I'm gonna keep on searching for the Pink Pony Purse...down at Old Fort Niagara

 As many of you might already suspect, teaching is a great deal more than the intentional weaving of state learning standards onto the loom of daily lesson planning. Many threads comprise this complicated tapestry including relationship building, attention span, interests, motivation, manners, respect, and accountability. I considered this idea as I watched my friend and fellow 4th grade teacher, Marissa, respond to the enthusiastic encouragement of her students to take on the slip-n-slide. As Marissa glided by me gracefully on her knees, her black dress tucked securely between her legs, I brainstormed some other examples of "teaching" that my grade level team executed this year that didn't quite fit into the conventional model. Katriel face-painted fifty kids. Allison limbo-ed. I was chased down a hallway outfitted in an over-sized toilet paper roll costume.

Our's is a job that extends well beyond the description of relaying information and strategies related to academic skill building. I have lost nails untying shoe laces and wrestled stubborn backpack zippers while simultaneously presenting slides on how to subtract mixed numbers with like denominators that required re-grouping. I wipe tears, braid hair, and mediate arguments while sending my attendance in late (and usually, wrong).

As a teacher, you have no idea of what heights you'll go for your students.

This year's field trip could NOT have been better. Fantastic weather. Polite, respectful, appreciative students. Amazingly patient and generous parent chaperones.

The highlight was our annual picnic lunch on the shore of scenic Lake Ontario. 

Try to keep a Wyoming County kid from the water.

"As long as you don't get wet."

Try to keep a Wyoming County kid from getting wet.

Skipping stones. Searching for shells. Balancing on washed up logs. Giggling. Splashing. 

My friend Ken and I stood on the vertical four foot sand embankment and admired the sweet scene below
us. His son called for us to join him and we laughed. "Are you tackling this?" I asked my friend. "Not without a rope," he answered. We both optimistically believed that we could successfully scootle down this minuscule mountain but it would take a minor miracle to tow us back up. A very mature decision. Wise.

Soon, we arrived at the next leg of our journey:  Old Fort Niagara. I was putting my game face on as I knew that I would have to endure a twenty minute dissertation on dirt before being allowed to enter the fort. Proud of their earthenworks, they are. A decade of decoding the defensive-capabilities of dirt, I now happily digress. 

I had just adjusted my facial expression to reflect profound interest and, if necessary, surprise, over acquiring newfound knowledge pertaining to the delightful pile of dirt before me when I discovered that one of my students had neglectfully left a personal item behind at the picnic site. Sadly, this was one of those necessary life lessons that kids must learn to help bolster responsibility. It happens to all of us. "But Mrs. Mosiman," the chaperone whispered discreetly in my ear, "It contained twenty dollars." Ouch. That's one painful lesson.

"We are now going to be heading toward the fort's first line of defense," the tour guide announced, "If you would just follow me to our earthenworks." Like lambs to the slaughter, my group accompanied him while I heroically headed back to the picnic area in search of the lost item.

Any hope was dashed as soon as I pulled into the parking lot filled with three huge tour buses. Crowds of city kids blanketed the grass where we once stood. It couldn't hurt to look, I thought to myself, glancing at my watch, trying to estimate the dirt discussion that I was, regrettably, missing because of this selfless mission of mercy.

As I walked to the pavilion, I noticed a surprising thing.

The shoreline was empty...vacant of shrieking students skipping stones and seeking shells. 

No...instead, the playground was filled-to-capacity. The slides were saddled with students. The teeter-totters teemed with tykes.

Try to keep a city kid off the swings.

Was it possible?

I headed down the grassy slope toward the shoreline.

There it was.

The pink pony purse. ("It was white, Mrs. Mosiman," my irresponsible and, apparently, unappreciative student would correct me each of the million times I shared the story of my heroic quest. I  didn't know if I should be grateful or appalled that this child had no working knowledge of Chappell Roan but I am in debt to the singer because it was her nifty little tune that saw me through the remainder of this difficult mission.)

Yes. I was going to have to scale the embankment to retrieve the Pink Pony Purse (Please tell me that you sang that phrase.).

Fortunately, no one was there to watch me slowly  scootch ungracefully down the treacherous terrain.

Securing the Pink Pony Purse over my shoulder, I perused the steep wall before me, seeking the safest route. Channeling my best inner-mountain goat, I began my climb...digging in my heels, hoisting myself up this hill from hell. No Everest-attainer could even begin to feel the level of pride and accomplishment that I experienced as I summited.

I returned to the fort with the Pink Pony Purse in hand...eager to re-join my party and recount my exploits. 

Turns out that they were even easier to find than the Pink Pony Purse.

They were right by the dirt pile.

Helping or heckling: Solving the case of the missing gum

 I am a WRECK at graduation. Every year, confronted with the ghostly images of former 4th graders who still haunt the halls...their laughter lingering...voices reverberating around my classroom. As I sit there in the auditorium, watching this time-honored ritual that marks their first steps into the world...I am again humbled that I learned more from them than they probably learned from me. 

I am always strangely nervous...attending graduation. Out-of-place in this high school world. A poser. But I am addicted to the surge of pride and excitement I feel when each of my 4th graders crosses the stage...out of the Wardrobe and into Narnia...

"WOO-HOO..."

So, as I waxed philosophic, lost in my reverie...working up the courage I needed to walk through the dark corridors of my quiet school to the auditorium, pulsing with excited energy...a loud, obnoxious voice startled me. "Just let me run to the bathroom and we'll walk down together," my friend Erin hollered down the corridor. I frowned at her and nodded, breathing out a secret sigh of relief.

Ignoring my preference of sitting in the back, Erin quickly ushered us forward to join the teachers already seated in the front. To my surprise, like old Ebenezer, I experienced my first unexpected ghostly encounter...the poised young woman seated to my left was a former 6th grader...lo, all those years ago. I smiled shyly at her...surely she didn't remember me. During a break in the program, though, I couldn't resist, leaning in to whisper a quick description of her incredibly artistic book report diorama project. And magic happened. That beautiful woman turned her slender shoulders to me and disappeared...and my proud 6th grader grinned at me. I got goosebumps.

Erin, immature as always, kept distracting me. We waved at friends, colleagues, and parents in the packed room. We became fixated on our friend Tyler who had the important job of sitting on the stage for the entire program with the appearance of being hypnotically attentive. "He's chewing gum," Erin observed and we were both bitterly disappointed in him. There is no room in the area of public speaking for gum-chewing. Several minutes later though..."Wait...Tyler's not chewing his gum anymore." We (along with the occupants of our row, the row ahead of us AND the row behind us) stared at him creepily to see if we could clock any subtle signs of gum chewing. Nope. "But...he didn't leave the stage," Erin said, nervously. We (the occupants of our row, the row in front of us AND the row behind us) gasped in horror. "He didn't," Erin stated incredulously. "He did," I answered firmly, not surprised at all. I had come to expect such low-brow behavior from him. "I did," Tyler admitted later, confused. "What was I supposed to do with it?" (Our answer was not fit for publication)

My second ghost arrived on stage.

My Isaac...who I once video-taped racing beside and then, behind, my truck when I was supposed to be responsibly picking him up for school...stepped up to the podium to share his Salutatorian speech...pausing to thank Jesus, our Lord and Savior before delivering his remarks. My heart soared. Isaac generously included his classmates in his message...a loving balance of teasing and tribute. He credited his family, the school, his church and the community with his success. And then thanked me and my friend Ellen for our influence in his life. My heart dropped straight into my stomach for this undeserved recognition. Isaac, brilliant, kind, competitive, compassionate, intelligent, self-motivated Isaac, would have succeeded in a bubble. 

Erin and I amused (enraged, annoyed) our row (and the row in front of AND behind us) with our helpful insights and observations. We all craned our necks back to see the large cobweb decorating the catwalk. We admired the defined muscle tone in our friend Michelle's calves. Everyone was mortified by my lack of staff name recognition: "Who's Mr. Mitten?" I asked, delighted that we now, apparently, were employing sock puppets. "Not mitten," Erin corrected in disgust, "Mitton...m-i-t-t-O-n." Ohhhh. We (our row, the row in front AND the row in back) then repeatedly practiced the correct pronunciation of this, unknown to me, staff member: Mitt-tone. Ma-tone. Muh-TONE. Erin then began to keep a mental tally of all of the school personnel mentioned in student biographies of whom I had ZERO awareness. 

Tyler, meanwhile, was doing a commendable job of trying to ignore us as we kept up a constant barrage of up-lifting little waves, thumbs-up gestures, BIG smiles, other subtle hand gestures to keep up his morale. 

We (our row, front row AND back row) had an in-depth discussion on editing as we noticed the marked repetition of the phrase "This graduate..." in the biographies. Over the course of the evening, it began to take on a more sinister tone..."The culprit...the perpetrator...the accused." I also lamented about our alma mater as Erin and Tyler happily belted it out. "Can't we update it?" I begged. We (our row, front row AND back row) formed a committee to meet over the summer to work on re-writes.

And then...it was over. In the blink of an eye...thirteen years sped by.  Seventeen years ago, they were taking their first steps, propelling them from infancy to toddler-hood and on Graduation Day, they walk across that stage, to the cheering of family, friends, and school staff, to mark their first steps to another exciting phase of life. It was a privilege to watch. Just ask our row (along with the front row AND the back row).

Directing a play about a struggling circus, evil villains and clowns is no small "feat"

Like most things in my life, I'm not sure how I found myself in this situation. "We," Erin suddenly popped in (Whoa! Where did she come from?), "How we found ourselves in this situation. 

Last year, we fancied ourselves the self-described saviors of the elementary/middle school play. Without us, we narcissistically imagined that the show would not have gone on. It was for the children, we heroically stated, sacrificing our time, sanity, and not-yet-damaged-beyond-complete-repair reputations for our noble endeavor. 

And, somehow, we didn't screw it up too badly (Thanks to the Lord, a determined team of experts of prop personnel, sound, lighting & tech geniuses, and ridiculously talented kids). 

But this year? 

Surely, someone who actually knew what they were doing would step into the coveted directorial role for the elementary/middle school gig. I mean...who wouldn't want THAT job?

"Why are we doing this again?" I asked as Erin taught over thirty somewhat clumsy kids to step-ball-change in unison while I wrestled with enunciation problems with tricky phrases such as "Pickle's Perambulating Palace of Performers" (Erin and I finally armed ourselves with umbrellas to protect ourselves from the resulting sleet). Due to our having to repeatedly define the term entrepreneur each time it appeared in the script, we finally revised a scene to also teach it to the audience. 

Plagued with problems, the production still valiantly moved forward. Erin and I book-ended practices with week-long illnesses...but at least we were coordinated. Erin disappeared near the beginning...me, closer to the end. An unforeseen generator problem took out the school's power...cancelling key practices introducing props and mics which pushed our Opening Night back a week. 

We again Amy & Erin-ed up the script hoping no one would notice a questionable number of twins in the play so we could accommodate more actors. We delighted in the appearance of a side-line comedy duo that was meant to resemble the two grumpy guys, Statler and Waldorf from The Muppets, and immediately added a ton more puns for them. We replaced one musical number with the song, Smelly Cat from Friends and had administrators  (and a dog!) sporting kitty ears wheeled out on stage to pop out of trash cans to surprise the audience. Our friend, Tyler, agreed to don a cockroach costume and join the on-stage flea circus, infuriatingly stealing the show. Erin and I used squirt guns to mist the audience during the clown's performance, donned plastic retainers during the on-stage performance of "Artificial Teeth," and dramatically ducked when the Strong Man lifted a lion and effortlessly tossed it over our chairs. We giggled maniacally over our "high-tech" production as we gleefully used laser pens to emulate escaping bees during one scene.

"Why are we doing this again?" I whispered as Erin and I nervously clutched our mics, moments before stepping in front of our full house of proud parents who were eager to see the product of months of hard work (and endless chauffeuring). These were people who have been listening with, I imagine, grave concern to reports of mine and Erin's directorial methods which are largely based on one of us bellowing, "You CAN be replaced, ya know!"

We sat in our director's chairs...literally on the edge of our seats as the curtains parted, the lights illuminated the stage and the music cue-ed our actors to take the stage. Our hearts raced...our spirits soared...as our actors hit their marks, enunciated, flourished, smiled, snarled, sneered, swooned and otherwise encapsulated their characters. No one clapped louder or longer than Erin and me. 

Why did we do this?

The easy answer, this year, was that Erin made me ("Last year was ALL you, babe," Erin pointed out. Huh. There you are. I wondered where you had gone.).

But that's not all true.

Amy pauses, glaces surreptitiously around her to make sure she's alone. 

I do it because I love hanging out with my friend (Please don't tell her...I'll never hear the end of it). We got ourselves into this initially with NO CLUE what we were doing and discovered that, with the right combination of kids, it was mostly fun. This year, we had a better handle on things (organization, time-line, communication) which made things not-so-scary. Erin and I combine our unique talents to create a partnership based on trust, teasing, support, inappropriate inside jokes and, ugh, love. We sink or soar together.

We do it because theater kids are the most enthusiastic, creative, risk-taking, uninhibited, inclusive group of people I have ever met. They inspire me with their ideas, their bravery, and their collaborative spirit. They take words written on paper and bring them to life. Incredible. 

But still...thank goodness that this was my last year.