Milkweed pods and butterflies

While every profession certainly has its days, as a teacher, I, for one, with rare exceptions, love my job.  Remind me that my next lesson should probably be on the concise use of commas. I routinely begin each 4th grade year with Helen Hunt Jackson's "September" poem...somewhat for the amazing imagery:

And asters by the brook-side

make asters in the brook

but more so was my shock in discovering that many children have never encountered milkweed. How is this possible? They're country kids, for crying out loud. So...for a decade, Brad and I pluck pods to reflect my classroom population. Sick of hearing me complain about sticky fingers, Brad suggested we harvest ahead of time, letting the pods dry for a year. BINGO. All of the fluffy...none of the fuss! 

This year, I encountered another obstacle as my room cleaner, George, discovered my loot and was none too happy about the prospect of a fluffy fog of feathered filaments peppering Room 24. Over the years, George and I have developed an enviably close relationship based on respectful communication and compromise. He growls at me to go home after 5 and I ignore him. I attempt to wheedle into his good graces with dark chocolate and he accuses me of sloughing off unwanted gifts onto him.  With passionate prose, George is also a gifted correspondent, penning uplifting letters that I sentimentally save and share.

So...encouraged by George's encouraging note, I took my posse of aspiring poets outside with the mysterious bag. We sat beneath a large maple tree to read and discuss the poem; sharing our favorite parts. Then, with great excitement, the contents of the bag were revealed. Like little ducks to water, the children ripped into the down-filled husks and seeds soon soared, filling the air as 4th graders laughed on the lawn, dancing and twirling, trying to catch the puffy parachutes.

A week later...we were at it again. A former student, Alison, and her mom Heidi, are butterfly buffs and offered to set me up with a small habitat container. I immediately said "no," as I tend to kill any sort of biologically-related science experiments. George quickly concurred. I had traumatized both him and myself during my ordeal of incubating eggs. But Alison and Heidi decided that, with their support and supervision, I could (and would) handle it. Okay...don't say I didn't warn you.

Turns out, that if I don't actually have to do anything, my science experiments are pretty successful! Every day, Alison arrived with milkweed leaves to feed the hungry little caterpillars. Heidi would show up with cookies to keep up my morale. Two chrysalises formed and I put up a barricade around my desk.  I ferociously guarded the developing dignitaries...my winged royalty. The first appeared at an inconvenient hour...the children had left for the day so Katriel and I carefully carried our fragile friend with us on our visit to the cider mill to send him on his winged way, toasting his flight with raised glasses. 

Butterfly Number Two appeared, to my delight, at 6 am on my dining room table, halting my  morning absolutions as I video-narrated the event in my very best David Attenborough-style for my sleeping family. Cursing my absence from my childhood Posture & Poise lesson where I would have learned to smoothly walk with a book on my head, I cautiously carried my butterfly newborn to school where he happily attended class. At the end of the day, Room 24 again dutifully trooped outside to allow nature to become their best teacher. We sat in a circle...serious, solemn stewards of the planet...we lifted the lid, collectively holding our breath as our butterfly gathered himself for launch...he rose upon our lifted voices..."Let It Go...Let It Go..."

Pure magic.

I love what I do.