I’m a “late to life” teacher. I’m pushing 50 but I’ve only been teaching for 8 years now, all at the same school. My student teaching was in 5th grade but my first job was teaching a multiage 1/2 class.  Since then I’ve looped 1st to 2nd and for the past two years I’ve taught 1st. This is relevant background because about a week ago my principal stopped by my room late in the afternoon. In a nutshell, this is what he said: “So, Molly, T is leaving next year and I wondered if you’d be interested in teaching 4th grade.” What!!!??? This was a bolt out of the blue. I had no idea T was leaving and hadn’t been looking for a change. I had been comfortably wrapping up the year while simultaneously making and refining plans for next year’s first graders.

I have a complicated relationship with first grade. Before I got my job I used to turn down first grade sub jobs. Mrs. T. stands on the blue carpet square when she talks to us about the calendar. Then I got into first grade and realized that first graders are an awful lot like puppies. They are adorable, affectionate, and messy. They chew things. They need lots of structure and supervision. They make you smile and laugh and they bound right into your heart. They have seemingly unlimited energy…until they don’t. They are super cute and ready to leap enthusiastically into everything!  They change and grow so quickly and make amazing progress over the course of a year. I love puppies. I love first graders. I’ve loved teaching first grade. But the thing is, at heart I’ve always been a bit more of a cat person.

My principal gave me a few days to consider and I wavered all weekend. What should I do? Should I switch to fourth?  Should I stay in first?
Pro: A fourth or fifth grade position would have been my dream job 8 years ago. It’s what I originally wanted to do. I know I enjoy working with kids at this level.
Con: I love first graders and my 1-2 teaching team and don’t want to leave them.
Pro: The remaining fourth grade teacher is a dynamo–collaborative and welcoming. She’s also a literacy superstar and I know I’d learn a ton from her.
Con: I’ve just stopped looping and felt like I was finally really gaining traction with the first grade curriculum. I’ve been so enjoying having the same curriculum this year. 4th grade curriculum is a world away from first and there will be a definite learning curve involved. That’s a bit daunting. Maybe more than a bit…
Con: And…and this is a big one…I’d have to clean out my classroom. Eek! I am a book hoarder and borderline supply hoarder and my classroom is loaded!  And let’s not forget that storage area.
Pro:  I often find myself regretfully putting aside material that’s just too sophisticated for first grade. I would love working with some of this material in fourth grade.
Con: I love the rewards of working with students in such a pivotal year and I so enjoy my colleagues in the K-2 wing. Also, where else can you get hugs every day on the job?
Pro: Literacy work in 4th grade sounds really exciting! The thought of in depth vocabulary work makes me swoon!
My mind whirled over the course of the long weekend. Back and forth. Pros and cons. What should I do?

After listening to my rambling thoughts and disjointed mutterings all weekend, my son cut through my mental turmoil with a simple statement, “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t try it.” And really it was just about that simple. He was right. Most of the reasons I hesitated were superficial or temporary. (But OMG, cleaning out my classroom!!!) This is my chance to push myself. I’m not a huge fan of change but I’ve been working on seeing it as opportunity. As my blog name suggests, I’ve been trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and try new things. A move to fourth grade is an opportunity to make a change within the existing boundaries of a school I already know and with the support of my colleagues. That’s a pretty comfortable change!

So, I’m looking for recommendations from all of you–and all the cosmic goodwill you can send my way as I make this change! Is there a professional book that has been invaluable to you? Do you have an amazing read aloud? I’m already planning a summer of middle grade and professional reading. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m overwhelmed. I’m energized. Apparently I’m going to be a fourth grade teacher!

I spent a lot of time this past weekend watching the bees weave their paths through my garden. I was fascinated by the dipping and bending of the plants as the bees landed and departed. I could imagine a musical score encompassing the flight of the bees and the delicate sway and bounce of the flowers. This was all much more interesting than my bag full of work!

Perpetual motion
in the garden
Buds and blossoms,
verdant greens
dip and bob,
in a hypnotic choreography
as bumbling bees
tumble
through the flowering
Cranesbill Geranium
gather pollen,
and depart,
heavy laden,
leaving slender stalks
swaying
in sweet release

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To read more poetry, go to Poetry Friday Roundup at the blog, Check It Out. Enjoy!

My in-laws are staying with us right now and my mother-in-law caught me unawares on my back deck yesterday afternoon. I’d love to say I was reading a novel, but I was scoring math tests, completing reading assessment cover sheets, correcting homework, etc. I had all the essentials–my iced coffee, my favorite cat nearby and (you might not be able to see this) a lit citronella spiral by my feet.  (Damn black flies!) This picture captures a perfect, authentic slice from my weekend. (Only 3 weeks left!!)

I stumble my way through poetry. I don’t know much about the mechanics or the structure of it.  I can’t talk about sonnets and couplets. Words like enjambment and spondee are foreign to me. When discussions head in that direction, I head to the periphery–keen on learning more but a bit intimidated by it all. I’m more comfortable with the wonders of word play– the delicious way that poems tumble off my tongue with assonance and alliteration and onomatopoeia. My pool of known, beloved poets is also small: Mary Oliver, Naomi Shahib Nye and Wendell Berry. Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein, Ogden Nash. Yet even as I write their names, I’m profoundly aware that I have only a superficial familiarity with their work (with the possible exception of Shel Silverstein whose much loved  Where the Sidewalk Ends brightened my childhood days).

Yet I love poetry. I love discovering new poems. I love writing them. Above all, I love how poetry encapsulates an emotion or a moment so perfectly that it seems to reveal an essential truth–to cut right to the heart of the matter. There are times I read a poem and am stopped in my tracks. I don’t necessarily understand it all nor can I articulate all of its nuances or the craft that went into its structure, but it resonates within me. I feel charged and often changed by my encounter with it. Recently I encountered such a poem by Russian poet, Osip Mandelstam, translated by Christian Wiman.

And I Was Alive by Osip Mandelstam

And I was alive in the blizzard of the blossoming pear,
Myself I stood in the storm of the bird–cherry tree.
It was all leaflife and starshower, unerring, self–shattering
    power,
And it was all aimed at me.
What is this dire delight flowering fleeing always earth?
What is being? What is truth?
Blossoms rupture and rapture the air,
All hover and hammer,
Time intensified and time intolerable, sweetness raveling rot.
It is now. It is not.

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, go on over to Reflections on the Teche where Margaret Simon is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

My cousin is an artist. Her paintings, often watercolors, vibrate with color and passion. Sometimes she shares her work on Facebook and I marvel at her talent. Truth be told, I’m also a bit jealous, as this kind of talent does not run in my veins.

She posted this picture not long ago with the caption: “Thinking of Grandpa Pat while using his pencils.” It turns out that her watercolor pencils were once held and used by our grandfather. She called him Grandpa Pat, I called him Poppa Pat. Either way he was ours and much loved, but clearly she knew him in a way I did not.

I did not know that Poppa Pat had art supplies.  Sure, I knew he could draw, and I always enjoyed the small hand-painted holiday postcards he sent us. I particularly remember a grinning jack o’ lantern from some long ago Halloween. I can still feel the rough, dry texture of the paint strokes on the card and see the jaunty crooked black grin. I knew Poppa Pat was a singer and a mad whistler. I knew he was a storyteller. I knew he loved to eat oatmeal with raisins for breakfast. But I didn’t know that he was the kind of person who had art supplies, the kind of person who knew what crayon d’ache pencils were. I’m a bit jealous that my cousin knew this part of my grandfather and I didn’t–and saddened that I didn’t pay more attention.

It follows that I did not know that our grandfather had shared his art supplies with my cousin. When I saw her photo, I was touched that his supplies were still being used –that they were treasured.  “He gave me all of his art supplies one of the last times I saw him,” she wrote, “ I have his oil paints (mostly dried up but I’m keeping them), his pastels, linoleum cutting tools, and his crayon d’ache pencils (watercolor pencils). He was so excited to share them with me.” What did my grandfather really think and feel when he handed those cherished supplies to my cousin? A delight in a shared passion? A recognition that he could no longer use these tools? A sorrow for the passing of time? A pride in his granddaughter’s talent?  There must have been an element of bitter along with the sweet. I know, though, that he would be thrilled that his crayon d’ache pencils, held in his granddaughter’s hands, were still actively creating, linking the two of them through time and the creative process.

About two weeks ago, a picture of a painting popped up in my Facebook feed with the caption: “This little one is from my cousin’s photo in Acadia (National Park), Maine.” My cousin had painted a watercolor, inspired by a photograph I’d recently shared.

Here is the original photo I shared on Facebook:

Here is her painting:

And I wondered. Did she use my grandfather’s watercolor pencils to create this? I’d like to think so. I could ask her and find out, but I’d rather not. I’d rather simply believe she did. Either way, to me this painting is a circle– from Poppa Pat to my cousin to me. It feels rich and rewarding and right.

After a quick Facebook exchange to work out details, the watercolor is on its way to my home. Here, like my grandfather’s art supplies, it will be treasured. There is sweet solace in this painting, this artistic legacy, that connects us through the years.

Image used by permission from Mike Benard’s Frog Call website

There’s something magical about the song of the spring peepers. When I hear them, I know that after a long winter, spring is arriving. Usually we first hear them when we’re driving on a chilly spring evening. We’ll still have the heat on in the car but we’ll roll the windows down. “There they are!” we’ll call as we hear them singing. (I even call out if I’m alone in the car. A joyous reflex–“Oh!  Listen to the peepers!”) We speed by their conversations in our car, shivering in the chilly breeze, eavesdropping on  a few highlights from a variety of vocal communities. You can’t help but smile when you hear the peepers.

Maine poet, Carl Little, also enjoys the wonders of spring peepers. This is the end of his poem Zones of Peeper. I love the image of those tiny frogs flinging their music about with such abandon and I know firsthand about the joy their song inspires.

Zones of Peeper, Carl Little

...
not synthesized but a perfect

cacophony of the higher ranges,
tiny frogs doing their spring thing,
flinging music into dank milieu
of pond edge and marsh, inspiring

a certain joy in our recap of the evening
as if every fault could be forgiven
when you consider the rest of the world
wild and wet and flipping out.

One of my first graders also knows the value of specific language and the wonder of the peepers. Here is her recent first draft of a poem, prior to working with line breaks:

What a wonderful final line:” The peepers sing a lullaby to the fish.”

Spring peepers–hope, inspiration, and sheer poetry!

Pop over to Violet Nesdoly’s blog for more poetry today. Thanks for hosting Poetry Friday Roundup, Violet!

The secretary at work attaches quotes to our Morning News e-mails. When I read this one, I immediately thought–that’s what writing does! It slows me down and makes me pay attention. I don’t have to wait for an event to become a memory–Writing helps me to recognize the value in a moment.

NPR recently broadcast a program about how handwriting your notes helps you to learn better. Because you can’t write down everything, you’re forced to synthesize as you take notes and thus you organize the information more meaningfully in your brain. Or something like that. It occurs to me that whether you’re handwriting or typing, writing makes you do the same thing. You have to choose which elements to share, which to highlight and which to omit. You can’t write about every moment of your day, so you sift through and find the more meaningful ones. And sometimes if you don’t the time to write, you might not notice the meaning was there at all.

I wasn’t sure what I would write about today. Or if I would write. I was in a bit of a mood yesterday–one of those moods that’s hard to shake, not easy to pin down, but casts a long shadow. Usually I try to whip up a rough draft for Tuesday’s slice on Monday night. Then I fine tune and post in the morning. I’d had a wonderful poetry celebration in my class yesterday and my students are truly jazzed about poetry. I knew I could write about that. I could even share some of their poetry. But I was in a mood.

I got home last night a bit early after racing around in a downpour, running errands. I had a raging headache. At 6:15 I got into bed. Yes, 6:15. I was asleep before 7:00. When I woke up at about 1:30 am, my mind started racing about, touching on all the things undone or half done or even poorly done. Apparently the mood still lurked. Already, I could sense the flavor of the day. After tossing and turning for a bit, I elected to get up. Perhaps I could get some work done and then tuck in a two hour nap a bit later in the morning.

I puttered around a bit, making coffee, changing over the laundry and finally sat down at my computer. I opened up my e-mail and noticed a note from a parent who had attended yesterday’s celebration. Oh, I thought, how nice, he’s probably written to say that he enjoyed the poetry celebration yesterday. I clicked and read. As it turns out, he was, but there was so much more.

I’m struck by the power of language–both poetic and everyday–to unite, to build, to celebrate.  So often in today’s world, language is used to denigrate, to destroy. But this parent celebrated the gift of language with his family and then again, through his letter, with me. He truly recognizes the power of words and poetry, but I wonder if he realizes how far the ripples will carry from his e-mail. How I will carry both these words and my image of his family with me. How they will remind me that our work as teachers may bear fruit at unexpected times, many unknown to us. I will carry his words with me, not just today, but on other days. And perhaps on one of those days when a mood lingers and taints, his words will drift back and shift that mood. It certainly has today.

I started vacation a bit tentatively. This was the first time I would have vacation and an empty house since becoming an empty nester. Most of the past vacations were holidays when the kids came home for break and then in February we traveled for the week. Though I was nervous heading in, I was looking forward to the down time and…the verdict is in…

I LOVED it!

I spent the week enjoying lazy mornings, long hikes, gardening, reading, writing, eating out, and generally luxuriating in a fluid, flexible schedule. It was utterly delightful. We capped it off with two days at Acadia National Park, surely one of the most beautiful spots on earth, and dinner with two of our three children at University of Maine. By Sunday I was refreshed and relatively ready to return to school on Monday morning.

These two conversations from early Monday morning brought back many memories, reinforced the upsides to vacationing and traveling without young children, and engaged my sympathies for the parents involved.

“How was your trip to Pennsylvania?” I asked a student.
“Mrs. Hogan! We drove for like 12 hours!”
“Wow! That’s a long drive.”
“Yeah, and I had to stop like 8 times to go to the bathroom,” he said.

Another student bounced up to me first thing, announcing “I got stitches over vacation.”
“You did?” I exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I cut my foot.”
“Where were you?” I asked, knowing her family had planned to travel for part of the break.
“At the hotel,” she said.
“Well, where was the hotel?”
“Oh, it was in Washington, D.C. It happened on the first day of vacation and I had to go to the emergency room.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “What an awful way to start your vacation!”
“Yeah,” she agreed, but then added, “But it’s a great small moment story!”

And then, apropos to nothing really, I just needed to share this–the view outside my classroom today:

Walking along a trail the other evening, we saw this plaque, attached to a boulder adjacent to a picturesque brook. The phrase “Trickling down from the Old Ham Farm” played over and over in my mind, sparking thoughts not only about the brook, but also about the Ham family line and about the intertwined history of brook and family.

Trickling Down

Everett and Vivian’s
old homestead remains,
populated with their progeny,
a landmark imprinted
in the county’s
geographic lexicon.
“Turn right just past the Old Ham Farm,”
the locals might say.

Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
from the farm on the hill,
swirls into the Sabbatus River
and ripples in the rapids,
rushing over and around
slabs of granite ledge
and waterfalling
over moss-strewn boulders.

Through the years
the farmhouse children,
Lucy and Rufus,
Harriet and Stephen,
followed the brook
from hilltop to river valley,
stirring the carpet of leaves,
slipping on moss,
dipping toes into icy brook water,
foraging for frog eggs,
and flipping over rocks and logs
to locate shy salamanders,
skipping through a childhood
rooted in the earth
of the farm,
discovering treasures
that abound by a brook
deep in the Maine woods.

Today, Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
inviting you
to slip into the shadows
between trees
to explore its tumbling length,
to ramble over its rocks
and to search for its source…

I imagine it springs
from deep beneath
the Old Ham Farm
and ebbs
and swells
through seasons and time,
coursing
through the landscape
like a pulse.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Ham’s Brook, Lisbon, Maine

To enjoy more poetry, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup at Jama’s Alphabet Soup. You’re sure to be inspired!