Ah...the lowly turkey

I was meandering through one of my favorite neighborhoods in my car looking for houses that were for sale early this morning when I saw a sight than very nearly made me slam on the brakes. Good thing I didn't because there were two cars behind me in a hurry and I seriously doubt that they saw the same sight that I did. But, there in the middle of a nicely paved driveway that lined a perfectly coifed lawn was the biggest wild male turkey that I have ever seen. In fact, I would even go so far as to say it was the ONLY wild male turkey I have ever seen. It just stood there. Stock still. I wished I had my camera.

Turkeys are, by far, the most interesting work of fowl that I know. When you teach Kindergarten, the turkey plays a huge part of your November curriculum. You graph who likes to eat it and who doesn't for Math. You paint or trace chubby little hands to make turkey keepsake pictures. You sing round after round of turkey songs like "Albequeque Turkey" and 'The Turkey Ran Way.' You create story frames extolling the beauty of the bird that saved the Pilgrims for Social Studies. You make turkeys out of cookie dough, pine cones and paper bags. You copy dictated imaginary turkey recipes from five year olds who stuff it with everything from popcorn to tomato soup. You read expository books with real turkey information for Science and story books with friendly turkey tales for Language Arts. My favorite such story, 'Sometimes It's Turkey' by Lorna Balian, outlines a sweet little old woman fattening up a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner only to have him included as a guest at the end. Happy ending for one and all. But there would be no such happy ending at my house. We love turkey. We eat it all year round.

Turkey, dressing and the works. Hot turkey sandwiches with gravy and 'smashed' potatoes. Cold turkey sandwiches with lettuce and mayo. Ground turkey spread made with pickles, onions and mayo. Turkey chow mein. Grilled turkey and cheese. Turkey noodle soup. Turkey all by itself snuck from the plate in the fridge. Turkey anyway, any shape, any form.

I used to make my Kindy kids giggle with pictures of live turkeys. We would laugh and talk about how very hungry a Pilgrim would have been to see it in the forest and say 'hmm....THAT looks tasty enough to eat!'

But, today I saw a turkey. The biggest wild male turkey I have ever seen. Got me thinking about Thanksgiving and Pilgrims. Got me salivating for turkey again. Dang that big, wild turkey. I am off to the grocery store.

Chinese Eyes....again

My daughter had to choose a school journal entry to 'clean up and rewrite' on the computer. She asked me to help her edit it. To my surprise she had selected a piece that revealed her own version of the 'Chinese Eyes' situation that I wrote a few pieces back. Still not writing quite like a 'regular 6th grader' but she makes me proud.

Eyes
By Nina

What they don’t tell you about middle school is that some people can be mean.

It was the second day of middle school and I was wanting for our bus at the bus stop. There were two seventh grade boys there and they were saying how Asian people eyes look stupid. I felt like I was 3 years old and I could not hold the tears back. My friend told them to stop but they would not stop. But when school got out I had to get back on the bus. Then the two boys came and they had to sit with me because there were no spots open. Once again they stared making fun of me. I got so mad that I was going to get up and yell at them and tell them to stop. But I couldn’t because I would get in trouble.

When my bus stop came I was crying buckets of water out of my eyes. “Nina,” my mom said. What’s wrong?” She said, “Are those the two boys?” I looked up and sniffled and said “Yes”. I got in the car and I said, “they live right there”. So my mom talked to their mom and then my mom said “Thank you”.

The next day the boys came up and they both apologized to me.

Ode to the Oh So Clean Desk

I was moved to take a stab at poetry....heh

For many years my desk stood laden
With storybooks and papers
Glue sticks, puppets, tape and scissors
staplers and brads
notes to parents,
notes from parents
confiscated hot wheels
file folders, stray marbles
pencils, crayons and markers
too gluey projects
too painted paintings
(waiting there to dry)
bears, 'babies' and big bumble bees
blankies for safe keeping
stickers, stamps and stamp pads
balloons, strings and paper clips
A computer and a camera.

These were the things I needed
Had to have each day.
I always knew where everything was
Could find most anything there
A shuffle here
A shifting there
A treasure hunt galore!

Now my desk is different
There are no longer any drawers.
The need to hold those projects
those papers, knicks and knacks
No longer things to store
My desk....alas....a wonderment to behold
Each pencil, pen and marker
Standing stright in their own slot.
Paper? Heh. I think not.

So what do I do with this desk?
I keep it nice and neat
I set a good example
For the students that I meet.
And when I pine for that messy desk
The desk with things I need?
I rummage through the big clear box
That sits upon my closet.
The box that holds the paperclips
gluesticks, brads and files
hot wheels cars, stray marbles
stickers, stamps and stamp pads
balloons and strings and.......

Chinese Eyes

Middle school is a hard world. I sent you off filled with excitement and apprehensions about lockers and combinations and teachers and lunch times and homework. But not the bus. You could hardly wait to ride the bus. Today, just three days into the new school year, you got off that bus, marched to the car and promptly burst into tears. I had to get you inside fast because that big, yellow bus came barreling down that skinny side street right at us. I was brusque and you were crying. My heart was breaking. 'Chinese eyes', you said. Two boys. Teasing. Trying to make you mad. Well, it worked. You were mad....and then your feelings were hurt.

This is a tremendous credit to the teachers of your elementary school. You were one of maybe three Asians, in a kid population that was 700 strong. That population was mostly Caucasians with a sprinkling of Hispanics, Blacks and Biracials. Interestingly enough , there were also handful of Russian adoptees. You are very proud of your heritage as a rule....as mixed up as it is. Russian but Asian. And this is the very first time you have ever had to deal with the 'Chinese eyes' issue. No doubt your middle school will have the same sort of reaction to bullying, intolerance and acceptance. Give them a chance.

But what about those 'Chinese eyes' of yours?

Those eyes have seen the landscapes of a very beautiful Tuva, Russia from hugely tall windows of an orphanage. They have seen the bustling city of Moscow from a taxi cab and an airplane. They have surveyed the sidewalks and wonders from Walt Disney World to Chicago, Illinois. They have camped and tramped through Kentucky, Tennessee and northern Michigan. They have squeezed shut in salty ocean water and opened to bleary focus in chlorine pools. They have blinked away dust in a horse stable and stung with the sweat of soccer practice. They have struggled to make sense of letters and words and numbers and angles. They have danced with the excitement of performing in a school play. They have widened with the thrill of being with your cousins and your aunts and your uncles and Grandparents....that huge family circle that you call your own. They have read signs and maps as we traveled without Dad. They have seen 'Hannah Montana' way too many times in one sitting. They have rolled in embarassment when your Mom insists on a kiss or a hug in your estimation of a 'public place'. We have laughed at those pictures where your eyes are shut in the residue of a huge smile. "Open your eyes, for crying out loud!" I have to say with a laugh as I try for a retake.

And do you know what I like best about those 'Chinese eyes' of yours?

Those eyes never ever fail to see anything but the best in other people. They never ever fail to see a challenge and to set sights on achieving it. They never ever fail to soften when you encounter a puppy....or a horse....or a turtle in the road...or a person in need of comfort or help. They never ever fail to sparkle with life and light when something funny crosses your path. They never, ever fail to thrill me when I look into your beautiful face and realize that you belong to me.

'Chinese eyes' are my very favorites...and don't you ever forget that.
I love you, kiddo...and don't you ever forget that either.

Soccer

I never intended to be one of those....'soccer moms'. I don't have the van. My kiddos aren't part of any kind of a car pool. I respectfully remained my distance during practices and games. I never try to tell the coach what to do with my child or where to play my child on the team. I generally do not yell at the ref. I just don't really fit all - or any - of this comedic references to 'soccer moms'. I have two kiddos who play soccer however. One has played since he was four and we discovered that he had no interest in baseball - via tee ball. He didn't like the wait time while players took a turn at bat. He was much more interested in finding the honeysuckle flowers in the field around him. Given that his daddy is a sports nut, and wanted him to play something, we tried floor hockey and soccer. Soccer stuck to my son like glue. He loved the game and he was good at it. He had more body cooridination than most of his team mates so he was generally the one that got the goals. He had found his niche.

My daughter came to us from a Russian orphanage at the age of five. Her brother was six and a half. She made him crazy copying his every move and every word. We decided to find her own little world away from his soccer. We tried ballet (too slow), gymnastics (too much time between tricks), ice skating (loved the speed but disliked the instructional times) and horse back riding (fine till she saw a classmate fall against a fence during a horse show). She wanted to play soccer.

During one of her brother's indoor games when she was eight, she was juggling a ball to pass the time and was spotted by a coach from another club. He was surprised that she wasn't committed to a team and invited her to practice with his. And then to play with his team. She has been playing with him for the past two and a half years. Her brother also decided to switch clubs and joined her there. Sigh.

So now I drive an hour each way, three evenings a week for practice. Several other evenings and most weekends throughout the year are devoted to games and/or tournaments. Sometimes my husband heads in one direction with one child and I head in another with the other. We get giddy with excitement about soccer shoe sales. We buy Gatorade by the case. My car stinks of sweaty shin guards and goalie gloves. The back seat floor is covered with empty bottles and smooshed Icee cups.....and an occasional sock. Our dinner table conversation - that is when we are able to have dinner together - is generally spiced with sport words like punt and goal and dribble and score. Out of town tournaments mean gas and hotel fees...and the gratuity to pay for the professional coach's fees as well.

There are lots of times when I long for the days of recreational soccer. These were days when your coach was usually a Mom or a Dad blessed with patience. There were schedules to follow to provide orange slices and juices and snacks after a game. Parents lined up to make a victory arch for all the kids to run through after shaking hands with their opponents. Parents spent more time talking to one another than they did watching the game. The good old days.

This is a Merry go Round that looked like a lot of fun in the beginning. Now that we are on, it's darn tough to get off. Sigh. I guess, maybe, I am one of them after all. Soccer mom. Heh.

Finally happened......sigh

There is a kind of light that crosses the face of a person when you say you are a Kindergarten Teacher. Their eyes soften and a slight smile teases the corners of their lips. They think about those milk and cookie days of painting and clay, ABCs and crayons, holding hands and nap times. They think of little kids in new shoes, with wide open eyes and hopeful hearts. They think you must have a delightful time 'playing' all day. For twenty years I saw that look when ever people asked me what it is that I 'do'. It's a different kind of look than you get when you say you are a second grade teacher or a fifth grade teacher. It's is definitely different from the look you get when you say you teach high school...or heaven forbid... middle school. Those looks border on the wonder if you are, in fact, absolutely nuts.

Nothing, however, nothing compares with the look I received the other day, when someone at a campground asked what I taught. After twenty years of teaching Kindergarten and first grade, my response about my new position was 'Oh, I am one of the the Informational Technology Teachers in my school.' A mouth dropped open and the eyes sort of glazed over. The question in them could only be described as 'what the h...?' It wasn't until I restated and explained that I would be teaching computer skills in a lab setting to Kindergarten through fifth graders that the glazed look cleared. But the question remained. What the heck does a Computer Lab Teacher do?

I have been pondering that myself all summer long. I am not computer illiterate by any means. When I taught first graders on a year round program, the computer lab was the only air conditioned room in our building. Of COURSE we spent an hour a day in there....keeping cool....and using the computers to research and compile an animal report as a final project for the summer. I did that for six years. I was manupulating the lab in an educational setting long before many of my teaching partners had conquered their fear of those huge humming machines. And now, feeling like the dinosaur that I am, I am surrounded by much younger teaching partners who have never taught without a computer in their classroom. And most of the children that I will be teaching have never spent a day without computer contact of some sort. I'm sure that many of them even have their own computers. I would be crazy not to admit that they probably know more about them than I do.

I have studied the curriculum pages. Compared to what I have gotten for other subjects for other grade levels, it's pretty concise. I have no manual or instructions to follow. I have, however, sorted out a few things sucessfully. We will practice our typing skills. We will explore word processing programs and practices. We will create multi-media power point projects. We will explore web sites for information and graphic sites for pictures. We will learn how to harness the World Wide Web and apply it to our elementary school needs.

I think the most important part of my job in the coming year will not be inspiring enthusiasm for learning as it has been in the past. Heck, flipping on the whirring machine will be enough to do that. No, my most basic responsibility will be teaching my students to be responsible about what they use those computers to do. I will be teaching them to sort and compile appropriate information and put it to use in the way they need it. We will be learning to be responsible with this very huge learning tool that they are being given access to. Have some fun? Of course. It's going to be a learning experience for all of us.

Am I nervous? Darn tootin'. I always am at the beginning of a new school year. Am I excited? Definitely. I always am at the beginning of a new school year. And I am looking forward to the challenge of new information and a new learning process. It's just those darn older kids that are scaring me to death. Haven't had to deal with anyone over three feet tall in a long while. I am wondering if stickers and hand stamps are going to still be enough to keep them in line. But when all else fails, my daughter tells me that candy is a good incentive. Heh. Let the school buses roll! I am on my way for a mega sized sack of Jolly Ranchers.....

Tigers, Tunnels and French Fries

It was an exhibition soccer game that was to be played in Windsor, Ontario prior to a Border Stars professional soccer game. My son was invited to play. It would be a nice family type Saturday afternoon activity. We dutifully waited in line at the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit with two passports and copies of two sets of adoption papers. It was what we used a month and a half ago with no problem. The Canadian border guard questioned the adoption paperwork but let us through without a problem. Coming back into the US several hours later was stickier. We were told not to have the copies, but to carry the originals...which are safely tucked away in a locked, fire proof box at home. Whew. What 9/11 has wrought! But it isn't the first time we have run afoul at the border...

Seven years ago I happened upon a deal for professional baseball game tickets. It was a low, low price for a Kids' Day game that looked interesting. Lots of perks to bring families tot he stadium. My children were seven and almost six at the time. The almost six year old had only been in our home for seven months and was still learning to speak English. The problem was that you had to buy the tickets at the box office and not at one of the more readily available suburban ticket outlets. Sooo....we made a Saturday morning trip of it. We drove into Detroit, found the new Tiger Stadium, played around at the new front gates for a minutes and bought our tickets for a game to be played in another week. Then I had this brilliant idea to take our kids to Canada for lunch. My husband wasn't too keen on the idea. We didn't have a lot of cash on hand but I told him there was a McDonald's just through the tunnel to Canada. It was just the idea of eating in another country, for pete's sake. How often do we have the opportunity to experience that? Reluctant at first, his enthusiasm grew as we journeyed through the tunnel to Canada and he could see how awed our kids were. We were actually driving under the Detroit River!

On my previous trips to Canada I had been with a friend who knew the ins and outs of Windsor. There was an awesome Italian bakery we liked to visit. We would stop at the border, state our country of birth and our reasons for being in Windsor and travel on through. No big deal. There were similar scenarios occasionally during my childhood when we would plan a day of Canadian shopping. Name, country of birth, reason for being there, travel on. Heh. That was before we needed to state Korea and Russia as orgins of birth.

This time at the border we were asked where we were born and duly stated, Michigan, North Carolina, Korea and Russia. The border guard in the drive through booth's brows puckered. She peeked in our car. Did we have our adoption paperwork? No. Why not? Didn't know we needed to carry it. Over to the side, please. My husband looked at me with a certain degree of dismay. We pulled our car over and were met by another of the border's personnel and were led into an office. My seven year old picked up on his dad's very real fear and clung to his pants so tightly my husband had difficulty walking. I was dealing with the newly arrived almost six year old who was bouncing and skipping, all the time singsonging probably the only English multi word phrase she knew well at that time - which was "I have to go potty!" I was also trying very hard to hold in the giggles. My husband was turning very real shades of green and red. Emabarassment or fear? I tend to go with the latter...and that was why it was so funny at the time.

There we stood in front of the big, bad border guard in Windsor, Ontario. My husband was fumbling with his wallet, asked me for my driver's license, which of course I had left in the car and had to retrieve....all the while trying to rein in the 'I have to go potty' culprit whose curiousity in everything had piqued. The seven year old still clung to his dad's pants and peeked around at the big, bad border guard with eyes as wide as an Asian child's will go. I was giggling. My husband's face had gone from green to red and was now bordering purple. The big bad border guard glared at us. He looked at my bouncing almost six year old, still singsonging 'I have to go potty' and oblivious to everything as she checked out posters and standing ash trays and magazines. Then he glared at my seven year old and barked suddenly, "Who are these people?"

Now a reasonable child have answered 'My Mom and Dad'. My seven year old clinging to the pants of his fear dripping Dad responded with our actual names - people who could have been just about anyone taking them out of the country. I couldn't hold it in any more. The whole situation was so bizarre. I grabbed the sing songing almost six year old by the back of her tee shirt and dragged her closer. My gaze went from my wide eyed seven year old who was very proud to have answered the question correctly to my now absolutely purple husband and I chortled. I laughed out loud and then met the gaze of the big bad border guard who actually had the 'twinkle in his eye' that you always read about. Hee hee. He glared at me again and told me to keep a copy of our adoption paperwork in the glove compartment from now on. I nodded and grabbed the hand of my purple hued husband with the seven year old now happily bouncing along side of him having solved the problem with his answer to the big bad border guard. I dragged the almost six year old - who still had to go potty - and we got in our car.

My husband was all for skedaddling out of Canada immediately and was not happy when I insisted that we continue the half block to McDonalds. He ordered hamburgers and french fries and drinks while I took the almost six year old to the potty....at last. When I came back the seven year old was swinging his legs in the booth and declaring that he liked 'their' fries better and showing off the 'really cool' Canadian money they had gotten as change. We ate and headed back to the tunnel. My husband stopped at the border's tax exempt shop to exchange the Canadian money for American and let the kids buy a small souvenir of Canada...an oversized pencil for him and a little truck for her. We had been in Canada for all of 45 minutes.

Soooo....after this last border encounter, we have finally gotten the message, I think. We are going to apply for passports.

Oh, and we did go to the baseball game a week later where a very happy almost six year old was crushed. She thought she was going to see actual TIGERS play baseball....not a team called 'Tigers'. But that is another story!