Password Please

“Record your password in a safe place in case you ever forget it.” No problem. I have such safe places to record things that even I can’t find them. For five months I have wracked my brains and spent hours trying different username/password combinations to no avail.

Until this afternoon. With failing memories of stories occurring this school year, I desperately gave up and began setting up a new blog, “RAS Berries 2” it would be called. Suddenly, there it was! My old username and password. Don’t ask me where, but it was in a very safe place.

So here I am, trying to play catch up. The dates of the stories below are fabricated to keep the stories in proper order. Hopefully, they are close to right.

Operation Whitney

A group of six has stopped into my office and is refining their scheme.

“He keeps the whole school clean and the garbage emptied and he cleans out the bathroom sinks when they get all gross. And he has to clean the dining commons every day!”

“Yeah, we don’t think he gets thanked enough. Besides, if we thank him in public, then other kids might start taking better care of things.”

They’re not sure of the whole plan, but it will involve cards and letters from the 344 students, a gift certificate, and a large display board bearing the custodian’s photo.

While they scheme, they keep the secret and occasionally say “OW” to each other.

Rice for Cambodia

They’re only third- and fourth-graders, but they doubled their goal of $140. They’ve been saving nickels and dimes to send to Cambodia with our local radio station’s project. Now they’re sending $280.

That in itself is pocket change for some people. But the kids know what it means. It means there will be food on the table for four families of four members each for eight months!

"Wanna Fish?"

“Well, actually I don’t,” I responded. She looked disappointed.

“None of the teachers wants a fish,” she laments, “Who wants an animal that swims in its own poop?”

“A teacher said that?!” I ask somewhat alarmed.

“Well, not exactly, but that’s what they’re thinking.”

“Why don’t you want to keep your fish?”

“Fish are yucky. I had two and the other one died and I didn’t even know it. I thought he was floating belly up just to be funny. Then he was gone and Mom explained that Dad had flushed him. I said, ‘Dad!’ And he said, ‘Your snail was eating him.’ And Mom said, ‘Honey, you weren’t supposed to tell her that part.”

Funny Slippers

“You want to buy slippers for someone in your Family Group?” I ask. Never heard this request before. Now this seventh-grade Family Group leader is showing genuine concern for one of his younger Family Group members.

“Yeah, it’s Red Ribbon Week and tomorrow everyone will be wearing funny slippers as part of the “Give drugs the slip” day. I don’t think this guy has any to bring.”

“And you’re willing to shell out the money if I give you this student’s shoe size?”

“Yes, I was afraid if I asked him, he’d figure it out. If you tell me his size, I’ll go buy them tonight and then tomorrow you can give them to him, or to his teacher, or something.”

“I’m really impressed that you would care about him and plan ahead to avoid a potentially awkward time for one of your members. Why don’t you want to give them to him yourself?”

“Well, I would, but I don’t want the other members of my Family Group to think I’m playing favorites.”

I look at him for awhile. “I’m impressed with your foresight and wisdom. The problem is that he has a sibling who would also be left out.”

Without hesitation, he says, “I’ll buy two pair.”

Lost Cat

This drawing is on my fridge now. The cat has been found! The drawing makes me laugh. Go ahead, look at it for a bit, then look away, then look back suddenly. You can’t help laughing.

The three girls asked permission to hang the sign on our Public Announcements board to help a neighbor find a lost cat.

I had looked at the drawing and then at the girls.

“This picture shows what the cat looks like, huh?” I asked them, keeping a straight face despite what looked like tire tread marks on the cat's back.

“Yes! And it looks just like him!”

Another Bake Sale, But Different

“Well, what kind of bake sale?” I ask the earnest third grader.

“For my friend. He’s sick and he can’t pay for help.”

I’m pleased that she wants to help, but over the last month we’ve had bake sales, coin collection and down-right begging till it’s running out our ears. Hurricane Katrina kept students and classrooms busy with many individually-initiated efforts. Now this girl wants to help a young man she “sort of” knows. He attends college about five states away.

She tells me more, and I give in. Yes, we will promote her bake sale. Who could resist after the promise she made. “If not many people help, I will add my $500.” It’s her life savings.

"I Think I'll Pass"

She is one of my quieter, more reliable crossing guards. She’s been at one of the loneliest posts for weeks. Five days ago she asked for a position closer to the school. I was happy to give her the spot.

Now, when I remind her that she gets a new, more popular position, she says, “I think I’ll pass.”

“Hey,” I encourage her, “you deserve the new position as much as anyone.”

“I know,” she says thoughtfully, “It’s just that every morning a little girl rides by this spot and I wave at her. Yesterday, she said she likes seeing me first every day. So, I think I’ll stay here for awhile.”

As she’s talking a station wagon pulls up to the stop sign. Up pops a little black-haired face. The eyes barely clear the window sill, but you can see they’re smiling.

A Case for Backpacks

You can hear the tuba all the way down the hall. It’s the first day of band and this new band member is proud as punch of his new, BIG instrument. He and his younger brother are headed home, lugging the tuba, the tuba case, and two backpacks.

It’s a struggle, many bulky, heavy things to manage for two little boys. Crossing the street, the two boys stop to readjust the load. The music teacher watches with amusement as the older brother rests the tuba carefully on his tennis shoe to keep from scratching it. Then he tells little brother to open the tuba case. In go the backpacks!

Off they go, big brother proudly oompahing, little brother lugging a beast of a tuba case.

"Both!"

It’s a new school year. Many things are new. New clothes for one. New school supplies. And I have a new beard. My name badge still carries a picture of beardless me from last year.

A second-grader stops me as I pass his table in the dining commons. “Mr. Weller,” he pipes up, “you look different.”

“Oh,” I test him, “in what way?”

“You have a beard,” he says almost accusatorily.

I see him eyeing my name badge, glancing at my face, looking again at the badge. “Which way do you like best?” I ask, maybe a little apprehensive of his response.

He does a little more silent comparison, glancing back and forth, then boldly proclaims, “Both!”

I’m relieved. A mom nearby says, “Teach my husband to answer that wisely.”

Who Are You Playing For?

The kids are gone. Only memories walk the halls. Well, look at that! Here comes one now.

Our final concert was held in our school gym – a first. Our bands, bells, and orchestras combined in one colossal last hurrah for the music department. Very enjoyable.

While picking up chairs after the concert I spied a note that one band member had left on her chair. The notes kids leave around school are always interesting… and personal. So practicing great self-control, I, of course, read it. Here’s what it said, word for word.

“Dear Sarah, You’re not playing for mom, dad, or your teacher. You’re playing for God.” And it was signed, “Sarah.”

The concert now is a memory; an enjoyable one. Hopefully Sarah carries with her the memory of a night when she practiced playing for God. I’m hoping she felt His companionship.

She raises a good question for us: “Who are we playing for?” And does that change how we play?

Elijah's Kleenex

Remember the story of the widow whose oil and flour never ran out as she fed her son and Elijah during the famine? I have a Kleenex box like that. Every time a visitor to my office sheds a tear, I whip out the trusty box. I am always fearful that the next Kleenex will be the very last. Amazingly, there is always one more.

Our school year ends in 50 minutes. In 50 minutes we’ll have the Big Countdown and final cheer. In 50 minutes, the bells in our tower will ring joyously, but I’ve noticed students looking ahead with mixed feelings. Many are feeling sad about leaving friends and teachers for the summer.

This morning several people have cried in my office. A mom concerned for her two kids. A recent divorce has split the family in half. Mom is managing pretty well with all her new duties, but she has concerns for the near and distant futures.

I hand her the Kleenex box, and guess what? She picks out one more Kleenex… and then another!

Another mom drops in to wish me well as she takes her newly-graduated son – her youngest child – away from this school for the last time. She’s been a fantastic helper at Rogers over many, many years. From fundraising to friendraising, she’s done it all to make life better for all of us.

She’s suddenly overcome with nostalgia, gratitude, and sorrow at leaving. I hand her the Kleenex box, and guess what? She picks out one more Kleenex.

Dads, kids, moms, relatives, friends… they’ve all taken my Kleenex through the year. Life has been so fast over the last month that I haven’t even been able to share with you the stories that continue to happen. Soon, the bells will ring, the feet will hurry past, and the school will be empty and silent.

There is still one Kleenex left… That one’s mine.

Fire Safety and Donuts

Today I helped cart kindergartners to and from their field trip to city hall. During the fire safety lecture at the fire station. Firefighter John told them, “Your mom and dad might think this is strange, but you will be safer if you sleep with your door closed.”

A very energetic girl raises her hand and says, “Not my mommy! She shuts my door every night… and locks it!”

Later I was laughing about the girl’s response, and a mom told me the following story.

When the kids had entered the police station, one of the officers was eating a donut and another officer made a self-conscious crack about that stereotype. The kindergartners were ushered into a room that had quite a library.

“What do you think is in all those books?” asked the officer in charge.

One boy seriously offered, “How to eat donuts?”

"Serious Talk"

Today I drove from College Place to Marrowstone Island and back. Twelve hours of driving to attend a funeral. The woman who died was the mother of two girls who sat for four years in my one-room school – my first teaching appointment. Today would have been the mother’s 53rd birthday.

The long drive was worth it. Five former students attended the simple service in the Nordland Garden Club. “Going home” to this island school community brought up powerful memories of the students, their families, and my efforts.

One young mother introduced me to her husband saying, “Honey, this is the man who is the reason I am what I am today.”

He shook my hand and with mock concern said to me, “Well then, you and I need to have a serious talk!” We all laughed.

I enjoyed seeing these former students again; some of them for the first time in 21 years. Interestingly, the students – though now older than I was when I went to teach them – are virtually unchanged. They’ve grown tall and beautiful. They know more. They have traveled life’s bumpy road and learned some things the hard way.

But they are still the same people I knew back then. Their gestures are the same. They receive and process new information with the same direct focus, or the same tilt of the head, or the same smiling nod. They have the same individual levels of energy, curiosity, humor, or doubt that they had 21 years ago. The jokes they didn’t get then, they still don’t get today.

I drove away feeling that I had seen the souls of these girls. I could see each one, somehow, stripped of age, accomplishments, and acquisitions. I could sense that unchanging piece that makes each one unique and irreplaceable. It made me value the years I was privileged to be with them. God couldn’t have blessed me with a more colorful first group of students.

Driving back into sleepy College Place I realized that I am again surrounded with a colorful collection of once-in-eternity characters. Each child, each parent, each teacher is unique and irreplaceable. “Lord, help my eyes stay open to the inestimable value of each soul.”

Quick Learner

The boy bursts into the restroom where I am washing my hands. “Ptui!” he spits a mouthful of something into the wastebasket and turns to dash back out. “That is the last time I put 15 mints in my mouth at one time.” I agree that’s smart. Minty fumes are already beginning to clear my own sinuses, and I'm 10 feet from the wastebasket.

Planting a Legacy

Today our school planted trees. More accurately, the community showed up en masse to buy and plant trees for us. A legacy, these trees will benefit generations to come. The trees will bear the names of the donors or those they wished to honor.

One anonymous donor chose to honor six hardworking children, four of whom attend Rogers. It’s a long story but it has to do with another kind of legacy.

Two months ago our school was in the middle of its annual magazine campaign. I was walking home and saw a seventh-grade girl trudging up the road with three small siblings trailing behind. They looked discouraged and tired. I asked how they were doing.

“No one wants to buy magazines,” she answered. She had tried all the sales pitch strategies, but still hadn’t found buyers. Students get prizes for turning in order forms. It’s not easy work, and I was impressed that she would be willing to share her earnings with this tribe of four. I had already bought through another student, so I passed on her plight to another person who ordered in her name.

The seventh-grader and her siblings were happy with the order. Surprisingly, as the days passed, she continued to make sales and did quite well for herself and her brothers and sister. Her generosity and hard work paid off. It’s the kind of mix that helps us leave legacies.

Today we planted trees. The magazine buyer remembered the girl’s hard work and her caring for her family. So the buyer decided to donate a tree in honor of her and the family. We say “God helps those who help themselves.” Jesus said, “To those who have, more will be given.” Either way, when we act as though we “have” and we act in faith, Someone always notices. Sometimes we see the blessing today… sometimes years down the road.

... Won't Happen Again

Last Monday an eighth-grader gave me a pledge to do things better. He’d flippantly written something offensive, and according to our practice, he was asked to write what the problem was, how it could be avoided next time, and what level of commitment he had to making sure it didn’t happen again.

I accepted his folded piece of paper as he headed to class. In my office I opened the paper and read of his shame at what he’d done. He ended with a single earnest line… and a mistake. Instead of promising that it wouldn’t happen again – as he intended to write – he omitted the “t” and wrote a whole different message.

“I will never happen again.”

I chuckled… then the truth of it hit me. He’s right, he won’t happen again. Neither will I. Neither will any of us. That is why all this effort of educating people is so worthwhile.

No one again will ever bear our unique fingerprint of personality, our approach to life, our spiritual potential. It’s the reason we must value each other… the reason we must practice compassion, the reason we must insist on competence.

More Homework, Please

A man recently called his friend whose third-grade son attends Rogers. When the studious boy answered, the friend made small talk by asking if the boy had been doing a lot of homework. “No,” sighed the third grader, “They’re not preparing us for college.”

Pile o' Poo!

A pre-schooler is hanging around by herself in front of the school waiting for mom. I hear her say loudly to no one, “Boogaloo, Pile o’ Poo!” Then she skips into the building to find mama.

Her sixth-grade brother is just coming out and I ask if he heard what she said. He hadn’t, so I repeat it, “She said, ‘Boogaloo, Pile o’ Poo!’”

Her brother makes a rather pained look and replies, “She’s trying to say, ‘Parlez vous.’”