The Sad Little Princess

In honor of Prince William and Princess Kate, I decided to post a poem that I wrote several years ago. It's probably my favorite piece I've ever written. Enjoy!

The Sad Little Princess
or
The Princess Who Couldn't Smile

High upon a hillside
In a castle made of stone,
Lived a sad little princess
Who spent all her days alone.

Though the chef prepared the finest foods,
And her maids dressed her in style,
And the king did all to please her,
They could never make her smile.

All sorts of entertainers came:
Magicians, dancers, mimes.
And jesters danced about her
Spouting riddles, jokes, and rhymes.

Still her dark mood worsened,
She refused to rise from bed.
The king’s physician took her pulse
And gently felt her head.

He left her room with grave concern
And when the king drew near,
He shook his head and sadly said,
“She’ll die within the year.”

The king cried out in anguish.
“Alas, how can this be?
Her every wish is granted.
She means everything to me.”

In restless agitation
The king tossed and turned all night,
Then rose as dawn was breaking
With a plan to ease his plight.

His royal emissaries came
And listened to his plan,
“Ride throughout the kingdom
Find the merriest folk you can.

Escort them to the castle
Do it with the utmost haste,
Time is of the essence
There’s not a moment we can waste.”

And so his servants left him,
They rode throughout the land,
While the king kept bedside vigil
And held his daughter’s hand.

At night he paced the battlements
And searched the distant moor,
His eyes had oft played tricks on him
But this night he was sure.

Torch lights moving toward him,
The cavalcade drew nigh,
“I’ll finally have the answer,”
Said the king with a hopeful sigh.

A trumpet sounded welcome,
The gates were opened wide.
The travelers all dismounted
And found themselves inside

The Great Hall of the castle
Where a mighty feast was set
Their merry laughter drifting
To the highest parapet.

A good night’s rest was had by all
And when their fast was broken,
They congregated in the Hall
To hear the king’s words spoken.

“Pray, merry maids and gentlefolk,
Your laughter makes me cry;
My daughter finds no joy in life
And I do not know why.

Who wouldst be the first to speak
And offer up the key
To finding happiness in life,
I beg you earnestly.”

The Hall was filled with silence
While his subjects stared about.
Is this why they were brought here?
They would lose their heads, no doubt!

For none could place their finger
On a single magic key
That caused them to be happy
Or filled their lives with glee.

The king awaited patiently,
But when the hush grew long
He gazed down at them sternly
And demanded, “What is wrong?”

A timid maiden raised her eyes
And stepped before the crowd;
She curtsied to the king, and then
She spoke these words aloud:

“Your Majesty, I’m at a loss,
Not sure what I can say.
I’m just a simple milkmaid
And I spend my life that way.

I greet the cows each morning
Before the sun does rise
And set them out to pasture
As gold sunlight fills the skies.

I carry pails to market
And when the day is through,
I’m happy and contented
With the job that I can do.”

The king began to rub his chin
The answer was not clear,
Then a young lad bowed before him,
He had overcome his fear.

“Your Highness, please excuse me
For I fear I have no key
But I will tell you of myself
And hope it pleases thee.

I am a lowly stable boy;
My job takes little skill,
Yet every time a foal is born
It gives me such a thrill.

I brush their coats and clean their stalls
And when the day is through
I’m filled with pride and pleasure
In the job that I can do.”

Pondering what the lad had said,
A thought began to grow,
He’d have to hear from others though,
Before the king would know.

So, one by one his subjects spoke;
None boasted wealth or fame,
Yet, a thread ran through their stories
And it always was the same.

A blacksmith, then a midwife
A tailor all came forth
And spoke of how a job well done
Gave them a sense of worth.

And when the last had spoken
The king sank upon his throne,
Thanked his loyal subjects
And allowed them to go home.

“My child has had much given
Though not had the chance to give
Her life has little meaning
And she’s lost the will to live.

If time allows, I’ll help her see
The things that she can do;
I know I’ve found the secret
That will help my child pull through.

* * * * *
Indeed, a happy ending
Is what you soon will hear,
The princess still is living,
Though it’s been more than a year.

No longer does she sit alone
And rarely does she frown;
She’s busy helping others
As she rides from town to town.

She travels through the kingdom
In a dress of simple style
And helps the poor and needy,
And she does it . . . with a smile.

By: Julie Schuh

Different Strokes

I can see the end in sight. No, I'm not dying, it's the school year that's ending. Now is the time of year when I think back over what I've taught and how I've taught. Try as I might to stay in the present, my mind is already planning what I will do next year, and how I will do it better. It's part of what makes me return year after year. Well, that and the big fat paycheck.

While I spend a great deal of time looking ahead, there are certainly moments of reflection. Last week, the music teacher took my students for an extra rehearsal in preparation for their upcoming bells concert. I stood in the back of the auditorium and watched as they performed, and I was amazed at what I saw. There were a few students that I expected to do well; I know that they have had private musical training. But there were a couple of students who don't usually shine academically, but in this arena they were doing an outstanding job . I could see their lips move, carefully counting each measure in order to ring their bell at the exact right moment. They had been taught to hold their bell just so and they took pride in doing so. One little girl was aware that the boy beside her struggled to keep up. She watched his part and hers, giving him a slight nod when he should come in. And that's what I love. Over the years, I have really learned that each child has something to give. I love that they are different.

The following poems speak to some of those differences.

What’s in a Name?

I’ve taught lots of Nicks
It’s a popular name
Oddly enough
No two were the same

I remember one Nick
He had a mischievous smile
He liked to blurt out
It was definitely his style

If I said, “Be quiet,” that was
His cue to talk
If I said, “Please be seated,”
He would get up and walk.

Another young Nick
Was always polite
He thought it important
To do what was right

If I said, “Be quiet,”
He’d sit perfectly still
And hold his breath
Forever, or until

I asked him a question
From his social studies book
He always knew the answer
And didn’t have to look

I’ve taught Carlys and Rachels
And Michaels, and Bens
Courtneys and Camerons
I’ve even taught twins

But one thing I’ve learned
In my teaching career
Is that each child is special
And really quite dear.


Molly Melinda
Sweet little Molly Melinda
Had apple red cheeks and blond curls
She wore hideous clothes
Much different than those
Who chose to wear lockets and pearls

The problem with Molly Melinda
(Though it mightn't be a problem at all)
Was her creative mind
It was one of a kind
And the tales she could tell, they were tall

Molly found joy and excitement
In things for which others cared less
A bug in her hand
Was something quite grand
And at times she might tend to obsess

For hours, she would stare at an insect
Observing its movement and style
When others grew weary
With eyes red and bleary
Molly would still wear a smile

Some teachers found Molly Melinda
A bit of a problem to teach
Her questions were many
Mistakes few, if any
At best, she was difficult to reach

One day, even Molly Melinda
Realized she just didn't fit
So she vowed to be good
Doing just what she should . . .
And wasted away bit by bit

Until one day, sweet Molly Melinda
Decided to embrace who she was
An ingenius child
With thoughts running wild
And today, that is just what she does

* * * *

By the way, it's been years since I wrote this
And Molly? Well, Molly has grown
She's traveled afar
Just discovered a star
And happily lives on her own.

It's the Little Things

I'm basically a happy person. I like to laugh, even giggle. For variety I can throw in an occasional tee-hee. As I've aged (as in fine wine) I've been known to emit the occasional, unladylike snort. I say all of this to let you know, I'm not looking for reasons to be grumpy. And yet, there are a few "little things" that rub me the wrong way.

Take for instance that small, advertising sticker they place almost daily on the front page of my newspaper. I mean, I wake up feeling rested. The sun is shining and the air is crisp. The birds are chirping in the trees, and a bunny hops across my path as I go to retrieve the morning paper. Life is good, idyllic even, and then WHAM! There it is! That stupid little sticker. It doesn't belong there. And I can tell you for sure, I'm not buying whatever it's advertising. Of course, I must remove it, which also removes two or three words in the headline. President Obama Declares #@$^$ Declares what? That sounds important. I need to know. Teachers Receive %^#$@ Receive what? Oh, never mind that one. Teachers never receive anything. Earthquake Predicted in (^$#@^$%, TN. What? An earthquake? Do I need to prepare? I mean, what are they thinking? What makes it even worse, is that I might want to save that paper for my grandkids. The headline was historic (teachers really did receive something) and now it's ruined.

But, I rally. That sticker can't keep me down for long. Laugh, giggle, tee-hee, and WHAM! I'm out shopping, at my favorite clothing store, and my sharp shopper's signaling device hones in on a sale rack. 30% off . . . with the super saver coupon from the Sunday paper. And there it is, another "little thing" that irritates me. Why can't they just put the darn thing on sale. I hate clipping coupons. The only thing I hate worse than clipping them is carrying them around in my purse. All that clutter. And you have to keep up with the expiration dates. Well actually, that's not true. The expiration date is always ... yesterday.

Still, I'm upbeat. Life could always be worse. So, I'm laughing, giggling, tee-heeing, and WHAM! I've just returned from the grocery store. Spring is in the air and it seems like a nice evening to grill. I've purchased two steaks, and a package of four baking potatoes. Once again it's a sticker thing...strategically placed over the fatty part of the steak. The one visible steak looks perfect. And it's the same with the baked potatoes. The three I can see are perfectly shaped, eyeless, and smooth, but the one under the sticker...not so much. OK, you say, it's a "little thing," a marketing technique, but it gets on my last nerve.

But, I'm better than that. That steak isn't fatty, it's marbleized. And one bad potato doesn't spoil the whole bunch, so I fire up the grill. I fire up the grill. The grill won't fire up. The tank is empty.

"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.