"Well, What Do You Know?"

For most, "Well, what do you know!" isn't really a question. It's an exclamatory statement one uses to express surprise when something previously unknown has suddenly become clear. "Well, what do you know! That square peg really won't fit into that round hole." or, "Well, what do you know! He really is allergic to shellfish (Oops!)." However, if you are a teacher, like me; and it's two weeks before your district's state standardized testing "window", this well worn phrase takes on a whole new meaning. And if you've been keeping up with the news, you know that the stakes are higher than ever before.

So, we'll be asking each of our students what they know. It will be in the form of a test booklet, ("Mrs. Schuh, are we going to do this whole book?") with a separate answer sheet for selecting and marking multiple choice responses. ("Mrs. Schuh, something is wrong with my answer sheet. I have two more questions to answer and no more circles left.") Did I mention these tests would be timed?

Most assuredly, I want my students to do well, and I believe they will. Admittedly, I do not want to be classified as an "ineffective" teacher when the scores return and my evaluation is completed. But, what do you know! Children don't always take things as seriously as adults. Most of them will work hard and give their very best, some will suffer anxiety and obsess over each answer, others will rush through and play with their fingers for the remaining 58 minutes. Some things are out of my control. So I've learned, it's good to have a sense of humor. The following poem is my attempt at that.

TCAP Testing

TCAP tests are finally through,
And if they've taken a toll on you,
You're not the only one who feels that way.
Try half the kids in Tennessee.
If some questions left you in the dark,
Fill in this circle 0 with a heavy mark.
Did you finish with time to spare?
That was your chance to sit and stare;
Count the holes in a ceiling tile,
Gaze out the window for a little while.
Did you see dots before your eyes?
I connected mine for a real surprise!
Heaven forbid, if you wrote in your book,
That would get you a dirty look.
And when they said, "This test is through,"
There was always another one still to do.
Don't they know enough's enough?
I could simply have told them, "I know this stuff."


Note: Line fo-uh requires a hea-uh-vy Suh-thern ac-ce-uhnt to ri-uhm. Practice makes perfect.

I'm Cleaning My Closet

So it's Spring Break, and I'm cleaning out my closet. Seriously, I'm cleaning out my closet! Well, not at this exact moment. Right now, I'm taking a break. I've been at it for 2 1/2 hours, and to tell you the truth it's a bit depressing. You see, I've been sorting my gaucho pants (Do you remember those?), walking shorts, jeans, slacks, trousers (from my oh,so professional stage), shorts, skorts, and capris. According to a recent article in Good Housekeeping magazine on decluttering, if you haven't used or worn something in 43 years, you should probably get rid of it. (OK, it was one year, but I'm taking baby steps.)

So, let's talk about jeans. I soon realized that denim purchased before 2008 (give or take a year) probably did not contain any Lycra, Spandex . . . oh, let's just call it what it is, expandability. Therefore, they should be tossed. More importantly, if they are a size smaller than what you are presently wearing and lacking that st-r-r-etch-ability factor, they're a definite member of the "out o' here" pile. I know they looked cute with that precious little top you splurged on at the beach a few years ago, and you are planning on auditioning for The Biggest Loser, but friend to friend, you need to get rid of them.

And speaking of tops. Well, they too have an expiration date. And here comes the depressing part. I'm getting older. (You probably are, too.)Puffy sleeves and bare arms probably aren't my best look anymore. Better to get rid of them, lest I wake up one morning feeling like a schoolgirl (It does happen occasionally.)and recklessly don a don't.

The hardest part of cleaning my closet has to be the shoes. While some people hear the Imelda Marcos story and shudder with disdain, I view it as inspirational. So, I've spent the morning with my wedges, platforms, mules, sling backs, espadrilles and pumps (just to mention a few), and let's just say, the time spent was special. One particular pair of navy suede platform heels took me back. I can still remember the dress that prompted the purchase of those platforms. Removing the lid from another box I discovered the periwinkle blue wedge sandals and sat quietly for a time, reminiscing on the moments we had shared. Misty-eyed, I opened yet another box and was greeted by the gold-flecked, acryllic heeled evening shoes. OK, sometimes you choose some bad ones. Out o' here!

I know what you're thinking. Why is she writing when she still has jackets and dresses to sort? I hear you. You are right, and I will clothes . . . close.

The Strawberry Man

I grew up thinking that everyone had a "strawberry man." It was a late spring and summer phenomenon in the neighborhood where I grew up. A large flatbed truck would appear stacked with crates of strawberries. Young men with feet dangling rode at the rear, ready to hop into action when the truck stopped. Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, one guy would hop off and hoist a crate to his shoulder. Sometimes you heard him before you saw him, his distinctive cry a call to kids and housewives up and down the street. "Str-a-w-berries," he would stretch out the first call and then punctuate it with a quick "STRAWBERRIES!" Every child old enough to walk could mimic his chant.
Recently, by way of facebook, I had the opportunity to reconnect with people who grew up in my same neighborhood. I was surprised to see an entire string of conversations dedicated to the memories the "strawberry man" evoked. It was then I remembered a poem I had written about this man. Childhood memories are the best!

The Strawberry Man

Oh, how I remember
The strawberry man
With muscles that rippled
And a sweaty brown tan
As sure as the jonquils
Heralded spring
Likewise this man
And the song
That he'd sing
As children we'd mimic
His strawberry call
"Str-a-w-b-e-r-r-i-e-s, STRAWBERRIES!
That said it all.
The aroma would reach us
And in a Pied Piper way
We'd follow along
For part of the day
He didn't ring doorbells
In order to meet
The gingham-dressed housewives
Who lived on our street
The windows were open
To let in fresh air
Upon hearing his call
(If there was money to spare)
They'd step out on the porch
And select from his crate,
The reddest and ripest
Were sure to taste great.
With Momma's baked shortcake
And whipping cream too
The rest of the day
Would be hard to get through.
With a hoist of his crate
And a chuck of my chin
He was out on the street
And at it again
Melodically chanting
His seasonal call,
"Str-a-w-b-e-r-r-i-e-s, STRAWBERRIES!"
That said it all.

And the Thunder Rolled

I can always count on my students to provide inspiration for my writing. Combine their natural chattiness with our recent storms and I've found my muse. "I couldn't do my homework because we were in a closet all night," was heard more than once last Friday morning. I didn't do a survey, but jumping in bed with their parents was a pretty common reaction to the thunder and lightning, followed closely by pulling the covers up over their heads. I listened to their harrowing stories and recalled a few of my own. The following poems are my attempt to capture those moments.

Rain

I woke up
Sat straight up in bed
The thunder crashed
Above my head
A few more minutes
Left to sleep,
But I can't keep
My eyelids shut.
There goes another
Rumbling blast
I wish the storm
Would hurry past.
My mother
Never seems to wake
The thunder never
Makes her shake.
I'd run and jump
In bed with Dad,
But it always seems
To make him mad.
Besides, it's dark
Out in the hall
And monsters live
Behind the wall.
So, I'll just stay
Inside my bed
Pull the covers
Up over my head
And hope the sun
Will shine again.


A Windy Night

Last night I was awakened
By the sound of the wind
Rattling the windows
And trying to get in
It moaned and it groaned
And it howled through the night
Huffing and blowing
With all of its might
The floorboards were creaking
Could that be the wind
Or had some other "night thing"
Managed to get in
Curled under the covers
I felt quite secure
But a wee little part of me
Still wasn't sure
That a tree wouldn't crash
Through my bedroom wall
So I crawled out of bed
Tippy-toed down the hall
Jumped into bed
With my dad and my mom
Squeezed safely between them
I felt such a calm
My eyelids got heavy
My heartbeat slowed down
And the next thing I heard
Was a loud ringing sound
It wasn't the wind
But the clock by the bed
I had made it to morning
And I wasn't dead
The wind was still blowing
But not like last night
Amazing how brave
One can feel when it's light.


Weather Watch

I heard the wind
I heard the rain
Going to school
Would be insane

I turned on the TV
I turned it to weather
We wouldn't have school
I was certain; however...

I heard Channel 2
And I heard Channel 4
List Hickman and Rutherford counties,
No more

They didn't say Williamson
They did not say, "Just in,"
They just started listing
The same ones again

I watched as the counties
Kept scrolling by
I watched, and the tears
Welled up in my eyes

I'd be going to school
In spite of the rain
I'd be going to school
No need to complain

The powers that be
Had made their decision
I might as well turn off
This darn television

I'd better get dressed
The bus will come soon
And maybe . . . just maybe
We'll go home at noon.