"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.

Shake it Up, Baby!

I'm pretty sure there's a "spectrum" when it comes to creatures of habit. Individuals probably range from loosey-goosey, to up-tight, to obsessive compulsive. If I asked my friends and relatives to rate me (which I most definitely will not) I'd probably be leaning heavily toward up-tight. . . OK, obsessive compulsive. My point being, most of us exhibit some habitual behaviors. What's interesting is how others rely on my habits to fulfill their own. Let me explain.

Earlier this week, I prepared for my day as usual. Rise and shine. Shower and dress. Juice and cereal. Check facebook and email. Jump in the car. Arrive at school. Park my . . .uh, park my . . .uhh, what the. . . ? You see, someone had parked in my place. Momentarily stunned, I didn't know what to do. Had I driven to the wrong school by mistake? Should I go back home and start again? And . . . whose car is that anyway?

As I began to recover from the initial shock, my rational self slowly emerged. "You don't own that spot," I reminded myself derisively. "They probably didn't mean anything personal," I reassured. "New is good." (OK, I really didn't say that last one.) And finally, I chose another place to park. By the time I turned off the ignition and gathered my belongings, I was actually chuckling to, or at, myself. "Julie," I said. "Get a grip. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing." And so I unlocked my classroom door, hung up my coat, turned on my computer, straightened the desks, wrote the date on the board, and . . .

Truthfully, I had put it behind me. It was no longer in my thoughts, when suddenly an indignant colleague appeared at my door. "Whose car is that?" they asked. "Everybody knows that's your spot!" Grinning, I charitably said, "Oh, I don't know whose car it is. It's no big deal. I don't own that spot." "Yeah," she said, "but you're parked in my spot!" And she set off in super sleuth mode to uncover the identity of the "parking place poacher."

Throughout the day, I was asked again and again, "Who parked in your spot?" followed up with, "I had to park, blah, blah, blah." It seemed that the whole order of things had been disrupted. (Oh, to be the principal or assistant principal, with a clearly designated parking spot with a sign.)

For three days this travesty continued. (Four days would have qualified it as the new norm.), but suddenly, on what would have been the fourth day, all was well. As if awakening from a bad dream, I pulled seamlessly into my own (after all, it was in fact mine) parking spot. No one said a word, but I noticed the panicked look had left my friend's eyes, and a bounce had returned to her step. And the tone throughout the building? Well, let's just say, it was more relaxed.

Sorting Things Out

School was out last Friday, and I would have to say it was bittersweet.  I mean, who doesn't look forward to a break in their routine.  I certainly do.  However, I had a really sweet group of students and I am going to miss them . . . a lot.  (Notice that is two words, not one.  Something we try to master in 5th grade.) 

As I think back over the year, I realize we shared a lot of life with each other.  One student had a beloved dog die, one lost a grandparent, and we had three broken arms.  There were nosebleeds, loose teeth, braces, and, ah yes, glasses.  It's interesting how different students navigate these events.  Take braces for instance.  Some kids purposely choose the neon colored ones so everyone will be sure to notice.  Others, slink into class, mouths tightly sealed, strangely mute for the entire day.  (This can be a good thing.)  Glasses are much the same, though I believe more kids secretly harbor a desire to wear them.  Most adjust quite well.  They seem to understand it as a rite of passage.  Notice I say most, because I can remember at least one child who needed a little encouragement to put on her new glasses.  In spite of the fact that she was practically feeling her way down the halls, she did not want to wear them.  After cutting out paper glasses for everyone in the class to wear, I decided a poem might fit the occasion, and so I wrote "Meghan's Glasses."

Meghan's Glasses
Mom took me to the doctor
'Cause I couldn't see that well
The doctor had an eye chart
And he wanted me to tell

The letters that I saw there
And the top row looked just fine
But when I viewed the next row
The letters seemed to intertwine

The first one was the letter B
Or was it number 8?
The lines appeared quite hazy
And I wasn't doing great

The doctor said, "That's good enough."
And I knew just what that meant
I'd be getting glasses
And I started to lament

"The kids'll call me four-eyes;
They'll say that I'm a nerd.
I simply refuse to wear them."
Mother said, "Don't be absurd."

We left the doctor's office
And headed to the mall.
That usually would excite me
But this time, not at all.

'Cause we passed right by the food court,
And we didn't stuff a bear;
Mom headed straight to VisionWorld
Where I tried on my first pair.

They were big, and black, and awful,
And they overpowered my face
I stuck my lower lip out,
And I howled in distaste.

Mom said we'd try some others,
But they all seemed just as bad;
The salesman said I'd have to choose
'Cause that was all they had.

And though I didn't want to,
I knew I might as well,
So I settled on the blue ones
And then we bid the man farewell.

Mom said I had to wear them,
So I slowly slipped them on,
And suddenly the world looked new;
The blurriness was gone.

The next day I was nervous
As I headed off to school;
I knew the kids would laugh at me
And some would just be cruel.

I pulled my coat around me
And I tried to look real small;
I slid into my seat
And no one noticed me at all.

I got a sticker on my warm-ups
'Cause I could read the words just fine,
And in math, I knew the answers
'Cause I could see the division sign.

It wasn't until recess
That my best friend stopped to stare.
And she said, "There's something different."
But by then, I didn't care.

So I said, "It's my new glasses.
They really help me see."
"I've always wanted some," she said.
I think she envied me.

So that's the story of my glasses
I've learned they're not that bad to wear,
And by the way . . . I'm getting braces,
And I don't even care.

Snooze News

Experience has taught me that everyone is good at something.  I marvel at the amazing talents possessed by family members, friends, and students.  And though I hesitate to brag, most who know me well will agree, that I . . . am an excellent sleeper.  I look forward to sleep more than most.  Rarely do I toss and turn.  You might say I'm blessed.  My head hits the pillow, and I am gone.  I might awaken at 1:00 and 3:00, but I don't consider this a problem.  I acknowledge the hour and rejoice that there is additional sleep time remaining before my alarm will sound.  I always fall back to sleep.  (Some say it's a clear conscience that allows this.)  Okay, I'm gifted.  I'm a great napper, too.  Just this afternoon I managed to sleep for three hours.  This, is where the giftedness comes in.  I will still be able to sleep tonight. 

Now, before my post puts you to sleep, let me get to my point.  My precious slumber is being compromised.  Perhaps yours has been too.  I blame Brian Williams, for he was the first to report the disturbing news.  Bedbugs.  At first I wasn't too concerned.  They were in New York.  And then, they began to report outbreaks other places.  This week, Tennessee.  I received a package in the mail on Wednesday?  Could there be . . .?  I brought a bag home from the mall last weekend.  Do you think there were . . .? 

So, while lying awake pondering possible pests, I was inspired to write the poem, Snooze News.  Enjoy.

Snooze News

The evening news has filled my head

With thoughts of doom and a sense of dread.

No, not the approach of a hurricane

Nor the jobless rate that’s higher again;

Suspected terrorists I’ve learned to accept

It’s something else that recently crept

Into my thoughts and made a nest.

It’s wreaking havoc on my rest

I don’t leave home, no hotel stays;

What happened to the good old days?

Since Brian Williams reported these,

I greet repose with dread and unease.

Oh, blessed moment when I crawl beneath

Eight hundred thread count Egyptian sheets

And stretch my legs and rest my head

And thank the Lord for a clean, fresh bed

Has now become a moment of fear

And Brian’s words ring in my ear

And when I lay me down to sleep

I’m praying that those bedbugs keep

Out of my house and away from me

It’s worth an exorbitant exterminator fee

To rest assured when I say goodnight

They’ll be no bedbugs there to bite.