Time
comes in all lives when a person says “That’s enough…I’m done…”
It is turning off the tractor, closing the grade book, handing over the keys, and walking away.
Point of this post:
Recognize when it is time to stop, to walk away.
You
know when it is time, you can feel it. Do not deny the hip, knee, or
shoulder. Do not ignore pain or sense of exhaustion. Growing old is
serious business.
A
number of issues forced me to retire from teaching, a good ten years
early. Pain took me out. Changes in state requirement were strangling
teachers and education.
Mainly, joy was leaving me.
When that joy is gone, it is time to stop, to walk away, and head to something that returns joy to you.
Have you done that? Can you do that?
This was written back in 2019, I think... Life was different for me then.
Now a days, I have to really search for joy.
Instead I must,absolutely must, search for moments of joy
and celebrate them.
Not hours of joy, but just moments of joy will be good.
Every now and then, a blogger asks odd things. Here, a blogger wanted other bloggers to write 10 unknown things about themselves. So, here you go:
1.I really enjoy reading children’s books, all types and ages. The art and the language thrill me. 2.“Doctor Who” has been a favorite series, from way back. I lost touch with my Who roots in 1985, and recently have returned to the TARDIS.
3.I yearn to live in a place where the predominant nature color is green. We moved from Ireland to So. California, where green tends to be faded most of the year.
4.
I am playing the piano again. Oh, not with a performance goal, but to
hear the music, and feel it. Then I had to have surgery on both hands. Soon, piano, Soon. God has given
music back to me, and I play for Him and me.
5Seeing a baby renders me incapable of logical thought. I melt.
6. People amaze me. Knowing that every car on the freeway holds a family with thoughts and dreams like me—well, that is
just amazing.
7.
I am not confrontational. Over my teaching years, there were
situations where I had to go toe-to-toe with some aggressive (sometimes
abusive) parents. It took everything in me, but it was God’s words that
came out.
8.I realize that my years ahead are probably countable using one hand of my digits. 9. I miss my mother more than words can say.
The Treasure Chest was finally full, bursting from its cardboard seams. Parents had pulled through, had donated to the treasure hoard, according to a list of requests from Ms. Wallace, First Grade teacher in Room 31. Some parents donated even more. When the new first graders streamed through the classroom door, pencils had been sharpened and books stacked. The classroom rules and rewards were posted on the wall, along with bright alphabet letters and numbers lined up in a row. First day was thrilling for all.
At the end of the day, three lucky students who had shown exemplary behavior reached sweaty and dirty hands into the treasure box, pulling out their own special prize. School bell rang, students from Room 31 poured out onto the playground to see what those treasures were.
Day two, then day three, day four, and finally day five came about and three little girls reached claw-like hands into the chest, pulling out matching Barbie-pink pencil cases. Squealing, all three dashed out with other Ms. Wallace students. What is it? Open it! Open it! Out on the playground, each pulled out white tubes wrapped in white paper. Ooooh, look at that! What is that? Excitement became confusion. Each girl revealed a strange cylinder of compacted cotton with odd strings hanging out one end. One girl pretended to put on makeup. Others experimented, which allowed students to take turns swinging one around. But, novelty wore off, most first graders ran to waiting parents. Only the three girls remained, batting each other and giggling. They raced around, swirling Tampons over their heads and then batting the tether ball pole.
Ms. Wallace thought she had seen it all in her years of teaching, but now she had watched the three girls chasing each other, swatting each other with Tampons. You missed me! No, I didn't! Here, take that!! A sword fight using Tampons broke out. One Tampon was dropped into a puddle and magic happened as it absorbed the liquid.
Ms. Wallace stepped backwards into a dark corner as the parents found them.
Hurrying inside, Ms. Wallace culled through the Treasure Chest, opening each Barbie-pink pencil case with a Tampon discreetly wrapped inside. Other donations were up to the list's standards and Tampons definitely were not on it. As she drove home, Ms. Wallace sighed. There'll be hell to pay tomorrow.
Part of this true: the Barbie pink containers did contain two Tampons, and only one girl chose it as her prize. She then did all of those activities (except the water bit) in the car with her younger sister. They had a good time. It was a heck of a thing according to my daughter.
Time comes in all lives when a person says “That’s
enough…I’m done…” Turning off the tractor,
closing the grade book, handing over the keys and walking away.
Teacher friends of mine taught for forty years, forty years! I think of their names and see them in my
mind. Some took that long desired
cruise, some moved away from the desert climate, and some, oh those teachers,
got sick.
One of my friends retired on a Friday and developed shingles on Monday. If you do not know what shingles are, look it up. You have no idea how AWFUL this is.
Another precious friend was diagnosed with breast
cancer. Since her breast cancer was genetic,
she had a double mastectomy, chemo, radiation, and then developed uterine
cancer. A wonderful teacher, dear
friend, and school board member, she died.
Enough. There
are many stories, good and bad.
Point of this post:
Recognize
it is time to stop, to walk away.
You know when it is time, you can feel it. Do not deny the hip, knee, or shoulder. Do not ignore pain or sense of exhaustion.
A number of issues forced me to retire, a good ten
years early. And then the same issues that drove me during some mighty fine teaching years had followed me home. An severe elbow injury and serious migraine inheritance---I try to ignore them when creating a project. But, paying attention to the signs and pain taught me to stop, leave what I was doing, and walk away.
Sorting through boxes leads to glimpses back to the past. It still amazes me to see those glimpses and
then to remember when they were important.
Teaching was my profession for two decades leaving me with boxes and
boxes of that life stacked on sturdy shelves. I can open my garage door and look at those boxes,
see the labels, and think “Do I still have that?”, and then “Why do I still
have that?”
We are contemplating moving—more just contemplating. Kids are grown and gone. Their belongings have moved with them, with a
few exceptions.
With that, I know I must take a deep breath, gird the loins,
and face down the lion, which are those boxes.
A teacher gives so
much, almost everything inside the brain and heart. That is what I always believed, always
did. I arrived at school an hour and a
half before the required time to make certain that the day’s preparation was just
right. I stayed two hours after
school to review student work and make adjustments for the next day.
Every day for years, this was my work ethic.
Then, one day I
received an irate letter from a father who ripped me apart.
He had found typos in an assignment I had
copied from a professionally produced book of black-line masters. He did not appreciate the topic being pursued
and wanted to adjust it to his superior understanding. He thought his child needed more explanation
and monitoring—by discussing each lesson taught and assignment given, after the
rest of the class had been dismissed.
The
letter, written in small font, covered a full page.
My entire being
sagged in defeat, taking my heart and brain with it. I left after school, numb and confused. Was
there more I could have done?
Flashing forward--I tightened up my checking-for-typos, adjusted my
explanations of all assignments, and double checking everything. It didn't change that father, but it changed
me. For better? I didn't know.
MANY years later, I received a card from the
parents of another student.
While going
through old videos, they discovered a video of their son’s reading and speech
presentations recorded that same school year.
They expressed their thanks and appreciation for giving their son such a
wonderful year, for teaching him.
They will never know how
much this act of kindness meant to me. I
could tell them “Thanks!” but that would be inadequate.
I still have the letter and read it occasionally. And I praise God for these parents who gave me more than they could ever know.
Arlee Bird has a blog site on which he discusses dreams and possible interpretations. I dedicate this post to him.
“Y” is for Yell!
I taught school for twenty years as a second career. One of my personal mandates was that I did not raise my voice. I did not yell in the classroom, unless it was part of reading aloud and the character was yelling.
Oh, I would yell on the playground. “Get OFF that FENCE right NOW!”
This almost looked like me, so long ago....
I have this recurring dream in many variations. With a herd of forty students, I am guiding them on a field trip through some hazardous place. Why we would go to a minefield or an African savannah, I don’t know, but we are there and I am charged with keeping these students safe.
Over the years of teaching, I kept looking over my shoulder. I half expected to feel a hand there, and a voice saying, “Hey, I know you! What are you doing here as a teacher? Why, you don’t know what you are doing….” Then I would be dragged out of the classroom, to the dismay and amazement of my students.
I did know what I was doing. I did know everything was based on standards and learning principles.
What I was depending on was the creativity to bridge the gap from the standards dictated by law to how my students would learn them. So much depended on what I saw in the student, how I could take that and use it, and return it to him as a learn-able product. Basically, I was teaching “on my feet”. Thinking quickly. Grabbing ideas out of the air.
But, then, I think we all do that whatever the job or calling. Parents do it all the time. We get this tiny crying baby, and go with the flow. We understand diapers and feedings, no problem.
But, what to do when all sorts of things happen, well, that is a gray area. What do we do when our seven-year old daughter gives sassy, eye-rolling comments? What do we do when one child lies, out-right lies to us? What do we do when we break up a sibling fight, where the clarity is non-existent?
Some would grab the video camera, film it, and send it to America’s Funniest Videos.
Maybe they will win $10,000.
Or, maybe we parents have to think “on our feet”. Do we rely on what our parents did in similar situations? In some cases, oh-please-God-help-me, no we don’t. In others, perhaps we do.
Maybe we all live this way, looking over our shoulder, waiting for someone to tell us that we don’t know what the heck we are doing. But, I think that at this point, I can shrug off the hand, and say, “Wanta bet?”
I loved teaching, still love teaching. When my health said it was time to stop, I turned away from the classroom. I now have two granddaughters whom I love without end. Still, I miss the classroom, the eyes of the students as they learn.
The eyes never change. In the twenty years since my first group of students, I may not recognize them, but they recognize me. When I see the eyes, I can call up the child-face these adults once had. Suddenly we are talking about their lives and what they are doing as adults. Some have children holding their hand, some are going on to school. I don’t tell them about me, my life goals, because I am not and never was the important one: the students were all that mattered to me.
Almost every night I have a dream about teaching. Some are great, where we are on the playground or we are reading a grand book. Others are not.
In those dreams, the teaching situation is desperate, the classroom is an abandoned rotting shell of a building, and the students are scared. So am I. There are so many students with all sorts of needs and we don’t have enough books to go around. Whatever learning happens is up to the teacher, because there is no other source. I see their eyes looking at me, waiting, and that is when I do something.
Bolivia Road of Death
I never get to find out what I do, for the dream morphs onto something like driving a school bus along that most dangerous road in Bolivia. Then I wake up.
It all comes down to the teacher and the quality he/she brings to the classroom. Money can be thrown at the needs of the schools, but if the teacher does not have the freedom to teach, nothing will happen.
e ceiling, reams of lined paper can line the walls, and sharpened pencils can lie in laundry baskets. But, if the teacher does not have the freedom to explore and fulfill the needs of each student, learning will dwindle to the bubbles on Scantron™ test papers.
This is the second day of school for Bright Eyes. Already, she and her little clutch of friends are striving for good behavior, and most importantly, “table points”.
courtesy of Bing.com
Rules are there for a reason.
Unless you are familiar with the discipline plans and rewards used in an elementary classroom, that means nothing to you.“Table Points” are the points a cluster of six students called a ‘table group’ can earn by sitting up straight, paying attention, folding hands in front of them, or remaining silent when the world around them is wreaking wild havoc.
The table group who garners the most points throughout the whole week gets to choose prizes from the Treasure Chest.“Oh. My. Goodness.This is so big, like, you know, Grandma!And, we were the first table group for the school year, too.”Bright Eyes now sounds like every teeny girl in Disney™ television shows.It makes me sad, and a little cranky to be honest.
You, too, can choose from the treasure chest!
So, Bright Eyes hopped into the van, grasping her prize from the Treasure Chest.It was a small zippered bag, like a girl would carry in her purse for lipstick and such. She had so much to tell about her day, and she had to buckle in before she could examine her treasured prize.
There was silence from Bright Eyes as my daughter drove, letting Sunshine fill in the news of her day.Then, “Mommy, what is this?”
From the treasured prize, Bright Eyes pulled out three Tampons™, and held them up for her mother to view in the rear view mirror. She was told that they would talk about those things at home.But that was never enough for Bright Eyes; she knew a brush-off when she saw it.So Bright Eyes tore them open, and speculated about their uses.Not a flashlight…oh, look, here’s string…she swung the tampons around on their strings…No, this isn’t a telescope. Here, Sunshine!You can play with this one…”
This looks like a good book.
When they all arrived home and the front door closed, my daughter (God bless her.) gave Bright Eyes an abbreviated explanation; she took the Tampons away.Then she called the teacher, who listened in silence. The Teacher said, “Oh, dear.I’d better called Bright Eyes’ best friend.She picked the same thing.”
This is what I learned as a child when facing down a brother or another aggressive boy on the playground. Hold your ground. Invade personal space. Close in for the kill. AND never blink first.
This is important: He who blinks first, loses.
courtesy of Bing.com
The skills honed in the fires of sibling conflict and playground battles have carried me through many rough situations. Okay—not necessarily rough, but definitely confrontational.
As a young mother, I learned the importance of holding my position on naps (everyone takes one in the afternoon, including me) until my oldest child was almost 9 years old. Having three stair-step children, I bent over and drew my eyes level with theirs.
“You will take a nap today. A good long nap.” They blinked. I didn’t. The nap wars fought and won, because I didn’t blink first.
When teaching, the teacher must hold the line on so many discipline issues: raising the hands to speak, asking permission, respecting another student’s right to exist, etc. Staring down thirty + children requires practice and experience. It must be done with firmness and, most of all, with kindness.
Do you understand???
There was always one student who challenged the blink contest “You will not steal anyone's pencils. Do you understand, mister?” Blink, blink, “Yes’m.”
That was when all the skills in the first paragraph had to go into the game. The teacher has to win this—the rest of the class has to know that the standards of behavior are listed on the wall for a reason.
Yes'm.
When not playing poker for big bucks, or trying to convince a three-year old that he will stay out of the flour canister, blinking is fine. Blink away to your heart’s content.
In your face.
But, when one absolutely must win a situation, keep those eyes open, piercing into the other eyes with deadly aim, and impose your will. Good luck, soldier.
“What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?”
courtesy of Bing.com
This is from Hamlet, and is one of the few lines I can remember from high school English class. It was an enigmatic line to me then, being all of fifteen years old, and having seen little of life or death.
Now, of course, that has changed. Life and death—those are much more real to me. You might be expecting me to expound on death and how it surrounds us all. Nah, I want to share dreams of life with you.
I taught first through eighth grades over a twenty year span. I restarted my teaching career when my youngest child began second grade. By that time, I was almost 37 years old, with a load of life experiences in my backpack that most of the younger teachers could not have had. My first class was a fourth grade class whose teacher had to take sick-leave mid-year. Up to the time I came, there had been 18/eighteen different substitute teachers who went and left after one day.
It was a rough class, a broken class. More than that, it was a group of 10-11 year old children who felt abandoned in the one safe place where they could count on being cared for and taught what they needed to know.
Not an endorsement--but it looks good.
God knows what we all need, and He certainly knew what these children needed: someone to love them, to slug it through, to stay the course with them.
To say that we endured and came out winners would be too light-hearted. It was a struggle, almost mental hand-to-hand combat. Each child had their own issues of pain, divorce, poverty, gang-pressure, and abandonment from home. They needed—no, they absolutely were desperate for someone to hold onto and to show them the door to a better world.
Teachers must be warriors for their students. I was a soft mother type, who made quilts and baked brownies, who taught Sunday school and played the church piano. But I was also a tenacious and stubborn woman, who saw into the hearts of these hurting kids. It was a daily test for all of us, and in the end, we were drawn together. On the last day of school, we were all teary eyed to see school end and our relationship to change.
Months before, I had entered that classroom as their adversary, another teacher whom they thought would leave them. My promise was that I was staying, and they were not going to be left with someone else. I kept my promise.
Now, I have dreams of my students, over 600 of them, in different situations with me as their teacher. Sometimes I am driving a bus on a field trip along a crazy Bolivian mountain road. Sometimes we are in a classroom put together in a bombed out bunker. In other dreams, teacher friends and I are going to somewhere like Haiti to set up classes for other abandoned children.
