Grieving Gardener

I wake up to a scene like this every morning here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. To the east, the sun peaks over the barren mountains, causing the sage to be drenched in early morning color. Awe inspiring, evert day I thank God that I live in this quiet and beautiful place. From here I will go to meet Him one day. In the evening the scene repeats itself as the sun sets behind the Sierra Nevada Mountains just to the west of me. And the seasons, they’ve gone round and round.

Either time of day is breathtaking. A day rich with possibilities or a day that has been filled with accomplishments through struggles and perseverance. Two different times to reflect on what the hours of light held for each one of us. Each individual creates their own story during those hours. Depending on what we learn from our waking hours, a personal path is formed. Sometimes there are some pretty scary forks in the road. It is at a life defining juncture I stand now.

I have chosen to resign and retire from teaching.

A sunrise took me to a little school at the wide spot on a very dusty road on a very hot day in July. Hired by a principal that, along with ten teachers, quit the next week, I might have taken a different path had I known the backstory. But, hind sight is 20/20, and we can never make good decisions based on the experiences and actions of others.

God gave me 20 littles to teach with love for the time I had them under my wing. We all learned a lot during the two months I had them in my care, and with pride, I can say they were always my focus. For those weeks, they got it all. Up at dark-thirty, I spent time preparing days that were the best they could be, but extenuating circumstances finally broke me. I refer to this as “Death of a Teacher in 60 Days or Less”.

Some might think their energy level was too much to handle.

Nope. I found it refreshing and delightful.

Some might think it was the computerized lessons that pushed me to my breaking point.

Nope. I learned a lot from the experience.

It was a set of circumstances so broken that they were not to be fixed during my employ.

One very green teacher reminded me that the situation in which we were all teaching was all they knew, therefore, not unusual or wrong. There lies the demise of things as they once were. Accepting insanity as the new normal. I couldn’t participate with the insanity called public school one minute longer.

In my beautiful teaching career, I spent the bulk of my career blessed to teach at an award winning school. People would travel from all over California and Nevada to observe our reading lab and literacy program. All employees were onboard and our students reaped the rewards. Every student’s educational plan was tailor-made just for them and the goal of every employee was student success. Educational minutes were golden and not to be squandered. I know what that looks like in a community and more specifically, in a school district.

When I became Secondary Teacher of the Year in 2010, nothing made me more proud. I earned that award while helping high school students achieve their very real dreams and goals. During those years with my district, I watched the best of the best teachers work their magic while loving every second of our days together. The brilliance of my time teaching will never be tarnished by poor working conditions and even worse educational decisions made by people that should know better.

It was never about the paycheck. It wasn’t about prestige. I wanted to have one more school year with littles. It proved to be too much. My career passed away into memories that I will cherish for the rest of my life. For a little time, I will grieve the loss while knowing my resignation was the right decision for me. If I hadn’t taken a chance at a new sunrise, I would have regretted that. I’m very glad I gave this my best and last shot.

Life is a series of sunrises and sunsets. The sun set on a wonderful time in my life in which I was The One and Only Mrs. Hurt. Now, I return to retirement with a new appreciation for all the opportunities that await. A sunrise brightening the mountains and presenting a day ripe with possibilities. How rich and wonderful!

While making this decision, I spoke at length with someone I met a very long time ago on a playground far, far away. Poppy. Although not her real name, she has a very REAL place in my heart. You see, when she was only 8, she declared that she and I were HEART FRIENDS. She went on to say that there aren’t many people that are that lucky to find a HEART FRIEND.

I chose Poppy for her name, because like the California poppies that color the foothills every spring, this girl was a force to be reckoned with. A child strong and brilliant beyond her years. A child that has forged herself into steel as she walked through a fiery childhood. She is a once-in-a-lifetime HEART FRIEND.

Through the years, Nikki and I have found and lost and found each other again. Through her strength and resilience while homeless most of her educational years, Nikki schooled herself, graduating with honors in high school, UCLA, Penn State, and now, finishing her doctoral program at University of North Carolina. I’m blessed that Nikki is my HEART FRIEND. We talked about my decision to resign from my teaching position.

Torn up about leaving my students in the middle of the year, she said the most beautiful thing to me.

“Joy, those kids are so blessed to have you teach them for two months. You didn’t cause their troubles and you can’t fix them either. You came at the right time in their lives and they were so lucky to spend any time at all with you. They were a lucky class to be with you.”

There is a golden crown a teacher gets to wear very few moments in her life. An almost-30-year-old-student looking back to say you were HER teacher. That you made a HUGE difference. That she loved you then, throughout the years, now, and forever more. That is the shimmery bow that ties up my career. Thank you, my HEART FRIEND. I owe you for the council.

As you can imagine, this week has been one of the most intense since the passing of VST. I need to change gears and celebrate a bright new chapter in my life. I promise I will be back on Monday with new stories from this wide spot on a very dusty road running through the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Know I’ll be celebrating all the upcoming sunrises and sunsets my life has left with new appreciation. Don’t worry. I plan to celebrate my REAL and FINAL retirement in rare form. Stay tuned.

More on Monday.

Cows are quite possibly one of my favorite animals. Trusting and wise, these animals provide products that are vital in every day life. Along with the ultimate sacrifice for humans, they are gentle and beautiful animals. It is with this love that the 1st Grade Teachers at my school are adopting five little cows for the rest of the school year. Yes. Five. They are arriving sometime this week.

I just informed my principal. I sure hope they don’t make too much of a mess when they arrive in the office. I also hope the other teachers don’t decide to run off with them. Cows are pretty trusting and 3rd grade teachers can talk a good game. It is for that reason I alerted the principal to watch for the arrival of the newest additions to our classroom.

I remember a certain summer night that VST had asked me to join him at a fund raiser at a local dairy. The farmer, quiet and shy as the dairy farmers I know can be, had taken the very old family barn and renovated it into a magnificent party venue. The wooden structure was built by great grandfathers and neighbors. Every board was as perfect as the day it was built. If it didn’t start that way, the farmer had made it new again.

VST never shared the same fascination with animals as me. I was born loving every living creature on our farm. I was always messing with the rabbits, chickens, lambs, dogs, or cats. Wild animals were observed from afar, knowing that some things can’t be tamed. VST was into football, cars, and girls. Animals didn’t make the cut.

Under the brightest full moon while bathed by warm summer air, the evening unfolded with great food and lots of gossip and laughter from our neighbors. Farmers are the salt of the earth. Great men that work hard during the day and seldom get out for frilly parties or fancy events. A night in a barn at the local dairy was an inviting affair in which they could wear their Stetson’s and Levi’s. Throw on a pair of boots and they were dressed for the night.

All of that was really grand, but the real interest for me stood just to the side of the lighted barn. There, the farmer had tubbed and scrubbed six or seven of his prize “Girls” to watch over the partiers. These ladies were the most beautiful cows I’ve seen in my 66 years. Holsteins, they quietly chewing their cud as all cows do. Coming to the fence to check me out, their friendly nature was a bit shocking. Their eye lashes hung heavy as if they were wearing their finest mascara. They looked right through me and decided I was okay. We shared a moment.

I spent awhile just taking in their beauty. These cows were of the finest pedigree and part of the prize winning herd. Solid and huge, the time spent affirmed how much I love cows. They will forever turn my head. Maybe someday, I’ll have one of my own. I love them that much.

VST finally found me by the fence and just shook his head. Taking me by the hand, we walked back to the party while he told me I would not be bidding on the calf to be auctioned off as part of the fund raiser that night. Dang. I’d just met her mother. We’d bonded. His answer remained a solid “NO”. Even living on a farm with lots of space has it’s limitations. Mine was a husband that drew the line on any animal over 200 pounds. Thank goodness the Mastiffs were just under his weight limit.

Well, my calves are on the way now. When they arrive, I hope to instill a love of bovines in my littles. First, our calf will need a name. Then, I’ll need nightly a nightly “Calf-watcher” to care for the little guy. That’s right, the calf will travel home with each child and return the next day. Along with the calf, the child will take it’s journal and record just what the it did that evening. I hope the parents will be onboard. It’s not every day that a teacher sends home a calf for additional care and love. It will be the most fun kind of homework.

In the spring, I’m hoping we can travel to the town just to the East of us (home of the REAL Top Gun program) to visit a dairy there. I want my littles to appreciate just how huge our calf will become. A glass of fresh milk would be pretty nice, too.

That’s the Moo-ving news from Room 56.

Tomorrow my site will be down for improvements, so I’ll return on Wednesday.

Drink Milk. Better yet, Eat Ice Cream. While you do, please pray for our farmers. They need all the prayers we can send.

More on Thursday.

These days, I’m finding the best place to focus is on tiny little miracles that unfold in life every minute of every day. They bloom like the fields in this picture. Subtle little bits of happiness sprinkle over life like confetti. We just need to stop long enough to recognize them for what they are. Miracles.

These days, I’m grateful that in my golden years, I’m able to rise at an early hour, take a nice hot shower, dress in pretty new clothing, get in Barbie’s Jeep, and drive to work. A revised schedule was what I needed. Perhaps a little more difficult adjustment at my advanced age, but certainly what was needed to take a look at myself through a new lens. Living along, one can become complacent and stale. Never a good thing when creating the best life possible.

Today is professional dress day. I plan to look my best and slay the day. It’s so easy to look outward and find fault in every direction. The only controllable thing in my life is my thoughts and actions. There’s the award winning master teacher deep inside. I need to be her for just a few more months. That spiffed up Teacher-Gal is ready for a great week.

Somedays, I think I am really afflicted with some kind of hyper-active disorder of the brain. As the weeks go by, the traits of a master teacher are awakening. There is only one focus from 8:40 – 3:05. Well, actually, 20 focuses. My Littles. Mrs. Hurt is out of retirement until June 2. God brought me these Littles for specific reasons yet to unfold. I need to be at my best for them.

Oliver is not having our new schedule. Only seeing his new girlfriend on the weekends, he’s boycotting food and moping around the house like the lovelorn pup that he has become. Meeting this girlfriend has been the best thing for him although, together, the two are quite a handful. Color coordinated friends, they’re like children that push the limits of their play until one gets a little too rough. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. It’s fun to see him as the dog he is instead of my shadow.

This week, preparations are in full swing for Parent-Teacher Conferences which are right around the corner. I love this time of year. I’m looking forward to sitting down with parents to share the progress we’re making. My kiddos are an amazing group of children that are learning, growing, and changing every day. No one will value this information more than their parents. I have one chance to get each meeting right. 40 parents are depending on me to do just that.

With Halloween looming, we finished our first craft project on Friday. We made “Leaf Men”. The kids loved working with glue sticks, leaves, googly eyes, and construction paper. It made me realize I need to spend a little more time on Pinterest to find some more craft projects for Halloween. (Google — The Leaf Man — Cute story my Littles loved).

The Mysterious Marine and I had a wonderful weekend dining, shopping, and working on household projects. The Biggest Little City just west of here provided the perfect assortment of stores unavailable in our town. It’s nice to go to a big city once in awhile, but it’s even nicer to return home to our dusty little wide spot in the road. Mustangs have long since moved out of the Biggest Little City. I understand why, being a true country girl myself.

Whatever you do today, look for those miracles that shine around you. Something as simple as the perfect breeze on a sunny day should remind us all that life is so precious and beautiful. Whether it’s a child’s smile or a conversation with a dear friend, find the positives on which to focus. Believe there is good in the world. Be the good.

More tomorrow.

Life on the 1st Grade playground is brutal these days. Tattling, fights, and a bloody nose tell me everyone has settled into life at our little school. We are now a family. I just didn’t expect the bloody nose to belong to the sweetest little girl in my class. Life is different than it was in 1961, when I was in 1st Grade. Even the boys didn’t fight until we were all much older.

How so much drama unfolds on bright and sunny fall days in the middle of the desert is a puzzlement. Working on math after lunch, the class seemed to be attentive and alert. We’d found a few extra balls in the morning and were all looking forward to the fresh air and a few minutes to run off steam. We all love recess. It could be my favorite subject now. 1st Graders are teaching many lessons. one being the value of a brain break.

There’s a most special teacher at school. I’ve named her Louise. She got that name because when we are together, I’m definitely her Thelma. For my young and tender readers that don’t immediately have an image of two women seated in a convertible flying off the road into the airspace above a very deep canyon, please watch the movie. I’m sure my friend and I often trade parts. We drove off that cliff when we came out of retirement to help a desert school district that needed teachers so badly. We are still in free fall. The principal refers to us as the “Laughing Ladies Down The Hall”.

Louise and I were basking in the sunshine rather marmot-like when a frantic child ran up to get our help.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

It seemed a handful of children representing all five classes had collected out of the view of teachers at a place OFF LIMITS to all. One of my most trusted students was there, front and center. Unusual, out of character, and most definitely unacceptable.

There were four girls in a line and backed into a corner. A group of boys were going to fight them. Why? Who knows what lurks in the heads of children. These were all good kids that were not the usual suspects. I doubt they knew the first thing about fighting.

Assessing the actual damage, I asked if anyone was hit.

“No!” They all answered in unison.

Another strange thing about 1st graders is that they often have different perceptions about life and the meaning of English words. A fight usually involves someone striking another. In this case, no contact was made.

“They WERE going to fight us,” offered my little Eaglet (our mascot is the eagle).

All these children looked quite startled and now terrified that Thelma and Louise had arrived on the scene. Everyone denied everything. Ten littles all telling their side of the story while trying to avoid the hot water in which they found themselves.

Louise and I gave them the EYE, told them not to play in the area OFF LIMITS to all, and sent them on their way. We thought it was the end.

Before long, a little and her friend, both my students (again, great kids) came for immediate help. My little had a bloody nose. My little looking so cute in her adorable pink dress and hair bow.

“He hit me. He hit me.”

“Oy vey … What a Curse! Blood and bumps? Off to the nurse.”

I let them in through an exterior door that wasn’t even looked properly as all exterior doors must be at all times. The unlocked door was almost more disturbing than the girl with the bloody nose. Every exterior door in our building is locked at all times while children are present. Sadly, it’s the times in which we live.

With two minutes left in the recess, Louise and I were left to deal with a little boy that was now a solid ball of “I didn’t do it and there’s nothing you can do to make me say I did.” Sad but true, he was turned over to the authorities. He returned to class with a snack and a pat on the head. Oh, the drama of it all.

The rest of the day was full of work. I made it so. The more little minds have to learn, the less time they have to think about upcoming episodes of 1st Grade Fight Club – Part 2. Today is a new morning with new drama, yet to unfold.

I love having Louise on my side. Between us, we’ve seen 57 years of classroom antics. There isn’t anything that we haven’t seen at least one hundred times before. We both agree, this situation was a new one for both of us. Gone are the days of tissue butterflies and watercolor rainbows. Replacing them are one hour a day of computer time and hours of work. Gone are the days when being sent to the office was something to be avoided at all costs. Now, it involves a snack. The 1900’s were a magical place to live, eh?

This weekend, the Mysterious Marine and I will be spending quality time together. Shopping, eating, gardening, and home maintenance. Thank goodness he’s steady on a ladder because my light bulbs need changing. After five weeks, we are settling into the best kind of friendship. An easy one that doesn’t include drama or the need for extra stress. Just neighbors that always have an extra cup of sugar to share. Oliver and his new girlfriend pine for each other when apart. As our new pack forms, the leaves are turning golden. The weekend is primed for fun and happiness. With winter just around the corner, we’re settling in to the best season of all.

With that being said, I need the weekend to sleep in, eat too much, and enjoy life. I will be back on Monday with new stories about my dusty little life at the wide spot in the road off the interstate on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. It just doesn’t get better than that.

Until Monday…

One has not lived until you’ve experienced Picture Day in a school of 620+ students. Add the staff on top of that and you have one crazy day. I’m not sure where the picture company found the photographers we met. My class was last and they hadn’t run out of the building screaming, although they looked like they had been through a storm.

Picture Day always starts the same. Children enter the room looking like little people you’ve never met before. They are scrubbed and combed while wearing their best clothing. They walk in with directions from mom that they are not to adjust anything. Breathing is okay. Anything else? Optional. Probably just DON’T.

In the world of things that make sense, a 1st Grade class would be photographed right after Kinder, first thing in the morning. We are talking littles. In an hour, curls are gone. Gel is disturbed. Kids DO things. The look is gone.

Yesterday, that wouldn’t be the case. Everyone was photographed before lunch except my class. They got a full lunch and lunch recess to finish off their look. A group of hot little 1st graders waited in line after lunch, wrinkled and sweaty.

Yesterday, I learned that 1st graders are just learning to button shirts. One little boy could button, just not in the right order. I learned gel works on a 1st grader for about an hour. Many can tie their shoes, but many more cannot. All those things really don’t matter, because my class never loses their smiles. And, that is most precious part of 1st grade.

For my LAST teacher pic, I wore a floral dress and pearls. My hair, quite long at this point, was down for the picture. This caused quite the commotion in class, as the children don’t see me this way during school. 20 littles told me I was beautiful. Littles never lie. I’ll take their compliments any day of the week.

After all the kids were photographed, it was my turn. Because it would be the last school picture of my career, the technician carefully adjusted my hair and took a little extra time with the pose and then, with a click, it was over. She showed me the photo. Not the best, not the worst. Just a snapshot of an attractive senior citizen in a floral dress and pearls. Memories of all the Picture Days from long ago filled me with so many emotions. I was glad the photo didn’t reveal the tiniest of tears welling behind my lids. Saying “Goodbye” to a career is a hard thing to do, especially when it takes a school year to do so.

These days, I do feel like the most beautiful of teachers. My heart is full when I’m watching them learning to read, write, add, and subtract. They are learning how to be respectful and responsible in school in the first year of real school. I’m carefully setting the expectations for the next 12 years of their education. I don’t take that task lightly.

For everything there is a season. A time to learn and a time to teach. A time to work and a time to retire. I needed this last year to end a brilliant career on my own terms. I’m so blessed with this chance to get the last year right.

More tomorrow.

Somedays, the stars align and wonderful things happen. I noticed the half-moon driving to work at dark:30 yesterday. It must have spilled moon dust all over my class, because they were on their best behavior yesterday. It was jus that kind of a day.

Told by admin to hold a “community circle” with my class to discuss respect, I wasn’t really feeling it as we all sat around a large carpet ringed with the alphabet. My 20 littles are growing every day. Their behavior is remarkable and exemplary when it needs to be. I’m able to teach without interruption, while they are feeling secure enough to raise their hands for questions.

Teaching 20 first graders isn’t something that is especially easy. By the 3rd grade, my past students knew the ropes. They had the system down. Those that were trouble caused it. Those that were shining stars beamed. It had all been decided in the prior years. Reputations had been formed. In the 12 years of 3rd grade, I just followed the lead of prior teachers and taught them more.

Now, 1st graders are just pure little beams of individuality that are as unique as the colors in the rainbow. Everything is rainbows in my little class. Any coloring project has at least one. That’s refreshing. No politics. No religion. No arguing over points of view. Just beautiful rainbows everywhere. Add a few unicorns for good measure with a watchful T-rex in the back and you can now understand 1st grade a little better. Yes. Unicorns, rainbows, and the occasional T-Rex.

I didn’t have much hope for this assignment. I was to lead a discussion on respect. One by one, each child gave their opinion on the matter. Handing me a blue or white cloth ribbon that I had just handed them minutes earlier, I would add it as a loop to our class chain. The lesson began without any direction other than that. 45 minutes later, we were in the same position, carrying on a really beautiful discussion about respect and what it looks like. I didn’t want the moment to end. Quite possible one of the most beautiful in my career.

That’s interesting, because I almost didn’t do the activity. Feeling overwhelmed and short on time, the ribbons were almost lost under a growing stack of papers needing correcting. I’m so glad that we had that time to discuss something more important than the 30 lesson on beginning and ending sounds.

It’s not especially wise to fall in love with a class of littles, but unavoidable. Their little jokes make me laugh to loudly. Their smiles and quick hugs nourish my soul. Helping them when they skin a knee or elbow comes naturally. I love each one of them as only their teacher can. June 2nd, a little bit of them will stay in my heart with all my former students, as this class marches away towards 2nd Grade. Even now, that thought makes my eyes swell just a little.

This is the REAL retirement year of My own choosing. Yesterday was the last time I’ll hold that lesson with a group of littles. I’m so thankful it made such a beautiful memory for us all.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some tough hombres that give me a run for my money during the day. Corrections are quick and exact. It’s like Oliver and his new girlfriend when they hit a snag. Lots of growling, a few barks, but no blood when the disagreement is done. Yes. That’s 1st grade.

I found out that a 6 year old knows more than most adults about respect. What must they think as they watch adults behaving badly? Perhaps we should ask them for solutions to many grownup problems? They would surely have ways to solve problems in the most kind ways.

After the lesson was over, we walked in a nearly perfect line to the front of the school to place our chain on the school bulletin board. Ours was the first and only. I thought back to just an hour before when this bullheaded teacher sat on the carpet thinking about the phonics lesson that wouldn’t be taught. What an old poop! School isn’t about how many instructional minutes are in a day. It’s about love and respect. Math and reading are important, of course, but there is so much more to 1st grade.

After all, as any 1st grader already knows, life isn’t worth living without love and respect. They told me so yesterday. All 20 littles, sitting around a lettered carpet in a brick school house at a wide spot in the road in our dusty little town off the interstate. Love and respect. Remember that.

More tomorrow.

Nothing this morning.

Maybe tomorrow.

Have a great day.

As I turn up the collar on
My favorite winter coat
This wind is blowing my mind
I see people in the street
With not enough to eat
Who am I to be blind
Pretending not to see their needs?

I’m gonna make a change
For once in my life
It’s gonna feel real good
Gonna make a difference
Help to make it right

A summer of thinking hard
On hot desert sands
One girl’s mind on a roll
They chase each other on the wind you know
With nowhere to go
That’s why I want you to know

I’m starting with the gal in the mirror
I’m asking her to change her ways
No message could be any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and make a change

I’ve been a victim of
A selfish kind of love
It’s time that I realize
That there are some with no home
Not a nickel to loan
Could it be really me
Turning to leave them alone?

A mustang deeply scarred
My own broken heart
And a storm-blown life of petty little dreams

They follow the pattern of the wind
You see
‘Cause they got no place to be

It all begins with me

I’m starting with the girl in the mirror
I’m asking her to change her ways
No message could be any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and make a change

You gotta get it right
While you got the time
‘Cause when you close your heart
Then you close your mind!

Change

**********

Autumn is a beautiful time of year to reevaluate life. The desert winter will soon cloak my dusty little wide spot in the road here in Northwestern Nevada. Realizing how very blessed I am in this life, I need to stop sniveling in my soup. The time for personal action has arrived.

Hurricane Ian and it’s massive destruction has awakened the good in millions of people. Disasters always do. Please remember the disasters right on our local streets. Be a Hometown hero and look for ways to help in your own community, even if only by donating a bag of groceries to the local food bank. We can all stand to look in the mirror once in awhile. Might be surprised what changes can be made if we just try.

More tomorrow.

Thank you to the genius of Michael Jackson. I hope it’s okay that I changed the words a bit, Michael. Didn’t think you would mind too much.

The days are flying by now. In two weeks, I’ll be talking to parents during conferences about the children we both know and love. This will be followed by Nevada Day and Halloween as we race towards the Veteran’s Day and the Thanksgiving holiday. Insane how fast time is rolling on.

I’m settling in to life as Mrs. Hurt, although not without some bumps along the way. This is truly a young person’s game. I knew that going in. Now it slaps me in the face every time there is another computerized requirement. I suppose this is great training for life ahead as the professional writer, but, the training is brutal. I’ll never, ever be fluent in computer issues. That’s just a fact. Like trying to run a race with one leg. I know how my struggling children feel. I’m struggling, too.

I need to remember that when frustration arises as I teach reading to littles. Their minds are not geared the same as mine. They want videos, games, and instant gratification. Quite frankly, to them, learning to read is as boring as watching paint dry.

Yesterday, I turned the bunch loose with Dry-Erase Markers on my white board. It is enough to stop one’s heart watching littles equipped with 10 wide tipped black markers. They were to write as many words as they could think of in 8 minutes. It was amazing to watch 16 littles do their best to share, cooperate with a partner, and write words. They are truly adorable littles and I am so glad their mine for the year.

During sharing, a little boy had something interesting to tell.

“I will tell you all. I love girls. Old ones. Young ones. Girls are beautiful.” End of sharing. Profound and from the heart. I smile a lot when I’m with my little friends.

Homecoming alert!!! The Vaqueros are coming! The Vaqueros are coming!

Today will be a day to play, laugh, and rest. Our high school mascot is the Vaquero. Why? Not sure. The name doesn’t fit the culture here. I need to ask the Mysterious Marine who knows everything about our town, being a native and all. For goodness sakes, he holds high school track records in track!

The high school band, cheer leaders, and players are coming to the 1st-2nd Playground today for an assembly of the most fun time. Rowdy kids will be allowed to yell as loud as they can to cheer on our football team!! Cheerleaders cheering!! A band playing!! A celebration will be had by all.

Then, around 1, we will all line the hallways to watch the first batch of Golden Eagles soar through the school. Each class has one. The first of the year are the cream of the crop. Such an honor to be chosen by your teacher to be student of the month. I plan to do a lot of cheering today as the fun unfolds. It’s about time we celebrate, because the stress level has been through the roof.

That being said, I need a weekend to regroup, regenerate, and enjoy some private time. The weekends fly by as fast as everything else. I want to enjoy every single minute and be back, fresh and frisky on Monday.

Whatever you do this weekend, make it grand. Even if it involves domestic chores. Just kick up the music and dance. Life is precious. Don’t waste it.

More on Monday.

   Framed by the window, she watched Jackson Elementary put on its best face for the most important night of the year.  Open House.  Her heart wished she could return to be one of the flaming stars of the night. 

Miss Teacher Girl. 

Back then, student dreams were carefully held in her heart, next to her love of teaching.  Yearnings for one more shot at those days made her eyes leak tears that dropped one by one, sprinkling her blouse like tiny raindrops.

Over her classroom years, Open House was always the ultimate explosion of art, writing, books, and pride. 

Open House. 

The best of nights she remembered as she sat just a window away while watching Jackson Elementary across the street.

Mrs. Wells. 

Sometimes, even in her twilight years, she’d be out to dinner, blankly suffering through her loneliness in a venue different than her kitchen table, when a voice from the past would catch her off guard. 

“Mrs. Wells?  Mrs. WELLS????????  Is it really you?” 

Embarrassment caught her every time because the person asking was a stranger she had known as well as their parents, at one time.  Someone who held one-year-long spot in her heart with all the others.  A former student.  She would always pause and respond with a “Yes” as she waited.  Sometimes she would know, as she scanned her mental year books, like taking attendance.  It was always in the smile.   Sometimes she’d give in, saying, “Help me with this, because the years have robbed my brain and you’ve changed a bit.”

She’d love her students until the day she died, which was much closer than all those yard duty days as children raced with their wide open arms to hug the teacher they loved the most in the whole world.

Today, the colors of a brand new springtime were bold.  She watched as Sam, now gray and hurting from the long day, was making his way across the school yard.  Everyone loved Sam, the janitor.  She  knew well, on this most important night, Sam would have been at it at least 12 hours by now, with never a gruff word.  Teachers would have asked, pleaded, and demanded without a “Thank You”.  “Sam, Could You..”  “Sam, Right now.”  “Sam.”  “Sam.”  “Sam.”.  The man was a saint.

The memories hurt her heart in a cruel way, as she found herself needing to close her eyes, remembering back to one of the best nights of her life.   Open House in the infancy of  a new century.  The most beautiful of nights, a celebration of  the taming of a wild, little boy, and the gentling of a brittle, new teacher. 

“Jimmy. My Jims.” 

She wept as she recalled a beautiful yet sorrowful vignette of past, present, and future.  She needed to replay this story for herself one more time, wondering if something so precious could’ve really occurred in a generic classroom over months and months.  

“My Jims,” she thought, over and over. 

If you could have only visited her innermost thoughts, in her very best story time voice it was this memory you’d have heard her tell.  Yes.  It had happened in that very new year, in a very new decade, now so long ago.

We met in first grade. 

Madder than a hot hornet in a glass jar, that one.  Small package of intensity.  Rather like a molten shooting star.  Something to be seen, but never touched.  Streaking.  Raging.  White hot.  He had so much reasons to rage in such a short life.  My Jims. I’d watched him grow as he was assigned to teachers from Kinder to my 3rd Grade classroom door. 

In those first few years, his fiery temper was the talk in the lunchroom.  Overturned desks.  Rantings.  Raging’s.  Temper turned outward, all the while, anger devoured him on the inside.  Punishments came because he raged at himself so not even knowing why.  Neither did anyone else.  Tags. Detention. Estrangement from the others.  Separation.  Anger on top of anger for years as he grew up.

I asked for him, you know.  I prayed he would come to me on an August class list.  Year after year, anecdotal stories exploded as warnings.  No sane teacher would willingly want this child disrupting her classroom .  But, I wanted him.  I saw through his exaggerated melodrama, to see a bright, bored, brilliant soul screaming for someone to notice.  Raging for someone to demand he stop because there was something worth stopping for.  I wanted that someone to be me.  I waited for his years to add up to 3rd Grade.

With my new classroom roster in hand, his name RED and UNDERLINED, I found his cum-file filed attached  with “year’s-gone” actions that were Un-acceptable.  Un-tolerated.  Un-understood.  Yes.  I had to agree. They were all that.  Past offences, now expected behavior by everyone in the school.  Except me.  I filed them away unread. 

We’d make a new file.  He’d find his good.  I wanted to know why he hurt.  I wanted to be the one to help.  The one to change his course, while helping him set a new one.  I didn’t want to know his previous path.  I wanted to be the one to draw the road map.  He would come with me for the ride.

The first days were rocky.  Constant detours.  Turning out on muddy roads.  Pit stops in the middle of no-where.  

On one of the worst, we had been at odds all day.  By mid-afternoon our differences escalated into a picture prior teachers had vividly painted for me time and again.  Jimmy could take no more.  After spitting verbal daggers at me through clenched teeth, his legs chose flight.  Out the door and into the playground he flew, with 15 other students sitting in wide-eyed amazement.  Controlled and with purpose, Jim’s and I struggled verbally, him like a Marlon on a reel.  He took the line and ran with it, I reeled him back in with a call to his mother to report on his actions.  He took the line and ran further.  I tired him with demands of compliance.  I finally won.  In the safety of our classroom, he was back in his chair quietly working, respectfully spent.  Never again to flare or flee.  He’d returned to Room 20 of his own choosing.  The road to goodness and light.  He made the choice to avoid certain and known embankments and cliffs, a choice made in his heart.  He told me. 

He shared so many feelings with those tiger eyes that softened from steel to chocolate over the months we built our team.  After that day, I let him drive sometimes, a tiring teacher as the year drove on.  I didn’t know the direction he would like to journey.  It turned out, he was a good driver.  We almost never turned off anymore, unless there was something we both want to see.  He read our map quite well.  A solid compass guided his heart.

The days leading up to Open House were tension filled on my part.  I wanted to race, breaking all speed limits to make our destination before parents arrived to visit Room 20 on April 21 at 6:30pm.  Sometimes, it’s hard to remember there is a pace for every activity.  A proper speed is needed, less you might lose young passengers clinging on the roof with their bare fingernails.  Take the corners gently.  Remember bathroom breaks.  Be sure to look at the landscape.  Encourage them.  Love them.  That’s tough when you have 16 tired passengers asking “How Much Longer, Mrs. Wells?”

            The day before the big event, Jimmy came to me during recess with a question.

            “Mrs. Wells?  Are you sure you are coming tomorrow night?”

            “Jims, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.  It’s the most special of nights for a teacher, too.  I’ve found it to be magical.”

            He pondered this, as many of his past experiences had not held a magical quality.  Often, his mom, exasperated and beyond humiliation, had chosen to stay at home in hiding.

            “Mrs. Wells?  If I dress up really nice for Open House and you dress up really nice, do you think we could dance?” 

            I was taken aback?  In this day and age?  Dance with a student?  This student?  This little boy that had been the source of so many discussions about proper behavior and good choices?  My little friend?  My co-driver on this year long journey of discovery?  This student maligned and allowed destructive freedoms until he arrived to find safety with me?

            I found myself smiling and telling him. “Of course!” as if it was the most natural question in the world.

            The night arrived.  I didn’t wear a dress, but I did wear black.  As the children and parents came to “Oohh” and “Aahh”, I remembered that Open House was the most special night of the year, not only for them, but for me.  In my mind, I was, again, in grade school, remembering my special nights.  I was, again, a young single mom with my beloved sons, amazed at their accomplishments.  I was, again,  a middle-aged teacher on my very first Open House, and I was, again, the Grandmother wishing I could be in two places at once to see my oldest Grandson’s Open House unfolding across town at the very same hour.

            As music softly played, the door opened, and there he was there with Brother and Mother.  He had dumped the grubby boy clothes.  There was someone else in his place.  A little person lost between brat-hood and adolescence.  His hair combed and him shining.  Eyes sparkling.  Graying, white, hand-me-down shirt with Dad’s tie around his neck.  Tubbed and Scrubbed.  But more than that, smiling from his soul through his chocolate eyes.  Jimmy.

            He came to my side, and quietly asked if I remembered. 

            I said I’d been waiting. 

            After listening to the music playing, he was momentarily troubled.

            “I thought it would be violins.”

            We’d make do with saxophones and the chatter of a busy room.  Immediately, shyness overtook him and he said we would have to wait.  I smiled and continued with the night.

            Fifteen minutes later, the softest tap I felt on my shoulder. 

            “Mrs. Wells.  It’s time.”  Nerves crinkled his brow.  His feet wiggled nervously in his hand-me-down dress shoes, polished for just this moment.

            Yes, it was time.  Time for us to celebrate this amazing evening and success.  Celebrate his growth into someone he liked most of the time.  Celebrate smiles and hugs. 

            “Celebrate life,” as he would say.

            We went near the music, and we danced. 

            We talked, while Mom and Brother laughed as they looked on.  They hadn’t experienced the journey.  The wrong turns we’d corrected.  The flat tires.  The anger.  The missed landmarks.  Now, these were in our rear view mirror.  There would be no more Un-acceptable, Un-wanted, or Un-Anything added to his cum folder.  In fact, just a string of “A’s” he’d earned for the first time in his life, while finding pride in doing so.

            Together, we had made it through 3rd Grade. 

            As we created a twirly, awkward,  heart-smiling, “3rd Grade-Magical” dance, my love of teaching was apparent to everyone there.  His new love of learning poured through his smiles shining back to me.  His heart sang sweet “Thank You, Mrs. Wells” to mine.  Forever one of the moments in which I knew, with certainty, I was my version of  The Best Teacher Ever.

            “Jimmy.  My Jim’s.  We dance on in my heart, sweet child.  3rd Grade Special you will forever be to me.”

            Returning to the present, new parents were arriving bringing their shining children brimming with excitement.  Kate Wells smiled and settled in for the show.  She, Mrs. Wells, framed by the window and surrounded by her beautiful memories.  She watched, her smile affirming all that goodness right outside her door.

Joy Hurt — Spring 2000 — And yes, I was Mrs. Wells. My student — Bailey. A great heart. A wonderful boy who made me a better person for having known him.