Monday, December 28, 2015

Perfect Winter Day


The sun decided to shine today.  For the last week the clouds have controlled the skies but not on this day.  A few darkish clouds tried to sneak in from the north this afternoon, a couple of cottony ones from the south this evening; not once were shadows lost.  As is often the case in late December the sunny day came with a price; cold air.  Odd, isn't it, how winter sun and summer sun send the mercury in opposite directions?  The temp was below zero this morning, stayed in the ones place above zero all day, then fell below zero again after dark.  Not a bitter day - no, bitter sounds too harsh.  "Crisp" is the word - the air was crisp all day.

Last Wednesday was the kick-off of Christmas festivities as school ended early and my daughters and I exchanged our gifts.  Thursday and Friday brought Christmas Eve and Day, respectively, with two final events Saturday just to make sure nobody felt shorted on holiday hoopla.  For me, however, the holiday fun started today when I took my first steps on frozen water.  Normal folks get visions of sugar plums around the holidays; I get visions of Swedish Pimples and fat walleyes.  "Tradition" is a word that gets thrown around a lot as Christmas approaches, and though I'm not very fond of most aspects of Christmas there is one tradition that I will forever link to the Christmas season - fishing for walleyes through the ice on "Secret" Lake.  

The excitement I usually have on this first fishing outing was replaced by apprehension as I stood at the shoreline and studied the lake.  The warm December has made ice conditions sketchy at best; seeing nobody on the ice didn't help my fears.  There were, however, snowmobile tracks on the lake (and no gaping holes at the end of the tracks) so I calmly started tiptoeing my way towards the bar I wanted to fish.  A half-mile later my tiptoe steps had become confident strides, the excitement was back, and I was fishing.  The perch bit like crazy for two hours, and at sundown I caught my first two walleyes of the season while missing several others.  At 6:00 I reeled in my lines and began packing up.....and began my favorite holiday tradition.  The pre-fishing excitement and the act of fishing are both fun, but what I look forward to the most this time of year is the post-fishing trek from fish house to home house.

There is no stronger feeling of solitude than that of walking alone across frozen water in the dark.  If I'm lucky it's a clear evening, and cold....really cold; this evening was both.  On such an evening as the sun goes down the ice starts to expand and pop with thunderous booms that echo forever in the stillness, as though the lake is calling out to let it's users know that its ice is getting thicker.  By the time my gear is packed up the half-mile walk back to shore is under the glow of starlight.  If you've never looked at the night sky from a frozen lake then you've never seen the true night sky.  Even the dimmest of stars have a bright glow in the winter air, making it hard to walk a straight line when the desire to keep looking up is so strong.  But walk a straight line I do, my numb fingers begging me to pick up the pace and get to shore.  With one final look out to where I've been and another look up to where I'll never be, I climb into the car and begin the second half of my journey home.

The drive back to the main highway is on a narrow road that curves just enough to keep me driving slow, giving me time to hear some of whatever Christmas CD I've popped in.  The evergreens that line this lake road are coated with white as they stand behind the snowbanks along the road, giving the illusion of deep wilderness that is betrayed by the twinkling lights of the lakeside homes.  The end of this road usually coincides with the first warmth from the car heater, so I pick up the pace on the highway as my stomach reminds me that supper is still twenty minutes away.  The drive takes me through the town I call home and on the backroads to home, all the while carrying me through time as well as space.  I consider all of the winters and all of the trips just like this one, how many of them have passed and how many of them might be left.  How so much has changed over time but how each trip each day of each Christmastime seems so similar to all the others.  It's soothing to know some of the best things in life never really change.  Like home at Christmas.

I can see home from about a third of a mile away, after cresting an incline following a right angle left turn that I've unbelievably never slid off of (one of the few who haven't).  From this distance the yard light, house lights, and Christmas lights combine to cast a dome-like glow over the entire farmstead.  When I get close enough I can see the tree twinkling through the windows and the FoxNews blaring and the kids bouncing and the ladies cooking......and where else could I possibly want to be arriving at that moment?  Opening the door of the house brings a blast of warmth, noise, and smells that together announce: "Hey man, it's Christmas.  Welcome home."

Looking back on this day it's hard to pick out any part of it that could have been better. Sunshine on frosty trees, time with my daughters, time alone, fresh fish, clean air, good food, good company....the perfect day.  Maybe Christmas does mean just a little bit more.

Monday, December 21, 2015

2015 Christmas Card

            With three small shopping bags under my right arm and one large under my left I crossed the mall’s center plaza, eyes locked on my feet’s destination; an empty bench.  After unknown hours of weaving through, waiting for, and listening to humans, sitting beside one was out of the question.  The bench remained empty until my large bag landed on it (“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I muttered without any joy) followed by the other bags and my spent body.  Breathing a sigh of relief mixed with frustration and chased out by exasperation, I grimaced at my surroundings.  Shoppers, most wearing expressions of anguish, rushed by with their treasures as an irritatingly slow version of “Silver Bells” dripped from hidden speakers.  Empty presents on Styrofoam snow under a recycled plastic tree looked almost as genuine as the smiles on Santa’s helpers.  Amongst all this bustle, I saw…a pair of eyes looking straight into mine, getting closer with each passing moment.
            He wasn’t hard to notice.  He carried no bags, pushed no cart.  Not very clean, but not exactly dirty.  Clothing that fit him but was dark and drab and worn, a sharp contrast to the seasonal colors all around him.  His bent posture spoke of a man who had spent many years enduring life.  My first inclination was to pity him, but those eyes that kept looking back at me contained so much energy that all pity was driven down and replaced by…….fear!  He was coming towards my bench!  And although I had strategically situated myself in the center with bags on either side he somehow was sitting beside me and chatting without so much as a “May I?” or “Mind if I sit?”
            With more than a little guilt I brushed aside his attempts at small talk with grunts, nods, and monosyllabic responses.  I already knew it was a busy in here, of course I’m Christmas shopping, no I’m not done yet, yes I’m shopping for my family, I DON”T HAVE THE STRENGTH FOR THIS!!  He finally stopped asking questions and just studied my face.  Without another word he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small, thin flask that had seen more days than its owner.
            “You could use a little Christmas cheer,” he said as he handed me the flask, which had no cap.
            “No thanks, I don’t –“ I started, but was stopped as he suddenly turned the flask upside down.  It was empty.
            “I don’t either,” he replied, pulling the flask back and staring at it as he talked.  “You hoped I wouldn’t sit beside you, yet here I am and there you still sit.  You didn’t want to talk to me but you didn’t completely ignore my questions.  And while you pretend you don’t like Christmas your foot keeps the beat to every song that plays.  It was this conflict between what you do and what you feel that led me to you…I chose you because you can still be saved.”
            Chose me?  Save me?  What was going on here?  Before I could ask, he continued.
            “Growing old while doing without has been tough, but growing up the same way was tougher.  Christmastime, though, has rarely failed to delight me.  Early in life my Father helped me find joy during this season by pointing out the most simple and peaceful details of Christmas that could be easily found by all; the music, the colors, the unending goodwill, and the hope – the wonderful feeling of hope – that great days are ahead.”  He paused, let out a slow sigh, and spoke once more.  “Great days never arrived for me, and finding joy at Christmas became harder with each passing year.  The gift from my Father on my twentieth Christmas was this flask.  He saw Christmas dying inside of me so he encouraged me to use it as a symbol to remind myself, and others, of where the true beauty of Christmas lies.  The flask is easy to keep with me; so, too, the spirit of Christmas.  It is simple and quite plain, like the very first Christmas.  The open top is a reminder to let peace and goodwill flow freely, and the emptiness a reminder of the many souls in need of both.”
He shifted his gaze upon me.  “For countless years I’ve watched people lose sight of the simplicity of Christmas.  Are you seeing any peace around you?  The only hope I see is the hope to be done shopping.  And goodwill?  You know how hard it was to find someone who actually talked to me?  I’ve spent the last two days walking this mall, and you are the first person who took the time to only kind of ignore me.  That’s why I can save you, just like my Father saved me.  I was losing my faith in the beauty of Christmas and life when my Father’s simple gift reminded me to find joy and spread it to others.  So now I ask you:  Where do you find your joy?”
            I sat motionless for a few seconds or an eternity, I’m not sure which.  Then, with numb fingers, I pulled my wallet from my pocket and found the three pictures I was hoping were still there.
            “This is my oldest daughter, Molly,” I croaked, as I handed him the first picture.  “She just turned fifteen years old…fifteen years that disappeared far too fast.  This is her volleyball picture.  It’s her favorite activity; she was a middle hitter on the C team this season.  She is a freshman in high school where she works really hard in all of her classes.  She is studying Spanish, which has resulted in a lot of strange words coming from her mouth.  She looks forward to next semester when she can begin driver’s training class and after that the spring softball season.  She has a really big heart and is proving it with a quilt-making project for her World Studies class; she recently secured her first grant and will begin production on fleece quilts for Children’s Hospital patients.  In her spare time she loves reading and playing piano and being with her friends.”
            “Who’s this long-legged lady?” he asked when I handed him the next picture.
            “That’s Sage, my twelve year old.  She is a sixth grader this year and is enjoying being one of the big kids at school.  She, too, works very hard in her classes and is learning some really advanced topics as a result.  She joined me in deer stands this fall as a licensed hunter for the first time and had some exciting adventures.  She was a dedicated hunter and made some very mature decisions about shooting deer.  I was proud to have her as a hunting partner.  She also was a member of the volleyball program this fall, filling the role of varsity manager and part-time practice player.  She is currently enjoying her favorite activity – figure skating.  While I wait eagerly for fishable ice on lakes, she’s just as eager for skate-able ice.  She loves to spend time reading and helping out around the house…as long as the helping out is on her terms!“
            “And this smiley little blonde bugger must be the youngest,” he ventured with a slight chuckle.
            “Yup, that’s my Jenna.  She is an eight-year-old second grader and is the straw that stirs all our drinks.  She is full of smiles and mischief and is as unpredictable as the weather.  She figure skates in the winter and plays softball in the summer.  Her favorite pastime, though, is playing with her Barbies and baby dolls; she is terrific at finding ways to keep herself busy with independent play.  She also has begun to spend more time with books; she’s always been a strong reader but rarely chose to read in her spare time.  Now she, like her big sisters, can often be found with her nose in a book.  All three girls have grown up way too fast, but Jenna has probably matured the fastest – her vocabulary, mannerisms, and real-world knowledge rivals that of her older sisters…and some adults!”
            As I tucked my pictures away a crash at my feet pulled my attention from my companion.  An armful of packages had been dropped, their carrier nearly in tears as she tried to pick them up and balance them again.  As I helped her with the last of her bags I asked if she wanted to sit with us and rest or if we could help her carry something.  She looked puzzled, and when I gestured for her to sit I discovered why; he was gone.  I quickly scanned the plaza looking for some sign of those worn down dark clothes.
            “Is that yours?” she asked, nodding to an object on the bench.
            I grabbed the flask and frantically looked for some sign of him, knowing the importance of this small object I held in my hand.  This token was his life, and without it…
            Once again he was already looking at me when I finally saw him.  He was by the ascending stairs, as if waiting for me to find him before he stepped on.  Our eyes locked for nearly a second before, with a quick wink and a smile, he began his journey up.  It struck me then that no one was looking at him; he didn’t seem to be noticed as he walked towards me or sat with me either.  When his climb took him from my sight I looked again at the flask and noticed an inscription on one side.  These words brought clarity to all that had transpired; a Christmas angel had delivered a message, and to those who would receive it a mission was now at hand:

Find peace.  Find hope.  Find joy. 
Share them.

Merry Christmas.





Sunday, November 8, 2015

Receiving Education While Sitting In Tree

This weekend, November 7 & 8, has been the opening weekend of the Minnesota rifle season for whitetail deer.  It is the 31st year I have loaded a weapon and headed to the woods as a licensed member of the orange army.  It is the first year, however, that I have gone to the woods with a daughter by my side.

Of my three daughters, it is Child 2 who has taken the most interest in outdoor pursuits.  She has hunted with me on short outings a couple of times prior to this year, but this marks her first year as a licensed hunter.  She took firearm safety classes last spring, has done enough shooting to become consistent at making kill shots from 30 yards, and has helped with offseason work on trails, food plots, and stands.  Now, finally, she can take part in the fun part of the hunting process.

I was misguided as a novice hunter...."mistreated" might be a better word.  Placed in a stand at dawn, left alone until lunch, left alone again until dark.  Luckily I was usually put on a stand that deer generally avoided so I wouldn't be bothered in my quest to avoid freezing to death.  As I suffered through season after season in those early years I thought hunting had only two benefits - killing a deer and seeing the season end.  I accomplished the latter much more consistently than the former.  Over much time, some trial, and many errors I have developed a deep appreciation for the many benefits of the November hunt.  I am thrilled at the chance to share this appreciation with a new generation of hunter.

As Child and I have hunted these last couple of days we've talked about more than just which stand to hunt and what sign looks fresh.  We have discussed the dilemma between the desire to kill a deer and the dread of having to kill a deer.  Looking at the difference between a responsible shot and a risky shot was an early topic when we had a young buck come out to us at 9:30 on opening morning.  She got a chance to practice mental and physical toughness on day one when the early morning temps were below freezing.  And patience, ever in short supply for both of us, was tested often on both days as hours would slide by between deer sightings.

I could, and will, write volumes about what hunting means to me and what I hope it can mean to her.  Right now hunting means we're exhausted, and the dawn of day three will be cracking too soon.  We have seen small bucks, medium bucks, and one huge buck.  We had a buck at the base of our stand and nice doe too far out in the brush for a clean shot.  We have seen deer while together and she's had a chance to see deer while hunting alone.  What we haven't done yet is pull the trigger, but I don't think either of us care.  We have enjoyed two entire days together doing something we both love with someone we both love.  The journey thus far has been far more meaningful than the destination, which was the first, and most important, lesson I wanted her to learn.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Cows Don't Read

Why, oh why, is reading so frustratingly hard for some children to master?  Is there a more magical question in all of education?  What riches would befall the bearer of the answer?  And just how many questions can I use in an opening paragraph?

I have taught primary aged students for 18 years.  I spent 16 years teaching either first or second graders; this is my second year as a K-2 Title I teacher.  I spend my entire day with students who struggle to read, many of whom will probably never truly “master” the skill.  Occasionally a parent will vent frustration over listening to her young reader stumble through a book.  Cry me a river, sister – try spending six hours a day, every day, with dozens of clumsy readers.  I’ve hidden all the scissors in my classroom for fear of plunging them into my eardrums the millionth time I hear a kid read “Mick’s sister licked his dog” (No, genius, she didn’t – but she probably liked Mike’s dog).

I feel great sadness for my struggling readers…I really do.  I fully realize that for every ounce of frustration I feel over their lack of progress they are feeling several.  I know many of them were not read to, or properly visited with, prior to entering school.  A large percentage of my clientele is poor.  In most cases the root cause of below average reading is beyond the reader’s control.  Or is it?

While watching hundreds of readers, of all abilities, move through my classroom over the years I’ve noticed physical traits shared by fluent readers that are absent in struggling readers.  This is a completely unscientific observation that I cannot quantify or prove, but I am firmly convinced that the body is as much a key to strong reading as is the mind…perhaps more so in some cases.  For example, struggling readers…

            …have terrible physical self-control.  They don’t sit still.  They don’t use a tracking finger correctly.  They don’t keep their eyes on the text.  Their heads bounce like a bobble head on horseback.  Think this stuff doesn’t matter?  Ok then, grab an unfamiliar text and go read it…on a lawn tractor…while driving over a freshly plowed field.  Be fluent while reading and answer questions 3-8 when you’re finished.  Good luck.

            …put their brains to sleep when it’s time to learn.  Poor readers are never, never, sitting up and sitting forward with a learning posture.  They lean back and slide down in their chair, a perfect posture for The Sitting Dead auditions.  They lay their head down on the desk or table, or they prop their head up with one or two hands.  These actions give one clear signal to the brain – naptime!!

            …are content with life in the slow lane.  Whether it’s being last during a transition or the final kid at the lunch table, poor readers are sluggish in most aspects of their lives.  They walk slow, they talk slow, they write slow, they sneeze slow.  And since they live in slow motion, why then would they read any other way than slow?

            …read like a cow.  My paras love this one.  Ever notice how poor readers struggle to read a word but then don’t let go of the word once it finally comes out?  “Has” becomes “hhhaaaaaaaaaaassssss”.  Very early in every school year I give my “don’t read like a cow” speech.  Slowpokes don’t recognize their own lack of speed, but when I ask these same kids to explain how a cow talks (a looooonnnnnngggg drawn out mmmmmmoooooooooooooooo) and relate that to slow reading, something usually clicks.  Especially when I stand by a slow reader and starting mooing while he reads.  And make him eat hay.


I find these physical…glitches…intriguing because I believe I can fix them.  I can’t change a kid’s socio-economic status.  I can’t roll them under a new apple tree.  I can’t reverse time to fill the voids created by an underwhelming upbringing.  But I can make kids sit up often enough to make it a habit.  I can make them understand how listening to their own voice can keep them more human and less cow.  I can coach them up day after day……after day…..….after day, and slowly create a little bit of drive to become more than a slowpoke.  As I break down their physical barriers these struggling readers get more reps on passages, move more words out of their mouths, and begin to transform into an emergent reader.  Just in time for summer vacation.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

What Have I Done?!?

Within this past week I have Tweeted and blogged.  For the first time.  For each of those things.  My entire circle of friends was speechless at the news - neither one of them could stop laughing long enough to comment.  To properly understand the magnitude of these socially technological developments you must understand:

**I own zero devices.  No phone that fits in a pocket, no tablet pad thingy, no computer.

**I live in a wireless-less home, which should be obvious if you refer to above.

**My home phone has a cord.  Two, actually - one from the phone to the jack and another from the phone to the talk 'n listen piece.  It rarely rings.....because I won't share my number with people who might call me.

**I much prefer solitude to society.

What happened?  Why is an introverted hermit suddenly Twittering and blogging all over the Interweb?  The short answer:  I was impaled and weakened by a blistering jolt of that dreaded toxin "inspiration".  The long answer:  While recently attending an educator's conference I considered a statement made about today's technology being the worst it would ever be from this point on.  I twisted that thought and made it relevant to myself - what would have to happen to make right now the worst I would be for the rest of my life?  The immediate solution - barely survive a massive car wreck on the way home, teeter on the brink of death for a day or so, and improve from there - seemed too messy.  The more challenging solution was comparing where I am to where I want to be and what it will take to get from here to there.  The same conference also provided a glimpse into the hiring practices in today's job market - employers don't look at resumes anymore, they look online.  If a potential employee doesn't have an online presence that person is no longer a potential employee.  Or more succinctly:  If you don't exist online, you don't exist.

So here I am, potential employers!  Hello, online crowd!  I won't claim to be thrilled at being here, let alone comfortable, but I'm here.  I'm not hunting for a job (yet) but I am testing the waters of this universe that will, supposedly, confirm my existence.  This.....page? site? predicament?.....is a work-in-progress, so the look of it might change a bit more often than is recommended (I've read up on these things).  The content will vary according to the time of year, my mood swings, the lunar cycle, and the strength of the Canadian dollar.  The title is lame (my top six choices were unavailable) but much of my writing will involve nature or education so I guess it works.

And with that, I end my initial blog.  I think I've made comments available to all so if you've been moved to laughter or boredom or somewhere in between I'd appreciate knowing your feedback.  Thanks for helping me exist.


Monday, October 19, 2015

I created this thing barely twenty minutes ago and people are already trying to view it - hang on world, I'm not exactly ready for you yet!  But please, keep visiting....I'll get some thoughts flowing soon.