American Phoenix

Twenty-five years ago today--January28, 1986--the nation suffered another in a long list of tragedies when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded 73 seconds after liftoff.  This event was especially tragic in that school children around the nation were anxiously watching New Hampshire teacher Christa McAullife become the first "Teacher in Space."  She and her six crew members never made it.  The following, written that afternoon, is my tribute to them and the spirit of the nation.

"American Phoenix"

We stood and watched our brave young eagles dare
to see how high, how fast, how far they might
wing outward to the limits of the air
and then beyond, into the starry night.

With courage and with joy each one flew on,
a challenger of the unknown and all
of those who fear and cry that we have gone
too far and now, with wings aflame, must fall.

And with the triumphs that we all would share
will come the ashes of the times we fail.
But to succeed then we must greatly dare,
for in new victories our lossses pale.

This eagle, like the phoenix, folds its wings,
then from the fires bursts forth and soars and sings.

My Favorite Season of the Year

I’m sitting here looking out my windows at the sun shining off another five or six inches of new snow.  The neighbors are out, clearing it from walks and driveways, and the sound of snow blowers drowns out the nearby traffic noise.  If it were a school day instead of Sunday morning, we’d probably have another snow day.

I’ve always loved snow.  When I was a kid, of course, I liked snow because I liked to play in it and there’s really nothing better than waking up in the morning and hearing that school has been cancelled!  Come to think of it, these are still good reasons for me!  I like skiing, even if I don’t get to go very often—it’s been almost twenty years since I went last.  And snow days are probably more appreciated by teachers than by students.  We like to catch up on our sleep, too.

Students have asked me many times about my favorite season of the year.  That’s an easy one for me.  Winter is my favorite season because I love snow, my birthday is the first day of winter, and, of course, there isn’t a better holiday than Christmas.  And I like “winter” foods and clothes and activities.

The winter months seem to have more special days than other times of the year.  In my family there are several winter birthdays and Christmas is a big holiday for us, too.  My family gets together several times during the year, but Christmas is the best.  It’s more than exchanging gifts; we give one another support, good feelings, even suggestions when we’re complaining about work or kids or colleagues.  Of course, the food is wonderful.

Winter food is delicious.  And fattening.  From Halloween through Easter, especially if the winter is cold and snowy—everyone cooks the best food.  My wife, our sons’ families, in-laws and friends, and even I can get into the act when I’m on vacation . . . we all cook and bake: roasts, turkey, ham, cake, breads, pies, pastries, cookies, candy.  It’s an awful thing for someone trying to diet or keep his cholesterol down!  But it tastes so wonderful!

It’s a good thing winter clothes are usually baggy or there are several layers.  Something has to help hide the extra inches from all that good food.  But I like layering, especially wearing sweaters when it’s cold.  Wool and flannel are so comfortable, too.  Unlike many people, I don’t mind the hassle of coats and gloves and scarves and hats and boots.  I guess I like winter fashions.  My wife says she’s never known anyone who had so many coats and hats.

That’s me.  I’m a winter person.  When the first frost ices the grass and leaves, I break out my winter clothes and start asking about oatmeal cookies.  By the time the crocus pop out in the early spring, I’ve enjoyed myself thoroughly.  Then it’s time to clean my golf clubs and consider losing a few pounds.

In the Spirit

This time of year the sound of bells ringing seems to be carried on every breath of wind, like the heartbeat of the world clamoring to be heard. The Salvation Army “Santas” occupy seemingly every storefront, elevators ubiquitously pipe “Silver Bells” between floors, radio and television programs fill the background with seasonal jingles—of bells and advertisements. Now and then I stop and listen to the voices of those bells. It’s that time of year.


From the moment that first red kettle is set up to begin this carol of the bells, I hear one word more than any other: “Give.” I suppose that’s natural. It is “The Season of Giving.” Merchants, of course, are encouraging us to give to them, buy their products so they can make their living and spread that to their employees and their communities. The nation’s economy is more in need of our “giving” now than it has been for some time. It’s the other gifting idea, though, that is more prevalent. This is the time we all seem to want and even need to give to others, to those who are less fortunate, even at a time when we all seem to think we’re less fortunate.

I don’t think any other country gives as much or as unselfishly than does ours. As individuals we plan annually to do what we can, no matter how small, to lend a hand. As a country, we seem to be the world’s “Santa” year-round.

I wonder why there is such a need in our country, though. Thousands go to sleep homeless every night. People of all ages lack proper food and clothing in the wealthiest nation on earth. And we give. Little children donate the contents of their piggy banks to rebuild fire stations or buy teddy bears for the children of deployed military personnel. Little old ladies living on meager pensions drop their last pennies into the collection plate. Corporations contribute millions (makes a good tax break and public relations).

Everyone wants to help, and there is no shortage of avenues to do so. The bells remind us at this time of year, but they need to ring daily, every day of the year. Find a way to do your part. Hear the bells pleading for those less fortunate than you. Some day you may discover the wisdom that you should “not ask for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”

The Party's Over

(A new iteration of comments originally written in 2002)

It’s the last day of American Education Week.  Time to bring the celebration to an end and get back to work!  Put away the balloons and treats and party hats.  Tell the well-wishers from the community that we have jobs to do.  Can you believe the lines?—the employers bringing gifts because they so appreciate the skilled workers they’ve hired from among our graduates, the parents with their thank you notes and flowers because we’ve been the only ones who could reach their teenage sons and daughters to teach them the social skills and responsibilities they’ll need, the college recruiters looking for their own students and athletes and artists . . . .

Hey, I know what you’ve been doing when you should have been planning lessons and grading papers.  I’ve seen you at 6:45 AM or 9:00 PM—marching, running, dancing; tutoring, guiding, prepping; phoning, writing, worrying.  I’ve overheard you between classes and over lunch, advising the gifted artist about how her talents can provide her with a career and where to go to make the most of it.  Or the frustrated young man who needed help because he just couldn’t make it through the day without a drink or a toke and didn’t know where to turn to save himself.  And the girl with the haunted eyes who, when in your concern you touched her shoulder, flinched because of the terrible bruises left the last time her boyfriend beat her up.  You saw to it that she got help when you really should have been teaching about World War II again.  And what’s with all the time you’ve spent with just that one student—the kid in your class of 30 who goes to the Resource Room once in a while but really wants to figure it out himself if you’ll explain it one more time.  Or the one who challenges you every day to find some way to teach her more than the other kids because she already knows all of that . . . and you are sure that someday you’re going to feel so proud when you’re reading her best-selling novel or she calls to tell you about the terrific research grant she’s received or stops by to show off her beautiful new baby or suddenly she’s the teacher in the room next door.

On top of all that, I’ve peeked in your classroom doors and seen that you’ve spent ninety minutes three times a day making sure that the 25-30 or more students you have each block, every one of them, gets the best you have to offer.  You’ve arrived at school every day and stopped thinking about making a living, and seeing that your own kids have more than you did, and paying the bills that seem to be larger each month—including the school loans you accumulated eight or nine years ago—and all the other personal interruptions, so that you can focus on the students who are depending on you to get them ready for life.

If you want to know why we’ve been celebrating this week, don’t read the newspaper.  Read the daily events of your life as a teacher.  Give the noisemaker one last toot.  Then get back to work.  The week’s over.

And thanks for being my friends and colleagues.  I’ve never been more proud to be a teacher than I am to be an American teacher and share the work with you.

Stand Up

Stand up.

It’s the least I can do.

There…in the middle, raised above the others…the brass eagle with protective wings outspread atop the pole…

My flag comes down the aisle, carried by a veteran or active duty soldier or a Boy Scout.

My flag.

While the National Anthem plays and some in the crowd try to remember the words and the tune, I look at my flag and think about what it means to me.

Every school child has learned the basic symbolic meanings of the red, white, and blue and the stars and stripes. I wonder how many of them become adults who really think about what those symbols represent?

In my lifetime my flag has seen combat in Korea, Viet Nam, Grenada, Panama, Iraq, and Afghanistan and been under fire all over the world. For us in this country it is a symbol of freedom, democracy, and promise. We have sent it to those countries to help the people there have a chance to know what it is like to determine for themselves what their lives should be. It hasn’t always been appreciated or understood…or sometimes even wanted.

My flag has also been among the first flags to arrive wherever rescue or aid have been needed—the aftermath of hurricane, flood, tornado, tsunami—disaster of any kind. My flag has brought food and water and shelter, medical supplies and heavy equipment, knowledge and know-how, and willingness to help.

My flag symbolizes a tradition, young by the world’s standards, of service to the promise that life should hold. My flag is a symbol of hope…hope that all that is the best of human endeavor might have a chance.

But it is only the symbol. When I stop and look at our national emblem, I let the red, white, and blue, the stars and stripes remind me of the men and women who wear it on their uniform sleeves. I remember that above all else, the Stars and Stripes symbolize their sacrifice.

And the least I can do is to

Stand up.

Cranial Evisceration

As I plunged in the knife, I could feel and hear the skin pop and the hard shell break under the sharp, piercing blade. There was no other sound but the “snicker-snack” of the slicing as I enlarged the hole…around the top, a slight ooze following the slick steel. I was careful not to slip and cut myself, too. It was difficult to hold the cold, damp head and work the knife.


When the blade completed the circuit and arrived at the original puncture, I carefully lifted the newly separated dome and peered into the cavity below. I could smell the sharp sweetness and see the stringy, mushy innards clinging to the sides. Laying aside my knife, I pushed back my shirtsleeves and plunged my bare hand into the gory dampness. I squeezed a handful and felt the tendrils and the flesh and the hard seeds squirt through my fingers. Filling my hand again, I pulled out as much as I could and dropped it on the outspread newspapers on the table. Splot!

I love carving jack-o-lanterns. It’s a Fall ritual I have enjoyed since I was too small to attack a pumpkin with a knife myself and only watched my grandfather or my father create the yearly face of horror. I don’t think I saw a “friendly” face on a jack-o-lantern until I was an adult. I still am not a fan. It just seems wrong to me to see a smiling face shining into the night dedicated to ghosts and goblins. I always try for the ugliest, scariest jack-o-lantern possible.

Halloween is my father’s favorite holiday. He and Mom used to dress in costume and sit on their front porch to greet the Trick-or-Treaters. It really threw some of the little kids to go to their pastor’s house and find a couple of really ugly old characters in rocking chairs on the porch!

He and I passed along our pumpkin carving to my sons. Some of my favorite memories are watching the boys play in the pumpkin “guts”…to their mother’s disgust. When they were old enough to be able to carve the rinds themselves, we started them with special pumpkin-carving blades—not sharp, but serrated so they would cut through the shells. It required some hard work to saw through those thick skins, but they were determined to try to make faces scarier than the one’s Dad was creating.

I have had the pleasure of a carving session with my older grandson. Soon it will be time to introduce his younger brother to the ceremony. That should be fun. Their dad and mom have been carrying on the tradition, too.

We have some good pumpkins sitting on the deck. It’s still a bit too early to transform some of them into our front porch guardians for this year. Next week, the week of Halloween, is supposed to be colder, maybe with a snow flurry or two. A good time to perform a late night craniotomy. Bwahahahaha!

No Degrees of Separation

I grew up in and lived in small towns in northwest Missouri and southwest Iowa until I moved to Omaha in my late forties.  Like everyone else in the whole country, I watched movies and television programs and wondered about the actors—who they were and what they were like.  I listened to music on the radio and thought that the singers and musicians must be really interesting people.   News programs and newspapers told me about important people—those politicians—public servants, for instance, who made significant decisions about my life and my country.  Celebrities and Very Important People were fascinating, but they weren’t part of my small town existence.  I hadn’t even graduated from high school, however, when I began to realize that it was possible to meet those celebrities.  Sometimes I’ve been surprised by the unexpected opportunities I’ve had to rub elbows with them both as part of a crowd and one on one.

In the spring of my junior year in high school, my English teacher assigned the class to write essays that were to be entered in a contest.  It was the first time that I had ever written anything like this, but I actually won!  The prize was that I spent five days the following June touring Washington, D.C., with 900 other high school juniors from 27 different states.  We were typical tourists, gawking at the statues and monuments and all the buildings we’d read about in our history books and always looking and hoping to see someone famous.  One afternoon my delegation from Missouri was at the White House when President Johnson came out to greet us on the lawn across from Lafayette Park.  He made some comments about our abilities as students and then spent a few seconds shaking hands as politicians do in any crowd.  Since I was standing close to the sidewalk where he passed, I got to shake his hand.  That was my first close encounter with the “rich and famous.”

Several years later, I had become an English teacher myself.  In 1991 I was attending the National Council of Teachers of English fall convention in Atlanta, Georgia.  Part of the excitement of that convention was that we were to be the first public audience for Mel Gibson’s new movie version of Hamlet.  Almost 1,000 of us crowded into a large theatre in Atlanta to watch the movie.  It was terrific!  I very much liked the interpretation.  Mel was good as the tragic Prince of Denmark and he had also made his directorial debut with this film (I don’t know what has happened with him since then). When the movie was over, NCTE President Shirley Haley-James came on stage to talk briefly about this opportunity and, the biggest surprise of all, to introduce Mel Gibson!  He was there in person to gauge the reactions of those he thought would be his toughest critics—English teachers.

I had been a member of several committees for NCTE and had worked with Shirley Haley-James and a few of the other national officers.  After the movie, I was standing outside the theatre talking with some of the officers, when Shirley came to our small group with Mel in tow!  I met him, shook his hand, and told him how much I had enjoyed the movie.  That was a real treat for me to meet someone whose work I enjoyed, but my appreciation for Mel Gibson grew a few months later when I received in the mail an autographed picture of him!

When I’ve gone to places like the nation’s capital or to a national convention—places where famous people might be found—I haven’t been too surprised to see them or, I guess, even to meet them.  It’s a much bigger surprise, however, when I’ve been doing something fairly routine, part of my daily activities, and have the same experiences.  While waiting on my flight to be called at Eppley Air Field early one morning, I had a pleasant conversation with then-Nebraska Governor Kay Orr.  She was on her way to Washington, D.C., to talk about teacher education, so I took the opportunity to give an insider’s point of view.  She had some questions for me, as well, about teacher preparation in Nebraska.  Former Nebraska governor and senator Bob Kerrey and I spoke together briefly while sharing an elevator at Midland Lutheran College one afternoon.  Again, I was able to talk informally with an important decision-maker about my profession.  Both Mrs. Orr and Mr. Kerrey were friendly and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.

A few summers my friend Jim and I went to play golf at Miracle Hill Golf Course in Omaha.  It’s a popular public course and, as usual, the course was busy, so we were paired with another couple of fellows to make a foursome.  Neither my friend nor I had any idea who these other two were, even after we all introduced ourselves.  We chatted good-naturedly through the first couple of holes, talking mostly about the game and how badly we all played.

At one point, one of our new partners, a very tall, stocky man in his late 40’s who was sporting a long blond ponytail, proceeded to make a phone call.  He spoke at length to someone and then discussed the conversation with his partner.  Jim and I could tell from what we were overhearing that the two of them had something to do with the entertainment industry, so we asked what they did for a living.  We were just making small talk to kill time.

The shorter of the pair, who called himself BoBo, introduced his friend as Trace Adkins, a country-western singer.  BoBo was the drummer in his band.  Neither of us recognized the singer’s name, so BoBo rattled off the titles of a few of their well-known songs and Jim said that he had heard of some of them.

We enjoyed the rest of our golf game and talked mostly about the game.  Afterward Jim and I gave them a ride back to their hotel and Trace was kind enough to autograph some pictures for us.  A few weeks later we saw a biography about Trace and his life and discovered that he’s very well known among real Country & Western music fans.  Since then, I’ve been a fan myself.

From the White House to the clubhouse, I’m never too surprised anymore where I might run into famous or important people.  They lead interesting lives, but they still have to get from one place to another; they need to know that the work they do is appreciated; and they make time to enjoy themselves . . . just like everyone else.  We are separated from them merely by circumstance—or happenstance.  Sometimes it would be nice if they remembered that.