer and sending them back to the room to hand write their essay. Otherwise, their internet use grows and grows and grows. It's like a disease. Now it's rampant and it's far too late to do anything about it.

While they are writing their RU Ready essays, I am busy reading their fourth set of essays. This one deals with taking a favorite song, quote, or aphorism and either applying it to a specific time in their lives or analyzing why it is meaningful to them. So far I've gotten a powerful essay on a grandfather dying from lung cancer, a daughter bitter at her father for having her dog put to sleep because a psycho neighbor claimed it killed their dog, and a son who analyzes his relationship with his father through the lyrics of Garth Brooks's "The Dance" because his father once told him offhandedly, "I would like this song played at my funeral" and it caused him to ponder his father's mortality and to appreciate every second he has with him.

That's a hell of a way to spend a morning. Those essays woke me up more than any cup of coffee!

RU Ready prompts

Here is the prompt that my sophomore comp students will respond to for their part in the RU Ready assessment

In the past two weeks in your state, 12 teenagers between the ages of 14 and 17 were killed or seriously injured in single-vehicle accidents where they were the driver. One of those injured was your best friend. As you left for school this morning, you noticed the headline of your local paper, "Governor Proposes 18 as Minimum Driving Age." When you get to school, you find that many of your friends are involved in a heated discussion on the issue. You decide to write an editorial to send to the school paper stating your reasons why you support or oppose the governor's proposal. Include in your editorial examples from your own experience and observation that would support your opinion.


The only thing I dislike about this topic is the part about having a friend die. I suppose they're trying to give the students a personal stake in the prompt, but it just doesn't sit well with me. I think they could do this without linking it to the death of a friend. In a way, it's manipulating their responses. If they oppose raising the age, will they sound callous? I think tweaking the prompt to include linking earning a driver's license to grades and attendance would have allowed the students to have a personal stake without manipulating them.

Writings

Last night as I was wrapping up a transaction on ebay (more vintage Star Wars figures), Kristie burst into the room with an idea for her wedding vows. The idea was fresh in her head, so she wanted to get it down right away. Like me she gets her best ideas in the shower - a former professor of hers from UND said we get our best ideas in the shower because "it's a cleansing of the aura" - and she was ready to start typing in her robe and with her a towel tied around her head.

She said that she knew how she wanted to end the vows, she just needed to pick through some of the letters and cards she had written me to get some ideas for the beginning and middle of the vows. However, when she went to look for the letters and cards in my top drawer, she couldn't find them. Well, this derailed her plan and got me worried where I had put all of them.

So we began searching. Kristie is very anal about organization. This summer we reorganized the office and bought new file folders and labeled them for all of our needs. She has her "Kurt Folder" with all of my letters, poems, and cards neatly filed alphabetically in her drawer. But since I'm more random-abstract, I had my "Kristie Envelop," which was a large envelop that contained everything I received from her, safely stored in the back of my sock drawer. Or that was what I thought. I had no fear that I threw it - I'm a fanatic hoarder, especially of writing. The problem was locating it. I searched through the drawer in our office Kristie assigned to me and all of the folders she had labeled for me. No luck. Then I searched through all of the my dresser drawers. Then I searched through all of her dresser drawers. Then I began to look in books - I thought I might have placed the letter inside one of my favorite books. But that search was fruitless too.

Finally, I found the envelop, which had been misplaced, in a folder in my office drawer entitled "Interesting tidbits." Kristie gave me grief on that. But I'm sure I meant to place it in my "Important" folder, but missed. This would all have been avoided had she let me keep it stored in my sock drawer instead of trying to organize me.

But what shocked me in the quest for the envelop was how much Kristie and I have written each other. We have dozens of cards, even more letters, poems, lists, memos, and post-its. It made for an interesting evening of reading and reflection.

Ouch

This is an email the entire staff received from the head of our maintenance department. For those of you who know me, you know how much I love these!

iam in need of desk and mainly chair for next quarter.not picky but if you have any extras please net me know asap or we might have kids sitting on floors.i have came up with just a few chairs and i need15 more

random thoughts

I hold out absolutely no hope for my first hour class on the RU Ready essay tomorrow. I have seven who are either in special ed or should be. If they work, their work is very poor. There are four or five other students who just don't care. Then there are four or five who will rock the test. What can you do?


My second block is a different story. While I still have four or five who are special ed or should be and who will struggle, I have about 10 who will rock the test.

*****

Last night Kristie and I went to a girls basketball game in our hometown. The JV game was a wild one. Double overtime. The first time my hometown trailed was in OT. They had a good 15 point lead but blew it. The opponent tied the game with a three pointer as the buzzer rang. Then a girl from my hometown tied it up to force a second OT with her own three pointer with just a few second remaining. They finally ran out of steam in the second OT, but it was a wild ride.


*****

I finished reading the Time article “How to Bring Our Schools Out of the 20th Century.” While I’ll let this digest and add a blog worthy of the article and its ideas, I did find one thing really interesting. The article concludes with a statement from the Partnership for 21st Century Skills. They have concluded from various studies that kids lack respect and punctuality as well as the abilities to work well as part of a team and how to shake hands properly.

While I agree that those things are important in the 21st Century, I also must say that those things are NOT taught in school. I don’t have time to teach kids how to shake someone’s hand or to be punctual. In the past those skills were learned at home. Not school.

So if we want to update our schools and get them into the 21st Century, we need the home environments of the late 19th Century and early to mid 20th Century(a mom, a dad, and several children all working together (usually in a rural environment for mutual success)!

*****

On Sunday Barb, Kevin, and I went out to Dad's to get an inventory of his belongings and to take items that we wanted. I am taking a handcrafted desk built by my great grandfather. I also took a large number of my toys - namely my Ewok Village and Death Star playsets from my beloved Star Wars collection. Koko is having a fit that I won't let her play with it. But I've kept this stuff in top condition since 1977, and I'm not about to let it get ruined now.

This morning as I was looking at the Death Star, I was reminded of how my grandmother and I would play with it. I never saw the original film in theaters, but I did see it on HBO about a thousand times. My brother rigged out TV with aluminum tinfoil around the TV cable that fit into the back of our TV - we were able to get free HBO - though it was in black and white.

It was the first film I ever memorized - from Princess Leah’s capture to the Death Star’s demise, I knew it verbatim.

I begged and pleaded and finally for the Christmas of 1978 my grandmother bought me the Death Star. It remains as my most beloved childhood possession.

Looking at it this morning I thought of one of my favorite childhood memories --


I rarely remember the TV even being on at Granny’s. It should have been. It was large, compared to ours.

Finally, I begged Granny to let me watch Star Wars, which was airing on HBO. Not that she’d ever pay for such a thing, but rather it was part of a special where they offered a week of free HBO to entice viewers. I was ready to use this to my full advantage. Granny relented and watched me mimic the entire film with my action figures.

“So that’s it,” she said nonplussed.

“It was great,” I said as I made away in my X-Wing fighter from the destroyed death star, which really doubled as her old foot rest for the chair.

“So what happens next?” Granny asked. Her patented sneer beginning to hook in the right corner of her mouth

“Nothing. That’s it. The movie is over.”

“I know the movie is over, but the story isn’t.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” I demanded.

“Why? Because some one tells you it? Because the movie has ended? Why don’t you make up the rest of the story on your own?”

“What?” I was shocked. I never knew this was permitted! Already I felt my brain devising new scenarios and alternative endings.

Granny recognized the determined look chiseled on my face and said, “Well, the Dark knight with the voice of James Earl Jones . . .”

“His name is Darth Vadar, Granny. I’ve told you that a million times!”

“Okay. Okay. Darth Vadar survived. Now I’m sure he is going to want revenge on the Rebels for destroying his space station.”

Whoa. That was good. And it was making sense. Why should it be over? I thought back to my all-time favorite bedtime story: Beowulf. First he had to battle Grendel. Then his mother sought revenge. Then he had to fight the dragon. There had to be more! It was true!

“Now, Darth Vadar was left twirling around in his space ship.”

“His Tie Fighter” I said, hoisting my toy replica up.

“Okay, so what is he going to do?” She said seizing the toy from me and turning it end over end.

“He’ll be mad,” I said and instantly thought of how he strangled the rebel commanders neck and left him a crumpled ball in the very start of the film when he wouldn’t divulge where the stolen design plans for the Death Star were.

“Yes. So he will seek revenge. It’s a classic story line.”

It was true. Grendel’s mother attacked Beowulf for revenge. In another of my all-time favorite stories that Granny recited, Mordrid attacked King Arthur for revenge.

“What about Luke and Hand Solo?” She asked.

“Han, Granny. It’s Han Solo.”

She was on to something here. I didn’t have to just reenact the same scenes over and over as I had about a thousand times over the past four months.

From that moment on, I rarely finished a movie. By then my mind was so keyed up to take liberties with the story, that I would be bored by the second act and off acting out my version of the movie and how it should end.

And it was all because of Granny and that little question, “So what happens next?”

Inservice

Today is an inservice for us, which means I get very little done. We did get the green light to go ahead and change the structure of our classes here. We are doing away with 9 weeks classes of American Lit, Brit Lit (try to get through Brit Lit in 45 days - plus write a research paper), Comp II, and Speech. We are combining these into Junior and Senior English. Junior English will be American Lit and Composition. It will be stretched to a full semester. Senior English will be British Lit and Composition in another semester. Speech will be divided up and parts will be embedded into Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and Senior English classes. This has made my semester. Now we just have to sift through the dozens of text books and supplements that have been sent our way (it is also our year to institute new curriculum and texts).

I am looking forward to this process. I need to chuck some things I've been doing for too long in my classes and try some new things. Just looking at some of the American Lit and Brit Lit texts, I'm excited for new stories and poems. I'm excited for the new approaches to them. I'm excited to work some public speaking elements into my courses. And I'm especially excited to work the reading/writing connection in more detail into my classes. The task is quite daunting, but I know I'll learn a lot.

Revelations

On Friday we received a notice from Casey's high school. Apparently, there have been some additions to the rules the new principal is enforcing. Casey thinks the new principal has devised all of these new rules to show the students who is in charge. But, as Kristie said, "They aren't new rules. He is just enforcing them for once, unlike the last principal (who thank God has retired)."

I was amazed -- a school with rules. How nice would it be to work in one of those? I can only wonder.

Here are the new additions --

Clothing -- Added to the list of unacceptable clothing are pajama pants and slippers. It is currently the fad to wear slippers to school and also pajama pants. The rationale behind the change is that this clothing is not appropriate in the educational setting. (How amazing is that? I can count on two hands the number of kids who wear pajamas or slippers on any given day here - and that's just in my hallway. And I won't even get in to the supposed bad on midriff revealing outfits. Oh yeah, our school handbook says they are not allowed, but the official policy is to just ignore them. Or when our administration is called on it, they come up with one of two rebuttals: 1) "I just don't feel right looking at young girls' midriffs, so I'm not going to check them all out for their outfits!" or 2) "We're not talking about showing a little tummy. We're talking about outfits that reveal a lot of the stomach." Just to be clear, I've seen girls dress as if they were in search of a pole and some rolled up dollar bills (Oh, wait that was just prom).

Headsets -- Actually this is a clarification of the current rule about no personal sound systems. With the increase in technology, headsets, MP3 players, and the like are being added to the list.

In School Suspension (What a concept! I wonder if that would work?) -- Starting on January 16, 2007, the second semester, ISS students will be required to be in school during the time of the ISS and will no longer be allowed to go home for lunch. Please make arrangements to have your student bring a lunch if they are going to eat school lunch. (When I went to this school - a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away - we too had ISS. And it was the worst form of punishment known to any of us. It was more like torture. Lon, my best friend, got caught skipping school. So our principal sat him in a small room with no clock or desk. Just a chair and four walls. He had to spend the entire school day like that. They brought him his lunch at noon, and that was it. The principal would unexpectedly check on him to make sure he wasn't sleeping. Lon said it was one of the worst things he'd ever been through. He'd think it was about lunch and then the principal would check on him and tell him that it was only 9:30. It was a battle to stay awake and stay occupied as he stared at those blank walls. He didn't skip again.)

Revelations - each and every one of them -- rules. What would this place be like if we actually had them?

Biggest Success

I think one reason I enjoy my second hour Comp I class so much is because Justin is in it. He is the one who is currently in a half way house. He is also the one who for the first four weeks of class carried a 2% grade. He is also the one who only attended five days for the first three weeks. I chose to deal with this basically by allowing Justin to dig his own grave. If he wants to skip and get stoned in the parking lot - or whatever he was choosing to do - than so be it. The turkey plant will use him soon enough.

But that changed about three weeks ago. Justin was placed in the half way house, where they keep him under wraps, monitor his grades, attendance, and his behavior. What an improvement. The turning point came when he said, “Man, I don’t get into trouble. Trouble gets into me!” I blogged about that already, so I won’t go into much detail on that.

But since then he has been a near model citizen. He couldn’t do his collage because he didn’t have access to magazines to cut up at the half way house, so he chose to write another type of essay to make up for that. He completed his missing themes (though they were of poor quality and received half credit for being late). He did extra journal topics. He has begun contributing to class discussions. And I have begun to see the wily and bright kid behind this exterior. He just hasn't been in school enough to get the skills he needs to effectively communicate that wily and bright interior.

The real turning point came early last week. Usually by the beginning of second block, my coffee is either finished or cold. So I was thirsting a diet Mountain Dew. So as the bell rang, I called Justin out to the hall. I imagine he was thinking, “Uh oh.” I also imagine the rest of the class was thinking, "Oh, Justin's in trouble yet again."

I handed him a five dollar bill and asked him if he wouldn’t mind getting me a diet Mountain Dew and he could get something to eat or drink with the change. I did this because I wanted to see what he’d do with a little responsibility. I had no doubt that he would bring me back a pop, and grab something for himself, and with the exact change.

And he did. He had a broad smile as he walked into the room as we were talking about the film review. He set the pop on my desk and said, “They were out of diet Mountain Dew so I took a chance with diet Pepsi.” He put my change down and sat down and ate his cookie that he bought. I imagine he enjoyed the class seeing him being trusted.

Since then, Justin has worked wonderfully. Yesterday, we had a long talk about his plans for getting out of the half way house and what he wanted to do afte that. Just today as we began our persuasive theme, he constantly contributed to our discussion. Not only were his thoughts smart, but they also confirmed something I was thinking all along, “This kid is smart. I have to change the way I view and deal with these troubled kids. I can’t just automatically relegate them to the turkey plant.”

While I think I have been able to teach Justin a few things, they don’t compare to what he has taught me. That is an even greater highlight than the things I’ve accomplished with my College Comp class.

For Once

For once it actually looked like we were working in one of my classes. A math teacher here stopped in to drop off something that a student had left in his room first block. As luck would have it, the entire class was quiet and wriitng intently on their in class essay. For once it looked like I actually was doing what I am supposed to be doing here.

Technology

It's an odd world. Two days ago my new macbook arrived, and I was left marveling at the wonders of technology. I can download music faster - even videos and TV programs - I downloaded the last football game I ever watched with my father. The laptop has a remote control so I can watch programs on the entire screen as if it's a mini TV. I can transfer all of this to my ipod, which currently stores close to 2,000 songs and videos.

Yet, when I woke up this morning our house was a cool 55 degrees. The thermostat was set at 70. Either our furnace is broken down or there is a problem with the propane tank. I'd trade my fancy computer for a warm house any day.

What a close to the day

Talk about finishing on a high note. While my first block Comp I class drove me nuts, things only picked up (way up) from there.

The highest highlight - Kristie called and said that she has a resort booked for Friday, June 1 for our wedding. It will be a small affair - with just family and a few friends. It's exciting that everything is finally taking shape. Stay tuned for further developments.

Before school Jim stopped up to inquire about my old laptop. I said he can do what he wants with it since it was just collecting dust in the closet. He said that he could remove the hardrive and place it in a 'box' for me that way I could use it as an external hard drive. This was Greek to me, but I said, "Sure."

Just before lunch Jim stopped back up. I swear he's having more fun with my new laptop than I am. Apparently, he had an extra 'box' - a clear box that houses my hardrive (it's smaller than a zip disk drive) with a fire wire connector and adaptor. Now I can back of EVERYTHING on my new laptop.

Then after I talked to Kristie about our wedding, two former students stopped in. One is going to Northwestern in the cities and another is going to the local community college. I was catching up with them and having a good time. Then another current student, who is taking American Lit independent study, stopped in to drop off an assignment. One of my former students said, "Why would you want to take one of Mr. Reynolds's classes externally? That's no fun. You'll miss all of his stories." That made my whole year!

******

Update on our 'date' night --

Kristie got home earlier than I did, so she worked out and was pretty tired, so we scrapped going out for dinner. Plus, she didn't want to put back on what she had just worked off. So we compromised and ordered in. I also picked up a movie "The Illusionist." Great film.

That makes it two in a row. Last week we watched the horror film "The Descent," which is easily the best horror film I've seen in 10 years. It's not a formulaic splatter-fest like the "Saw" trilogy or torture films like "Hostel" or "Turistas." Instead this was genuinely frightening. I loved that they didn't bother to stereotype the characters or adhere to traditional plot lines of horror films. And what surprises, imagery, and symbolism.

It is the story of six women who decide to go cave crawling. Some of them are adrenaline junkies - having sky dived, white water rafted and so on -- others are just going along for an adventure and to be with friends. The director dispenses classifying his actresses (the smart one, the weak one, the brave one, the foolish one, the jokester, and so on). I found myself squirming as they crawled through impossibly tight tunnels and crevices. And then they find that they aren't alone. I won't say anymore. See it soon. But you've been warned.

A Salute to Halcrow

Sure, just after I bashed good old Dr. Halcrow yesterday on this blog, I end up using transparencies and an overhead in my first hour Comp I class. But I kept it to about 10 minutes. And I use them about once a month.

Yesterday, my students finished a rough draft of their film review. Then I gave them an editing sheet to complete in pairs. After that, I offered my students a chance at some extra credit. If they turned in their edited rough drafts to me to copy onto a transparency and use on the projector, I'd give them an additional five points on the final grade of their film review (GRADE INFLATION - I know. Plus, this is where the RU Ready program screams - don't reward the effort - reword the final product, but I have to try something with this bunch!).

This morning, I copied three of the drafts turned (but I gave the bonus points to all who submitted). Then we edited them. They were horrible and I raked them over the coals. One theme wasn't even edited! So I said, "Now whoever wrote this paper - don't have whoever you had edit it ever edit it again." Then I scrolled in the margins, "Don't let morons edit your paper!" That got a chuckle. No doubt it belittled the person who supposedly edited it, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. Then I said, "And what is almost as bad as letting that person not edit it, is not correcting these basic errors (not capitalizing "I" or switching tenses or fragments galore)!"

I ended up trashing the first edited theme pretty harshly. But it was warranted. The other two weren't as bad. I harped on the errors and noted what was superior about these last two.

Other than that, I don't know what else to do.

Oh yeah, I ended up giving my turkey plant speech to. I'm not proud, but these kids have the damned world at their fingertips, yet they are lazy and let it slip right by them. At least I'll seem pissed about it.

Tonight

Kristie and I have tonight all to ourselves. The kids are visiting their dad. Sounds like date night tonight!

New Computer

Well, I'm up and running on my new laptop. Jim, our computer guru, transfered everything from my ill laptop to my new state of the art Macbook.

The biggest change is going to be getting used to the keyboard. The keys are spaced farther apart than on my former computer. So if you see typos, don't blame me: it's the new computer. Actually, I'm just a fast typer and a lazy proofer.

Making Connections

I’m reading “Making Connections: Teaching and the Human Brain” by Renate Nummela Caine and Geoffrey Caine. I’m only 43 pages in so far, but I’m constantly thinking while I read “Why wasn’t any of this covered in my education classes in college?” The text originally came out in 1991, so there was plenty of time for the BSU ed department to adopt it. But I didn’t hear of it until I was team-teaching a methods class in 2001 when we used Jim Burke’s “The English Teacher’s Companion” as our class text.

This book is opening my eyes and challenging how I teach. But many of the things are likely outdated now since it’s 15 years after its publication. They mention multiple intelligences, integrated curriculum, and brain plasticity - concepts I never heard whispered in any ed class I ever took.

Instead of focusing on how to teach and how students learn, my education classes did everything but. Dr. Halcrow (who was the head of the ed department at the time) in “Human Relations” compared race relations to vegetables and meat in a refrigerator (the African Americans were the vegetables in the bottom drawers and they were angry at the dominant white culture who were the meat sitting in the lofty top shelves). It still stands out as the all time worst metaphor I’ve ever encountered. And he was head of the damned Education department! Then in his “Measurement and Evaluation” class, he constantly talked about actively engaging students and getting them out of the classroom, all while he lectured to us for 50 minutes three times a week in a small cramped closet on the third floor of the ed building using an overhead projector and pile after pile of transparencies. I guess the irony was lost on him.

Next, I had a class in discipline taught by a female professor whose name escapes me (just like the class’s name). We role played a lot (this must be standard procedure at all universities. Without fail, any time we meet for our history class through Hamline, all the teachers groan when the professors come up with some role playing activity! They know the routine too well! That reminds me - in that class we had to ad lib a skit as at their desk and an angry student. We had to do this in small groups - each taking a turn doing their skit in front of the class and the professor. I was stuck in the role of teacher. I had no idea what my partner (the student was going to do). The professor wanted to see how we would react. When it came our turn, I sat at my 'desk' and the student stormed in. I asked him what was wrong and he suddenly raked his arm across the desk, knocking all the books, tablets, binders, and bottles of pop/water to the floor. I didn't know what else to do, so I said, "Thanks. I've been meaning to clean and re-organize my desk." I had the entire room laughing so hard - including the disgruntled student that we had to end the skit. I got applauded for using humor to diffuse a tense situation. Now if one of my students actually did that, would I react the same way? No. I'd consider throwing him out the damned room and dragging him down to the office, but I couldn't do that bakc then).

In addition to role playing, we had this ludicrous CPI training (don’t ask me why I remember that name). CPI included ways to physically handle disruptive student behavior. This included learning such strategies like if a student bites you, grab the back of their head and hold it to your arm. The reason being they aren’t expecting that, and the worst thing to do is follow your instinct amd pull your arm away quickly. That only leads to torn muscles. There was another technique to deal with a biting student - rub the space above their top lip and below their nose. The sensation is so unexpected and odd that it will invariably cause them to stop biting and shake their head. The other training has been forgotten.

Guess how much of that I’ve ever used - yep - zero. Yet, the bulk of my education classes all dealt with crap like that. Why? Who knows? The education professors are failed high school teachers who are so out of touch with reality that they simply don’t know what else to teach? Or maybe they view themselves as so superior to high school teachers that they are stuck in idealistic views of education? Again, who knows?

But in 43 pages of this book, I’ve learned more about learning that I ever did in roughly 30 some credits of education classes at BSU.


******

Kevin, my brother, is a higher up at the beet plant in Crookston. He is now taking graduate level courses in chemistry. The beet plant is paying him to go to school. That’s gotta be nice. He and ten others are taking classes for eight hours a day. It is part of a three year program.

His job is basically to watch 8-10 computers that monitor the beets as they are processed. He has several people working under him. Kevin, who never attended college, but who is one of the brightest people I know, had an interesting observation on our education system.

He said, “In high school you’re given the questions and then you are given the answers. In college you are given the answers first in the form of lecture and then you are given the questions in the form of tests. In the real world, the questions come at you first and you have to find the answers as you go.” I was shocked. For the most part he is right.

In all the best classes I’ve ever had and from which I learned the most - I was pushed to solve my own questions and come up with my own answers. Or as the authors of "Making Connections" observe when discussing the featurs of Taxon Memory and how it's used in public schools, "students memorize for tests instead of seeking to understand ideas." In only a few classes was I ever pushed to seek and understand ideas instead of worrying about passing the midterm and final. Unfortunately, I can count those classes on one hand.

Looking Up

Well, it's not all dark today. I found the title to the final Harry Potter book, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" and my new laptop came in!

Plus my College Comp class was a pick me up. They are knee deep in research for their final papers. They ask great questions and are taking responsibility for their work. Better yet, they're showing all of the skills they've worked on all year. I'll miss this group greatly when they're gone after next week.

ERRRRRRRR

I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore. In the past three weeks, my Comp I classes have gone to shit. And it’s not because I’ve been gone so much either. It’s partly my approach to the classes. It’s partly the students’ overall apathy.

I approach my Comp I class as not only preparation for the BST prompt in the winter but also as a warm up for Comp II. Basically I want them to write A LOT in A LOT of different ways.

To pass the BST test, students have to write a clear, well supported personal essay. If you have ever read any of my writing, you know this is right down my damn alley. So initially we write a boat load of personal essays. But I soon tire of mundane example test topics, like “Write about an influential person” or “Write about the ideal job for you” or “Write about an important choice you had to make” and so on. I think the students tire of these topics too.

So after we do several descriptive and narrative essays, I move on to what I call the “epiphany/rite of passage” essay. This is basically a combination of the descriptive and narrative essays. Nothing fancy. My real purpose here is to get the kids thinking more about their lives.

To help them think about epiphanies, we talk about examples from our lives. Then I show them a graph of Vygotsky’s zone of proximal development. Whenever we struggle to learn something, according to Vygotsky, we eventually (with the help of someone else or simply through repetition and our own rationale) will have a breakthrough and learn a new skill. And there is an epiphany. Any one who has ever played a video game will now what I’m talking about. Then we brainstorm ideas of when we had an epiphany while learning something. What amazes me is that students never, I mean never, write about something they learned in school. This should piss me off, but it doesn’t. Rather it gives me hope. What I mean by that is that kids are learning outside of school! To me, that’s more amazing than them learning in school. I just have to find a way to make them bring that learning inside school and apply it to my class.

Next we go over other types of epiphanies - learning to push themselves, learning that childhood ends, learning about death, and so on until we have a wealth of examples and drafts.

For rites of passage we read several essays dealing with rites of passage (though I don’t use that term right away). Then we talk about the changes inherent in each one. Then we talk about similar changes we’ve gone through. Next I talk about stories they have read in other classes (Doris Lessing's’ “Through the Tunnel” comes to mind). Finally, we talk about rites of passage and how we go through them, and we look around at our culture and see if we can’t come up with lists of rites of passage that we go through.

After a few days of discussion and writing epiphanies and rites of passage, I ask them to choose one of their rough drafts to start crafting into a final draft. I don’t want them to just write about the event; I want them to start analyzing the epiphanies or rites of passage. Then I want them to start looking for nw epiphanies or rites of passage coming up in their lives.

But here is where it’s tricky. The difficult part is to add analysis and reflection to their narratives. Too often I get narratives about when a student realized Santa wasn’t real. But I want them to analyze it through the lens of an epiphany. I want them to focus on that specific moment of realization, that moment when the light bulb flashes over their head and they say “A HA!” Getting them to focus on that instant and expanding that with their thoughts and reflections into a page or so of writing is not easy. Instead of just telling me the story of how they realized Santa wasn't’ real, I want them to analyze it. What factors lead them to that conclusion? How did it hit them? How did they react? How did it change them? What other childhoold 'myths' are out there? What other lies are we told to make us happy?

Of course, a few students will notice that their epiphany has suddenly become part of their rite of passage - eureka! Yes. I’m pleased. So what’s the difference? Is there one? How will they tackle this in their essay?

For the rite of passage (let’s again use the Santa example), most will just resort back to a simple narrative (don’t get me wrong - I love simple narratives - if there is even such a thing as a simple narrative - hmmm, maybe I’m having an epiphany or is it a rite of passage? Oh hell, I gotta get on with it) reporting the event. I want them to reflect back on their rite of passage and show me how it changes them and ultimatley marks a change in their life. Most will get this idea, but they formulate it as a tacked on conclusion to the narrative. The real trick is to embed the reflection/analysis in the essay. Or better yet, just show the reader so clearly how their event is a rite of passage that they don’t need to reflect.

But so few accomplish any of this. They want to turn it in and get it over with. So I'm left with a half page rendering of a great epiphany or rite of passage. They could all be so much more (and I'm talking both about my students and their essays!). But how to show them how to do this? No. I've done that. How to get them to do it? That's what I want to know.

Another example - I have students do a personality collage. Then I have them write an analysis of their collage. I want them to evaluate what the collage reveals about them. Why did they put those things on their collage? What do those things reveal about them? Hopefully, they will realize they aren’t as unoriginal and simple as they seem to think they are. Maybe even they’ll have an epiphany and realize something new about themselves or their beliefs.

I just read through a stack today. Most were littered with grammatical errors. I usually don’t fret about such things (I’ll go to my grave taking error filled prose that says something interesting over error free drivel), but many errors were so blatant they made reading the essays difficult. Worse yet, they never analyzed. Some didn’t even describe their collages. (Here is a sample. These are the first two sentences of one collage analysis (and it doesn't get better, gulp) - judge for yourself -- “I’ve have always loved to play sports and didn’t matter what it was, because I’ve always liked to be a active type of person. I have always had a dream and that was to go to college and to succeed my goal in life.” Where to start with that? What have we been studying all quarter? This is after five weeks of grammar work and writing and writing and writing and editing and editing and editing). I guess the only way to really combat this is to slow the course down. Way down. Way, way, way down. If I had a week to work on revising this piece, we could make some progress. This student is a nice guy. He has interesting things to say. He has a goal. He has experiences to draw from. But how much time do I have to devote to one student? What about the students who did well on their collages (there were a few)? What about the glazed look sophomores get when you know they are tired of their topics and want to move on. What happens when you get that glazed look when you know they know you know they are tired of their topics and want to move on when you want them to do some deep revision and editing?

These are just some examples of what I fail miserably at in my Comp classes. So few get it. I’m starting to wonder if I just shouldn’t stop trying to beat a dead horse. If I should just come up with a list of 30 personal essay topics and have them write. Then they can choose ten to submit at the end of the quarter. Forget the higher order thinking skills.

I won’t do this, of course. I’ll keep pounding my head against the wall. Or like good old Sisyphus, gather up that rock and start up the mountain all over again.

New computer

My new Macbook arrives tomorrow at 4:30. My old laptop is unresponsive. I have tried again and again to get it started up, but the screen remains black. But I can hear the hard drive starting and opening. Nothing appears on the screen. I just hope all my files can be saved and transferred from the hard drive.

I never realized how dependent upon my laptop I was.

*****

A new tradition - last night I called my brother and invited him over tonight for the BCS national championship game. Last year I invited both he and Dad. But just Dad showed. So tonight we start a new tradition. Kristie was beaming. Throughout all of this she has been encouraging me to reconnect with Kevin and Barb. It's not like I've ever ignored them. It's just that they are 12 and 10 years old, respectively, than me. So we never had much time to bond. They were out of the house by the time I was in fifth grade.

Football has always been a constant in my family. My dad was quite the player in high school. I found his old yearbook and saw that he made honorable mention all-conference as a sophomore running back and defensive end. My mom always said he would have played college ball had he not suffered a broken leg his senior year and then lost all interest in school and dropped out. My mom was a bigger football fan than either Dad or me. She listened and attended high school games (when I played) on Friday nights. On Saturdays she listened to the local community college team while she watched her beloved Notre Dame. And on Sundays she always watched the Vikings or my Bengals. My brother is a Vikings fan through and through, but it was just recently I found out his love for college football.

On New Year's Day Eve (is that even the proper way to phrase that?) we were all up at the hospital with Dad. We all knew his time was drawing near. He was on quite a bit of morphine and in and out of consciousness. Dad loved football and had had the bowl games on the TV all day in his room. The Boise State/Oklahoma game happened to be on, which just so happened to be the greatest football game of the past 15 years.

It was only appropriate that we bounced from the TV in Dad's room to the TV in the family room watching the game and talking about Dad. The game ended in OT and included several amazing gadget plays by Boise State, who were a huge under dog. At one point, when Boise State scored on fourth down with seventeen seconds left with a hook and ladder, Kristie jumped out of her chair. Then when they tied the game in overtime with a pass from their wide receiver to their tight end, Kevin stormed into the family room exclaiming, "Are you watching this?"

Dad would have loved it.

It's things like this that will be hard . . .

A few weeks ago I received a box of apples that I ordered from a student for an FFA fund raiser. Since Dad was sick, I never had time to do anything with them, so they sat next to my death and went to rot. However, I did notice when I got them that they were from a company called "Minntex." When my Dad first came up here with his father (and that is another story for another blog entry), they were part of "Minntex Meadows" which later became the Crookston Cattle Company which later became Tilden Farms and which is currently known as The Glacial Ridge Project. I had been meaning to ask him what he thought of this and if there was any kind of connection. I had been meaning to do it, but I never did. And it's far too late to ask now.

Return to Routine

For the first time in a very long while, I am returned to my normal Sunday routine: reading papers, grading tests, watching some football, and spending time with my family.

Things are feeling back to normal finally. Well, let me rephrase that - back to as normal as they can be. Dad is gone and his absence is not as evident as it will be. I think I'm still a bit numb. It'll hit me when I have a problem with the house or car and pick up the phone to call him for advice. It'll hit me when I come across a blooper on Bush or Limbaugh and think, "I can't wait to tell Dad this." It'll hit me when I'm coaching and look around to see his truck outside the gates. It'll hit me at my wedding this summer when there are those two empty spaces where Mom and Dad should be.

But Kevin, Barb, and I have spent more time together in the past two weeks than we have in the past 25 years when we were all still living at home. We will form new traditions and new routines. We will never forget them. And that will help once the numbness wears off.

Funeral

Today we buried Dad. Thanks to everyone who came to the wake and funeral and to all those who sent cards and messages. I am truly blessed to have such friends and colleagues.

After the wake we had a dinner in the church basement. This is unusual for wakes. But members of Barb's church wanted to serve a meal, so we had dinner after the wake. I bet we stayed at least an hour, if not longer, visiting and remembering Dad.

We did the same after the funeral. We had another lunch. Then we went out to Evergreen cemetery for the final ceremony. After that we returned to our house for another lunch (the food has been pouring in). We sat around for several hours talking and laughing and remembering and laughing and joking and laughing. Then we opened the letters and cards. With the donations we are going to order two cement benches for the small cemetery where Dad and Mom are buried. Dad loved that place and was vice-president of the cemetery board when he passed away. It is actually on land donated by my great-grandfather, Myrtle's father. The old Demann farm was just down the road. It's a fitting final resting place for Mom and Dad.

The only unpleasantness occurred last night. My mom had a larger family than my father - Jean (her only sister), Dick (who died this fall), and Jack and Jim (twins). My uncle Jack is a different character. He is quiet and aloof. But I've always gotten along with him. In fact, I had a nice visit with him and Kristie, Dad, Barb, and I went down to the cities this fall for my Dick’s funeral.

I was really surprised that Jack even showed. Two years ago when Mom passed, Jack and his wife had a cruise booked and chose that over attending Mom's funeral. That stung, but it is what it is.

Then this summer when Jim and his wife were up to Minnesota from Colorado, they decided to go down to visit Jack and his wife after they left our place. Jim called my dad later quite disgusted. For Jack and his wife didn't even take any time off to visit with Jim and his wife - and they hadn't seen each other in years. Jim felt like an inconvenience.

When Dad passed on Tuesday, we all made lists of whom to call. Jack was on mine. Barb said he might be out of town but to call and leave a message. So I called the number Jack had given Barb. But it was the wrong number. Then I emailed them. But apparently nothing got through.

On Thursday, Barb called information and tracked down Jack's number. When she got a hold of him, he was very abrupt with her and offered no condolence. They wouldn't be able to attend the funeral because they had plans and hadn't been notified in time. She was quite shaken by this. He was apparently hurt by our lack of conern in contacting him. He had found out about Dad’s death from a friend.

So on Saturday, after our wonderful visit after the funeral, she and her family returned home to find a card form Jack and his wife. It was a beautiful card, but then his wife added that Jack was personally hurt because a family member didn't call him. She said Jack and Dad were close and it really hurt that he hadn't been notified in time. Barb was shaken even more.

I advised her to write a response. I said to tell her, "Jack it goes both ways. We are sorry you weren't notified in time. However, we had much to deal with. I'm sorry that you feel that you have to be petty and put yourself in front of a family grieving the death of their father."

Kristie talked with Barb and advised her to send the whole card back to them so they can read it and see it with a fresh set of eyes. Then Barb typed up her own letter to send along with it.

It's just a downer to have to deal with something so petty. I'm just glad this is a rarity for our family.

In fact, now that I think of it, I might add a letter of my own -

Jack,

We are sorry you weren't personally contacted by a family member. We hope the hurt feelings can be healed. For we all healed after you chose to go on a cruise when every other member of your immediate family found a way to make it up for Mom's funeral.

An old essay about Dad

Season of Change

I awoke one morning in early November and thumped down stairs to get a drink of water. I was home for the weekend from graduate school. My parents, both in their sixties, have taken recently to sleeping in later than me. This is a change. Gone are the lazy weekend mornings when my dad or mom would have to yell at me repeatedly to get up and eat breakfast. As an adult now (yes, I've resigned myself to falling into that category due to my age, if nothing else), I find it next to impossible to sleep in.

It was an ordinary morning. Well, no it was actually the morning that marked a major rite of passage in my life. But I didn't know that as I let the water cool from the faucet, testing it with my index finger. I peered out the kitchen window and saw my Cavalier pulled up to our shop, which on our farm serves as a garage. The hood was propped up. Dad's legs were sticking out from beneath the car. Uggghhhhh.

That reminded me how last weekend a plastic guard beneath my car broke loose. Since I am not practical, I drove it all week without bothering to see what was wrong. When I came home, my dad must have spotted it. This type of mechanical mishap falls under his area of expertise. Over the past 10 years since I've had a car, within the first two minutes of every phone conversation I've ever had with him, he has asked me one of these questions: Have you checked the oil? How many miles do you have on it? Did you add a can of Heat since the temperatures are going to drop? Did you check the air in the tires? Have you changed the oil yet?

Dad loves cars, tractors, tools, and working on and with them. As a boy I would watch him slice two by fours with a skill saw. One quick zip and the plank floated to the ground on a cushion of wood chips and dust. In my hands the saw felt lethal. The board rejected the saw every inch of the way as I cut it. The board thudded to the ground while I was left with wood chips on my lips and dust in my eyes. I would watch him change spark plugs. A few rapid turns with the socket and the plugs seemed to unscrew themselves. In my hands the wrench felt alien. I would groan and tug until my knuckles were white before I realized I was turning the wrench the wrong way. The plugs often snapped off at the root just as I felt they were about to relent. I would watch him sink nails into boards with one whap from the hammer. The nails instantly sank flush in the wood. In my hands the hammer felt clumsy. The nails invariable bent in half. Or I purpled my thumbnail. This was the way of my adolescence.

The shop and yard and pastures were my dad's domain. My room and my books and my tablets were mine. Often we would end an evening sitting at the kitchen table. I would be writing a paper while he would be finishing his log, for his real job was as a truck driver. My pen, nuzzled between my index finger and the large writing callous on my middle finger just below the first joint, would flow across the page in a stream of cursive words. My dad's pen, fisted in his right paw, seemed lost amidst his sausage-sized fingers. It would stutter and spurt in print across the log. Years later when I was home for the weekend from college, I would sit at the same table with my lap top. My fingers would waltz across the keypad orchestrating my words. It was nearly impossible for my dad to even use a calculator. He pecked away at it with his index fingers one key at a time. Inevitably he would punch two or three keys at a time because of his huge fingers. That was when my mother stepped in to do the typing. This too was the way of my adolescence.

Finishing my glass of water I thought, "God, that man has stamina." Then I hopped into a pair of jogging pants and slid into my coat. My mom mumbled slightly from the bedroom as I left. The morning air stung my face and pierced my lungs. The sunrise looked delicious: cotton candy streaks of clouds surrounding a large scoop of orange sherbet that began to break the eastern horizon.

"Look at this. No wonder the thing wouldn't hold," my dad said sensing my presence. He opened his left hand. I peered down at the small broken black bolt engulfed in his palm. "Who would ever make a plastic bolt?" he wondered as he tried to slide out from beneath the car, but he reminded me more of an insect flipped on its back. I offered my hand and helped him to his feet. He headed to the shop to scour for a real bolt. My dad is comprised of the old American stock that believes not in plastic or fat free foods or Hillary Clinton, but in metal and steak and LBJ. In a moment he returned from the shop with the replacement pieces ready, a shiny new metal bolt, a nut, two washers, and one lock washer, just in case. That guard was never going to come undone again.

Things still had the guise of normalcy. My dad was under the car, in his natural habitat, while I stood and tried to be of use, mostly just blocking the sun from his eyes as the rays filtered in through the engine and grill. The problem arose when my dad, who has worked outside for the majority of his life, tried to hold the tiny nut and gently weave it onto the minute threads on the bolt. His fingertips don't have any feeling in them anymore. He complained of this while I stood watching him as I had done for the previous 28 years.

But looking back now, the rite of passage was upon me. I stood watching my dad grapple with the problem for about fifteen minutes. Maybe he was too proud to ask for my help. Finally, I said, "I'll give it a try Dad."

It took me ten seconds to tighten the nut on the bolt as my dad stood and watched me work. It was the first time I did something mechanical quicker and better than my dad. We didn't mentioned it at the time.

Now I wonder what he thought about this change. I don't even want to think about what else I can do better than him now. I spent so much of my youth trying to out do him, but failing. He could toss bails higher, unload them quicker, throw a baseball harder, catch a football easier, bait a line better, and find a gopher hole, set the trap, and mark it all while I was still probing the gopher mound for the entrance. I fear that it is not so much that I am better at anything, but that my dad is becoming worse.

I think about his fingertips. I remember back in '94 when he had his triple bypass. The nurses wanted to teach him how to check his pulse so he could monitor his heart rate. He prodded the underside of his wrist again and again, but he couldn't find a pulse. I watched as the nurse held her tiny fingers over his thick fingers and pressed them right on his vein. He still felt nothing.

Dr. Wolf finally informed us that many men lose feeling in their fingertips due to working outside in the brutal Minnesota winters. Indeed, my dad's love for cars, tractors, and tools extended all year round. Thus he spent the majority of his days outside whether it was 90 degrees above or 20 degrees below zero.

I remember dreading working outside with him in the winter. Despite being draped in half a closet of clothes, I could only stand the temperatures for an hour. Two at most. With his army surplus parka pulled tight to reveal just a pinhole to peer out off, Dad would work outside all day.

His favorite activity was plowing snow on his 730 John Deere (cabless of course). On weekend afternoons when my dad was actually home and not on the road driving truck, he would reach his limit of sitting around in the house, which usually took about half an hour. Then he would layer on the clothing and venture outside to start his tractor. Of course, I had to help him with this because the starter was out, and I had to pull him with our pickup, a job that once I completed, I left behind and scampered back to the warm security of the house and my books. Dad, when he had our yard cleared, would drive over to the neighbors and plow out their yards or just plow snow into huge piles out behind our sheds. Maybe after working for 40 years as a truck driver hauling other peoples' property, he relished pushing his own.

Once when he was out in the truck, a blizzard dumped three feet of snow us. It was up to me to plow a path to the highway. My mom pulled me while I clung to the steering wheel on my dad's tractor. It took me an hour, the coldest 60 minutes of my life, to simply plow a single path from our driveway to the highway. Forget about the rest of the yard! Dad could do that when he got back. And he did.

There were times Mom made me bundle up and run out and tell him lunch or dinner was ready. "Dad," I would scream over the chugging 730 engine, "dinner's ready. It's five o' clock. Come in already!" Out there on his tractor, he would fall into a trance and lose all track of time. It was amazing to see how he could gage the distance between the edge of the bucket and the ground. It would just skim across the yard, never gouging into the grass and ripping up sod. To watch him pop the clutch with his right hand, then shift the tractor from third gear to reverse with his left hand, then expertly work the controls to raise and lower the loader and empty the bucket full of snow with his right hand again was like watching a great artist. He made it look so easy. When I tried to plow out the yard, the bucket skipped over the yard, digging up divets of driveway and grass all the way. Orchestrating the clutch, gears, and loader controls was a nightmare. I spent more time trying to get the tractor in and out of the correct gears while only slightly bludgeoning my mom's precious yard than I did actually plowing snow.

That night after fixing my car, I began working on an essay on my lap top at the kitchen table. I fell into one of my trances. By the time I finished my first draft, I realized it was well past eleven and my parents had gone to bed. By the time I finished my second draft, my dad entered the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. "Boy, you're still at it? It's almost one. Go to bed already," he said squeezing his eyes shut against the kitchen light and listening to my fingertips dance across the keys.

Remembering Dad

Looking at his cap, with its faded black material, frayed Hartz Trucking logo, and patented ‘teepee’ folded brim, I knew how I would always remember him. It was the same image I watched when I was ten, too small to lift and stack hay bales by myself. So I had to drive the 730 and watch Dad. In my mind he would always be a tall, sturdy man, entrenched on the teetering and lurching hayrack. Pale blue eyes inspecting the field. Forehead etched with deep wrinkles. Eyes shaded by the peeked brim of his cap. Bald head protected from the scorching rays by the cap. The skin at the base of his skull baked to a perpetual scorch mark, where the cap was buttoned and exposed skin. The corner of his mouth gripped a glowing, filterless Pall Mall. His breast pocket of his light cotton shirt housed the rest of the rumpled pack. Hair on his broad chest and chiseled forearms cluttered with alfalfa leaves. Huge hands protected by scuffed leather gloves. His right hand clenched a red bail hook. His lower waist tried to cling to tattered and patched Levi’s. Nonexistent rear and white Hanes briefs exposed by his sagging jeans.

That is how I will always remember Dad.

Back to school

I'm finally back. Unfortunately, as I was firing up my labtop, the screen went crazy. That means one thing: my logic board is fried. This has happened twice before. But that was when I had the Applecare protection plan and it was covered. That expired last year. So it's likely mucho bucks. Maybe it's finally time for a new labtop.

Unfortunately, I have SO much info on my labtop that isn't totally backed up. ERRRRR. Not what I need as I'm trying to get back in the swing of things.

Obituary

http://www.funeralplan.com/green/obituaries?id=85393

This will lead you to Dad's obituary.

Funeral

Tomorrow I return to work. One of my co-workers emailed me and said that I was in her thoughts and she was wishing me well as I return to my mission. I like that. Teaching is a mission. And so much more.

Today was spent getting things ready for the funeral. This isn't so daunting since we went through it two years ago with Mom. The wake is set for Friday from 5-7. The funeral will be at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church (as is the wake) at 10 am Saturday.

Kevin, Barb, and I went through Dad's papers today. The man kept EVERYTHING. In his safety deposit box I found a copy of my very first teaching licensure - from 1998! He has boxes upon boxes upstairs in his house. Each is labeled by year. Each contains his returned checks. He had a tablet chronicling each time he fueled up his pick up, how much oil he added, and when and where he had the oil changed. I had no idea the man was so meticulous.

Then I spent much of the time sifting through pictures. I marveled at my dad was a young man. I found his old yearbook from his sophomore year. He was honorable mention in football. There were several pictures of him carrying the ball.

I teach for half a day tomorrow and then I have to meet again with Kevin and Barb to organize the poster boards for the wake and funeral.

Dad

Dad was transferred to Riverview in Crookston late last week. He seemed in excellent spirits. In fact, he met with a physical therapist and was eager to get up and start walking again. That was on Friday. On Saturday Kristie, the kids, and I stopped by for a brief visit. He was in fine spirits and we had a nice time. But we had some things to take care of, so we left. Later that night, he called worried about the roads and how we were going to get home safely. I reassured him that we would make it, but he still insisted on giving us the safest route home. I even joked that I had the cruise on just to be safe. Dad chuckled knowing that I was kidding.

The next day Barb called saying that Dad might have suffered a small stroke. He had trouble talking, numbness in his arm, and seemed disoriented. So we visited yesterday and found Dad to be suffering quite a bit. He must have had a more violent stroke. I could hardly understand him. He was alert; he just couldn't speak well enough. Kristie was in tears at seeing him change so suddenly.

The doctor ran a ct-scan and saw hints of a stroke, but there appeared to be no severe bleeding and it wasn't a tumor in his brain.

Kevin and his wife were arrived, so we turned on the TV. The Rose Bowl was on and Dad kept slurring "RRRRRROOOOOOSSSS." Finally, I realized he was asking if it was the Rose Bowl. Then he growled "MMMICCCCHHH," which of course was him asking if Michigan was playing. So he was alert. But it was a struggle to communicate effectively.

Barb and Matt showed up and she was visibly shaken too. For Dad had changed quite a bit since she saw him last. Then Dad became very tired and we went to the family room to visit. We met with the doctor and she said that they were doing everything for him - including giving him some morphine. But she said something I'll never forget, "Are we prolonging life or prolonging death?" I thought that was very well put. Dad had put up a valiant effort in the face of all his suffering, but his time was approaching.

Dad seemed in good spirits, though he couldn't talk very well. As we left, he shook my hand and nodded. Finally, around six we decided to head home.

As we walked in the door and began to get settled, the phone rang. The nurse had called Barb and told her to get to Riverview right away for it seemed like Dad was having a heart attack.

So we raced up there, and met the doctor as we walked in. She said Dad was suffering a series of minor heart attacks. They had scheduled a second ct-scan and more blood work, but Dad refused. He knew his time was at hand and didn't want to prolong death any longer. I didn't want him to either.

We sat around Dad, making him as comfortable as possible. Barb asked Kev and me into the hallway. She had contacted the priest from town and was wondering if we should ask Dad if he'd like to convert to Catholicism. Barb is a devout Catholic. My brother is somewhat of a religious mutt, though he was baptized a Jehovah's Witness many years ago and hasn't really followed any organized religion in roughly 15 years. I'm Catholic, but not to the degree Barb is. Dad always clung to his Southern Baptist roots and didn't convert when he married Mom. Barb didn't want to ask him. Neither did I. I agreed with Barb's husband, let him be. But Kevin said that he would ask him. And sure enough Dad squeezed his hand when Kevin asked him if he'd like to convert. So father came up and we had a quick ceremony. Dad tried his best to pray, mumbling along with the Lord's Prayer and shaking Father's hand when he was all done.

Then we left him to sleep. Kevin went home while Barb, Kristie, and I stayed the night in the family room. Finally, early this morning, the nurse came in and said that he was passing. I heard him moan and knew that his heart was giving out. By the time I made it to his side, he was all but gone. All that was left were a few reflexive gasps of air - just like my mom suffered when she passed. Then he was gone.

We moved back to the family room and waited for Kevin to get there. When we all gathered there in about an hour, we began talking and laughing about Dad and our family. Someone from the funeral home came in and said he wasn't sure he had the right place because he heard laughter. I liked that. It said a lot about our family and our father.

Now we begin on the burial process. I have begun calling family and friends. We are meeting tomorrow at ten to go over his will and things. Then we meet with Father about the funeral. It looks like a wake on Friday and the funeral in town on Saturday.

I am not being boastful when I say that Dad was quite possibly the most loved man in town. The flood of visitors and phone calls we have gotten in the past three weeks have been incredible.

I will grieve for the things that we won't be able to do together anymore, but that grief pales, absolutely pales, in comparison to the joy and love of all the things that we did together.

Dad

Dad passed away this morning at 7:30. He was a trusted friend, a great mean, and always, always a wonderful father.