Getting schooled at college

Despite the Rottweiler stealing my sheets after land-mining my bed with an assortment of squeaky toys, I managed to sleep in on my Monday off. After finally shuffling into the living room, I curled up in my big chair and prepared for "First Morning Nap" only to be rudely interrupted by Sydney. "You should go to class with me today," she said enthusiastically. "No," I grunted, bundling back up in my blankets. "Awww...c'mon," she insisted, "It'll be fun." I was having trouble compiling a list of things that would be less fun than driving an hour to Buffalo to attend a college class on my day off but as guilt had begun to settle over me like the low-hanging fog that enveloped the road we traveled, I begrudgingly buckled myself in for sixty minutes of moaning and groaning.

Parking on a college campus is just as I remembered and, even better, today was raining and I was wearing cloth sneakers. To brighten my mood, Sydney bustled me in to a campus CVS to ply me with Pepsi, Pringles and peanut M & Ms before we entered the lecture hall. "Why are we sitting in the back," I asked, popping a peanut M & M into my mouth, "you need to be up front where the professor will notice you." Sydney rolled her eyes, explaining that her work is usually scheduled after this class and she has to hustle out of there. To my delight, the professor began slowly working his way up the rows towards us, pausing at each set of students to shake hands. I was all a-twitter, preparing a stunningly memorable introduction and then was devastated when he checked his watch and began class.

"It's like listening to an audio book," Sydney whispered as I listened, enraptured, to him speak of the labors of Hercules. Wielding an over-head projector and barely glancing at the fist-full of yellow legal pad papers grasped in his left hand, his method of teaching was skillfully old-school. When I wasn't busy learning the history of the Fates, I was checking out his 100-member audience. At the 45-minute mark, only ten were sleeping! The boy seated directly ahead of us had to deal with my endless commentary although I managed to keep my opinion of his thick necklace to myself except to ask Sydney if she's packed bolt-cutters in her backpack. One dufus came in late, plopping himself down in time to answer what-I'm-sure-must-have-been-a-rhetorical-question of "What is a centaur?" His hand shot up and he eagerly shared his brilliance with the class. "Any one of my fourth graders could have answered that," I observed in disgust while my new bejeweled buddy nodded in conspritorial agreement.

The hour was over in a flash. Disappointed, I got up to leave. I was impressed. No SMARTboard. No video. No flash. No fuss. Just teaching. Listen and learn. Sit and sleep. Your choice. The knowledge was presented but the burden for learning was assigned to the student. Where was the differentiated education? Where were the individualized plans? There was not a single bouncy-ball seat to be seen. I admit it though. I couldn't do it. I famously spend 30-minutes looking for an animated gif of a German Shepherd eating corn-on-the-cob to accentuate a lesson plan. I'm all about the flash and the fuss. If that SMARTboard isn't operational these day...neither am I. But sitting in that lecture hall on my day off, I saw how it could be done and done well. This teacher just got schooled.

Amy Mosiman: Poster-child of Bad Behavior

Really? C'mon! When it comes to my public persona, I diligently try to stay on the straight and narrow. I will, on the rare occasion, purchase  my husband some Molson Canadian but, even then, I'm slipping swiftly through the store, camouflaging my illicit purchase with deli meat and doughnuts. So yesterday, I wasn't exactly thrilled when my friends decided to set our pre-theater date meeting spot at a local bar and restaurant. I arrived early and felt uncomfortable about going in alone so I sat outside on a bench that was, inexplicably, facing away from the street. Awkward. Traffic buzzing by behind me only heightened my unease so I took a breath and breezed my way into the bar. Everyone turned to look at me but it was obvious that no one was impressed. I ordered a Pepsi with deep-fried potato chips and waited for my friends.

The next day found me at our favorite sub shop, the Gainesville Store. Run by a mom of one of my former students, she smiled as she handed me my ordered chicken finger sub. "Sami said she saw you going into a bar yesterday," she grinned as I stomped angrily across her worn wood-plank floor like Rumpelstiltskin. "Seriously?" I screeched. "Are you flippin' kidding me? The ONE time," I held up a finger for her to see, "the ONE time I go into a bar and a kid has to see me?" "Well, she recognized your coat," Sami's mom said, referring to my over-sized school bus yellow winter jacket. Mental note to Amy Mosiman:  Time for a new coat. "Would you please tell Sami that I just had a Pepsi?" I pleaded. I wanted to throw my fellow theater-goers under the bus but refrained. The retired kindergarten teacher of the group was greeted like she was "Norm" from Cheers and let's just say that she DID NOT order Pepsi. As usual, I took the high road.

Don't get me wrong here. I'm no uber-virtuous Maid Marian-type. Believe me, I have a wild side (Wait...are you laughing? Not cool). But I do try, somewhat, to be a role model of appropriate behavior for my students. So much for that. I might as well just let go now, since my reputation has been ruined. Maybe I'll get a second piercing in my ears. That'll show 'em.

Don't judge a book by its cover (if you're brave enough to touch it in the first place)

So, there we were, the 4th grade team, busy at work during a Superintendent's Day when the school librarian burst in the door. Naturally, we frowned at this interruption of our productivity. Said librarian, Sandy Lawrence, has developed an annoying habit of foisting relevant and complementary literature upon us that line up to the Common Core. Ugh! We avoid her like the plague but she still manages to find us. Like a squirrel in the fall, Sandy had been sorting through her supply of stories and apparently felt like sharing the bounty of her harvest. "Here, girls," she shouted, tossing a book into our midst like it was a raw steak among the lions, "I'll let you fight it out." The door swept shut behind her and silence fell upon the room as we looked upon the fallen tome.

In my mind, I already had strategized  the outcome of this little game of literary survivor. The first one to touch it, keeps it, I thought to myself, eyeing the aged cover and worn binding. Rachel tentatively nudged it with the tip of her finger and I cheered with relief.

Now that ownership was clearly established, we now felt free to investigate this little book. Written by Caldecott Medal winner, William Steig, this letter-code puzzle book, (copywrite 1968) challenges readers to use the phonic sounds of letters to decode his pictorial messages. Highly trained educators that we are...well, let's just say that we were not going to be foiled by such foolishness. WRONG. That book beat us down. We had trouble translating the cover! C D B = See the bee (But you already knew that, didn't you?)


Part of the problem was that our 21st century sensibilities and sophistication impeded our interpretations of some pretty simple (and innocent) phrases.  I admit we were shocked when we encountered the F U portion of this puzzle and it took our brains a while to wrestle away from what it would mean today. F U R B-Z = If you are busy, I-L 1 O-A = I'll run away.  Grown women. I know. Kelly Nichol-Dime cracked us all up as she struggled with another letter puzzle:

O U Q-T came quick. Oh, you cutie. But Kelly killed us with the rest. She sounded it out slowly and carefully.  You are a butt. WRONG.

A picture-perfect day

At age 44, the fall of my life, I have finally become a leaf-peeper. As we headed out the door, I paused. "Should I bring the camera," I wondered and was immediately reassured by my husband and daughter that it would be unnecessary. Why on earth would I have even sought their counsel on such an important matter seeing that, when compared to mine, their combined ratio of life-time picture-taking ratio comes in at about 6:6,000?

The missed photographic opportunities were enough to take one's breath away. I don't count the autumnal hue because my cinematic skills just don't cut it but I definitely could have pulled off the timeless shot of three blonde-maned workhorses lifting feathered legs in heavy unison with a backdrop of muted red, orange, yellow and green hills. Then we entered a small town filled with squirrel statues the size of black bears. A blue mirror-ball disco squirrel. A brightly flowered squirrel. Caught without my camera, I could only cry out when we encountered the Ronald MacDonald squirrel, whirling to stare accusingly at Brad and Savannah, who, ashamed, were unable to meet my livid gaze.

As always, when we find ourselves in situations where I am in a full-blown tizzy, Brad quickly distracts me with food and animatronic woodland animals. So there I was, enjoying my lobster bisque and giggling each time the raccoon popped out the barrel nearby when my entree arrived:  Berries on a Cloud. My waitress introduced me to the assortment of syrups and I clapped my hands in delight as I anticipated filling each of the four quarters of my Belgian waffle with a different flavor. Brad gently pulled the apricot bottle from me as I wrestled to open it. "Why don't you dip your knife in first to see if you like it," he suggested, removing the lid. I frowned, as his suggestion delayed my slathering of several syrups. Okay, well, it turns out I don't like apricot. As I was making that alarming discovery, Brad had opened up the boysenberry for me to sample. Blimey! I hate boysenberry too. Well...I MUST like blueberry...the entire state of Maine depends on people liking their blueberries. Sorry, Maine. Now, instead of being festooned with flavor, my Berries on a Cloud floated on a single stream of maple syrup,

We were greeted with a light drizzle as we left and then rewarded with a full rainbow as we lapped a lake. A FULL rainbow. I sighed. This was the worse day EVER. Plus, combined with all the water elements of my ride, my two Pepsis turned out to be a bad decision for a day of leaf peeping. Brad pulled over by a closed-off bridge to read the historical marker which told us how some "Grandparents of the Future" once chained themselves to this bridge in an environmental protest, As interesting as that little tidbit was, my bladder was doing some protesting of its own so I cut our bridge tour short. As I raced into the house, I realized, camera or no, it had been a picture-perfect day.