Twenty-Seven Days

Can it be true that I have only 27 more days to teach at Oak Ridge in ISD 196!!  That is approximately 0.0027 (27/10,000ths) of my career left.  (I can't believe I actually used a calculator to figure out the fractional and decimal equivalent of 27 out of 10,000!)

Today I spent some time in my classroom going through two file cabinet drawers, with my recycle bin and a garbage can close at hand.  Knowing that I am leaving worthwhile books and materials for my replacement, Jody, is comforting. Giving chapter books I can't use to my students will be rewarding.   Tossing things I will never ever need again is cathartic!

However, there is one file I could not dump, because it is full of letters and photos I have received from students and their parents through the years. Some of the notes I read made me laugh out loud (Really LAUGH OUT LOUD--not the LOL you see in text messages where people might just be smiling quietly.) Other brought tears to my eyes as I took mini-trips down several memory lanes. My laughter and tears echoed in the quiet building on this Sunday afternoon.

From the notes they wrote, I could tell that my fifth graders at Diamond Path knew they needed to write "a lot" as two words and never to say the "E" word.  I have always cautioned my students not to say something is "easy" as others may struggle and we wouldn't want them to feel worse.  Instead, it was best to say to themselves, "I understand." 

There was a note from a parent thanking me for  attending an evening spelling bee at the middle school to support her son, grateful to see that someone else believed in him.  There were thank you notes from both parents and students written at the end of each year.  One was from a vivacious, bright and beautiful student whose life was tragically cut short in a car accident when she was in 11th grade. How could I toss all of the cute poems and drawings I had received and all of the other scraps of paper with special meaning?

At Diamond Path, I was often stuffing report card envelopes on the last day of the year, sneaking back to my classroom during our traditional softball game of teachers versus fifth graders. Never much of an athlete--even labeled "athletically declined" by my ex--it was no sacrifice for me to skip part of the game.  I would go back to my room and finish one last comment, stuff those last few envelopes or write one last thank you note. The year that my older son Mark graduated from high school, we were required to write full page letters to each of our students. Knowing I would be busy with his graduation and the party, I worked hard to finish early. Then, at a team meeting about three weeks before school ended, I spread out all of my finished letters on the table. My camera was poised as Chet and Ann and Tom stared in disbelief at this incredible feat.  That is a photo to treasure!

As I packed up the contents of those two folders, I thought about all of those students through the years and wondered where life has taken them. Are they happy? Do they still remember to write "a lot" as two words?  Do they still say "I understand" when something comes easy to them? Do they remember anything at all about the time we spent together or did that year blend together with so many others in their childhood?  If they can remember their year with me in a positive light and can recite a story or two about something funny we did, it was all worthwhile.

Speeding and Playing Hooky

Lombard, Illinois was known as the home of the Lilac Festival, a pretty little suburb with wide streets leading into the heart of the town.  My agenda after school one day, loyal citizen and good Catholic girl that I was, included a trip to city hall to register to vote and a quick stop at church for confession.  Can't remember the nature of my sins, but I hope they were good ones.

Pressed for time--hmm, that sounds familiar--I was clipping along the main road eager to get those sins off my chest.  Guess I was clipping along a little too quickly, because the familiar sound of a siren got close enough to tell me to pull over.  Yet another sin to confess, it seems. Yes, I was going 45 in a 30 mph zone.  Lombard's finest had my ticket completely written out and was in the process of handing it to me when he seemed to reconsider.

Him: "So, do you know where the City Hall is located?"
Me:"Yes, I do, officer.  I was just there to register to vote."
Him: "I see those piles of papers on the seat next to you.  Are you a teacher?"
Me: "Yes, I am. I teach 4th grade in Glen Ellyn.  And, what's more, I am on my way to confession."

I don't think that tactic would work for a 60-something soon-to-be-retired teacher, but it worked like a charm for the thin, twenty-two year old cute young thing I was back then.  He actually tore up the ticket and sent me on my way. I'm sure I must have said a prayer or two of thanksgiving on my way to the church.

The two years I spent teaching in Illinois were full of carefree adventures, lots of dating and some very late nights.  One morning just before 9 am, Judy and I had a phone call from the school secretary--the same one who had sent me home to change out of the culotte dress.  Seems school had already started and  they were wondering whether we had planned to make an appearance.  Lucky for us (?), the principal was with Judy's class, and Anita, the permanent sub the building had hired, was with my little darlings.  I guess they must have liked us, because we didn't even get into any trouble.  We simply dressed as quickly as possible, waltzed in and went on with our day.

It was in Illinois that I met Peter who taught me about toga parties, how to shoot clay pigeons and how to get rid of my inhibitions.  One day he called to say that the World Series was starting the next day and did I want to take the afternoon off to watch it with him in a local pub.  Believing in honesty, I went into school for the morning and told the secretary--yep, that one--that I wanted the afternoon off so I could go watch the "World Series."  She must have thought I was kidding about the World Series and said that Anita could take my class for the afternoon. I went home to change into jeans and spent the afternoon watching Detroit beat St. Louis.  On the next day, when asked about "the game," I said it was great. Gosh, I was crazy back then!

Glen Ellyn, 1967

Although I normally do my best work under pressure, this procrastinator is running out of time to write a meaningful blog of my last year of teaching.  How can I possibly fit the stories from 45 years of teaching into the last 31 days of my career?  This is even more difficult, considering that I must also clean out multiple drawers and cupboards, organize all of my teacher and student materials, make sure that student files are up-to-date, complete my final report cards, organize three field trips, write a couple of parodies, attend my retirement party and somehow make it through the last days of a career that I have loved.  Oh well, I'll just have to do my best.

In the spring of 1967 I had a letter from my college friend Judy asking whether I would consider moving with her to the Chicago area to teach.  In those days of teaching jobs begging to be filled, the idea was appealing.  I had been out of college for a year and was looking for a change of pace.  Judy had spent her first year of teaching working in Honolulu, and Chicago was looking good to her as her boyfriend was in med school at Loyola.  Both of us simply resigned from our positions without a firm job offer and without a care in the world.

On Father's Day that June, we flew into O'Hare where Dr. Hadley himself, the superintendent of the Glen Ellyn Public Schools, met us and took us on a tour of the area, ending up at Abraham Lincoln School, a state-of-the-art building where Judy and I could teach fourth grade together. Dr. Hadley was very persuasive and we were ready for an adventure.  I believe we signed our contracts that day and set out to find an apartment.

Judy and I found a handy place to live in Lombard, Illnois, just down the road from Glen Ellyn. Our apartment complex even had a slogan, "Harmony West Apartments, Where the Living is Easy." We found a third roommate from our home state of Ohio to share our two bedroom apartment.  Jayne had a room to herself while Judy and I shared one.  We decorated our living room in "early orange crate" which we stained "antique olive green." We found a Duncan Phyfe dining room set at a garage sale, a book case and a dresser and stained those too. I remember orange carpeting and an old sofa with a cheap cover to make it look good. We were so proud of that place! Sort of sad putting that stain on the Duncan Phyfe, but years later Judy refinished it back to the original wood color.

Lincoln School was divided into a primary wing and an intermediate wing with the offices and specialist areas in a rectangular section connecting them in the middle.  Our end of the building consisted of three sections of each grade third through fifth surrounding a central area that was equipped with a rear-view projection screen where we could take whole grade levels to watch movies (no videos yet in those days) or film strips or hear speakers.  Our adjoining classrooms had movable walls, enabling us to team teach with our third colleague, a more experienced teacher who had been at the school a good seven years. We thought she was ancient.  Each room opened directly to the outside, and students could enter and leave through that outside door.  

At noon, nearly every student walked home where their stay-at-home moms were waiting with their lunches.  A handful of students remained at school for the one hour and fifteen minute break.  A "lunch lady" was hired to sit with them while they ate their sack lunches and watch them during their study time and during the long recess waiting for  their classmates to return.  As for the teachers, we either brought sandwiches to school ourselves or else went out for a leisurely lunch.  It was our choice. 

Wearing slacks, however, was NOT an option.  Dresses were the required garb.  Once, when I came to school wearing a brown culotte dress with a Peter Pan collar, the secretary showed up in my room, and I was sent home to change.  This was 1967 and teachers just did NOT wear pants to school.

In my first year of teaching, I had a fourth grade class of 38 with 14 girls and 24 boys.  At Lincoln, I had 22 total students, and they all went home for lunch.  I remember one little girl asking to go to the restroom and asking me not to do anything while she was gone so she "didn't miss anything."  I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Then there was Rush Street and Old Town and the excitement of being a young girl living near a big city.  Unfortunately, we were considered to live in the boonies.  One potential date told me that where we lived made us COOTQ (Completely Out Of The Question) to Chicago guys.  Judy didn't want to go downtown anyway, as she spent a lot of time with Dr. Larry.  Once when Jayne and I went to Rush Street, she disappeared with some guy and did not return.  First I had to walk several blocks to find my car. Then,  I frantically drove around trying to find the Eisenhower Freeway and ended up on some one-way street where drunks sat with their bottles-in-a-bag and seemed to watch me leeringly.  Scared to death, I was relieved beyond belief when I saw a sign pointing to the freeway and made my way home. I don't think I ever went there with Jayne again.

Next: Speeding?  (I am writing this more as a reminder to myself, than as a preview of coming attractions.)

The Middle

Today was the midpoint of this school year, a cold and dreary day.  I heard on the radio this morning that we are gaining three minutes of sunlight each day as we move toward summer.  It feels as though I am edging toward the sunshine of retirement with each of those three extra minutes a day.

Recently finished my final district Inventors Fair.  (Check.)  Tomorrow we are having a "Mini-Inventors Fair" for all of the third of fourth grade classes.  (Check.)  Each morning when my alarm rings and I crawl out of the nest of my bed, there is a part of me that marvels at the fact that before long I will be able to savor my coffee and enjoy the paper without having to rush out the door. By the time I get to school, however, those thoughts leave my mind and I focus on the task at hand.  At least until my friend Diane in the office reminds me that a given day will be my "last first day back from break" or my "last second Tuesday in January" or some other milestone.

After doing some simple calculations a couple of weeks ago, I realized that, adding together my days as a student and my days as a teacher, I will have attended school in some form for around 10,000 days by the time I retire.  Made me wonder how many of those days I was running late or stressed, but I hope that most of the days found me upbeat and motivating.  Glad I didn't know that number at the beginning of my career, but it's odd how fast those days have flown and how the remaining 80-something days are flying past.  The beginning of the year seems like yesterday, and, since we are in the middle, I guess the end isn't so far away either.

Beginnings

November 11, 2011

The world didn’t end, but lots of people got married on 11-11-11 at 11:11. Guess those folks didn’t remember that human beings made the calendar and that the universe might not recognize that the date was full of elevens. At least they shouldn’t have trouble remembering their anniversaries, and that is as good a reason as any to choose a date.

My birthday is on the 29^th of the month and 2 + 9 = 11, so this might be a good time for me to start a blog. Diane, a secretary at my school, has been after me to write one during this, my final year of teaching before I retire after a long career in education. I will try to be more consistent with this than I was years ago with my sons’ baby books.

In the fall of 1966 when I started my career in education, never in my wildest nightmares did I expect to still be teaching at the ripe young age of sixty-six. Thinking in terms of four and a half decades would not have been possible back then when I took things a day at a time. Despite all the years and principals and colleagues and students that have passed my way in the interim, I still think in terms of a day at a time. I have given up on the idea of reaching a magic age when I would have all of the answers.

My supervising teacher in a sixth grade class of 46 students during the winter of 1965-6 in the Cathedral School in Toledo, Ohio was at least seven months pregnant. I remember her struggling up and down the stairs to our third floor room, relieved to have some help with that huge class but lacking energy to guide a new teacher. Teacher prep was a bit looser than it is now, but, during that experience, I did learn that I loved being around young people and fed on their enthusiasm.

In the fall of ’66, my first class at Masson School in Lorain, Ohio consisted of 24 boys and 14 girls in a fourth grade room on the corner--eight students fewer than I had in Toledo. As with most “firsts”, my experiences in the first class I could call my own are burned in my memory. I remember the sick hamster one boy brought to school on day one and how we found it dead after lunch. I remember the notes I received from students begging to be moved away from the “stink zone” of the bed-wetter whose mother dressed him for school at night because she had to leave for work at 3:30 in the morning.

I am still embarrassed to admit that I actually paddled a student for throwing a pencil that hit a classmate in the eye. We didn’t have a school psychologist and hadn’t heard of Responsive Classroom, and the forty-something teacher who served as a mentor suggested paddling as a way of gaining control of this particular student.

Most of the students walked home for lunch where their stay-at-home moms welcomed them while we teachers enjoyed a fairly relaxing lunch in the teachers’ lounge followed by the luxury of some prep time while the students were gone.

No one goes home for lunch these days, although parents occasionally come in to eat with their children. If I decided to paddle a child now, I would be writing this from a prison cell. For most teachers I know, the “25-minute uninterrupted lunch” usually involves conversations about that day’s lesson in the new math curriculum followed by a quick run to the office for mail. However, I still am fueled by the enthusiasm of my students even though this energizer bunny needs extra rest to get ready for the next day.