The Last Day of School 2021

I'm thinking about the Halloween blizzard of 1991. I'd been married for seven years. I had three small children and a fourth on the way. The sleet and ice brought down trees and powerlines. We were without electricity for days--which, on a farm with a well, means we were also without water.

At first, it was a little exciting. Storms rush the adrenaline in the Midwest!

But days in, food rotted in the warm refrigerator or froze if we set it outside. Our neighbors a mile over had a wood-burning furnace, so the kids and I hunkered there for a time while our bundled farmer Dan thawed the hog waters with a propane blow torch. 

I can still smell sour milk and feel the bone-deep chill. Mostly I remember the waiting--and the waiting--for reprieve. 
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Why do I remember that ice storm now? 

Because Thursday was the last day of my 2020-21 school year. 

And teaching during the COVID pandemic had the feel of enduring a 9-month ice storm: exhausting in the demand to constantly re-think how to do even the simplest task. 

In an ice storm, the tiniest motions, like flipping a light switch, running a warm bath, or toasting an English muffin are stopped short. We have to stop and think, then search for a flashlight, put on more deodorant and a sweater, eat some crackers. 

Teaching in COVID was the ice storm.

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Before COVID, my classroom furniture was all sofas and upholstered chairs. The soft seating contributed to my room's identity as a place of welcome and comfort. 

Then, last fall, all cloth surfaces were replaced with laminated desks, spaced six feet apart, all facing the same direction.

My small-group interactive teaching style was proverbially unplugged. I had to re-think not only the physical aspects of my classroom, but also my teaching philosophy.

This was hard. I normally incorporate movement and dyad conversations into every lesson. I normally sit side-by-side with my students for writing conferences. I normally prioritize students talking to each other instead of to the teacher at the front of the room. 

This year, I reverted to survival mode. I was cordoned off at from the class (within the Zoom camera's capture zone), and my students were positioned 6-feet apart and facing the same direction. 
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In an ice storm, we don't worry about the nutritional balance of meals. We're just happy if we have enough canned tuna and marshmallows to keep everyone fed.

Same was true for my teaching this year. Were they reading? Writing? I'll call that good enough. 

I cut my lessons to the bone. I minimized homework, understanding that my students' home lives were every bit as disrupted as our school life. 
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A blizzard cuts frivolity out of the picture. No one can bicker about which show to watch. Boredom gets a whole new definition. Keeping one's hands warm demands attention. 

I saw this in my COVID classroom. Our routines were COVID-centric: the first student entering the room grabbed the disinfectant bottle and spritzed all the desks. The subsequent students paper-toweled their desks. Multiple wastebaskets allowed students to toss their wipe-towels while still social-distancing.
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With the fog of COVID worry hovering over all of us, my discipline issues were minimal this year. Maybe no one had the energy to disrupt. Maybe the smaller classes helped. Maybe students saw me (a masked, distanced, 61-year-old teacher) as a vulnerable population and mustered a little sympathy. 

Whatever the reason, I was grateful for a low-drama year in terms of student conflict and agitation. It seemed we were all moving through a fog. This isn't what I wish for us, but a survival mode made us all a little tougher--and for the most part lower maintenance.
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The year is over. 
It was rough.
The toaster didn't work.
The toilet didn't flush.
The switch did not turn on the light.

But most of us got through it.

Still, I am exhausted by a year of adjusting my every natural teacher move to a COVID-compliant substitute. 

Get vaccinated so we can turn the electricity back on.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

The Sad Parade

The small towns of Elk Horn and Kimballton embrace their Danish roots and host Tivoli Fest on Memorial Day weekend, a celebration that includes a 5k race between the towns' iconic Danish windmill (Elk Horn) and Little Mermaid fountain (Kimballton); aebleskiver feed at the fire station; Viking reenactment, Danish dancing, and--of course--a parade.

Tivoli Fest 2021: My teaching colleague dancing,
my 5k t-shirt, Harrison eating aebleskiver,
and Dan watching the ill-fated parade.

This was the 41st year of Tivoli Fest after last year's event was COVID canceled. I've been attending since I married my Danish Iowa farmer Dan 37 years ago. I ran the 5k for what must have been my 25th time, and I came in first among the six women in my age division by lumbering along a few paces ahead of my fellow sexagenarians. 

But it's the parade I want to talk about.

Dan and I settled our lawn chairs on the hill north of the fire station to watch the antique cars, local service organizations, and family hayracks roll on by. The air was cool, but the sun was warm. I settled into the benign pleasure of a small-town parade. I clapped as the saddle club rode by, then for the Class of '56, and a float announcing a Father's Day breakfast in a neighboring community.
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Parades are a funny thing if you stop and think about it. Ninety-five percent of us line the streets to watch the other five percent puff their feathers for our entertainment. It's a fine way to spend thirty minutes.

Usually.

Yesterday an episode tainted the experience.

It began with a cluster of children dashing into the street for candy. Yes, this can be expected at a small-town parade. But we also (used to?) expect parents to corral their kids back to the safety of the curb and admonish them for darting too near tractor wheels for Tootsie Rolls. 

Saturday's children within my line of sight were Artful-Dodger spunky, puppylike in their exuberance. But their parents seemed oblivious as the children inched ever closer to the floats and tussled with increasing ferver for each box of Dots.  

And then:

An eager candy grabber--maybe 6 or 7 years old--en route to a knot of bubblegum, blindsided a toddler and knocked her over. 

What happened next surprised me because it was unexpected and yet, in retrospect, predictable:

The mother of scooped up her toddler, then turned with Jerry-Springer rage to admonish the older child. She gestured dramatically toward his mother and shrieked that he had "knocked over my baby."

Yes, this was unpleasant. The unrestrained boy was, yes, at fault. But the cussing mother of the toddler didn't help matters.

And then:

The mother of the boy rose up with fury in her eyes. Each woman shouted in defense of her child. Yet neither seemed to consider the role-modeling she was doing for her dear ones in the moment.

I elbowed my husband to warn him I was primed to jump up and break up a fight (the teacher in me), when, thankfully, the women were drawn back to composure by their families and friends. 
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This was unsettling on various levels. First, it was simply unpleasant to be accosted by such anger in the midst of a holiday parade. Second, I was dismayed at how willing people were to shreik at each other.

As I considered it later, I wondered: Were these mothers perhaps energized by the adrenaline rush?  Excited by a chance to publicly display anger and threat? Invigorated by asserting their defense of their children to a crowd?

It's probably a stretch to blame politics or social media for a small, nasty parade scene. But I have seen too many videos of anger-filled tirades (Hmmm...Jan. 6? "Karens" confronting store personnel when asked to wear masks? News commentators shouting over each other without compunction?) to be surprised when incivility slimes its way into our face-to-face interactions. 

I do not know who the people fighting at the parade voted for in the last election, or if they even voted. But I do know that alongside the American and Danish flags that traditionally line the Elk Horn streets, Trump flags are still flying in this deep red county. And all of us have watched the line of acceptable behavior inch closer to what we used to call despicable.

There is anger bubbling at the surface in small-town Iowa. And it seems we now have tacit permission to let it loose.

It sort of ruins a parade. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Credit for Breathing

This afternoon a John Deere mechanic named Brandon came out to the farm to work on Dan's sprayer. He asked if I was still teaching. Dan said I was and asked if he'd had me for a teacher. 

Yes, Brandon said, "She was basically the reason I graduated."

Brandon (class of 2008) had been my student in sophomore English and Interpersonal Communication, but he relayed a specific memory from Creative Writing: One day during class we had a fire drill, and I'd brought my laptop out to the parking lot. While we waited for the all-clear, I'd asked Brandon to take a look at his grade with me.

"It was a B- or a C+," Brandon told Dan. "I asked her how I could possibly have that grade when I'd done nothing all semester. She told me she sometimes gave credit for breathing."

Brandon laughed, then nimbly finished the adjustments to the sprayer.

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Dan told me the story this evening happily. But I felt a familiar mix of teacherly chagrin, exasperation, and disillusion--mixed with a scoop of reality that reminds me to also be a little proud. 

I didn't remember Brandon's story explicitly, but it rang true as something I might have done.  Sometimes my role as a teacher has been to nudge and push and cajole a kid through a semester. Sometimes I've had to hoist the kid onto my shoulders and carry him over the finish line. 

I'm not sure I did right by Brandon, I said. Dan countered, reminding me that Brandon is thriving as a mechanic and remembered my class as a positive force in his life. 
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School has become increasingly automated through online courses and packaged curriculum. This might assure more universal criteria for passing Creative Writing. But it takes away the musician's touch that teaching craves: the crescendo, the fermata, the grace note. 

I'm not sure I taught Brandon anything about creative writing, but I might have taught him to breathe.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Writing Through COVID-19: An Attempt at Some Closure

Last Friday I wrote about my second day in quarantine, but I haven't posted since.

In my past year of blogging through COVID, I've written on 252 of 365 days, which is 70% productivity, or roughly five days a week. 
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But I've spent the past week avoiding this space. My excuses don't hold up because for the past 51 weeks I pushed past those same excuses and simply put my fingers on the keyboard, narrowed my focus to the smallest moments of the day, and wrote. 

Tonight, as I compose what will be the final entry of this year-long writing project, I realize my avoidance of blogging this past week has been the avoidance of closure itself. 
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I'm not good at goodbyes. 

I shy against the emotion and instead make jokes or redirect. When I think back to dropping my children off at college--quintessential goodbye moments--I see scraps of chaos (scolding 9-year-old twins climbing on their oldest sister's dorm bunk) and forced levity, laughing too loud, executing a quick, perfunctory hug rather than holding the child and risk feeling the full weight of the moment.

I'm not good at last days of school. I prefer to keep everyone busy right up to the bell, then rush them out the door with overly cheerful "Have a good summer!" and without meeting anyone's eyes. 

I know a teacher who retired at the end of last year and said she missed the goodbyes and proper closure of her career when schools slammed shut on March 15. When I think of my own retirement, I envy that leapfrogging over all the faretheewells. I'd like to slip out quietly, unseen. Ghosting.
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This blogging project gave me a reason to practice what I preach: That writing enriches life. First, while planning to write, you will pay attention to life's small moments: a hand on a puzzle piece, a stumble on a step, the dog's baby tooth on the sidewalk. 

Second, as you sort thoughts on the page, you begin make sense and order of what the day has offered. 

Third, if you share your words with readers, you re-experience your life as people share their encouragement, connections, and response. 
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This past week:

Sunday Adrienne and I taped the second episode of our oral history project with our parents. This week we recorded our mother's childhood memories, capturing her early stories as well as her current state of mental deterioration. 

In the evening, Harrison and Maria facetimed us to announce their engagement--a joyful, welcome call.

The photo on the left was taken moments after Maria
said "Yes!" Shot with Waylon taken the next day.

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I spent Monday and Tuesday at home as required by quarantine, reading a good book, playing ping-pong, and writing poetry, as I do five days each month with teacher-poets on Ethical ELA. 

Wednesday, having received my second NEG Covid test, I returned to school and was surprised in the warmest way when colleagues greeted me with concern about Dan (he's fine) and relief that I hadn't contracted the virus. I was given pause. Too often take for granted the good people I work with. I must do better. 

After school I received my second dose of the Moderna vaccine.

Thursday was rough in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through completion of a show that was already late. Thursday was also great in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through completion of a show that was already late. Sometimes good learning is not pleasant. 

By the end of the day I was chilled and achy, reacting to the previous day's vaccine. I went home and slept hard.

Friday, I awoke a new woman, rested and symptom-free. I verily skipped through the day. In the evening I began this blog post but couldn't seem to end it.

Today is Saturday, March 20, 2021. Stuart said Nali is nearing her end. He plans to put her down on Monday, when both he and Harrison have the day off and can take her to the vet together. 

I will play some Bridge online with my dad tonight. In two weeks I'll be able to visit them face-to-face. I'll take some bubbles along, some Klondike bars, a poem.

Maybe if I just keep clicking at this keyboard I won't have to say

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

William Wolf Hoegh, 8 mos.

Day #360 Writing Through COVID-19: Quarantine Day #2

I'm negative!

My results came via email this evening. I was surprised at how nervous I felt clicking on the link, then surprised again at the leap in my heart when I saw the word Negative. 

Avoiding COVID is not a matter of strength or moral superiority. A negative test is no reason to be proud of myself, any more than I should be proud that a deer ran in front of a neighbor's car instead of mine. I suppose I could claim my caution contributed to my luck, but in fact, COVID (and Iowa deer) strike even the careful ones. 

I'm mostly just relieved that I'm one step closer to sidestepping the hassles and dangers of a POS result.

I'll test again on Monday, and provided I see another NEG in my email, I'll return to school on Wednesday. I will also then be cleared for my second Moderna dose. 
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Dan thinks his throat is feeling better. His COVID did not prevent him from beating me in Ping-Pong tonight 21-15. 

His mom Janet received her second vaccine dose today. Our neighbor Kathy, a retired nurse who has been volunteering at our community's vaccine distribution, drove her to town. They arrived early, and the scheduled nurse hadn't arrived yet. So Kathy rolled up her sleeves (as did Janet!) to deliver the injection herself! 

On the drive home, Kathy talked Janet through the possible reactions she might feel. They discussed worries that come with aging and ways to lift low spirits. 

In other words, Kathy stepped up as my mother-in-law's chauffeur, nurse, therapist, and life coach this morning. My gratitude is deep.
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The news is packed with "one year ago" stories today, as March 12 marks one year for our nation's full alert. On March 13, 2020, my broadcasting students threw together (at my insistence) a video of students talking about the impact the first days of COVID had had on their lives. This was the last day of school for us, although we did not know it when the video was filmed. 

It's almost quaint to watch a year later:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcJ3RfukHXs

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

TEETH (and drool on the bib)

Day #359 Writing Through COVID-19: Day #1 in Quarantine

I feel fine.

Dan's throat is a little sore, but he's also fine, using a slightly wider definition of the term.

Despite our fine-ness, we spent the day obsessing over each minor ache or weary moment as possible COVID confirmation. 

I wish my students would examine complex texts with half the scrutiny Dan and I gave to our every breath and sniffle today. 
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I spent the morning online scheduling my COVID test, questioning (and then rescheduling) my second vaccination, and making arrangements for my mother-in-law to proceed with her second vaccination dose without me on Friday.

Let me pause here to tell you about Kathy. She is my country neighbor and dearest friend. Thirty-six years ago I met her at a neighborhood bridal shower (mine!) where Kathy held her shy 4-year-old on her lap while dabbing at her own dripping nose with a tissue. Her authenticity and humor magnetized my affection. Clicking at my keyboard tonight, I realize I have a million words to write about Kathy.

What I'll say now is that she is a recently retired nurse. She has had both of her vaccination shots. She is in the volunteer team that is vaccinating our community. 

When I called her today to ask her to take Dan's mom in for her second COVID vaccine, I knew her answer before she picked up the phone. Iowa Neighbors.

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I had long happy phone conversations with Stuart and Palmer today. I ran three slow miles on a trail where I would not contaminate anyone with my potential (?) COVID germs. I used the Hy-Vee curbside grocery pickup service and was giddily impressed. I may never go back to RL shopping!
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One last thought: Today my students carried on with their learning in my absence. They edited videos, designed yearbook spreads, practiced poster presentations, and dug into the background reporting for news stories. Part of me wishes they'd missed me more, that they couldn't function without me. That would make me feel needed! But most of me is super proud that they are independent, capable, and eager to produce even in my absence. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write. 

My heart.

Day #358 Writing Through COVID-19: Dan Tests Positive

Yup.

I was on the final mile of my COVID marathon. I could see the finish line.

Then someone (my husband) stuck his big old farm boot out and tripped me. 
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Dan's fine. Just an odd-feeling sore throat.

I'll stay home for the next two days. I'll also get a COVID test. 

I'll keep you posted.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison