The Case of the ImperturbableTurtle

Perhaps it's the last warm day of the year, but I still used the a/c in the Buick after my brisk walk through the woods.  My brain needed serious numbing out after a week of standing beneath falling anvils and player pianos. A fast walk was needed. I've been perturbed on several psychic fronts, but thank heaven for the Online Etymology Dictionary! Without it I would have called the turtle un- not im-.

imperturbable (adj.) 

c.1500, from M.Fr. imperturbable and directly from L.L. imperturbabilis "that cannot be disturbed" (Augustine), from assimilated form of in- "not, opposite of" (see in- (1)) + *perturbabilis, from L. perturbare "to confuse, disturb" (see perturb). Related: Imperturbably; imperturbability.

Photographing turtles on logs is more difficult than getting little kids to eat raisins on peanut butter-filled celery. Turtles don't want to be tagged on Facebook, or tacked to Pinterest. They usually bail out before I can pull the camera from my pocket.

This turtle did not want to go for a swim.  It sat and sat while leaves floated down all around and onto it. The December light was already low at 4:30, but the turtle did not want to put on flip-flops and shower in the bathhouse. If it pretended the photographer was not there, it might extend the season a little bit longer. I took photos from three sides of the little pond before it finally dived.






© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Compound eyes and overstuffed sinusii

I'm so very thankful to have a teaching job that does not depend on outcomes of standardized tests. The teachers who inspired me as a child, and those who jump-started my sons were not constricted by requirements to teach to the test. Their motivation came from their gut to make a profound impact in children's lives.

Current expectations for teaching take all the joy out of a profession that used to thrive on creativity and deep connections with individual children. It's a testament to the heart of so many educators that they are still working in schools without support from their administrators and districts, and without essential involvement from parents.

Our teachers have become the 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. primary caregivers for this generation of children.  Teachers are so bogged down dealing with basic nutrition, hygiene, health and behavior problems it is a miracle that kids are still learning to count and to read. Teachers are providing emotional support and parenting guidance to a needy generation of parents lacking basic understanding of child development stages and the consistent sleep and meal routines so essential for healthy families.

Still have a stuffed up snout, but I must get on with planning the art classes for the semester. My goal is to link observations in the school garden to art projects and concepts across the age groups. Working with kaleidoscopes, wire kitchen strainers, spyglasses, colanders to prepare "visual aids" about the compound eyes of blue dragonflies.

Attended an all-day workshop Saturday for  required clock hours. The morning session bogged down with roll calls and registration snafus.Glad I'm not on the student side of the chart five days every week.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

It isn't easy being _____

a.  green
b.  quiet
c.  alone
d.  all of the above

It 's a matter of perception and acceptance.  My blogger friend at Hummus Anonymous proposed a quiz about the trials of Cubs fans.  They have it rough.

On the right please note a rough green grass snake that was hanging its head way out into the trail space like an unruly vine Sunday morning. I was just getting going uphill on my hike at Dogwood Canyon Audubon Center when I realized I was inches from this fella/gal. Was he just lying in wait for me to stumble along? Was she venomous? Did he have lots of friends nearby? Were they inclined to drop down on me from the branches like in my rain forest nightmare?

There wasn't another person on the trail that early. It was heaven to have the place to myself except for the snake, a wolf spider, a cute lizard, lots of swallowtails, hordes of hackberry butterflies, awesome moths, singing birds, and my own thoughts or lack thereof.

Our culture often seems aghast that a few oddballs actually want to be by themselves sometimes. That's because so many of us are trying to fake it as extroverts in a business world that demands team players and people persons. Maybe that lyric about people who need people being the luckiest people in the world is just envy of those for whom togetherness comes easy.

And now a coworker has thrust a new book upon me, sure that I will find it interesting.  She has seen through my  flimsy disguise! This afternoon I've begun reading Susan Cain's Quiet:  The Power of Introverts In a World That Can't Stop Talking. And more, I've watched Cain's TED Talk. How refreshing!

It's time for educators to realize kids don't necessarily learn or work well in the small groups that have been the devil of me since about eighth grade.  You put seven kids together to brainstorm over two joke-filled sessions.  Three kids are just too busy because of football and cheerleading to help write up the report. The remaining two introverts write up the project or experiment, find or create the visual examples, and carefully follow the required bibliographic format so everyone in the group gets an A+. All the while those two are internalizing the message that they are somehow defective for not being go-go social animals. Not that I'm bitter, except it isn't just high school. Employers need to reexamine this whole collaborative process to respect those who need time alone before they bring their ideas to the project.  What about the worker who would rather slowly consider, painstakingly document, and strive for clarity in a written analysis instead of blurting a reaction that sounds all yo-ho-ho me hearties at the time?

This Memorial Day I am thankful for the servicemen and women who keep us safe. But I am also grateful for two parents who respected and ensured time for solitary thought and quiet creation in my childhood.

Thanks to www.colourlovers.com for this perfect image!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

School gardens & the future of education

On the plane back from Oregon I still got the middle seat, but my aisle neighbor was a delightful, not-too-talkative young mommy who found her own seat belt and had no service dog. My window neighbor was a large man drinking Heinekens who ate a whole can of Pringles, then snored and drooled. But the delightful mother of five had children attending Stonewall Jackson Elementary in the Dallas school district. We talked about the value of school gardens to inspire kids in studies across many subjects.

Stonewall Jackson's 20,000 square foot garden is one of the most acclaimed school gardens in the country, but in 2008 the Dallas Independent School District eliminated the position of Mark Painter, the gardener/outdoor lab science teacher. School parents and area businesses had to form a 501c nonprofit, Stonewall Gardens, to keep Painter employed and the garden going.  It figures. If something is working in our schools, cut the funding, quick!

Remembering the in-flight conversation I stopped at Wilson Middle School just down the street from home. The school already has a butterfly garden along Custer Road, but I wanted to see the new vegetable garden that's taking shape this year. All these photos are from my walk-through in the early evening last Saturday. Life Skills teacher Sharon Russell was nominated for Plano Teacher of the Year 2012.  She is obviously a woman with a passion for connecting kids with learning through gardening. Do teachers get to have passion and model creativity and problem-solving for kids? Or is it all about measurable performance?


My little Montessori school's garden is about seventy square feet if I can trust my three a.m. calculations. It's basically the same size as the dirt area next to my back patio at the condo.  In this space the kids are growing tomatoes, peppers, radishes, dill, basil, red salvia, daisies, zucchini.What are the preschoolers learning?

Plants need water and sunshine. We can take turns with the watering cans. You have to hold the watering can underwater in the big bucket to fill it. Carry a watering can so your shoes don't get all wet. We don't waste water by sprinkling the sidewalk.

We can see how plants change.  They start little and get bigger. We can draw the sequence. We can make a story about what we see. It's fun to tell our friends when we notice something different in the garden.

It tastes good to eat the fruits of our effort.We can be brave and taste new things. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time. Food isn't always cellophane-wrapped in a styrofoam container. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time.

It feels good to dig and take rocks out of the dirt. Worms and grubs live underground. We wash our hands after we work in the garden.

Bees help plants grow. Bees are not really interested in you. Spiders make pretty webs. Spiders and ants are not that interested or dangerous, either, and it is fun to name them. It is more fun to watch an insect than to step on it.

Caterpillars eat dill. Dill smells good! It is fun to cut dill, basil, and rosemary to feed the class pet rabbit, Norton. It feels good to think of others. We have to remember to carry the bucket of food inside!

Animals visit our garden at night! What animal stole the whole strawberry plant?

Tony Wagner, author of Creating Innovators : The Making of Young People Who Will Change the World writes about developing a culture of innovation based on collaboration, interdisciplinary problem-solving, and intrinsic motivation.  Even at the preschool level that sounds like the job description for a school garden!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Look Mama, no rust!

Glad to get my new vehicle home to its carport this afternoon with no hail damage.  Many places in the DFW area have serious tornado and storm damage. There have been at least twelve tornadoes in the region. I don't have the latest information, but I'm glad my students are safe, and our school was not in the path of a storm.

We spent most of the afternoon in the windowless interior lunchroom in distraction/diversion mode. None of the students worried, so I think we were very successful. Lots of teachers tap-dancing in North Texas today!

Several friends suggested that my 1996 Skylark would not get a trade-in offer, and that I would have to pay to have the car hauled away.  Some said the only value was the cool  EARTH bumper sticker.  The good news is I had a replacement bumper sticker in reserve in hopes that I would one day have a new vehicle.



My two daughters-in-law have heard me rhapsodize about my newlywed 1980 brown Toyota Corolla, and suggested I would buy a new Corolla. Gotta love these smart women in my family now!  But no, not a Corolla.

Most people guessed small, fuel-efficient vehicles. Danger Baby offered his usual Chevy Malibu suggestion.  Friends with magical thinking guessed a pick-up truck or maybe a bright red Prius convertible!  Nobody guessed a '61 Plymouth Sport Fury, but I still would love to own one!

My dad's longtime home health helper guessed I got another Buick Skylark. Sharla's is the best guess and wins one autographed license plate. Just have to figure out how a car can sign an autograph!  Danger Baby was closest with his $401 guess on the trade-in offer.  His prize license plate will be a classy item in his law office!

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So what did I get?  Enquiring minds want to know how I'll be driving my traveling worms around to their performances.

Yup.  A Buick.  A 2002 Century with only 30K miles!  It's a cream puff.  A little old lady only drove it to church and kept it in her garage.

I hope a reader will tell me the expression for verbally carrying on and on in glowing, golden, melodic terms to compliment someone or something.  Geez!  Is this the beginning of dementia?  All I can think of is

raps his naughtic
rhaps hypnotic
hips rhapsodic
lapse hypsrhosdic

Please, please help.  I'm so far off I can't even find a way to search for this frequently used expression.


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Michiko Kakutani's New York Times 3/20/12 review of John Gertner's book, The Idea Factory : Bell Labs and the Great Age of American Innovation, crossed my table last Saturday.  Would I actually read the book?  No, although it is "utterly comprehensible--indeed thrilling--to the lay reader".  Trouble is that I keep falling asleep in the limited hours available outside of work.  The review is a delightful, brief explanation of Bell Labs and the visionary leadership that promoted a culture of highest level creativity, innovation, and cross-disciplinary scientific research.  This paragraph caught my attention because of interest in early childhood education and nature awareness, crisscrossed with memories of my father.  Dad had the small town background of those Bell Lab scientists:

Many Bell Labs scientists, including Brattain, Kelly and the Nobel Prize-winning physicistCharles H. Townes, who helped develop the principles of the laser, grew up on farms or in small towns, which Dr. Townes argued were the perfect “training grounds for experimental physics.” Such childhoods, he contended, taught a person how to “pay attention to the natural world, to work with machinery and to know how to solve practical problems and fix things innovatively, with what is on hand.”

Dad was a supreme practitioner of the "fix with what is on hand" mentality.  Once he had rigged a slapdash repair he was oblivious to the aesthetic realities of his idea.  That is, when the man fixed the dang shower drip by stretching a heavy-duty rubber band he didn't care that his family had the ugly, mildewed rubber band in the bathtub for the next two decades.

During a recent windstorm my gate got blown out of its lock lever. I didn't want it to keep banging and twisting off its hinges, so I grabbed the nearest coat hanger.  My fix worked, but I don't want to look at it for very long. I'm a child of a child of the Great Depression, but I'd like a prettier solution long term.

I love stories of resourcefulness, and especially stories that include a pair of pliers in the back pocket of overalls. When I read Andy and the Lion to the preschoolers I worry that they are just too far removed from washing behind their ears out on the back porch to get it.  Then I worry that children won't get to hear this story because hunting lions, even in a tall tale, is not politically correct.  Plus, I worry that kids don't even get to walk to school on their own feeling like intrepid adventurers.  

Dad had few vices, but this vise and lots of C-clamps.  I'm trying to rig a way to hang our coat hanger wire sculptures from the top edge of a cafeteria stage backdrop so they blow in the nonexistent wind.  In the middle of the night I'm pondering how to do this with no money and no knowledge of the depth of that stage back wall prior to the performance day.  And no really big rubber-bands!

Bark is on my mind for good reason.  The school music festival is based on Leo Lionni's very 1968 parable, The Alphabet Tree about "the power of the written word in a democratic society":

The wordbug teaches the letters on the alphabet tree, torn and tossed by a windstorm, how to become stronger by banding together to form words. Then a clever purple caterpillar teaches the letters to become even stronger by forming sentences with a message of peace. 

The costumes for the kiddies are even tie-dye t-shirts!  Did the dyeing on the playground this afternoon.  Stirred the dye with a shovel handle for more problem-solving with material at hand.  Groovy.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

we could string them and hang them from a tree

Found this post in my dregs/draft list. I have no idea who or what I was going to string and hang from a tree last December when I started it. Still the title is fitting for this day which was both the last day of class before Spring Break AND school picture day. Yup, individual, staff, and class photos with a whole lotta saying "cheese" and trying to get little kids to remove their index fingers from their nostrils for just a couple seconds.

Any week requiring verbal reminders that paper towels must not be put in the toilet isn't going to merit a twinkly star.  A twinkly star was as good as it got at Eastridge Elementary. The reward and incentive budget was very low and counter to the education philosophy of our principal, Miss Baker.  A student's paper might merit a check, a plus, a star, or a twinkly star from the teacher.

I would have done absolutely anything so Mrs. Erickson or Mrs. Meier could draw pencil "twinkly star" on my first and second grade papers.  Color inside the lines.  Put on my own overshoes.  Solve arithmetic problems on the blackboard in front of the whole class. Rat out Bobby Tooley for some infraction. Erase blackboards. Play Red Rover and run right on over into Vince Lombardi's Green Bay Packers.  Anything for those two teachers' approval! Most of all I wanted their smiles and attention while they drew that star.

I took piano lessons from a long-suffering neighborhood woman we called "Mrs. Bath Oil". That poor woman received $1.25 for spending a half hour with me, tapping the beat on the keys with her personalized pencils (ANNA MARY BATHEL Instuctor of Piano and Organ), listening to my dismal efforts, and putting lick-on stickers and stars in my music and theory books.  Geez, what a person had to do for $1.25 in the late Sixties!

Tears would run down my cheeks the whole thirty minutes. "I am afraid your daughter does not care for the piano," Mrs. Bath Oil told my mother over the phone after a couple years of our mutual suffering.

Mom didn't give me the option of quitting piano lessons, but we did eventually figure out that my watering, red eyes during lessons were caused by the combination of Mrs. Bath Oil's hairspray, perfume, cigarette smoke, and houseful of cats. Her tears were due to my lack of any progress whatsoever at the keyboard.

This all has to do with stickers and incentives. If Mrs. Bath Oil and I both managed to get through my playing of a song in the Schaum Piano Book she put a sticker on that page. Should I play most of the notes of a piece in the Thompson Piano Book I got a foil star, usually silver. More gifted students merited the gold, blue, red, and green stars.

No promise of a sticker or star could ever make me remotely musical. I just did my time, practicing thirty minutes every morning before school because doing so was not optional.

If my smallest students settle down and fall asleep within half an hour I give them a sticker when they wake up.  If they don't, I don't. Lab rats have to at least press the lever to get the M&Ms.

The other Nap Lady gives every student two or three stickers after naptime just for being their own itty-bitty selves whether they settled down or not.  Her philosophy is, "When you grow up there are lots of things you want but don't get, so you should always get stickers when you are young." I lean toward the life is not a bowl of cherries so the tough get going and learn to not swallow the pits, and you might as well figure that out earlier rather than later.

You don't get the tiara for just showing up, and you have to eat the cereal to find the decoder ring. Oooh!  Life is so demanding!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Trout lily handwriting

This premature spring has convinced the first grade girls they should really be writing "in cursive", so they are making looping nonsensical signatures. The five year olds are struggling to master printing on lined paper, working out which letters are tall, and which hang down below the line. Candy canes and fish hooks get larger and larger. The three year olds are documenting life in invented script and writing their names in all caps. Remembering my childhood fascination with my dad's drafting block print lettering.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Valentine socks rock around the clock

We rocked and bopped our little bazoozies off today helping all the kiddies put their Valentine cards in classmates' bags. Now I can open my bag, and the results are surprising. The lead is more splattered than the Republican presidential race. Disney Princesses do not control the girl constituency this year. No superhero in a flying cape offers hope of rescue. No movie tie-in dominates thanks to some superPAC money. A Ron Paul faction made their own Valentines.


Results:

Cars movie  /
Hot Wheels  /
Transformers  /
Trains  /
Samurai Power Rangers  /
Phineas & Ferb (a cartoon show I'd never seen)  /
Kitties  //
Doggies  ///
Whale /
Disney Mickey Mouse  //
Disney Princesses  /
Kung Fu Panda  /
Etch art dinosaur bones by Mello Smello with  poke-UR-eye-out stylus  /

Origami fortune teller  /
Fun foam insect with googly eyes  /
BFF  /
Hand-colored heart-shaped paper doily  /

Tempera paintings   //
Colored pencil drawings  //
Eames rocking chair  /  I'm not kidding!  I got a kiddie Valentine with my all-time favorite chair!

Chalkboard coffee mug  /  [Yes, a coffee mug I can write on with chalk.  It comes with warnings that chalk is not edible. This is also an excellent tongue-twister, as I kept saying "chalk bug coffee morgue", but then I also couldn't say "My spicy soup makes my nose drip"  three times fast at lunchtime.]

Shoulda worn my pink poodle skirt for the hop at school. I'm so glad my granddoggy is a schnauzer/yorkie mix. It would be embarrassing to have a porkie, dorkie, doodle, or schnoodle in the family.

And now let's pop Schnyidarmarink a Dink a Dink on the hi-fi turntable.




© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Giant worm gets remote control!

Details at ten?

This old lavender twin flat sheet was sacrificed to the cause of worm education.  Great fun to be dyeing fabric again, inhaling the hot, stinky smell of RIT and vinegar on the stove, wondering how many weeks my hands will be red, ruining another plastic colander, and bleaching my sink. Joy in the moment!

Maybe the giant worms will pop out of a Rubbermaid tub at the We Did Worms event, instead of a can.  I priced giant can options at Target this morning while my walking buddy spent her gift card.  We were cooling down after one of our intense strolls around the neighborhood.






I have not yet dragged the bags of play sand, pea gravel, and $1.00 topsoil out of the Buick's trunk.  These are ingredients for worm parfaits. I'll deal with those tomorrow at terra. There's only so much I can do while remembering  when Gary Hardin put the worm gizzard from the dissection tray down the throat of Resusci Annie in Mrs. Wittemore's seventh grade Life Science class.

And was Mrs. Wittemore's hairstyle what is called "marceled"?  How old was Mrs. Wittemore in 1967?  We thought she was at least a thousand with her weird hair, sensible shoes, and frumpy green dress.  She was probably much younger than I am now in my sensible shoes, fat lady capri pants, and chrome hair.

The prototype giant red wiggler gave me many hints that there must be a better way to make the other three worms.  Life Science today, Home Ec class tomorrow.







© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Ninth grade English class

On the centennial birthday of Bel Kaufmann, author of Up the Down Staircase, I've beamed down into ninth grade, 1969-1970, Millard Lefler Jr. High, land of the dread One Way Hall.

This is not the semester Beverly Renee Blume (nee Austin) with the pink Coke-bottle thick glasses was my English teacher.  It must be the semester she was my journalism instructor instead.  Sniffing blue stencil correction fluid left my memories a bit warped.  In Miss Bev's English class we read The Odyssey, The Iliad, or maybe both on that wine dark sea.  Miss Austin took time off from teaching to get married to an army officer on his leave from Viet Nam and have a short honeymoon.  Her most memorable lesson is the importance of considering initials when naming our future infants, as a monogram was unfortunate no matter how curly the script: 

BRA

Instead, it is the semester I had a young spitfire English teacher named Deb Wightman first thing in the morning in the dreary dust mote-filled spare room between the Typing and Art classrooms, far from the drinking fountain, but close to the back stairs down toward the gym and the lunchroom. Miss Wightman (or maybe Miss Whiteman) had peculiar dry breakable straw blond hair in a flip, and one navy blue suit. She was part-time. She weighed about 105 pounds, wore pointy toe flats, and sat ON the desk at the front of the room!

A surprising number of secondary students get through school now without actually reading any books. Miss Wightman soon became Mrs. Ens, and was assigned to classes for reluctant readers, full-time. But that one semester Miss Wightman introduced us to Poe with "The Fall of the House of Usher" and "The Cask of Amontillado", and we took turns reading aloud. Then we studied The Pushcart War, The Mouse that Roared, Animal Farm, and 1984. To end the semester, we read Up the Down Staircase. She is my Bel Kaufmann nominee of excellence in English teaching in those early teen years.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Constipation yoga and glamour jobs

Just occasionally some of us teachers would like politicians and [gasp] even parents to spend a day in our shoes.  Those are the shoes we happily empty of playground pea gravel and wood chips every evening when the last children are picked up half an hour or more beyond the aftercare closing.  Once in awhile we feel a teensy bit beaten down and picked on. 

In our dual income household society, teachers of young children frequently spend more hours with a child than she has with either or both of her parents.  We are likely to be the only adult who sits down with that child to eat a meal.  We may be the only non-electronic source of enrichment in the child's experience.  We may be the only adult to talk with the child without conducting a cellphone conversation and driving at the same time.  Alas, we are often the only adults who think four year-olds are big enough to take responsibility for flushing and washing their hands, and who make the time to teach five to six year-olds to tie shoes.  At the same time we are under the gun to raise test scores we are microwaving students' lunches, providing them with appropriate attire for the weather, keeping detailed records of bowel movements, slathering kids with sunscreen, and remembering which students need hand lotion for dry skin and which need lip moisturizers.

Today I got to attend an outstanding Montessori training at Collin College.  The four presenters were all excellent, experienced, knowledgeable and inspiring professionals.  We gave up our Saturday to learn proven techniques for improving early literacy and nature study in learner-centered environments.  Then we learned which yoga poses relieve constipation in children who might possibly bring way too many processed foods and not nearly enough fresh fruits and veggies in their lunchboxes.  We took notes.

I don't have to keep a poop chart for my students, unlike some teacher friends who have to send that report home with each child daily.  My dad's nursing aide and I joke about the "Clog Log" where she has to record each elderly resident's successful elimination efforts.

I don't have a "Clog Log" at school, but I get to be the toilet paper cop. We have a bunch of kids who just like to unroll the toilet paper from the spool and wrap it around their hand and sit there and sit there and unroll and wrap until they have a wad as big as a pinata that will plug up the plumbing. If I don't have a mental ticker going for how long the kid has been in the potty and go intervene, I am the one who has to use the plunger and mop the floor.  That is not really what I call nature study in the learner-centered environment!

And that, Mr. and Mrs. Politician, must be why you are paying us those outrageously big bucks.  Wanna have a go at it?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Spring Break guest

"Honey, I'm home!" 

Don't usually get to holler into the empty nest, but the preschool class rabbit is chilling with me this week.  Norton has his preferred corner of the living room with sunshiny windows on two sides of his cage.  He's been coming to this resort for school breaks for years now, but this is the first time since I moved the Eames furniture down from the house in Lincoln. 

I'm sure Norton will learn to appreciate this design aesthetic, but his initial impression regards the lack of shadowy places for curling up to snooze. Sometime during Spring Break I'll show him the TED Talks video about Charles and Ray Eames. Then we will build with my Eames House of Cards picture deck.

In rabbit years Norton is the same age as my father, and has many of the same problems. He has watery, mattering eyes. There are incontinence issues. Norton's appetite is better, I regret to report.

Norton is either ten years old and weighs nine pounds, or weighs ten pounds at nine years of age. And after one slow gallumph around the living room he is sound asleep next to the Eames rocking chair. Alas, that is similar to my exercise regimen.

Tonight I gave Norton a full report on the visit to Parkland Hospital to tell Felecia good-bye. I pray this fantastic drama teacher's stage exit will be any hour now. My dear friend is ravaged and reduced to an ineffective gasp of her fabulous self, and every minute is precious torture.

I told Norton how Felecia once sewed Robert Plant into his tight pants. And how she was always the first person to notice the monarch butterfly migration high in the Dallas sky. Glaring blue. Orange wings. How Felecia poured her compassion into tiny glasses of German wine to toast the New Year 2005 when Fritzi was dying.

Who else would savor a drive-through lunch at Burger King with the same connoisseur's relish as a Dallas Opera performance of "Tosca"? What a gift to have shared nine operas with Felecia, and also wandered away from the guided tour to find Nedda's pink trailer from "Pagliacci" in the DO's prop storage? 

Please let the former drive time DJ at KGUS in Hot Springs, Arkansas, have "twenty thousand watts of sparkling clear power" sending her off.  Soon.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Stylin' staff

I woke up from a bad dream that we all sewed our own kimonos from gingham or calico using the same Simplicity pattern to wear to School Open House tomorrow night.  Penny's was black and white with a lovely matching obi.  Mine was pale blue with tiny lavender flowers. 

Things are piling up right now and getting shuffled in the dream world.  I must have been sewing in the basement of our old house, the one where my dad is mentally roaming looking for some "paintings".  We are beginning arrangements for hospice care this afternoon...

Thanks to Kathleen for the Stylish Blogger commendation.  Hope to get to it soon!


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

A bad night of isthmus

All night it seemed I was teaching in a giant lecture amphitheater.  The subject of my lecture defied my pronunciation.  I could not say "Peloponnesian Penninsula" to save my life.  The map for the lecture was displayed improbably at the top/back of the theater, behind all the students.  I had to gallop up the steps, get their attention, ask everyone to turn around, and then explain the map.  Then back down the steps to the podium.  Back and forth, this exercise would have burned thousands of calories in real life.  Breathless is not the way to say "Peloponnesian Penninsula".  Why?  I have no idea, but I will give some attention to arranging my real-life classroom teaching aids.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Now We Are Six

Six years ago this week I flew to Lincoln to see my mother and to give my dad a break.  Fritzi was dying, although we hadn't accepted that fact.  Howard was exhausted, depressed, almost numb, and in total denial. 

In hindsight it's clear Dad was in the earliest stages of dementia.  His issues were obscured by my mother's rapid failing. 

Broken hips, hospitalizations, anesthesia, and rehab relocations have added to the bumps of Pooh being dragged down the stairs.  In this part of my life, playing Christopher Robin to Howard's Pooh, childish mentor to a bear of little brain, we should be learning our sums.  Six years is a long time to a child changing from infant to acquiring early addition and spelling skills.  Instead Dad and I are dislearning everything about time and numbers.  We have been misplacing the names of people and things for quite some time.  Dad calls before six a.m. to enquire the day, date, time, and the name of his roommate.

It's never an easy sum to do. 

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

On my first trip to Target, my gift cards bought for me

Today is a festive day not marked on any Hallmark calendar. This is Spending Teacher Gift Cards Day, a ritual appreciated and hallelujahed by most teachers.

Don't get me wrong. I like every gift from students and their families. I especially like the kids' handmade cards and ornaments accompanied by hugs. The parents who stop long enough to ask how my dad is doing or if my sons will be here for the holidays are equally wonderful. One of the sweetest things a parent can do is acknowledge receipt of the gift made in class by the student. It doesn't happen very often.

Every teacher has just run a marathon whether they gave finals, read essays, and wrote progress reports, or just got little kids to line up straight for the holiday pageant. In the three to six year old classroom:

• Each child made a hand print in clay for a parent gift. The clay was fired, then painted, wrapped in bubble wrap, then tissue paper. At times teachers threw their bodies between the fragile hand prints and swinging lunchboxes or karate kicks.
• Each child made a card for parents.  And a lovely snowflake card it was.
• All the students collaborated on a gift for the lead teacher, the assistant, each staff member, each room mother and volunteer. That means they helped sew, wrote their names, made thumbprint pictures, signed their names again, and wrapped.
• The preschoolers made gifts for the elementary students and managed to deliver them to everyone.
• The preschoolers ate holiday cupcakes that were lovely frosting works of art.  Of course they all had green icing mustaches, and somebody had to clean up!
• The kids all performed in the music presentation.  More on that later.
• The lead teacher, the assistant, and the class pet rabbit collaborated on gifts for all the preschoolers.  More on that, too.
• Each child decorated a bag for carrying home all the holiday things.

And so, teachers like to receive store gift cards, and also wander like zombies in Target on their first day off. You might think it isn't in the true holiday spirit, but we are sooooo grateful! We want to collectively say, "Thank you so much for acknowledging that we've put off our personal Christmas efforts, seriously need some peace and quiet to read or have a thought, and could use a tiny bit of pampering."

Go ahead. Sing along.  On my first trip to Target, my gift cards bought for me:

A challenging Sudoku book
Fresh, new lunchbox
Greek yogurt
Boring black socks
Buick headlight bulb


Winter pajamas
Jicama and eggplant
Dried cranberries
New York Times crosswords
And a giant jug of Drano

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

When I grow up

I don't want to rush into a decision, but maybe when I'm older I could make photo learning materials for preschool Montessori classrooms. All the fun of the creative learning process without the nose goobies and flushing forgetfulness.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Out of Control

So many lesson plans and calendars for the new semester to cut and paste. So many websites to link. I've been out of control for several days, unable to Ctrl+C, Ctrl+X, Ctrl+V, or Ctrl+N. The Ctrl key bit the dust on the Compac keyboard I found in a closet when my "real" keyboard died many months ago. I've become accustomed to limping along, just barely hanging on. I've coped with the quirks in this age of austerity. The latest failure, though, a total lack of Ctrl, was too much to bear. I'm already dealing with a parent in a skilled nursing facility. I shouldn't have to cope with an incontinent and demented keyboard, too!

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

The Trouble with Truffles

So many chocolates in fancy containers, so little time. The candy seems to keep multiplying, first taking over the kitchen counter, then the coffee table. The truffles seem harmless at first. Shiny wrappers. Tempting aroma. Impressive names and pedigrees. Soon they are filling and flowing out of the ventilation system.

Captain Kirk's Starship Enterprise is eventually overrun with fuzzy, cheeping rodinks. CollageMama's condo is overrun with cute truffles.

No more presents! Just let me play in the gift box!



© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder