O Captain My Captain

Do you remember Dead Poets' Society? I  love this movie.

Remember this moment?

John Keating is one of my teaching heroes, and I've used many clips from the movie in class this year. After my first week of teaching, my friend/almost daughter Ashley sent me this text:

Teaching this year has made my life (in the words of John Keating) "extraordinary." I love almost every moment. I never anticipated how I love each of the students like they are my own and want all good things for them in class and in life. They are incredible, and the touch my heart daily with their passion, their insight, their humor, and their goodness.

It's been life changing, and I don't use that term lightly.

Here's the thing.

A week ago, I actually lived a movie moment in my classroom--the "O Captain, My Captain" moment shown above (minus the me packing my stuff and getting fired part, thankfully).

One of my students spearheaded a standing on desks moment. It was surreal. I stood by and listened as he told of ways I had taught them all this year--him in particular. I wish someone had a video of it, because I was so shocked that I can't remember all that was said. As he spoke, he walked to the back of the classroom and stood behind one of the desks.

"As a tribute to Mrs. Denton and her teaching . . . "

he stood up on the desk

". . . I say, O Captain, My Captain. And I challenge any of the rest of you to stand on your desks as well."

Half of the class stood on their desks, and many of them spoke of what they've learned in my class this year--writing skills, trust in themselves and in others.

And with that, he walked out of the classroom.

I watched him leave with my mouth gaping open and my heart overflowing with gratitude for the kids I teach. Even writing about it now brings tears to my eyes.

It was a moment I never expected and one I will treasure for the rest of my life . . .

. . . the moment I lived one of my favorite movies.

Missing It

I keep meaning to get to my blog, but life and kids and home and school keep getting the best of me. So many things have happened around here that I'm afraid I will miss recording on our family blog.

Someone posted a video a week ago that forced me back into my archives to find a link of my own . . . and I remembered why I blog.

It's to remember.

I miss it.

And life causes me to forget.

I don't want to forget.

My circle necklace broke a few weeks ago, and I haven't taken the time to get it fixed.

I've worn a necklace every day for the last few years, and my neck feels bare without it. Without it in the mirror every morning, I've lost focus on my goals for the year.

I miss it.

I don't even have recent photos downloaded from my phone or camera. I know there are at least a dozen posts lurking in there, but my phone is upstairs and I threw my back out for the third time since school started and I'm not doing yoga to keep my back strong and I've gained 15 pounds because school distracts me from eating healthy and I have 1023 excuses every day.

I miss it.

Life should be calming down a bit this next week, and I hope to catch up on some blogging and photos and memories.

For now, and for today, here are pictures I took LAST CHRISTMAS that I don't want to forget.

Moments I captured.

Moments with my grandkids.

Moments I didn't miss.

There's still hope for me.

Having Tucker and Karli live with us has been incredible. I get to be part of Annie's and Eli's every day. One thing Annie loved was the Nativity, and one day, she brought her little Joseph over to join in.

I didn't take many pictures over Christmas, but these are a few of my favorites.

One morning we all walked down the street to our neighbor's house to play on the swings and teeter totter for a little while. The weather is heating up again, and I already miss the gorgeous AZ winter.

Saturday Stories 2017--Old-School Fast Food

I took the little girls to McDonald's for dinner last night. As I looked at that little french fries box from their Happy Meals, it took me back forty years to McDonald's trips with my own family.

I grew up in tiny Twin Falls, Idaho--a community that didn't reach 20,000 residents until I was in junior high. It was a great small town to grow up in. It was big enough not to know every single person in town, but small enough that driving ten minutes was "clear across town."

And we drove clear across town to McDonald's. 

It didn't happen very often. 

I have one memory of a McDonald's trip. My youngest sister still needed to be held at mealtime, and the restaurant didn't have a high chair. Dad ordered us three big kids each a cheeseburger (not a hamburger, which was a big deal because they cost more). Mom got a cheeseburger plain, as always--she would explain at the counter that meant "bun, meat, cheese, bun that's it"--and Dad got a Big Mac because he was "the dad." We got two small orders of fries to share and small drinks (which in that day was probably 12 oz.).

There was no play place. No video games. And no Happy Meals with junk toys from China.

And guess what?

We were happy, and we went home full.

And we didn't go back for months, I'm sure, because eating out was a luxury we couldn't afford very often.

Wow have times changed.

No Good, Very Bad Day

It was the worst of the worst Wednesday

Teaching is hard when Spring hits. Kids get distracted, kids want to be outside, kids make bad choices.

Teachers pay for it.

For all of the years I was in school (or that my kids have been in school) and I didn't appreciate how hard Spring is in a classroom, I apologize to you teachers.

I put in many extra hours over the weekend grading a big assignment and had a long meeting after school yesterday that I wasn't expecting. I walked in the door after 4 to the smell of dinner cooking--I'd forgotten my unusual foresight earlier that morning in putting a roast in the crockpot.

Thirty minutes later the smell wasn't quite so appetizing.

Who burns a roast in the CROCKPOT?

That would be me. I know you can't really tell because my crockpot is black, but trust me when I say that broth was not a base for a perfect au jus.

Alexander and I had much in common on that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I wanted to crawl in bed and not get up again.

Instead, I called in a quick pizza order. And when the back door opened, I could hear my classically trained daughter-in-law singing some beautiful aria from her house.

That was enough to turn the day around enough so I could make it till bedtime.

That must be the solution--good pizza, beautiful music, and a forgiving family.

Not a day I will revisit often in my memory.

Yesterday was the last day of school before Spring Break. It, too, was a hard day, but luckily not as bad as its predecessor. I've never looked forward to a break more in my life, even as a student. Just as I was packing up my bag to leave, the secretary knocked on my office door with the most beautiful bouquet I've ever received in her arms.

All the anonymous note said was, "Thanks for all you do."

To whoever sent the flowers, thanks for making me smile and turning the bad days around.

Saturday Stories 2017--The Greatest Ever

I've felt a little guilty about my blog lately. I have a few posts I need to write from February, including my February goal update. Maybe I'll get to them tomorrow. I hope so. I miss the memories I record here.

The writing muse abandoned me over the last few weeks. Strange thing about the writing muse--she appears at random moments, then disappears just as quickly. Now that I'm working, she appears even less frequently. Today she appeared as I was deep cleaning the fridge.

I know. Why in the middle of a really important, really nasty job?

It was the music I chose, that's why. Music triggers my memories almost as quickly as smell.

Brad subscribed to Apple music almost a year ago, and I haven't found time to investigate it until this afternoon. I knew what I wanted to listen to as I cleaned. I watched this video a few days ago, and I'd forgotten how much I love Simon and Garfunkel.

As I cleaned months of stickiness and foulness from the glass shelves, I listened to an album I used to own on cassette tape in college--listened to all of it twice before Micah demanded silence from the kitchen as he practiced. Modern folk and indie artists owe much to these men and the groundwork they laid in the 60s and 70s. Who today can belt "Bridge over Troubled Water" the way Art Garfunkel did back then? And who today has the gift of incredible lyrics like Paul Simon? They are truly two of the greatest ever. The words came back to me quickly, and the time passed even faster.

And then the final song of the album came on (no shuffling for me).

I remembered my freshman year at BYU. My roommates--Melinda, Lisa, Paige, Anne, and of course Robin. I remembered listening to this album as we cleaned our apartment, but I will never forget listening to this song, rewinding it over and over as we drove from Provo to Salt Lake for a weekend away from school. Four of my roommates were from Salt Lake (very close to where my grandparents lived), and they let me tag along when there was room in the car. I stayed in my grandma's guest room on the squeaky bed, I slept as late as I wanted, ate homemade chocolates, played cards, and watched TV, and they both spoiled me rotten for two nights before it was time to get back to the grind of school and studies. 

Instead of roommates as my companions today, I danced with Annie to "Sound of Silence," watching her spin in her too big hand-me-down-from-Eve ballet slippers. I belted out "I Am a Rock" with my head deep in the belly of the fridge, remembering when I listened to these songs with my mom when I was growing up, placing the needle of the record player carefully on the spinning black disc. Simon and Garfunkel is part of the soundtrack of my childhood. Crazy to think these songs that were written the year I was born are almost fifty years old now, and my own little granddaughter is now sharing them with me.

Thanks to Simon and Garfunkel, my fridge sparkles and my rekindled memories shine.

And my writing muse returned, even if it's only temporary--I'm grateful.