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.