My journal became a place to write down things I wanted to remember or try in my classroom. In various degrees of detail I planned many activities for the school year. In the August 20, 1982, entry I listed some things I wanted to do that year.
One was to contact the county conservation officer about my class adopting an area in the wild to visit and take care of. I did contact the guy and explained that my class was looking for a place they could take care of, clean up and utilize as an outdoor classroom. I thought there were a lot of lessons to be learned and if the kids did something like this they might be better stewards of the land as they grew up.
The guy was actually offended that I asked and said he had people who made their living doing these things and we would be taking work away from them. He said he really didn’t know of any spots where we could clean up trash or build small check dams. I was mystified.
Another idea was to have my mother come and work with my class several times on writing poetry and ultimately submit student writing to the Iowa Poetry contest. She did and we did. I don’t think I had any students who ended up being published in Lyrical Iowa but don’t remember for sure.
Another one was to try to develop a way of assessing student writing to use as a measure of growth. That was not an easy task and I don’t think I ever came up with anything concrete. I know the sheer volume of writing increased and I suspect the quality did too but didn’t come up with a good way to measure it.
I listed getting the Young People’s Column that I wrote about previously going and that did indeed happen as I explained in that piece.
I listed wanting to keep a daily journal to record happenings, ideas and experiences. Nearly an impossible task but I also planned to have a required journal writing time for the students and thought I could do my journaling during that time, too.
I also listed starting class promptly, reading stories regularly to my students, introducing and encouraging letter writing, utilizing oral reading and writing in the content areas, eliminating the use of the SRA kits, building on the student schemata (what they already knew).
I listed inviting people to come to my classroom and tell us stories, allowing five second think time after asking a question and after the student gave their answer, requiring each student to have a folder for new words, meanings, using it in context. Some other things I listed were utilize Readers Digest “Building Word power” for additional vocabulary building, use a word bank, have a word of the day, plug decoding skills into vocabulary, and there were many more.
Looking back at them now is fascinating. Many of them were successful activities that I used and refined for many years after first writing about them. Others just disappeared or were replaced with something else. Another time I will go into more detail on some of these.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Young Writer's Column
There is a notation from April 30, 1982, that I want to check with the Mt. Pleasant News about a young people’s column. Then on June 2, I note that I have approval from Roger Williams from the school district and Bill Epperheimer, editor of the newspaper, for a monthly column of children’s writing. Roger, Sue Wilson, a junior high teacher and Dave Brown, a high teacher agree to help with the selection of writing to be published.
The project lasted for three years. I saved every column in a folder and still have them. Each column begins with the introduction I wrote at the time:
The intent of this column is two-fold. First it offers the beginning author an audience larger than his/her teacher or immediate family. Young writers work hard if they know many people will be reading their writing. Second, readers have the opportunity to catch a brief glimpse inside the head of our young people.
The stories are often simple, but always refreshing. Reading these stories might remind you of your childhood or give you an opportunity to meet some of our young people in a new way.
From time to time throughout the school year we hope to publish student writing. It should be an enjoyable experience for both the reader and the writer.
I saw this as a way to inspire young writers, engage parents and the public, and generally raise the level of awareness about the power of writing. I, secretly, hoped teachers would start having students do more writing. Many of my colleagues were very open about not teaching writing or even allowing their students time to write. They just didn’t see it as important.
I knew if parents saw the writing of other children in the paper they would want to see their own children’s writing there, too. The parent pressure would ultimately produce more writing. The first column, published in the Mt. Pleasant News on November 18, 1982, had nine pieces of elementary student writing. It was a huge hit with parents and the general public.
The next month we published high school writing and then junior high writing in January and back to elementary writing in February. We had eight columns that first year.
As time went by it got harder and harder to get teachers to submit student writing. I felt guilty just using my own students’ writing all the time and pieces from the same few teachers who submitted them all the time. I was frustrated with many of my colleagues. For whatever reason some of them just refused to participate. Maybe it was jealousy over the success and attention of the project or maybe it was something else. I don’t know, but even some of my close colleagues refused to participate.
Sometimes teachers can be very narrow in focus. I can say that because I was that way to. It’s both good and bad. Good because they are deeply involved in what they are doing in their classrooms. Bad because they sometimes miss the forest for the trees.
Graduate school, teaching and other projects got in the way of continuing the project after three years. The newspaper wanted to continue, community members asked me about it, and the district administration supported it.
Gathering the pieces and organizing them took time. Even though teachers were supposed to submit them typed they seldom did so that was left to me. I urged teachers to continue submitting their student writing directly to the newspaper. That got me out of the middle. Some did for a while but eventually it disappeared.
The project lasted for three years. I saved every column in a folder and still have them. Each column begins with the introduction I wrote at the time:
The intent of this column is two-fold. First it offers the beginning author an audience larger than his/her teacher or immediate family. Young writers work hard if they know many people will be reading their writing. Second, readers have the opportunity to catch a brief glimpse inside the head of our young people.
The stories are often simple, but always refreshing. Reading these stories might remind you of your childhood or give you an opportunity to meet some of our young people in a new way.
From time to time throughout the school year we hope to publish student writing. It should be an enjoyable experience for both the reader and the writer.
I saw this as a way to inspire young writers, engage parents and the public, and generally raise the level of awareness about the power of writing. I, secretly, hoped teachers would start having students do more writing. Many of my colleagues were very open about not teaching writing or even allowing their students time to write. They just didn’t see it as important.
I knew if parents saw the writing of other children in the paper they would want to see their own children’s writing there, too. The parent pressure would ultimately produce more writing. The first column, published in the Mt. Pleasant News on November 18, 1982, had nine pieces of elementary student writing. It was a huge hit with parents and the general public.
The next month we published high school writing and then junior high writing in January and back to elementary writing in February. We had eight columns that first year.
As time went by it got harder and harder to get teachers to submit student writing. I felt guilty just using my own students’ writing all the time and pieces from the same few teachers who submitted them all the time. I was frustrated with many of my colleagues. For whatever reason some of them just refused to participate. Maybe it was jealousy over the success and attention of the project or maybe it was something else. I don’t know, but even some of my close colleagues refused to participate.
Sometimes teachers can be very narrow in focus. I can say that because I was that way to. It’s both good and bad. Good because they are deeply involved in what they are doing in their classrooms. Bad because they sometimes miss the forest for the trees.
Graduate school, teaching and other projects got in the way of continuing the project after three years. The newspaper wanted to continue, community members asked me about it, and the district administration supported it.
Gathering the pieces and organizing them took time. Even though teachers were supposed to submit them typed they seldom did so that was left to me. I urged teachers to continue submitting their student writing directly to the newspaper. That got me out of the middle. Some did for a while but eventually it disappeared.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Statistical Methods
Sooner or later every graduate student has to take the dreaded Statistical Methods. Many put it off until the end of their program and, I suppose, many never finish their program because they are afraid to take the class. Sometimes advisors suggest taking it early to see if you are up to snuff for the program or just so you have it out of the way and don’t have to worry about it. My advisor suggested I take it early I hope for the latter reason.
I had talked to many graduate students who had audited the class the first time they took it. We met one lady who had audited it four times. At stake was being able to stay in the program. Getting a “C” or below probably meant you would not get to complete the graduate program.
Larry McNabb, John Roederer, and I enrolled in the class in January of 1982. Our theory was that if we took it together and studied together we could get through. 1982 was a snowy winter and we missed the first class because the roads to Iowa City were drifted shut. The second Saturday morning we had the same problem. We were pretty discouraged! John dropped out because he thought we would be to far behind to catch up.
The third Saturday was a nice clear day. Larry and I drove to Iowa and walked all over the campus looking for the class with no success. At that point I was ready to drop out. Larry called the instructor during the week and explained our dilemma. I called him, too, and he encouraged both of us to continue in the class even though we had now missed three full morning sessions. The instructors name was H. D. Hoover and he was head of Iowa Tests of Basic Skills, an internationally famous man in the world of statistics and assessment.
So, we joined the class for the 4th session. Hoover was an extraordinary teacher! He was careful in his explanations and a great storyteller. Sometimes his stories were so engaging that is was easy to lose the statistic principal he was trying to illustrate with the story. I studied harder for this course than any I had taken before. I was determined to figure out the mysteries of statistics and sometimes read the assigned chapters in the book five or six times. I did every sample problem I could get my hands on.
Two more weeks into the class and we had our first test. It was tough. We were given a short break in the middle to go to the restroom and get a drink. There were many complaints about it in the restroom even though we weren’t supposed to talk about it. I went home feeling like I had done well on it but wasn’t sure.
We got the test back at the next class. I got an “A” and had the second highest score in the class. I was thrilled. Larry was down the list a ways with a “B” and a little disappointed. We went over the test in class and I was selected to explain how I got two of the problems correct since I was the only one in the group that did. I was honored and empowered! I was convinced I could handle this graduate college stuff!
I continued to do well even when the course got tougher. I scored well on the second and final tests and ended up with a “B” for the course. I was on my way!
I had talked to many graduate students who had audited the class the first time they took it. We met one lady who had audited it four times. At stake was being able to stay in the program. Getting a “C” or below probably meant you would not get to complete the graduate program.
Larry McNabb, John Roederer, and I enrolled in the class in January of 1982. Our theory was that if we took it together and studied together we could get through. 1982 was a snowy winter and we missed the first class because the roads to Iowa City were drifted shut. The second Saturday morning we had the same problem. We were pretty discouraged! John dropped out because he thought we would be to far behind to catch up.
The third Saturday was a nice clear day. Larry and I drove to Iowa and walked all over the campus looking for the class with no success. At that point I was ready to drop out. Larry called the instructor during the week and explained our dilemma. I called him, too, and he encouraged both of us to continue in the class even though we had now missed three full morning sessions. The instructors name was H. D. Hoover and he was head of Iowa Tests of Basic Skills, an internationally famous man in the world of statistics and assessment.
So, we joined the class for the 4th session. Hoover was an extraordinary teacher! He was careful in his explanations and a great storyteller. Sometimes his stories were so engaging that is was easy to lose the statistic principal he was trying to illustrate with the story. I studied harder for this course than any I had taken before. I was determined to figure out the mysteries of statistics and sometimes read the assigned chapters in the book five or six times. I did every sample problem I could get my hands on.
Two more weeks into the class and we had our first test. It was tough. We were given a short break in the middle to go to the restroom and get a drink. There were many complaints about it in the restroom even though we weren’t supposed to talk about it. I went home feeling like I had done well on it but wasn’t sure.
We got the test back at the next class. I got an “A” and had the second highest score in the class. I was thrilled. Larry was down the list a ways with a “B” and a little disappointed. We went over the test in class and I was selected to explain how I got two of the problems correct since I was the only one in the group that did. I was honored and empowered! I was convinced I could handle this graduate college stuff!
I continued to do well even when the course got tougher. I scored well on the second and final tests and ended up with a “B” for the course. I was on my way!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
More Poems and Prayers and Weird Things
“Hope is a little girl finding a bird’s egg and knowing it won’t hatch, but hoping that some way, some how, by some sort of miracle it will.”
I don’t know what inspired the above but I have believed in miracles for a long time. It’s really because I have lived them.
“Around about the dawn of man
There came a gentle rumble across the land
It grew and grew to strength untold
Then like a flower it did unfold
A gush of air, a bright light
Life exploded with all its might!”
Hmmm…
Some prose…
“There is a person inside myself that bounces from extreme to extreme of my mind. Oh, if only I could stay in the middle.”
And some poetry…
“Myself, inside me
Confined by conscience bound skull
Bouncing from extreme to extreme
Revealing the outer limits of personality
And seldom my real self.”
Entry from May 11, 1981 – “As we drove by IWC this morning bringing me to school, Becky said, “They get out of school pretty soon.” Heather (age 7 at the time) looked at the kids walking to class and said, “Get out of school? How early do they get up?” It was really funny but it kind of hurt Heather’s feelings when we all laughed.”
In the fall of 1981 I was thinking about ways to help my students remember what each punctuation mark is for. I considered having students in groups make giant copies of each mark and become experts on that particular mark and share what they knew with the rest of the class. Although I don’t remember for sure, I think we did that at least once.
What I do remember is that out of this idea the Punctuation Players evolved. I wrote a short play called “The Tragic Story of Penrod Period.” It was humorous play and each punctuation mark was a character in the play. My students did it every year until I left teaching. I still have videotapes of one or two of the productions.
In December of 1981 I wrote that a student brought enough lumps of coal that each student in my class could have one. It was near Christmas and someone had a reference to receiving a “lump of coal’ for Christmas and most of the students, to my surprise, had no idea what a lump of coal was. I don’t remember who the student was or where they had gotten the coal.
The last entries in the second journal are from January of 1982. I write that the weather has been cold, snowy and windy. One day it was 25 below zero. We missed the first two Mondays of January because of the snow.
That journal took me from Christmas of 1980 into January of 1982 so it was used just barely over a year. The quotes, original writing, thoughts, dreams and frustrations chronicle my life during that period. The germs of thoughts and ideas were started and beginning to evolve. Looking back now, knowing where those thoughts lead me makes reading the journal personally fascinating!
I don’t know what inspired the above but I have believed in miracles for a long time. It’s really because I have lived them.
“Around about the dawn of man
There came a gentle rumble across the land
It grew and grew to strength untold
Then like a flower it did unfold
A gush of air, a bright light
Life exploded with all its might!”
Hmmm…
Some prose…
“There is a person inside myself that bounces from extreme to extreme of my mind. Oh, if only I could stay in the middle.”
And some poetry…
“Myself, inside me
Confined by conscience bound skull
Bouncing from extreme to extreme
Revealing the outer limits of personality
And seldom my real self.”
Entry from May 11, 1981 – “As we drove by IWC this morning bringing me to school, Becky said, “They get out of school pretty soon.” Heather (age 7 at the time) looked at the kids walking to class and said, “Get out of school? How early do they get up?” It was really funny but it kind of hurt Heather’s feelings when we all laughed.”
In the fall of 1981 I was thinking about ways to help my students remember what each punctuation mark is for. I considered having students in groups make giant copies of each mark and become experts on that particular mark and share what they knew with the rest of the class. Although I don’t remember for sure, I think we did that at least once.
What I do remember is that out of this idea the Punctuation Players evolved. I wrote a short play called “The Tragic Story of Penrod Period.” It was humorous play and each punctuation mark was a character in the play. My students did it every year until I left teaching. I still have videotapes of one or two of the productions.
In December of 1981 I wrote that a student brought enough lumps of coal that each student in my class could have one. It was near Christmas and someone had a reference to receiving a “lump of coal’ for Christmas and most of the students, to my surprise, had no idea what a lump of coal was. I don’t remember who the student was or where they had gotten the coal.
The last entries in the second journal are from January of 1982. I write that the weather has been cold, snowy and windy. One day it was 25 below zero. We missed the first two Mondays of January because of the snow.
That journal took me from Christmas of 1980 into January of 1982 so it was used just barely over a year. The quotes, original writing, thoughts, dreams and frustrations chronicle my life during that period. The germs of thoughts and ideas were started and beginning to evolve. Looking back now, knowing where those thoughts lead me makes reading the journal personally fascinating!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Renaissance
Participation in the Southeast Iowa Writing Project propelled me into many things. As I read that second journal I realize it is just churning with ideas. It was a time of a renaissance of my mind. I was reflecting on my teaching, writing letters, submitting articles, dreaming about going to graduate school and much more.
I had, up to that time, thought the graduate school option just wasn’t there for me. My academic record was not all that good and I didn’t typically do to well on tests. The Graduate Record Exam (GRE) was required for entry and the College of Education at the University of Iowa had high standards for acceptance. In those days they had a nationally highly respected program and graduates were considered the cream of the crop. I thought I would be naive to think that I could do well on the test let alone get in.
On March 27, 1981, I wrote: “I took the GRE last Saturday morning at Iowa City. I didn’t feel very good about it after I was done. I don’t think I did very well. I hope it’s not a major factor in my acceptance to graduate school. If it is, I suppose I will have to take it again.”
I filled out the application for graduate school and waited. On May 14, I received word that I was accepted at Iowa as a graduate student in the M.A. in education program. I was surprised and even thought they might have made a mistake. I originally wanted in the program because I wanted to take classes and that opened the door to that opportunity. Completing the program seemed too distant to even think about at first but slowly that dream crept into my head. Having an M.A. would open the door to more opportunities for our family and I liked the thought of being able to put M.A. after my name.
Iowa accepted most of the courses I had taken so that gave me a good start. My advisor was Dick Shepardson. He was a kind and generous fellow. He had great knowledge of classroom management and was an expert on cooperative learning. We discovered we had a lot in common. He had been an elementary teacher and was an avid arrowhead hunter. We became friends and even hunted arrowheads together one time. He was a strong supporter during my entire time at Iowa.
I also became friends with Jack Bagford. He was a professor in the department and specialized in the teaching of reading. He authored several books and was nationally know for his expertise. He, too, was an arrowhead hunter and joined us once when we hunted. I took a couple classes from him before I took any from Shepardson. I really became intrigued about the teaching of reading and couldn’t get enough of it.
I decided to make my focus general elementary education with an emphasis on reading. I didn’t think I would ever be a school administrator so I didn’t take any courses in that area until much later.
I had, up to that time, thought the graduate school option just wasn’t there for me. My academic record was not all that good and I didn’t typically do to well on tests. The Graduate Record Exam (GRE) was required for entry and the College of Education at the University of Iowa had high standards for acceptance. In those days they had a nationally highly respected program and graduates were considered the cream of the crop. I thought I would be naive to think that I could do well on the test let alone get in.
On March 27, 1981, I wrote: “I took the GRE last Saturday morning at Iowa City. I didn’t feel very good about it after I was done. I don’t think I did very well. I hope it’s not a major factor in my acceptance to graduate school. If it is, I suppose I will have to take it again.”
I filled out the application for graduate school and waited. On May 14, I received word that I was accepted at Iowa as a graduate student in the M.A. in education program. I was surprised and even thought they might have made a mistake. I originally wanted in the program because I wanted to take classes and that opened the door to that opportunity. Completing the program seemed too distant to even think about at first but slowly that dream crept into my head. Having an M.A. would open the door to more opportunities for our family and I liked the thought of being able to put M.A. after my name.
Iowa accepted most of the courses I had taken so that gave me a good start. My advisor was Dick Shepardson. He was a kind and generous fellow. He had great knowledge of classroom management and was an expert on cooperative learning. We discovered we had a lot in common. He had been an elementary teacher and was an avid arrowhead hunter. We became friends and even hunted arrowheads together one time. He was a strong supporter during my entire time at Iowa.
I also became friends with Jack Bagford. He was a professor in the department and specialized in the teaching of reading. He authored several books and was nationally know for his expertise. He, too, was an arrowhead hunter and joined us once when we hunted. I took a couple classes from him before I took any from Shepardson. I really became intrigued about the teaching of reading and couldn’t get enough of it.
I decided to make my focus general elementary education with an emphasis on reading. I didn’t think I would ever be a school administrator so I didn’t take any courses in that area until much later.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Response
The overwhelming response I got to my letters asking authors to offer advice to young writers inspired me to write to others. What started out to be an inquiry to few suddenly involved many.
On of the things we learned about in the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SWIP) was that the use of the red pen was counterproductive. It put a damper on writing and discouraged many to not write at all. SIWP suggested that in response to student writing you focus on what the writer was doing right and the time will come to work on polishing up what was wrong with the writing. Grammar and spelling could be taught in the context of the student’s writing.
Every writer longs for response to what they have written. They want to know that someone read it and agreed or disagreed with them, someone laughed, or someone cried when they read their writing. Absent the promise of some kind of response a lot of writing wouldn’t have happened. Oh, I am sure there are some exceptions. Writers may not want or expect response to their reflective journals but generally they do want it for almost everything else.
The response I was looking for when I wrote letters to authors was advice for my students and boy, did I get it! That prompted me to write to others and the collection was born. But, there was more! When I saw and felt how powerful letter writing was for me, how it made me want to write more, I realized it would work the same way for my students.
I began collecting addresses of sports teams and figures. I bought an address book full of the addresses of TV and movie stars. I collected addresses of politicians and public figures. The next step was to take the students through a lesson on letter writing emphasizing the form a letter takes and, of course, the importance of following all the rules so the reader is sure the get the writer’s message. Suddenly, spelling and the other rules had a real purpose. I let each person choose to whom they wanted to write. Everyone sent out one letter and we waited. It was not long before the magic began to happen!
With in a week or two students had received a reply. It worked like wild fire. Other students wanted a similar response. Hayden Fry wrote personal letters to everyone one who wrote him. George Raveling sent autographed posters of the Hawkeye basketball team. Dan Gable did the same. It was all from sports teams but I will say they were very responsive. Students wrote to authors of their favorite books.
They wrote to celebrities and others. Suddenly they were asking me for stamps almost everyday. I didn’t provide it until I had read the letter and looked over the envelope to make sure they were in good order. I had two students who wrote to presidential candidates and received good personal responses. George H. Bush actually read aloud one of the letters in a speech and another invited the student to a rally.
The bottom line is the kids were empowered to write by writing and response. The students could directly connect to writing for a purpose. Many students told me years afterward that they saved and cherished the responses they got. I did, too! My classes continued to write letters the rest of my years as a teacher. I gave presentations at conferences about the effectiveness of letter writing as a tool to get more writing from their students and increase their comprehension skills.
On of the things we learned about in the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SWIP) was that the use of the red pen was counterproductive. It put a damper on writing and discouraged many to not write at all. SIWP suggested that in response to student writing you focus on what the writer was doing right and the time will come to work on polishing up what was wrong with the writing. Grammar and spelling could be taught in the context of the student’s writing.
Every writer longs for response to what they have written. They want to know that someone read it and agreed or disagreed with them, someone laughed, or someone cried when they read their writing. Absent the promise of some kind of response a lot of writing wouldn’t have happened. Oh, I am sure there are some exceptions. Writers may not want or expect response to their reflective journals but generally they do want it for almost everything else.
The response I was looking for when I wrote letters to authors was advice for my students and boy, did I get it! That prompted me to write to others and the collection was born. But, there was more! When I saw and felt how powerful letter writing was for me, how it made me want to write more, I realized it would work the same way for my students.
I began collecting addresses of sports teams and figures. I bought an address book full of the addresses of TV and movie stars. I collected addresses of politicians and public figures. The next step was to take the students through a lesson on letter writing emphasizing the form a letter takes and, of course, the importance of following all the rules so the reader is sure the get the writer’s message. Suddenly, spelling and the other rules had a real purpose. I let each person choose to whom they wanted to write. Everyone sent out one letter and we waited. It was not long before the magic began to happen!
With in a week or two students had received a reply. It worked like wild fire. Other students wanted a similar response. Hayden Fry wrote personal letters to everyone one who wrote him. George Raveling sent autographed posters of the Hawkeye basketball team. Dan Gable did the same. It was all from sports teams but I will say they were very responsive. Students wrote to authors of their favorite books.
They wrote to celebrities and others. Suddenly they were asking me for stamps almost everyday. I didn’t provide it until I had read the letter and looked over the envelope to make sure they were in good order. I had two students who wrote to presidential candidates and received good personal responses. George H. Bush actually read aloud one of the letters in a speech and another invited the student to a rally.
The bottom line is the kids were empowered to write by writing and response. The students could directly connect to writing for a purpose. Many students told me years afterward that they saved and cherished the responses they got. I did, too! My classes continued to write letters the rest of my years as a teacher. I gave presentations at conferences about the effectiveness of letter writing as a tool to get more writing from their students and increase their comprehension skills.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Advice to Young Writers
Journaling prompted an abundance of ideas about teaching, professional growth, and several others areas. I am amazed as I go back and read about ideas I had that grew to something significant. It is interesting knowing how it turned out and how an idea or thought developed.
One of the most fascinating ideas is a collection of letters from over 200 writers offering their advice to my students. It was from a time when most writing instruction centered around grammar and spelling and very little on what the writer had to say. Those that pushed that approach believed that you couldn’t be a writer until you mastered all of the skills. The trouble with teaching writing was that the kids never got around to doing much writing because they were doing worksheet after worksheet on grammar or taking spelling tests.
Even though research did and continues to support the notion that there is no correlation between grammar skills and writing traditionalists insisted what should be taught. I wondered what real successful writers would say is important. Few mentioned grammar and not one mentioned spelling. I collected the letters and published them in a book I titled “Advice to Young Writers.” I gave away hundreds of them after I sold enough of them to pay for the printing. The area education agency was so impressed with it that they published it a second time at no cost to me.
What they did say ran counter to current thought. Things like “Read about what you don’t know and write about what you do,” came from the great writer Arthur Miller. That was the gist of many of the responses. Many of the writers focused on persistence and the need to do a lot of writing. Erma Bombeck said “Write and keep at it. Nothing is too puny or too small.”
Norman Bridwell offered, “ First, get the words and ideas down on paper as fast as you can. Then go back and polish the phrases, and check for spelling, punctuation and proper structure.” Many echo that basic theme! It is exactly the opposite of the way we were teaching kids to write. We had kids so paralyzed worrying about doing it right that they didn’t do it at all.
Beverly Cleary said, “The best advice I can give to young writers is to read, listen, observe, write and try to find your own voice instead of imitating the work of others.” Many others mentioned the importance of reading a lot. Annie Dillard said “don’t think of yourself as a writer, don’t think of yourself at all. Just read everything and learn everything about the world from books. The writing will take care of itself, if you read enough. Cheers!”
Some wrote long detailed responses. Some said very little and some said they were too busy or charged for their advice. Even today I am impressed with the response and should do more with them. That may end up being a project for me sometime in the future.
One of the most fascinating ideas is a collection of letters from over 200 writers offering their advice to my students. It was from a time when most writing instruction centered around grammar and spelling and very little on what the writer had to say. Those that pushed that approach believed that you couldn’t be a writer until you mastered all of the skills. The trouble with teaching writing was that the kids never got around to doing much writing because they were doing worksheet after worksheet on grammar or taking spelling tests.
Even though research did and continues to support the notion that there is no correlation between grammar skills and writing traditionalists insisted what should be taught. I wondered what real successful writers would say is important. Few mentioned grammar and not one mentioned spelling. I collected the letters and published them in a book I titled “Advice to Young Writers.” I gave away hundreds of them after I sold enough of them to pay for the printing. The area education agency was so impressed with it that they published it a second time at no cost to me.
What they did say ran counter to current thought. Things like “Read about what you don’t know and write about what you do,” came from the great writer Arthur Miller. That was the gist of many of the responses. Many of the writers focused on persistence and the need to do a lot of writing. Erma Bombeck said “Write and keep at it. Nothing is too puny or too small.”
Norman Bridwell offered, “ First, get the words and ideas down on paper as fast as you can. Then go back and polish the phrases, and check for spelling, punctuation and proper structure.” Many echo that basic theme! It is exactly the opposite of the way we were teaching kids to write. We had kids so paralyzed worrying about doing it right that they didn’t do it at all.
Beverly Cleary said, “The best advice I can give to young writers is to read, listen, observe, write and try to find your own voice instead of imitating the work of others.” Many others mentioned the importance of reading a lot. Annie Dillard said “don’t think of yourself as a writer, don’t think of yourself at all. Just read everything and learn everything about the world from books. The writing will take care of itself, if you read enough. Cheers!”
Some wrote long detailed responses. Some said very little and some said they were too busy or charged for their advice. Even today I am impressed with the response and should do more with them. That may end up being a project for me sometime in the future.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Writing Class
I have met Gwendolyn Brooks twice. She was a great African American poet from Chicago. Her autograph, dated February 26, 1981, is inside the back cover of my second journal. Both times I met her at Iowa Wesleyan College.
The first time was in the chapel on campus. It was in the evening and I was one of very few Caucasians in attendance. After it was over I went to the stage to shake her hand. When I did she held onto my hand and looked me in the eye and said “Why are you here?” I said she was a great poet and I came to hear her. She said, “Langston Hughes is a great poet. I am just a writer.”
The second time I met her I was teaching a writing class through Southeastern Community College. The class usually met at the high school in my old English classroom. I am sure some of my former English teachers would have turned over in their graves if they had found out I was teaching a writing class. The evening Gwendolyn Brooks was reading at the Iowa Wesleyan College library we met there instead, and the class listened to her poetry. I loved it! I am not sure the class did?
The first time I taught the class with another person. After that I taught it own my own. That first time the guy teaching with me missed many of the classes and never came prepared. I figured after that that if I was going to do all the work I might as well get all the money so I taught it on my own. The other guy made it easy because he moved to Colorado.
I, too, struggled with the class. There are only so many activities you can do and then they need to get down to writing. No writing means no sharing and discussion, which translate into a boring two and a half hours.
I was always disappointed that some people would just show up and expect to be entertained the entire time. In a class like that the writing of the participants becomes the contents of the course.
I asked everyone to keep a journal. I assured them I would not collect them and never ask them to share anything they didn’t want to share. Sometimes I would give them long diatribes on why they should be writing things down. If they wanted to be a writer they had to write and one of the easy things was to write about what was going on in your life.
One participant was going through a bitter divorce and took my encouragement to heart. At the beginning of one session she told everyone about how many pages she had written in her journal and how cathartic it had been for her to get that stuff down on paper. Later, though, when I cautioned the group about no writing anything down they wouldn’t share with their mother or their children that same person opened her journal and tore out several pages.
The first time was in the chapel on campus. It was in the evening and I was one of very few Caucasians in attendance. After it was over I went to the stage to shake her hand. When I did she held onto my hand and looked me in the eye and said “Why are you here?” I said she was a great poet and I came to hear her. She said, “Langston Hughes is a great poet. I am just a writer.”
The second time I met her I was teaching a writing class through Southeastern Community College. The class usually met at the high school in my old English classroom. I am sure some of my former English teachers would have turned over in their graves if they had found out I was teaching a writing class. The evening Gwendolyn Brooks was reading at the Iowa Wesleyan College library we met there instead, and the class listened to her poetry. I loved it! I am not sure the class did?
The first time I taught the class with another person. After that I taught it own my own. That first time the guy teaching with me missed many of the classes and never came prepared. I figured after that that if I was going to do all the work I might as well get all the money so I taught it on my own. The other guy made it easy because he moved to Colorado.
I, too, struggled with the class. There are only so many activities you can do and then they need to get down to writing. No writing means no sharing and discussion, which translate into a boring two and a half hours.
I was always disappointed that some people would just show up and expect to be entertained the entire time. In a class like that the writing of the participants becomes the contents of the course.
I asked everyone to keep a journal. I assured them I would not collect them and never ask them to share anything they didn’t want to share. Sometimes I would give them long diatribes on why they should be writing things down. If they wanted to be a writer they had to write and one of the easy things was to write about what was going on in your life.
One participant was going through a bitter divorce and took my encouragement to heart. At the beginning of one session she told everyone about how many pages she had written in her journal and how cathartic it had been for her to get that stuff down on paper. Later, though, when I cautioned the group about no writing anything down they wouldn’t share with their mother or their children that same person opened her journal and tore out several pages.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
A New Journal
There is a magic to writing. It is something I have to do, need to do, want to do. I’m just not sure...I am not sure why it is? It has been that way for a long time. Maybe I inherited it from my mother? It could be that the story just must get out or it could be something else. So often I don't know where I am going when I start and that's the magic part. It just comes out. Robert Frost said, "I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering." The fascinating part is that it wouldn't have come out, been magic, if I hadn’t starting writing in the first place. I often wonder how many things or great stories go untold for want of a writer to tell them?
I have always thought it amusing that so many experts spend so much time mulling over what they think the author might have been trying to say when the author didn’t know that himself/herself until after having written. What’s more important is what does the text mean to you?
Becky gave me a new journal for Christmas in 1980. My first one was full so it was perfect timing. It is full of interesting details about our lives in the early 1980s. Sometimes I clipped a newspaper article or wrote something on a loose piece of paper and stuck it between the pages of a journal. Coming upon them now as I read the older journals is a great discovery.
One of those pieces of paper in this journal has a list of the elements of writing on one side and on the other side an interesting musing:
“The songs and poems bring to mind a thousand thoughts as they pass by. I think I must rise out of a protected childhood. One rich with positive experiences and very little, if any, bad experience, at least as far as my home life is concerned. My parents accepted and encouraged me no matter how bad I did in school. Somehow, they instilled in me a sort of persistence that doesn’t recognize failure. It’s kind of a “not knowing when your beaten” attitude that has carried me through many experiences. As I look back on many of those experiences now I wonder why I just didn’t give up. The same attitude has probably gotten me in more trouble than I needed, too.”
I don’t know what led up to me making this personal discovery at that time, but I am glad I wrote about it. It seems very true for me, even today. That is not the case with everything I find in the old journals. I have clearly moved on from some things. I guess the goal of writing at anytime is to tell the truth, as you know it.
Writing is a forced meditation about a topic and I think it is through that meditation that the discoveries come. Reading is a meditation, too, but just not as intense. Your mind can actually wander when you are reading and still not miss much of the text. That is not true of writing. If your mind wanders when writing your writing usually wonders with it.
I have always thought it amusing that so many experts spend so much time mulling over what they think the author might have been trying to say when the author didn’t know that himself/herself until after having written. What’s more important is what does the text mean to you?
Becky gave me a new journal for Christmas in 1980. My first one was full so it was perfect timing. It is full of interesting details about our lives in the early 1980s. Sometimes I clipped a newspaper article or wrote something on a loose piece of paper and stuck it between the pages of a journal. Coming upon them now as I read the older journals is a great discovery.
One of those pieces of paper in this journal has a list of the elements of writing on one side and on the other side an interesting musing:
“The songs and poems bring to mind a thousand thoughts as they pass by. I think I must rise out of a protected childhood. One rich with positive experiences and very little, if any, bad experience, at least as far as my home life is concerned. My parents accepted and encouraged me no matter how bad I did in school. Somehow, they instilled in me a sort of persistence that doesn’t recognize failure. It’s kind of a “not knowing when your beaten” attitude that has carried me through many experiences. As I look back on many of those experiences now I wonder why I just didn’t give up. The same attitude has probably gotten me in more trouble than I needed, too.”
I don’t know what led up to me making this personal discovery at that time, but I am glad I wrote about it. It seems very true for me, even today. That is not the case with everything I find in the old journals. I have clearly moved on from some things. I guess the goal of writing at anytime is to tell the truth, as you know it.
Writing is a forced meditation about a topic and I think it is through that meditation that the discoveries come. Reading is a meditation, too, but just not as intense. Your mind can actually wander when you are reading and still not miss much of the text. That is not true of writing. If your mind wanders when writing your writing usually wonders with it.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Finishing Up the First One
80s08 Finishing Up the First One
My journal entry of May 13, 1980, says I had my school physical and the doctor said I had high blood pressure. He also said I was an “extremely likely candidate for a double hernia." That was 28 years ago and I had bilateral hernia repair last August. Wish I would have had him do it then.
I am still in my first journal and need to move on to the rest of the 80s. It just means I am leaving out a lot and can come back and write about this stuff another time.
This first journal is full of reflections about my teaching and planning for next year. It ultimately had a tremendous impact on me as a teacher and as a person, I think, too.
I painted four houses that summer along with teaching junior high summer school. We continued to sell nightcrawlers and I took a three-week archeology course at Toolesboro. We camped there and one night there was a severe storm. We were lucky to get through it. We were in our camper and stayed dry but the other tents were torn out of the ground by the high wind.
Angie and Heather will remember that as a hot stormy summer. I am not sure whether they enjoyed the camping and archeology or not. My parents, Don Young, Claudia Streeter and a few others came to visit us during that dig. I found it very enjoyable and hope to do it again sometime. That course allowed me to advance to BA plus 15 on the district’s salary schedule.
That fall I taught a writing course at the minimum-security prison on Saturday mornings. When I read all the stuff I was doing I think I must have been nuts. By fall I was taking care of Ernie Hayes swimming pool, painting the trim on his house. I was still on the Hope Haven Board and on the Session at church.
That fall I did a session on writing across the curriculum at the state social studies conference in Des Moines. It got rave reviews and an article in the Iowa Department of Public Instruction Newsletter. I was thrilled! For several years after that I was quoted several times. The best compliment, though, came a few years later at an English conference when the presenter passed out my article as an excellent example of what can be done with writing across the curriculum.
Oh, yes, I was still teaching adult Sunday school and teaching full time and, believe it or not, driving a school bus from time to time. I drove it for my own field trips and for the district to transport teachers to the AEA Fall Conference in Burlington.
This journal is full of diatribes about issues that I thought were important, prayers about hopes and dreams and ordinary ramblings. It is hard to categorize much of it. I wonder what my children and grandchildren will make of it someday. No doubt, they will think I was a raving lunatic. Odds are I will be long gone by then so I guess it doesn’t matter.
You are nothing if not a story. It’s up to you how good that story is.
My journal entry of May 13, 1980, says I had my school physical and the doctor said I had high blood pressure. He also said I was an “extremely likely candidate for a double hernia." That was 28 years ago and I had bilateral hernia repair last August. Wish I would have had him do it then.
I am still in my first journal and need to move on to the rest of the 80s. It just means I am leaving out a lot and can come back and write about this stuff another time.
This first journal is full of reflections about my teaching and planning for next year. It ultimately had a tremendous impact on me as a teacher and as a person, I think, too.
I painted four houses that summer along with teaching junior high summer school. We continued to sell nightcrawlers and I took a three-week archeology course at Toolesboro. We camped there and one night there was a severe storm. We were lucky to get through it. We were in our camper and stayed dry but the other tents were torn out of the ground by the high wind.
Angie and Heather will remember that as a hot stormy summer. I am not sure whether they enjoyed the camping and archeology or not. My parents, Don Young, Claudia Streeter and a few others came to visit us during that dig. I found it very enjoyable and hope to do it again sometime. That course allowed me to advance to BA plus 15 on the district’s salary schedule.
That fall I taught a writing course at the minimum-security prison on Saturday mornings. When I read all the stuff I was doing I think I must have been nuts. By fall I was taking care of Ernie Hayes swimming pool, painting the trim on his house. I was still on the Hope Haven Board and on the Session at church.
That fall I did a session on writing across the curriculum at the state social studies conference in Des Moines. It got rave reviews and an article in the Iowa Department of Public Instruction Newsletter. I was thrilled! For several years after that I was quoted several times. The best compliment, though, came a few years later at an English conference when the presenter passed out my article as an excellent example of what can be done with writing across the curriculum.
Oh, yes, I was still teaching adult Sunday school and teaching full time and, believe it or not, driving a school bus from time to time. I drove it for my own field trips and for the district to transport teachers to the AEA Fall Conference in Burlington.
This journal is full of diatribes about issues that I thought were important, prayers about hopes and dreams and ordinary ramblings. It is hard to categorize much of it. I wonder what my children and grandchildren will make of it someday. No doubt, they will think I was a raving lunatic. Odds are I will be long gone by then so I guess it doesn’t matter.
You are nothing if not a story. It’s up to you how good that story is.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Welcome Home Johnny
My February 16, 1980, journal entry makes a note that I should write about all the things that schools have taken over for parents and call it “Welcome Home Johnny.” I don’t recall exactly what led up to me thinking this was something to write about but I do remember thinking many times the parents and the general publics perception was that we should do everything for the kids.
The same problem is pervasive today. I remember hearing many people, even my parents commenting, “Why don’t they teach that in schools?” when someone came up short of what was expected of them. It could be anything from common courtesy to how to ride a bike, table manners, counting change, fire safety, or any of hundreds of other things. I remember feeling frustrated that it was impossible for teachers and schools to cover everything.
We added and continue to add things that need to be covered often, but nothing is ever taken away. Parents have abdicated much of their responsibility. We have to teach kids sex education because their parents don’t. The same is true with health education, nutrition, bicycle safety, stranger danger, how to behave in public, how to pay bills, and even how to wash their hands.
Every group from the National Rifle Association, to the Egg Producers (Also the pork, beef, turkey, and organic producers) to dentists, fire departments, police departments and every other group you can think of has their own curriculum they want taught in the schools. They are incredulous when we turn them down. They can’t understand why we wouldn’t want to take a few days and cover their pet topic. There is no denying that they may be important but there are only so many hours in the school day and the basic curriculum is difficult to cover in the time we have.
Even now a group that has something they want us to teach approaches me almost weekly. This week it was the fire department that wanted 6 days in the junior high program to teach a values based fire safety program and a Habitat for Humanity representative who wants the schools to teach a financial education program because he encounters so many people who don’t know anything about taking care of their money. Both are, no doubt, valuable but how could we ever work them in?
As a fourth grade teacher, I developed a systematic way of covering everything the district expected me to cover and documented it with a yearlong plan. I referred to it often to make sure I was about where I should be and then planned accordingly. It obviously annoyed me when things came up that disrupted that plan. Elementary people are schedule and clock driven and frustrated when things don’t play out the way they should. When I look at my old weekly lesson plans there are arrows all over the place indicating things forwarded to the next day or week. I tended to over plan most of the time.
If schools take over all the parent responsibilities maybe school is home for some kids?
The same problem is pervasive today. I remember hearing many people, even my parents commenting, “Why don’t they teach that in schools?” when someone came up short of what was expected of them. It could be anything from common courtesy to how to ride a bike, table manners, counting change, fire safety, or any of hundreds of other things. I remember feeling frustrated that it was impossible for teachers and schools to cover everything.
We added and continue to add things that need to be covered often, but nothing is ever taken away. Parents have abdicated much of their responsibility. We have to teach kids sex education because their parents don’t. The same is true with health education, nutrition, bicycle safety, stranger danger, how to behave in public, how to pay bills, and even how to wash their hands.
Every group from the National Rifle Association, to the Egg Producers (Also the pork, beef, turkey, and organic producers) to dentists, fire departments, police departments and every other group you can think of has their own curriculum they want taught in the schools. They are incredulous when we turn them down. They can’t understand why we wouldn’t want to take a few days and cover their pet topic. There is no denying that they may be important but there are only so many hours in the school day and the basic curriculum is difficult to cover in the time we have.
Even now a group that has something they want us to teach approaches me almost weekly. This week it was the fire department that wanted 6 days in the junior high program to teach a values based fire safety program and a Habitat for Humanity representative who wants the schools to teach a financial education program because he encounters so many people who don’t know anything about taking care of their money. Both are, no doubt, valuable but how could we ever work them in?
As a fourth grade teacher, I developed a systematic way of covering everything the district expected me to cover and documented it with a yearlong plan. I referred to it often to make sure I was about where I should be and then planned accordingly. It obviously annoyed me when things came up that disrupted that plan. Elementary people are schedule and clock driven and frustrated when things don’t play out the way they should. When I look at my old weekly lesson plans there are arrows all over the place indicating things forwarded to the next day or week. I tended to over plan most of the time.
If schools take over all the parent responsibilities maybe school is home for some kids?
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The First Few Months
There are things in the first journal I remember very well and there are others I don’t really remember. Some are so clear that it seems like they just happened yesterday and some seem to be from the ancient past. I occasionally come across things I have completely forgotten about as well as a few things I would like to forget.
My journal entry of December 6, 1979, says that my principal came to my room that day and said my top reading group was going too fast. I pointed out that they were scoring very high on all of the assessments and he agreed but suggested I do more of the extended activities with them. I only vaguely remember this but remember thinking it odd that I could get complaints when my kids were doing too well. I later discovered that the 5th grade teachers didn’t want us reading things that they wanted to cover in 5th grade so we should slow our kids down. Hmmmm…I still find that very strange!
His comments were followed by a pre-observation conference, his observation of me teaching, and the follow up conference after the observation are all in the journal, too. It was all very positive and I still have the documents related to it.
A journal entry shortly after that talks about how busy we are and how I plan to go deer hunting that weekend. In those days I hunted with my neighbor, Charlie Shappel and a group of guys. It was always interesting if not productive. It was during those days that it began to dawn on me how important storytelling was to everyday life. Just talk to a deer hunter if you want to find out what I mean. We hunted two days that weekend and bagged three deer on Sunday. I hoped to go back out on Wednesday. I don’t recall if that ever happened and there is no entry related to it.
Not long after that I wrote about being excited after being asked to do a district wide inservice on using writing in the classroom. I was elated about the opportunity to help other teachers recognize the power of writing as a teaching/learning tool. The same day I wrote about how I had students write directions to their homes from school. Many didn’t even know how to start. After they wrote them we tried to follow them on a big map. I shared mine first and quickly realized it needed some revision, too. All in all it was a rewarding experience that emphasized the importance of being specific and including details in our writing.
The last entry of 1979 tells about how busy Becky is getting ready for Christmas and wrapping up some Better Homes and Gardens parties and craft sales. I also comment on all the stuff she wanted me to do.
I was a new elder in the church at the time and was undergoing the elder training. I enjoyed the experience and felt I learned a lot.
My journal entry of December 6, 1979, says that my principal came to my room that day and said my top reading group was going too fast. I pointed out that they were scoring very high on all of the assessments and he agreed but suggested I do more of the extended activities with them. I only vaguely remember this but remember thinking it odd that I could get complaints when my kids were doing too well. I later discovered that the 5th grade teachers didn’t want us reading things that they wanted to cover in 5th grade so we should slow our kids down. Hmmmm…I still find that very strange!
His comments were followed by a pre-observation conference, his observation of me teaching, and the follow up conference after the observation are all in the journal, too. It was all very positive and I still have the documents related to it.
A journal entry shortly after that talks about how busy we are and how I plan to go deer hunting that weekend. In those days I hunted with my neighbor, Charlie Shappel and a group of guys. It was always interesting if not productive. It was during those days that it began to dawn on me how important storytelling was to everyday life. Just talk to a deer hunter if you want to find out what I mean. We hunted two days that weekend and bagged three deer on Sunday. I hoped to go back out on Wednesday. I don’t recall if that ever happened and there is no entry related to it.
Not long after that I wrote about being excited after being asked to do a district wide inservice on using writing in the classroom. I was elated about the opportunity to help other teachers recognize the power of writing as a teaching/learning tool. The same day I wrote about how I had students write directions to their homes from school. Many didn’t even know how to start. After they wrote them we tried to follow them on a big map. I shared mine first and quickly realized it needed some revision, too. All in all it was a rewarding experience that emphasized the importance of being specific and including details in our writing.
The last entry of 1979 tells about how busy Becky is getting ready for Christmas and wrapping up some Better Homes and Gardens parties and craft sales. I also comment on all the stuff she wanted me to do.
I was a new elder in the church at the time and was undergoing the elder training. I enjoyed the experience and felt I learned a lot.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Finances
My journals reflect my mood and the struggles of life. As I read over the journal entries in the 1979-80 volume I see many references to the difficulties we had with finances. Sometimes those struggles brought on arguments and always frustrations. Some entries chronicle our desperation.
Our worm business and second jobs were prompted by the need for additional income. We also had to rely on bank loans or help from our parents. It is a painful part of life to learn to live within your resources. There were many sleepless nights and lots of prayers.
In reading the journal and reflecting back on it I think I was probably way too involved in other things and not focused enough on solving the problem. We just couldn’t seem to get over the hump. We would think we were doing well and then a car would break down and need to be fixed or replaced. If it wasn’t a car it was the furnace, stove, water heater or something else. We were just plunging deeper and deeper in debt.
If we could have just been able to put a couple thousand in a rainy day fund we would have been so much better able to get along. It is amazing that a small amount like that could make so much difference. Because we didn’t have that we had to rely on credit too often.
Somehow through all of the struggles we remained optimistic even when we had no idea how we would ever get out of the financial doldrums. I think this may be something that a lot of people go through but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Participating in the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SIWP) set me on a journey that would ultimately lead to more financial security. It was a rocky road but it led me to take more classes, an expense, but that led me to teaching more classes and, of course that led to increased income.
In the spring of 1980, another SIWP participant and I taught an adult education course on writing for Southeastern Community College. It was an interesting experience that I will write about later, but it did provide some income. At the same time I was teaching that class I was also teaching a woodcarving class and taking a required human relations course. They occupied three nights a week. It was a busy schedule preparing for each of those!
On top of those that spring I was teaching adult Sunday school lessons each week, teaching the Red Cross Multi-Media course to groups, and serving on the church session and the board of directors at Hope Haven. Sometime around that time I took on the maintenance of Ernie Haye’s indoor pool. How I managed to do all of that and teach school and be a parent at the same time I don’t know? I couldn’t have possibly done many of them well.
If I had to do it over again I would be much more focused on my family and meeting our financial needs and less on the other stuff. We survived but it could have been a lot easier if I had been more focused on fewer things and devoted my time and energy to them.
Our worm business and second jobs were prompted by the need for additional income. We also had to rely on bank loans or help from our parents. It is a painful part of life to learn to live within your resources. There were many sleepless nights and lots of prayers.
In reading the journal and reflecting back on it I think I was probably way too involved in other things and not focused enough on solving the problem. We just couldn’t seem to get over the hump. We would think we were doing well and then a car would break down and need to be fixed or replaced. If it wasn’t a car it was the furnace, stove, water heater or something else. We were just plunging deeper and deeper in debt.
If we could have just been able to put a couple thousand in a rainy day fund we would have been so much better able to get along. It is amazing that a small amount like that could make so much difference. Because we didn’t have that we had to rely on credit too often.
Somehow through all of the struggles we remained optimistic even when we had no idea how we would ever get out of the financial doldrums. I think this may be something that a lot of people go through but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Participating in the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SIWP) set me on a journey that would ultimately lead to more financial security. It was a rocky road but it led me to take more classes, an expense, but that led me to teaching more classes and, of course that led to increased income.
In the spring of 1980, another SIWP participant and I taught an adult education course on writing for Southeastern Community College. It was an interesting experience that I will write about later, but it did provide some income. At the same time I was teaching that class I was also teaching a woodcarving class and taking a required human relations course. They occupied three nights a week. It was a busy schedule preparing for each of those!
On top of those that spring I was teaching adult Sunday school lessons each week, teaching the Red Cross Multi-Media course to groups, and serving on the church session and the board of directors at Hope Haven. Sometime around that time I took on the maintenance of Ernie Haye’s indoor pool. How I managed to do all of that and teach school and be a parent at the same time I don’t know? I couldn’t have possibly done many of them well.
If I had to do it over again I would be much more focused on my family and meeting our financial needs and less on the other stuff. We survived but it could have been a lot easier if I had been more focused on fewer things and devoted my time and energy to them.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Journal Lessons
My journals chronicle events and experiences that first year or so after I took the writing project. Reading some of them sometimes takes me back to the moment or experience as if it just happened yesterday. I am amazed by the experience and find it hard to pull myself away from the entries just the way it is when I read Dad’s journals.
One entry caught my interest especially after a conversation with Becky and Heather. It goes back to the fall of 1979 and happened in an unexpected way. I tell in this entry of helping a friend do some work on his acreage. We cut wood in his woods while Becky and his wife socialized and prepared a supper for us back at the house.
This friend had recently undergone a huge transformation in his life. He had been a “rounder” as my Dad would say. That simply meant he was running around a lot and not faithful in relationships with his wife and others. He “got religion” and was a different person. I was impressed with his change but not so impressed with the zealous way he tried to bring others to Jesus. Many of us had been there all along and were now wondering why he didn’t realize that.
He was several years older than I was. We had grown up in the same church as I had but it must have not meant much to him. His parents were friends with mine so even with the age difference we had a lot in common.
I was a little uncomfortable when he would brag about the things he did before he was “saved.” Somehow that just didn’t seem right. I wouldn’t say he actually regretted it. It was as though he thought his past life gave more credibility to his transformation. I thought he was wrong before and wasn’t sure he was totally legit now.
After the dinner the ladies had prepared for us we went out to the yard and played catch with one of his teenage sons. We each took turns going out for a long pass and snagging a difficult catch.
I was taken aback when the boy missed a long one and his Dad yelled out “woman!” in a very negative way. It happened every time the kid would miss a pass and then the son started calling his father a “woman” when he missed one. I was speechless! It was shockingly and blatantly sexiest. It was strong evidence that this cad was no more respectful of females than before.
To me, being Christian means that you have a profound respect for all God’s creation and using the word “woman” in a disrespectful way was a clear indication of his true colors. I don’t see that guy very often. I do believe he has grown as a person and a Christian since then but, somehow, I still don’t feel he is totally genuine. I guess it is not for me to judge.
One entry caught my interest especially after a conversation with Becky and Heather. It goes back to the fall of 1979 and happened in an unexpected way. I tell in this entry of helping a friend do some work on his acreage. We cut wood in his woods while Becky and his wife socialized and prepared a supper for us back at the house.
This friend had recently undergone a huge transformation in his life. He had been a “rounder” as my Dad would say. That simply meant he was running around a lot and not faithful in relationships with his wife and others. He “got religion” and was a different person. I was impressed with his change but not so impressed with the zealous way he tried to bring others to Jesus. Many of us had been there all along and were now wondering why he didn’t realize that.
He was several years older than I was. We had grown up in the same church as I had but it must have not meant much to him. His parents were friends with mine so even with the age difference we had a lot in common.
I was a little uncomfortable when he would brag about the things he did before he was “saved.” Somehow that just didn’t seem right. I wouldn’t say he actually regretted it. It was as though he thought his past life gave more credibility to his transformation. I thought he was wrong before and wasn’t sure he was totally legit now.
After the dinner the ladies had prepared for us we went out to the yard and played catch with one of his teenage sons. We each took turns going out for a long pass and snagging a difficult catch.
I was taken aback when the boy missed a long one and his Dad yelled out “woman!” in a very negative way. It happened every time the kid would miss a pass and then the son started calling his father a “woman” when he missed one. I was speechless! It was shockingly and blatantly sexiest. It was strong evidence that this cad was no more respectful of females than before.
To me, being Christian means that you have a profound respect for all God’s creation and using the word “woman” in a disrespectful way was a clear indication of his true colors. I don’t see that guy very often. I do believe he has grown as a person and a Christian since then but, somehow, I still don’t feel he is totally genuine. I guess it is not for me to judge.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Journaling and Time Traveling
I still have all of the journals that I have filled up over the years. Reading them now transports me back to the time I wrote each one. I suddenly remember a lot of things I had totally forgotten about. It is both good and bad. There are some things you would rather not be reminded of but for the most part it’s good. In just the first three months of the first journal I kept I am astounded at all of the things we were doing.
In all begins around August of 1979. I was about to start my eighth year of teaching. Becky and I were in our 12th year of marriage. Angie was 11 years old and Heather was 6. We were active in their lives and our own.
I was writing about teaching a lot. It included both the preparation for lessons and units of study and reflections on how lessons went. The journal is where my first thoughts about students doing letter writing were formulated. I knew kids needed a reason to write and letter writing could be that reason and editing could be built right in. The bonus was that the kids could get a response from someone and that spurred them to write again.
In those first months I tell about directing traffic for the Police Reserve during Old Threshers. I wrote about Loretta’s visit at the same time. Taking the girls out to the event and working for the church youth group parking cars on the church grounds.
My house painting was finished for the summer with the exception of one job. It was painting a small porch on Mrs. Rockwell’s house south of town. I wrote about finishing up that job.
I wrote about Becky’s back porch craft business that was in full swing at that time. She was busy with that and also doing well doing Better Homes and Gardens parties at the same time. On top of that she was working at Lauser’s again and I was doing picture framing there, too.
I was on the board of directors at Hope Haven and served on the personnel sub committee. The latter required extra meetings at the time because we were firing the chief administrator. It was an ugly time there! I remember going to the administrator’s home with another board member and telling him he was fired and to not come in the next day. That was very hard but it had to be done.
At the same time all this was happening there was much more! I was doing a lot of woodcarving, we cleaned out our basement, we were selling fishing worms, and active in our church.
I was beginning the school year with a student teacher. His name was Bill McKenzie and he was about 6’8” and must have weighed 400 lbs. Having a student teacher was considerable more work than not and always took up a lot of time.
That early fall I was active in the Tri-Area Reading Council and helped shingle Virgil Trabert’s house.
How we found time to do all of this stuff I don’t know? There is a lot more to tell!
In all begins around August of 1979. I was about to start my eighth year of teaching. Becky and I were in our 12th year of marriage. Angie was 11 years old and Heather was 6. We were active in their lives and our own.
I was writing about teaching a lot. It included both the preparation for lessons and units of study and reflections on how lessons went. The journal is where my first thoughts about students doing letter writing were formulated. I knew kids needed a reason to write and letter writing could be that reason and editing could be built right in. The bonus was that the kids could get a response from someone and that spurred them to write again.
In those first months I tell about directing traffic for the Police Reserve during Old Threshers. I wrote about Loretta’s visit at the same time. Taking the girls out to the event and working for the church youth group parking cars on the church grounds.
My house painting was finished for the summer with the exception of one job. It was painting a small porch on Mrs. Rockwell’s house south of town. I wrote about finishing up that job.
I wrote about Becky’s back porch craft business that was in full swing at that time. She was busy with that and also doing well doing Better Homes and Gardens parties at the same time. On top of that she was working at Lauser’s again and I was doing picture framing there, too.
I was on the board of directors at Hope Haven and served on the personnel sub committee. The latter required extra meetings at the time because we were firing the chief administrator. It was an ugly time there! I remember going to the administrator’s home with another board member and telling him he was fired and to not come in the next day. That was very hard but it had to be done.
At the same time all this was happening there was much more! I was doing a lot of woodcarving, we cleaned out our basement, we were selling fishing worms, and active in our church.
I was beginning the school year with a student teacher. His name was Bill McKenzie and he was about 6’8” and must have weighed 400 lbs. Having a student teacher was considerable more work than not and always took up a lot of time.
That early fall I was active in the Tri-Area Reading Council and helped shingle Virgil Trabert’s house.
How we found time to do all of this stuff I don’t know? There is a lot more to tell!
Saturday, April 05, 2008
More On Writing
A couple months ago, near the end of the “Becoming a Better Teacher” series, I wrote about I told about my initial participation in what was then called the Southeast Iowa Writing Project. That was really only the beginning to the transformation I was to undergo as a teacher.
Lately, I have looked back in a folder that has many of the pieces I wrote during that time. They are pretty much horrible and I plan to destroy most of them after I finish this piece. Don’t worry you aren’t missing anything. I will keep the all of the journals I have written and there is plenty of lousy writing in them, too, but there are also little seeds of pieces, a turn of a phrase, or a provocative thought so they will still be around. Don’t take any of the journals too seriously, though.
I will describe a few of the pieces before they disappear. I do have to say that for me (a save everything guy) that it is hard for me to throw things away. That is not the case with these!
Included is a rambling treatise on my early thoughts about the class and hunting fossils. I don’t know why I went that direction but I did. Another is a short poem:
Yard Sale
Slightly used
Grown out of clothes
Shade less lamps
Some who-know?
A delicate teacup
Without a saucer…
Hmmm... Ok, I think I just ran out of ideas or energy on that one. There are some more attempts at poetry. None any better than this one.
The folder includes a hand written draft of the first major piece I wrote, Beautiful Big Thompson. It is about us being involved in the catastrophic flood in the Big Thompson Canyon during one of the summer trips. It still has all of the positive response to it that the members of the class wrote on the attached piece of paper. I’ll keep it for that reason.
There is a piece of paper titled “Random Thoughts.” Nothing much to them except maybe one thought, “Maybe we don’t write often enough to speak or speak often enough to write.”
There is an attempt at describing the experience of climbing Longs Peak and a rambling tongue in cheek piece about night crawlers. There is the mention that I should use letter writing in my classroom. I ended up doing that and had tremendous success! I’ll tell more about that later.
“And retreating to more tested ground, I have lost what I had found.” Don’t remember what I was thinking with that one?
More poems and prayers and promising ideas. And, finally, typed on a cut out piece of a paper grocery bag:
Confused by the complexities of the cornered conscience
I search and sort and tabulate
And again I cannot find the word that eludes my mind
And so I sort and calculate
And find the rhythms wrong.
So what? You say did you do next
To elevate the absurd?
I left out the word.
Maybe I should have left out a lot more words? I will tell you a little about journaling next time.
Lately, I have looked back in a folder that has many of the pieces I wrote during that time. They are pretty much horrible and I plan to destroy most of them after I finish this piece. Don’t worry you aren’t missing anything. I will keep the all of the journals I have written and there is plenty of lousy writing in them, too, but there are also little seeds of pieces, a turn of a phrase, or a provocative thought so they will still be around. Don’t take any of the journals too seriously, though.
I will describe a few of the pieces before they disappear. I do have to say that for me (a save everything guy) that it is hard for me to throw things away. That is not the case with these!
Included is a rambling treatise on my early thoughts about the class and hunting fossils. I don’t know why I went that direction but I did. Another is a short poem:
Yard Sale
Slightly used
Grown out of clothes
Shade less lamps
Some who-know?
A delicate teacup
Without a saucer…
Hmmm... Ok, I think I just ran out of ideas or energy on that one. There are some more attempts at poetry. None any better than this one.
The folder includes a hand written draft of the first major piece I wrote, Beautiful Big Thompson. It is about us being involved in the catastrophic flood in the Big Thompson Canyon during one of the summer trips. It still has all of the positive response to it that the members of the class wrote on the attached piece of paper. I’ll keep it for that reason.
There is a piece of paper titled “Random Thoughts.” Nothing much to them except maybe one thought, “Maybe we don’t write often enough to speak or speak often enough to write.”
There is an attempt at describing the experience of climbing Longs Peak and a rambling tongue in cheek piece about night crawlers. There is the mention that I should use letter writing in my classroom. I ended up doing that and had tremendous success! I’ll tell more about that later.
“And retreating to more tested ground, I have lost what I had found.” Don’t remember what I was thinking with that one?
More poems and prayers and promising ideas. And, finally, typed on a cut out piece of a paper grocery bag:
Confused by the complexities of the cornered conscience
I search and sort and tabulate
And again I cannot find the word that eludes my mind
And so I sort and calculate
And find the rhythms wrong.
So what? You say did you do next
To elevate the absurd?
I left out the word.
Maybe I should have left out a lot more words? I will tell you a little about journaling next time.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Rides XII
At the southeast corner of the square we turn south for a block. On the left we first come to what was the site of David Jeffery’s home, harness shop and Pat Jeffery’s barbershop. Next are the Herman Newkum’s store, home, hotel, saloon and livery stable.
On the right would have been Taylor’s blacksmith shop. Next to it, and across the street from the Newkum Store, was the Goldsmith Store and home. Mr. Goldsmith had his own still and produced his own brand of whiskey.
We turn left and head east for a couple blocks. At the end of the first block on the right was the location of Joe Ross’s Boarding House and Dairy. Susie Hite Ross lived there. We Dad worked in Trenton he often went to her house for lunch. She told him many stories about the births. Dad said she was a kind and generous person who was very loyal to her friends. She was well known for helping out boys and girls who got in trouble.
The Methodist Church is on the right in the next block and then the location of Dr. Jay’s home and office. Later it was the location of John Deck’s home and blacksmith shop. Across the street north was Peter Hull’s blacksmith shop.
At the corner the building on the northeast part of the intersection is the Henry County Institute of Science. It was built in 1869 by George Miller and given to the people of Trenton. Miller died before the building was finished. The library on the second floor contained about 1200 volumes when it was discontinued in 1957. The first floor was used for public gatherings, elections, plays, and dances. The old records of the meetings state that they had trouble maintaining order at meetings and that in 1888 they purchased six spittoons from Goldsmith’s store for 35 cents each.
Dad and I entered this building once shortly before it was torn down. It was in bad shape by then and we were afraid to go upstairs because we thought it might fall in. It was clear, though, that this was a magnificent brick structure in its day. Dad had a picket from the wooden fence that had been around the building at one time and a brick from the structure itself. Both are still in the basement of my mother’s home.
We turn right and head south. On the immediate left is the location of Independence Square. It is the spot where our ancestor, Elder Joseph Goldsmith held the first Mennonite Church service in the home of Daniel Conard. The church was organized around 1852 or 1853.
We head south now out of Trenton. On the right we pass yet another home and office of one of Trenton’s early doctors. Then the big open area on the right owned by the Carpers for generations is the site of the only airplane landing in Trenton. A mail plane was forced to land there to make repairs. People from all over the area came to see it. It was fixed in a few hours and took off and then made one pass over the large crowd with an acknowledging dip of the wing.
In the open country now, we go down Brewster’s hill. Dad talks about how difficult it was for people to make it up the hill sometimes in the days when it was a mud road. On occasion, if nightfall came on, they had to spend the night at the Brewsters.
We head south on the blacktop past White Oak Church and cousin Russell’s house. We reach old highway 34 we turn left and head into Mt. Pleasant past the Country Club. This ride is over. We will go on a different ride another time. There are several others to tell about.
On the right would have been Taylor’s blacksmith shop. Next to it, and across the street from the Newkum Store, was the Goldsmith Store and home. Mr. Goldsmith had his own still and produced his own brand of whiskey.
We turn left and head east for a couple blocks. At the end of the first block on the right was the location of Joe Ross’s Boarding House and Dairy. Susie Hite Ross lived there. We Dad worked in Trenton he often went to her house for lunch. She told him many stories about the births. Dad said she was a kind and generous person who was very loyal to her friends. She was well known for helping out boys and girls who got in trouble.
The Methodist Church is on the right in the next block and then the location of Dr. Jay’s home and office. Later it was the location of John Deck’s home and blacksmith shop. Across the street north was Peter Hull’s blacksmith shop.
At the corner the building on the northeast part of the intersection is the Henry County Institute of Science. It was built in 1869 by George Miller and given to the people of Trenton. Miller died before the building was finished. The library on the second floor contained about 1200 volumes when it was discontinued in 1957. The first floor was used for public gatherings, elections, plays, and dances. The old records of the meetings state that they had trouble maintaining order at meetings and that in 1888 they purchased six spittoons from Goldsmith’s store for 35 cents each.
Dad and I entered this building once shortly before it was torn down. It was in bad shape by then and we were afraid to go upstairs because we thought it might fall in. It was clear, though, that this was a magnificent brick structure in its day. Dad had a picket from the wooden fence that had been around the building at one time and a brick from the structure itself. Both are still in the basement of my mother’s home.
We turn right and head south. On the immediate left is the location of Independence Square. It is the spot where our ancestor, Elder Joseph Goldsmith held the first Mennonite Church service in the home of Daniel Conard. The church was organized around 1852 or 1853.
We head south now out of Trenton. On the right we pass yet another home and office of one of Trenton’s early doctors. Then the big open area on the right owned by the Carpers for generations is the site of the only airplane landing in Trenton. A mail plane was forced to land there to make repairs. People from all over the area came to see it. It was fixed in a few hours and took off and then made one pass over the large crowd with an acknowledging dip of the wing.
In the open country now, we go down Brewster’s hill. Dad talks about how difficult it was for people to make it up the hill sometimes in the days when it was a mud road. On occasion, if nightfall came on, they had to spend the night at the Brewsters.
We head south on the blacktop past White Oak Church and cousin Russell’s house. We reach old highway 34 we turn left and head into Mt. Pleasant past the Country Club. This ride is over. We will go on a different ride another time. There are several others to tell about.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Rides XI
As we get to Trenton we come to a church on the south side of the road. It is now called the United Missionary Church. Prior to 1947 it was a Mennonite Church. Dads family occasionally attended this church when he was a little boy. I think this building was actually moved onto this lot at one time but don’t know the details. Dad recalled attending a giant tent meeting on the grounds of the church and he remembered there being someone there that had a wonderful singing voice.
We turn right at the corner and head south into town. On the left we pass the location of the home of one of the many doctors that practiced in Trenton over the years. This was where Dr. Gilfillan lived and practiced in a building just south of the house
At the next corner on the right is the location of G.M. Noel’s hotel and later on was Dr. Long’s home. On the left across the street is the location of Wilson’s Cabinet Shop. Dad adds that the guy also made caskets.
Across the street south is the Trenton square. The first building on the right is Jacob Morrison’s Store. It was also the post office, a restaurant and a hotel. The building is still there and it’s easy to imagine what it might have been like in the early 1900s.
Next, on the right is the location of the Presbyterian Church. It was built in 1841 and was replaced by a large structure in 1868. It is all gone now and not even a memory except in the minds of historians.
The place just south of the church lot was Hiram Deck’s blacksmith shop. It was a prosperous business until horses were replaced with cars and then it eventually was a gas station for a while owned by Fred and Ed Burkey.
On the far southwest corner of the square was the Leeper home and a doctor lived in that home at one time, too. South across the street was the location of the first school in Trenton. It was a log cabin built in 1839 or 1840.
Across the street east on the south side of the square is Jim Ackles barber shop. Then we come to Frank Johnson’s store and home. Right next door to the east Mr. Johnson had a saloon. Dad says it was a pretty unsavory place. On the southwest corner of the square was the building used as a restaurant, yet another doctor’s office and a spot where a medicine show often set up and Dad even remembers them showing silent movies in a tent on this lot.
Across the street on the southeast side at one time there was a post office and a store. The store was built by John Morrow. He sold it to the Felgers. They operated it for a while and sold it to Sam and Stacy Carper. A couple owners later Fred Pulver owned it. I can remember when there was a Pulver’s sign on the side of the building. Dad says there was a livery stable just north of the store.
We turn right at the corner and head south into town. On the left we pass the location of the home of one of the many doctors that practiced in Trenton over the years. This was where Dr. Gilfillan lived and practiced in a building just south of the house
At the next corner on the right is the location of G.M. Noel’s hotel and later on was Dr. Long’s home. On the left across the street is the location of Wilson’s Cabinet Shop. Dad adds that the guy also made caskets.
Across the street south is the Trenton square. The first building on the right is Jacob Morrison’s Store. It was also the post office, a restaurant and a hotel. The building is still there and it’s easy to imagine what it might have been like in the early 1900s.
Next, on the right is the location of the Presbyterian Church. It was built in 1841 and was replaced by a large structure in 1868. It is all gone now and not even a memory except in the minds of historians.
The place just south of the church lot was Hiram Deck’s blacksmith shop. It was a prosperous business until horses were replaced with cars and then it eventually was a gas station for a while owned by Fred and Ed Burkey.
On the far southwest corner of the square was the Leeper home and a doctor lived in that home at one time, too. South across the street was the location of the first school in Trenton. It was a log cabin built in 1839 or 1840.
Across the street east on the south side of the square is Jim Ackles barber shop. Then we come to Frank Johnson’s store and home. Right next door to the east Mr. Johnson had a saloon. Dad says it was a pretty unsavory place. On the southwest corner of the square was the building used as a restaurant, yet another doctor’s office and a spot where a medicine show often set up and Dad even remembers them showing silent movies in a tent on this lot.
Across the street on the southeast side at one time there was a post office and a store. The store was built by John Morrow. He sold it to the Felgers. They operated it for a while and sold it to Sam and Stacy Carper. A couple owners later Fred Pulver owned it. I can remember when there was a Pulver’s sign on the side of the building. Dad says there was a livery stable just north of the store.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Rides X
Merrimac had no church or cemeteries. For worship community members would have to go to Mt Ayr, Green Mound or one of the churches in Trenton. All of the churches in the area did use the easy river access at Merrimac for immersion baptisms from time to time. As our ride heads east we go up a long gradual hill. It is mostly made of sand deposited there over thousands of years.
A few miles down the road we come to Green Mound. The church is on the north side of the road and the cemetery is on the other. The white country church is a little larger than most and, I believe still has services. Dad has a three-ring notebook full of stories and history of all the old churches in the area.
Sometimes we stop here and walk through the cemetery just looking at stones and talking about the people who were there. My grandparents, Wilburn and Anna Ross are buried there along with uncles and one aunt. I am sure there are lots of cousins there, too.
One of our ancestors, John Stout, is buried here, too. It’s a simple small stone in the back of the cemetery. It’s significant because he is one of the very few Revolutionary solders buried in Henry County. The Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) approached us at one time about the females of the family joining since they qualified but don’t think Loretta or Nancy ever did. I guess our daughters and granddaughters could join if they ever wanted too. It was a status symbol at one time to be a member but I haven’t heard much about them for along time.
This is where the boy, David Zear, is buried. He was the one who died in the horrible accident in the mill at Merrimac. We stop at his broken stone and think of what horror he must have felt in those last moments. We send up a prayer for his soul and move on.
We pass the graves of the small children who were victims of diphtheria and wonder how things might have been different had they survived. We pass the graves of the children from the family that allegedly was cursed by the Merrimac Witch and think of how superstitious people can be.
It seems like Dad has known many of the people here. I ask him if he would want to be buried here and to my surprise he says no. He says all of his friends are in Mt. Pleasant and besides him and Mom have already paid for a spot there. Then he says he’d rather not think about stuff like that, anyway.
We walk back to the car and head east toward Trenton. Just west of town he points to a small grove of trees on the right and says that’s Ben’s thicket. It was much larger years ago. Dad says it was a congregating spot years ago for many of the men of Trenton. It is where they went to smoke, drink and gamble. He has many stories about that spot although he says he was never personally there.
Trenton is the next stop.
A few miles down the road we come to Green Mound. The church is on the north side of the road and the cemetery is on the other. The white country church is a little larger than most and, I believe still has services. Dad has a three-ring notebook full of stories and history of all the old churches in the area.
Sometimes we stop here and walk through the cemetery just looking at stones and talking about the people who were there. My grandparents, Wilburn and Anna Ross are buried there along with uncles and one aunt. I am sure there are lots of cousins there, too.
One of our ancestors, John Stout, is buried here, too. It’s a simple small stone in the back of the cemetery. It’s significant because he is one of the very few Revolutionary solders buried in Henry County. The Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) approached us at one time about the females of the family joining since they qualified but don’t think Loretta or Nancy ever did. I guess our daughters and granddaughters could join if they ever wanted too. It was a status symbol at one time to be a member but I haven’t heard much about them for along time.
This is where the boy, David Zear, is buried. He was the one who died in the horrible accident in the mill at Merrimac. We stop at his broken stone and think of what horror he must have felt in those last moments. We send up a prayer for his soul and move on.
We pass the graves of the small children who were victims of diphtheria and wonder how things might have been different had they survived. We pass the graves of the children from the family that allegedly was cursed by the Merrimac Witch and think of how superstitious people can be.
It seems like Dad has known many of the people here. I ask him if he would want to be buried here and to my surprise he says no. He says all of his friends are in Mt. Pleasant and besides him and Mom have already paid for a spot there. Then he says he’d rather not think about stuff like that, anyway.
We walk back to the car and head east toward Trenton. Just west of town he points to a small grove of trees on the right and says that’s Ben’s thicket. It was much larger years ago. Dad says it was a congregating spot years ago for many of the men of Trenton. It is where they went to smoke, drink and gamble. He has many stories about that spot although he says he was never personally there.
Trenton is the next stop.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Rides IX
Before we leave Merrimac there are a couple more stories to tell and many that will have to wait for another time. Merrimac once had a blacksmith shop, two hotels, a carpenter house, a millinery shop, a photography shop, a general store and many other houses and buildings as well as the mill that I have written about already.
My Dad grew up hearing stories about the Merrimac Witch. She was a real person who lived near the community. She came from Germany and was sometimes called Granny Dutch. They claimed she had the gift of second sight and could tell people where to find things they had lost. She died at the age of 99 years in 1879. That was long before my Dad was born in 1908 but many people remembered her and told him stories about her when he was young.
Among other things, they said Granny Dutch had the ability to put a hex on people and did so to a family with five children. There were four boys and one beautiful blond girl. The parents were very proud of their children but all of them got diphtheria. Three of the boys and the girl died. People blamed it on the Merrimac Witch. When that family moved to a farm their barn burned. That, too, they blamed on the witch. They eventually moved away.
Of course the woman was really not a witch but stories about her were told for generations. Overtime, as with all stories, I am sure they were greatly embellished.
* * *
The land around Merrimac is low and wet in the spring. It was sometimes very difficult for farmers to get crops in because the equipment was primitive compared to what they have today. Just southeast of Merrimac a small stream meandered through the bottom ground. (The old streambed is actually still evident if you look at the area with Google Earth.)
The landowner decided that straightening the stream would allow the water to get away from the area quicker and allow him to farm it much easier and timely. He tried to do it himself but it was just too big of a task. He eventually hired a man who had a steam engine and a dragline.
Even with that equipment the work was slow and muddy. After about six months the fellow gave up with the job half finished but wanted paid for what he had done. The landowner refused and there was quite a dispute about the issue. Dad thought it actually went to court but didn’t know how it turned out. The equipment sat in the field until spring when it was finally removed.
A second man with similar equipment was hired to finish the job. After a great struggle he did and the straight channel is evident today. In more recent years the fields have been tiled and drain to that ditch.
As we head out of Merrimac that is usually the last story Dad tells about the place. Green Mound Cemetery is the next stop.
My Dad grew up hearing stories about the Merrimac Witch. She was a real person who lived near the community. She came from Germany and was sometimes called Granny Dutch. They claimed she had the gift of second sight and could tell people where to find things they had lost. She died at the age of 99 years in 1879. That was long before my Dad was born in 1908 but many people remembered her and told him stories about her when he was young.
Among other things, they said Granny Dutch had the ability to put a hex on people and did so to a family with five children. There were four boys and one beautiful blond girl. The parents were very proud of their children but all of them got diphtheria. Three of the boys and the girl died. People blamed it on the Merrimac Witch. When that family moved to a farm their barn burned. That, too, they blamed on the witch. They eventually moved away.
Of course the woman was really not a witch but stories about her were told for generations. Overtime, as with all stories, I am sure they were greatly embellished.
* * *
The land around Merrimac is low and wet in the spring. It was sometimes very difficult for farmers to get crops in because the equipment was primitive compared to what they have today. Just southeast of Merrimac a small stream meandered through the bottom ground. (The old streambed is actually still evident if you look at the area with Google Earth.)
The landowner decided that straightening the stream would allow the water to get away from the area quicker and allow him to farm it much easier and timely. He tried to do it himself but it was just too big of a task. He eventually hired a man who had a steam engine and a dragline.
Even with that equipment the work was slow and muddy. After about six months the fellow gave up with the job half finished but wanted paid for what he had done. The landowner refused and there was quite a dispute about the issue. Dad thought it actually went to court but didn’t know how it turned out. The equipment sat in the field until spring when it was finally removed.
A second man with similar equipment was hired to finish the job. After a great struggle he did and the straight channel is evident today. In more recent years the fields have been tiled and drain to that ditch.
As we head out of Merrimac that is usually the last story Dad tells about the place. Green Mound Cemetery is the next stop.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Rides VIII
My father was a deeply religious person and although we attended the Presbyterian Church in Mt. Pleasant, he maintained close ties with his Mennonite roots. He visited family members and friends in the church and had a great respect for their beliefs. The gentleness and compassion of the followers had a great influence on Dad.
He didn’t have much respect, however, for what he called the hell, fire and brimstone ministers that we sometimes saw on TV and occasionally in person. He didn’t think it was in any way Christian to scare people into following Jesus.
In Merrimac there was a large area south of the houses that served as a park, campground for travelers, and the site of many tent revival meetings. For years families from miles around would gather to hear the evangelists speak. They would sometimes have a nightly service for weeks. When he was young, Dad’s family attended many of these.
He said the kids often played outside until after dark while the services went on and on. He remember peeking under the tent and seeing and hearing the shouting and raving of the passionate speakers. It terrified him! I think that had a lot to do with the way he felt about that type of religion when he grew up. That and for years we were on the same block with a Baptist parsonage and witnessed some pretty unchristian behavior.
Stories about tent evangelist’s visits to Merrimac are well documented. Sometimes they stayed for weeks.
Here is an interesting account from the August 15, 1894 edition of the Fairfield Tribune.
“We attended the camp meeting Sunday afternoon at Merrimac. There was a large crowd of people to hear the lady evangelist, and quite a number claim to have been cured of bodily diseases. The meeting is creating quite an excitement. The banks of the Skunk River present a variety of scenes. There are a lot of Gipsy campers in all their filth and dirt, and then next are those who have pitched their tents to take an outdoor recreation. Everything looks clean and nice. Then on the opposite side of the river, is the large tabernacle. This is one of the finest tents we ever saw, well seated, with a large platform for the ministers.”
This article apparently prompted others to visit Merrimac and a later edition of the Tribune (August 22) carries an amusing account.
“Tuesday of this week Messrs. George Dahlman and Alex Easton, accompanied by their wives, drove over to Merrimac to visit the faith curing evangelist, Mrs. M. B. Woodworth, who had been holding forth there for the past two weeks. Their opinion is that there is a good deal of buncombe about the cures, and that Mrs. Woodworth is a good deal more interested in coaxing people to part with their dollars than causing them to part with their diseases.”
And then there is Mrs. Art Salzman’s account of this same evangelist.”
“There were tent meetings for several years, but the most popular evangelist was this Mrs. Woodworth in 1894 She was a healer and everyone has his special story of her miracles. One night she announced that on a certain day, she would part the waters of the Skunk and walk over on dry land. The day arrived, and so did everyone from miles around. The mill yard was filled and horses tied to the fences for at least a half-mile in every direction. The man in charge of the store had sent to Oskaloosa for pop in bottle with corks that pushed in instead of pulling out. He had other supplies and was ready to feed the multitude. It was just as well that something had been provided, for Mrs. Woodworth came out with all her dramatic fervor and announced, according to my reporter that the spirits weren’t right, and she would not be able to part the waters that day.”
Dad said the next morning the evangelist, tent and all, was gone.
He didn’t have much respect, however, for what he called the hell, fire and brimstone ministers that we sometimes saw on TV and occasionally in person. He didn’t think it was in any way Christian to scare people into following Jesus.
In Merrimac there was a large area south of the houses that served as a park, campground for travelers, and the site of many tent revival meetings. For years families from miles around would gather to hear the evangelists speak. They would sometimes have a nightly service for weeks. When he was young, Dad’s family attended many of these.
He said the kids often played outside until after dark while the services went on and on. He remember peeking under the tent and seeing and hearing the shouting and raving of the passionate speakers. It terrified him! I think that had a lot to do with the way he felt about that type of religion when he grew up. That and for years we were on the same block with a Baptist parsonage and witnessed some pretty unchristian behavior.
Stories about tent evangelist’s visits to Merrimac are well documented. Sometimes they stayed for weeks.
Here is an interesting account from the August 15, 1894 edition of the Fairfield Tribune.
“We attended the camp meeting Sunday afternoon at Merrimac. There was a large crowd of people to hear the lady evangelist, and quite a number claim to have been cured of bodily diseases. The meeting is creating quite an excitement. The banks of the Skunk River present a variety of scenes. There are a lot of Gipsy campers in all their filth and dirt, and then next are those who have pitched their tents to take an outdoor recreation. Everything looks clean and nice. Then on the opposite side of the river, is the large tabernacle. This is one of the finest tents we ever saw, well seated, with a large platform for the ministers.”
This article apparently prompted others to visit Merrimac and a later edition of the Tribune (August 22) carries an amusing account.
“Tuesday of this week Messrs. George Dahlman and Alex Easton, accompanied by their wives, drove over to Merrimac to visit the faith curing evangelist, Mrs. M. B. Woodworth, who had been holding forth there for the past two weeks. Their opinion is that there is a good deal of buncombe about the cures, and that Mrs. Woodworth is a good deal more interested in coaxing people to part with their dollars than causing them to part with their diseases.”
And then there is Mrs. Art Salzman’s account of this same evangelist.”
“There were tent meetings for several years, but the most popular evangelist was this Mrs. Woodworth in 1894 She was a healer and everyone has his special story of her miracles. One night she announced that on a certain day, she would part the waters of the Skunk and walk over on dry land. The day arrived, and so did everyone from miles around. The mill yard was filled and horses tied to the fences for at least a half-mile in every direction. The man in charge of the store had sent to Oskaloosa for pop in bottle with corks that pushed in instead of pulling out. He had other supplies and was ready to feed the multitude. It was just as well that something had been provided, for Mrs. Woodworth came out with all her dramatic fervor and announced, according to my reporter that the spirits weren’t right, and she would not be able to part the waters that day.”
Dad said the next morning the evangelist, tent and all, was gone.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Rides VII
Dad said the Merrimac area was the Wild West even by the time he was born and for sometime after. They were some pretty surly characters in the area and Dad had stories to tell about some of them. It is hard to imagine but there are some interesting evidence to indicate many of the stories are true.
Dad told me a story he heard about an island in the river just south of Merrimac. It seems that some bootleggers built a two-room shanty on the island. It had a door on each end. The rooms were not joined except buy a strange arrangement. A hole had been cut in the wall between and a large barrel just the size of the opening was placed upright in the center. It turned one way or the other on an axel right down the middle. The barrel had an opening on the side with a shelf.
Buyers would come in one door, place their money in the opening and the barrel would turn. Soon the barrel would turn again and their whiskey would appear in the opening. The buyer and seller never saw one another. Seems like an awful lot of work to get a drink.
The Fairfield Ledger of March 12, 1890 printed this story about the place:
"The sheriff of Jefferson County discovered a veritable ‘hole in the wall’ on a small island in the Skunk River a short distance south of Merrimac, Friday. The building was a rude shanty of two rooms, and in the partition dividing it was a revolving barrel with a shelf in it where money could be exchanged for a drink of liquor without the purchaser or seller seeing one another. It was locked up and abandoned, but the officer burst the doors and seized twelve bottles of beer and a small quantity of whiskey he found inside. Although liquor and tobacco were undoubtedly sold in the place, no government licenses were to be seen. The place was operated by a gang of toughs who have given the Federal and Henry County authorities no little trouble for a number of years past, and a dozen or more of them have been arrested by United States Marshals. Members of this same gang are the fellows who thought when they sold liquor on a boat in the river that they were amenable to neither state nor federal law. The liquor will be tried before a justice of this county."
I am a little puzzled by the last sentence? Did that mean “tried” as in tasted or “tried” as in court? How do you try a liquid? If that old shanty could talk think of the stories it could tell! Hmmm… It is clear that this area was as wild as Dad had said.
Sometimes when we would float down the river from Merrimac I would wonder about that island. Because of the constant changing of the river, islands come and go over time. We found some large sand bars but no islands in that area on our trips so the actual spot will probably never be found.
Dad told me a story he heard about an island in the river just south of Merrimac. It seems that some bootleggers built a two-room shanty on the island. It had a door on each end. The rooms were not joined except buy a strange arrangement. A hole had been cut in the wall between and a large barrel just the size of the opening was placed upright in the center. It turned one way or the other on an axel right down the middle. The barrel had an opening on the side with a shelf.
Buyers would come in one door, place their money in the opening and the barrel would turn. Soon the barrel would turn again and their whiskey would appear in the opening. The buyer and seller never saw one another. Seems like an awful lot of work to get a drink.
The Fairfield Ledger of March 12, 1890 printed this story about the place:
"The sheriff of Jefferson County discovered a veritable ‘hole in the wall’ on a small island in the Skunk River a short distance south of Merrimac, Friday. The building was a rude shanty of two rooms, and in the partition dividing it was a revolving barrel with a shelf in it where money could be exchanged for a drink of liquor without the purchaser or seller seeing one another. It was locked up and abandoned, but the officer burst the doors and seized twelve bottles of beer and a small quantity of whiskey he found inside. Although liquor and tobacco were undoubtedly sold in the place, no government licenses were to be seen. The place was operated by a gang of toughs who have given the Federal and Henry County authorities no little trouble for a number of years past, and a dozen or more of them have been arrested by United States Marshals. Members of this same gang are the fellows who thought when they sold liquor on a boat in the river that they were amenable to neither state nor federal law. The liquor will be tried before a justice of this county."
I am a little puzzled by the last sentence? Did that mean “tried” as in tasted or “tried” as in court? How do you try a liquid? If that old shanty could talk think of the stories it could tell! Hmmm… It is clear that this area was as wild as Dad had said.
Sometimes when we would float down the river from Merrimac I would wonder about that island. Because of the constant changing of the river, islands come and go over time. We found some large sand bars but no islands in that area on our trips so the actual spot will probably never be found.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Rides VI
Early accounts describe Merrimac as one of the most picturesque spots for miles around. Even by the turn of the century it was still described as the “wilderness.” That was hard for me to grasp as I looked out across farm fields. Early accounts said the area was covered with hardwoods…oak and walnut among others.
But I have only begun to touch on the stories of Merrimac. Let’s go back, way back about twelve thousand years. The last glacier in Iowa was the western lobe of the Illinois glacier that had pushed the Mississippi out of it’s banks near the Quad Cities forming a large swamp like lake, now referred to as Lake Calvin, that extended west to the bluffs in what is now Iowa City. The water drained from the lake in a number of ways. One of those being southwest from around Columbus Junction to the channel of the present day Crooked Creek, on to the Skunk River and then south right over the top of Merrimac. When the glacier receded it left large deposits of sand and debris that had been carried by the torrent.
An account in the June 2, 1900, Brighton Enterprise (page 4, column 4) provides some interesting evidence.
"Dr. A. Dietz of Merrimac, last Friday brought to the office pieces of wood chipped from a large log found while digging at a depth of 128 feet. The wood retains its grain and exterior appearance, but is not in a state of perfect preservation. It is thought to be walnut, and the length of time it has been buried cannot even be surmised. For all anyone knows it has been buried for hundreds of years. The doctor thinks the wood has come in contact with copper and believes that ore of this metal is stored in the depths of the earth around Merrimac."
Dad speculated that the log must have been deposited there during the time of the glacier. He had no explanation for the notion that there was copper ore in the area and that has never been collaborated. It was known that copper acted as a preservative even back then and, perhaps, that is what the doctor thought contributed to the condition of the wood. The whole idea brought a sense of wonder to Dad and me, too. Just imagining what the place must have been like thousands of years ago occupied our minds on many occasions.
On two or three occasions we floated by canoe from Merrimac to Rome. We got in at the location of the old Merrimac Bridge where there was a boat ramp. It was a great joy for us to take these float trips and sometimes a new story or two would come up. The area and the river fascinated Dad. Telling and retelling the stories was a way to recall the days when he heard them for the first time. As I have said many times, storytelling is how we make sense of our experience. That was very true for Dad.
But I have only begun to touch on the stories of Merrimac. Let’s go back, way back about twelve thousand years. The last glacier in Iowa was the western lobe of the Illinois glacier that had pushed the Mississippi out of it’s banks near the Quad Cities forming a large swamp like lake, now referred to as Lake Calvin, that extended west to the bluffs in what is now Iowa City. The water drained from the lake in a number of ways. One of those being southwest from around Columbus Junction to the channel of the present day Crooked Creek, on to the Skunk River and then south right over the top of Merrimac. When the glacier receded it left large deposits of sand and debris that had been carried by the torrent.
An account in the June 2, 1900, Brighton Enterprise (page 4, column 4) provides some interesting evidence.
"Dr. A. Dietz of Merrimac, last Friday brought to the office pieces of wood chipped from a large log found while digging at a depth of 128 feet. The wood retains its grain and exterior appearance, but is not in a state of perfect preservation. It is thought to be walnut, and the length of time it has been buried cannot even be surmised. For all anyone knows it has been buried for hundreds of years. The doctor thinks the wood has come in contact with copper and believes that ore of this metal is stored in the depths of the earth around Merrimac."
Dad speculated that the log must have been deposited there during the time of the glacier. He had no explanation for the notion that there was copper ore in the area and that has never been collaborated. It was known that copper acted as a preservative even back then and, perhaps, that is what the doctor thought contributed to the condition of the wood. The whole idea brought a sense of wonder to Dad and me, too. Just imagining what the place must have been like thousands of years ago occupied our minds on many occasions.
On two or three occasions we floated by canoe from Merrimac to Rome. We got in at the location of the old Merrimac Bridge where there was a boat ramp. It was a great joy for us to take these float trips and sometimes a new story or two would come up. The area and the river fascinated Dad. Telling and retelling the stories was a way to recall the days when he heard them for the first time. As I have said many times, storytelling is how we make sense of our experience. That was very true for Dad.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Rides V
(Continued)
Over the years Dad spent countless hours researching historical sites and events. Once he set out to find out about something he was insatiable until he satisfied his curiosity. He spent countless hours in the basement of the public library painstaking going through old records and books. He poured through the microfiche files at newspaper offices in Henry and Jefferson counties. He often visited seniors and talked with them about things from long ago that they remembered.
He collected his notes and documents in three-ring binders, folders and notebooks. We still have over 30 of them. They are chock full of all kinds of stories and information.
So it wasn’t so unusual that he would try to find out whether the gory story of the boy in the mill was true. He started with his living sources. Most had no recollection of any such story. A few had heard it before but knew few details that were new to Dad about it. One of his best sources said it absolutely didn’t happen.
Somewhere in his memory or in one of the conversations the name Zear came up. Dad thought that was the last name of the young man. So where do you go if you think you have a name? The cemetery. We have many relatives buried in Green Mound Cemetery so one day on one of our rides we stopped to visit some of the graves. That is when Dad thought we should try systematically walking through the cemetery looking for the name Zear on one of the stones.
Sound like looking for a needle in a haystack? Well it wasn’t as hard as you might think. In less than an hour I came across a broken stone that had the name David Zear on it. He died May 1, 1867 at 22years, 10 months, and 25 days. That could be him but how could we know for sure.
Dad went to the archives of the newspapers in the area. He found the following account in the Thursday, May 9, 1867 edition of the Fairfield Ledger. (Stop here if you are squimish!)
"Horrible Accident – David Zaher, Zear, or Zeher (names and even words were often spelled different ways before 1900, even sometimes in the same document) a young man about 20 years of age met with a horrible death at the Merrimac Mills on the Skunk River on the evening of May 1st. He had gone to the fourth story of the mill for the purpose of oiling the journals of some large wheels. Not returning as soon as he should have done, his brother went after him. He found him crushed and ground between the cogs of the wheels in a terrible manner, there being scarcely an unbroken bone in his body.
One of his legs was found about eighteen feet from the wheel. It is supposed that the cogs caught his coat and drew him between the wheels causing his instantaneous death. The floor for some distance around the wheels was covered with blood. His remains were buried the Friday following."
The story was true! Dad was elated that his research was successful, but deeply saddened by what had happened to the young man.
(To be Continued)
Over the years Dad spent countless hours researching historical sites and events. Once he set out to find out about something he was insatiable until he satisfied his curiosity. He spent countless hours in the basement of the public library painstaking going through old records and books. He poured through the microfiche files at newspaper offices in Henry and Jefferson counties. He often visited seniors and talked with them about things from long ago that they remembered.
He collected his notes and documents in three-ring binders, folders and notebooks. We still have over 30 of them. They are chock full of all kinds of stories and information.
So it wasn’t so unusual that he would try to find out whether the gory story of the boy in the mill was true. He started with his living sources. Most had no recollection of any such story. A few had heard it before but knew few details that were new to Dad about it. One of his best sources said it absolutely didn’t happen.
Somewhere in his memory or in one of the conversations the name Zear came up. Dad thought that was the last name of the young man. So where do you go if you think you have a name? The cemetery. We have many relatives buried in Green Mound Cemetery so one day on one of our rides we stopped to visit some of the graves. That is when Dad thought we should try systematically walking through the cemetery looking for the name Zear on one of the stones.
Sound like looking for a needle in a haystack? Well it wasn’t as hard as you might think. In less than an hour I came across a broken stone that had the name David Zear on it. He died May 1, 1867 at 22years, 10 months, and 25 days. That could be him but how could we know for sure.
Dad went to the archives of the newspapers in the area. He found the following account in the Thursday, May 9, 1867 edition of the Fairfield Ledger. (Stop here if you are squimish!)
"Horrible Accident – David Zaher, Zear, or Zeher (names and even words were often spelled different ways before 1900, even sometimes in the same document) a young man about 20 years of age met with a horrible death at the Merrimac Mills on the Skunk River on the evening of May 1st. He had gone to the fourth story of the mill for the purpose of oiling the journals of some large wheels. Not returning as soon as he should have done, his brother went after him. He found him crushed and ground between the cogs of the wheels in a terrible manner, there being scarcely an unbroken bone in his body.
One of his legs was found about eighteen feet from the wheel. It is supposed that the cogs caught his coat and drew him between the wheels causing his instantaneous death. The floor for some distance around the wheels was covered with blood. His remains were buried the Friday following."
The story was true! Dad was elated that his research was successful, but deeply saddened by what had happened to the young man.
(To be Continued)
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Rides IV
(Continued)
Merrimac, Oh Merrimac! I hardly know where to start! My Dad had so many stories about Merrimac that I don’t think I can ever do it justice. Nevertheless, I’ll give it a try but it might take a couple installments.
Before we are across the bridge Dad starts talking about the Merrimac mills. He talks about Silas Deeds who built the first dam on the west side of the river in 1840 and a sawmill and gristmill followed in a few years. He calls it a crib dam and says logs were used to form a crib (rectangle) and then were filled with rocks. The river eventually provided the silt and debris that made the dam watertight. The little village around the dam became known a Deedsville.
Since the Skunk River was considered navigable to Brighton, Deeds was required to build a lock and had plans and specifications at the location. It is not clear as to whether it was ever built. By 1843 the government had approved the use of “slopes”, board slides on the lower side of the dam in lieu of locks. Dad had heard stories of boats shooting the dam and even told about one that sank not far down river. He speculated that it was probably still there preserved in the muck.
If you think that is unlikely, think again. During low water one year we found clear evidence of the cribs of the original dam including boards and spikes that were put there 150 years earlier. We still have some of both.
Dad interrupts the mill discussion to say that people were first attracted to the site because there was a ford there where Indian trails crossed the river. An early settler named Yorke built a ferry to get travelers across the river there. He says, too, that at one time there was a suspended footbridge across the river. It is not well documented but is mentioned in some historical accounts.
The gristmill on the west side of the river burned in 1865 and was rebuilt on the east side of the river. It was owned by W.J. and J.S. Rogers and was named Merrimac Mills and eventually included a sawmill, gristmill and carding and spinning mill. It was a three-story structure. Part of it was moved to a nearby location in 1924 when the mill was torn down and serves as a barn to this day. The present owner, Peter Salzman, once pulled out several of the old gears and, of course, Dad and I took several pictures of them. They are probably still there.
The gears of the old mill bring up another story. Growing up Dad had heard a gruesome tale about there being a large red stain on the floor of the third story of the mill where all of the big gears were. He even sort of remembered seeing it when he was a child. He said he was told that a young man was sent up there to oil the gears and apparently somehow got caught in them and was torn to pieces. In the early 1980s Dad set out to find out if this could be true.
(To be continued)
Merrimac, Oh Merrimac! I hardly know where to start! My Dad had so many stories about Merrimac that I don’t think I can ever do it justice. Nevertheless, I’ll give it a try but it might take a couple installments.
Before we are across the bridge Dad starts talking about the Merrimac mills. He talks about Silas Deeds who built the first dam on the west side of the river in 1840 and a sawmill and gristmill followed in a few years. He calls it a crib dam and says logs were used to form a crib (rectangle) and then were filled with rocks. The river eventually provided the silt and debris that made the dam watertight. The little village around the dam became known a Deedsville.
Since the Skunk River was considered navigable to Brighton, Deeds was required to build a lock and had plans and specifications at the location. It is not clear as to whether it was ever built. By 1843 the government had approved the use of “slopes”, board slides on the lower side of the dam in lieu of locks. Dad had heard stories of boats shooting the dam and even told about one that sank not far down river. He speculated that it was probably still there preserved in the muck.
If you think that is unlikely, think again. During low water one year we found clear evidence of the cribs of the original dam including boards and spikes that were put there 150 years earlier. We still have some of both.
Dad interrupts the mill discussion to say that people were first attracted to the site because there was a ford there where Indian trails crossed the river. An early settler named Yorke built a ferry to get travelers across the river there. He says, too, that at one time there was a suspended footbridge across the river. It is not well documented but is mentioned in some historical accounts.
The gristmill on the west side of the river burned in 1865 and was rebuilt on the east side of the river. It was owned by W.J. and J.S. Rogers and was named Merrimac Mills and eventually included a sawmill, gristmill and carding and spinning mill. It was a three-story structure. Part of it was moved to a nearby location in 1924 when the mill was torn down and serves as a barn to this day. The present owner, Peter Salzman, once pulled out several of the old gears and, of course, Dad and I took several pictures of them. They are probably still there.
The gears of the old mill bring up another story. Growing up Dad had heard a gruesome tale about there being a large red stain on the floor of the third story of the mill where all of the big gears were. He even sort of remembered seeing it when he was a child. He said he was told that a young man was sent up there to oil the gears and apparently somehow got caught in them and was torn to pieces. In the early 1980s Dad set out to find out if this could be true.
(To be continued)
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Rides III
(Continued)
Back on the gravel going north the road swings west and Dad talks of a small-unnamed community that existed there. The road turns back north and crosses a stream. “There was a grist mill here,” he says. Farmers from as far away as Mt. Pleasant would sometimes bring there grain here.
At the next corner we follow the road left. We could go straight but it is dirt. It’s the Trabert Place. I have written about this spot before. We go west to the blacktop past Eagle School (a one room school long ago boarded up) and then take the first right about a mile down the road.
On the left, out in the field is a lone dilapidated windmill and nothing else. “I was born there.” Dad says it’s where his Grandfather, Christian Egli, lived. He talks about what a kind man he was and I am sure he greatly influenced my father. He talks, too, of “buckets” of arrowheads that he used to see sitting around the farm. He wonders what happened to all of them.
On the right side of the road is Harold Hinkle’s farm. He is our cousin and we almost always stop and talk with him for a while. Harold’s wife, Helen, is a teacher in the Fairfield district. We talk education while Dad and Harold swap stories. Their son Dwain joins in the discussion now and then. After awhile we excuse ourselves and head on down the gravel.
We cross the creek and on the left is one of Dad’s cherished arrowhead hunting spots. Harold doesn’t let anyone else hunt it. There, a drainage ditch has bisected a large mound in the center of the field. It’s a rich spot. The soil on the mound has a different color and texture. Dad speculates that it is because people occupied the site for hundreds of years. I think we have walked every inch of that field many times. Dad says this is where many of the arrowheads that he saw at his Grandfather Christian house came from. Dad has many in his collection from here, too.
The deep plowing and freezing and thawing of the ground forced the stones and artifacts to the surface. It was occupied so long that it is littered with hundreds of campfire stones and chips and artifacts of the former residents. Dad and I spent countless hours walking over every inch of this field after every big rain or anytime the ground had been worked. We spent long hours, too, during these hunts, just talking about everything under the sun. They were special times with my Dad. I miss those long discussions.
From this spot we head up over the hill and then down past “The Real Thing.” It is a youth church of some kind out in the middle of nowhere. The road winds around through the Skunk River bottom. This whole area floods a lot in the spring when the river gets out of its banks. We come to an intersection. We turn right and head across the Merrimac bridge.
(To be Continued)
Back on the gravel going north the road swings west and Dad talks of a small-unnamed community that existed there. The road turns back north and crosses a stream. “There was a grist mill here,” he says. Farmers from as far away as Mt. Pleasant would sometimes bring there grain here.
At the next corner we follow the road left. We could go straight but it is dirt. It’s the Trabert Place. I have written about this spot before. We go west to the blacktop past Eagle School (a one room school long ago boarded up) and then take the first right about a mile down the road.
On the left, out in the field is a lone dilapidated windmill and nothing else. “I was born there.” Dad says it’s where his Grandfather, Christian Egli, lived. He talks about what a kind man he was and I am sure he greatly influenced my father. He talks, too, of “buckets” of arrowheads that he used to see sitting around the farm. He wonders what happened to all of them.
On the right side of the road is Harold Hinkle’s farm. He is our cousin and we almost always stop and talk with him for a while. Harold’s wife, Helen, is a teacher in the Fairfield district. We talk education while Dad and Harold swap stories. Their son Dwain joins in the discussion now and then. After awhile we excuse ourselves and head on down the gravel.
We cross the creek and on the left is one of Dad’s cherished arrowhead hunting spots. Harold doesn’t let anyone else hunt it. There, a drainage ditch has bisected a large mound in the center of the field. It’s a rich spot. The soil on the mound has a different color and texture. Dad speculates that it is because people occupied the site for hundreds of years. I think we have walked every inch of that field many times. Dad says this is where many of the arrowheads that he saw at his Grandfather Christian house came from. Dad has many in his collection from here, too.
The deep plowing and freezing and thawing of the ground forced the stones and artifacts to the surface. It was occupied so long that it is littered with hundreds of campfire stones and chips and artifacts of the former residents. Dad and I spent countless hours walking over every inch of this field after every big rain or anytime the ground had been worked. We spent long hours, too, during these hunts, just talking about everything under the sun. They were special times with my Dad. I miss those long discussions.
From this spot we head up over the hill and then down past “The Real Thing.” It is a youth church of some kind out in the middle of nowhere. The road winds around through the Skunk River bottom. This whole area floods a lot in the spring when the river gets out of its banks. We come to an intersection. We turn right and head across the Merrimac bridge.
(To be Continued)
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Rides II
(Continued from Rides I)
Then up the hill on the other side. The Indian mounds that were up there were destroyed when they built the highway. A right turn would take you to Jennings’s Dairy and Cholera Hill. Victims of the Cholera epidemic in the 1800s are buried there. Straight ahead down the hill we see the Skunk River across the bottom. Scott’s farm is on the right. The house was flooded so many times that they moved it to higher ground.
Crossing the Skunk River prompts stories of buried gold to the north (I’ll get to that story later) and south, a story about Uncle Lew and the time he met an old Indian while building fence. The Indian, on a horse, told him his people came from that area and were now in Kansas. He wanted to come back to this place before he died.
Rome is next on the right. It was always known for tough guys and taverns. There may still be one or two of both there? The Rome stories occupy us almost all the way to Lockridge. Then we talk about our cousins, the Eglis and stop in the local café for breakfast. Amazingly, Dad seems to know everyone in the place.
From the café on old Highway 34 we head past the cemetery where a lot of my relatives rest and then north. “Coalport,” Dad says as we pass under the railroad. You can see the outcropping of coal in the ditch on the west side of the road. We go north to Four Corners. Only a tavern and a house remain there. Dad talks about what a rough place that is and that I should stay out of there. We did go in once together for a soda. It was the middle of the day and we were the only ones in the place besides the bartender.
We head north again now on gravel. The missing gold comes up again as we go forward. He tells of the Indians receiving a government allotment and the money never showing up in circulation. Camp Golden Valley got its name for that reason. I will chronicle that story in more detail another time. The gold could still be out there.
Next, at a curve in the gravel road he talks about the evidence found that indicated Spanish explorers were in the area 400 hundred years ago. Artifacts, crosses, and the foundation of a fortification have been found as well as references in Spanish documents. Looking out the car window you can only imagine what fascinating things have transpired here.
At the corner that leads to McCoon’s Landing there is what remains of an old steam engine in the corner of a field. Dad tells of the sawmill and how someone had poured water into what must have been a dry boiler. It exploded and killed both of the men who were working there. The large barrel portion of the engine with a gaping hole remains as a solemn reminder. Down the hill to the east is the campground and what used to be a ford in the river. Across from that spot is a farmstead where Dad spent much of his childhood.
(To Be Continued)
Then up the hill on the other side. The Indian mounds that were up there were destroyed when they built the highway. A right turn would take you to Jennings’s Dairy and Cholera Hill. Victims of the Cholera epidemic in the 1800s are buried there. Straight ahead down the hill we see the Skunk River across the bottom. Scott’s farm is on the right. The house was flooded so many times that they moved it to higher ground.
Crossing the Skunk River prompts stories of buried gold to the north (I’ll get to that story later) and south, a story about Uncle Lew and the time he met an old Indian while building fence. The Indian, on a horse, told him his people came from that area and were now in Kansas. He wanted to come back to this place before he died.
Rome is next on the right. It was always known for tough guys and taverns. There may still be one or two of both there? The Rome stories occupy us almost all the way to Lockridge. Then we talk about our cousins, the Eglis and stop in the local café for breakfast. Amazingly, Dad seems to know everyone in the place.
From the café on old Highway 34 we head past the cemetery where a lot of my relatives rest and then north. “Coalport,” Dad says as we pass under the railroad. You can see the outcropping of coal in the ditch on the west side of the road. We go north to Four Corners. Only a tavern and a house remain there. Dad talks about what a rough place that is and that I should stay out of there. We did go in once together for a soda. It was the middle of the day and we were the only ones in the place besides the bartender.
We head north again now on gravel. The missing gold comes up again as we go forward. He tells of the Indians receiving a government allotment and the money never showing up in circulation. Camp Golden Valley got its name for that reason. I will chronicle that story in more detail another time. The gold could still be out there.
Next, at a curve in the gravel road he talks about the evidence found that indicated Spanish explorers were in the area 400 hundred years ago. Artifacts, crosses, and the foundation of a fortification have been found as well as references in Spanish documents. Looking out the car window you can only imagine what fascinating things have transpired here.
At the corner that leads to McCoon’s Landing there is what remains of an old steam engine in the corner of a field. Dad tells of the sawmill and how someone had poured water into what must have been a dry boiler. It exploded and killed both of the men who were working there. The large barrel portion of the engine with a gaping hole remains as a solemn reminder. Down the hill to the east is the campground and what used to be a ford in the river. Across from that spot is a farmstead where Dad spent much of his childhood.
(To Be Continued)
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Rides I
I grew up going on rides with my family. It continued when I married and had my own family. We went on rides all the time. It was a simpler time, I think, and gas was much cheaper so it was actually a form of entertainment in those days. I continued to go on rides with my father, too.
My Dad was like a tour guide when we went for a ride. He gave an ongoing narrative as we moved along. He got so good at it that he gave tours for the County Historical Society and for school groups. They had three distinct tours in the county. One trip was to the Northwest, one to the Southwest and one to the East. They would load up a school bus and take kids or adults on one of the routes. It took most of the day. Along the way he pointed out spots of historical significance and told stories of human interest.
The trips with the family were just the same. A spot along the road would prompt him and he would start in. He even did it on our jaunts to hunt arrowheads. If we headed west on Highway 34 he would talk about how the railroad was built by crews and one of their camps was west of town and he would point off to the northwest. The landowner had taken him out there once and there was still evidence of the camp after over a hundred years. You could see where the sod houses were and some of the cave like holes they had dug into the side of hills.
Cresting the hill on Highway 34, Westwood is on the left. When I was in high school an ancient bundle burial was found when they were digging the sewage lagoon for the community. They called Dad and he called the State Archeologist’s Office. They came to see it and Terry and I went out that day with them. I remember Terry found a perfect spear point there that day.
Four or five native Americans were buried in one spot there. It was called a bundle burial because they were all piled up together. It was conjectured that they were a hunting party or a war party and were all killed far from their home. You can read about it if you go to the State Archeologist’s Office.
North of the highway and almost right across from the Westwood, high on a rise are three large Indian mounds. You can’t see them from the road. Dad and I visited them a couple times, measured and photographed them, and sent the information to the State Archeologist’s Office. There is another mound about a mile southwest across the Skunk. You can see the bluff from these mounds.
Still going west we drop into Jennings’s bottom. Usually it was too wet and silted in for arrowhead hunting. It flooded many times in the spring. Nancy did find a hematite celt where they cut a drainage ditch on the west side. We never found much else there.
(To Be Continued)
My Dad was like a tour guide when we went for a ride. He gave an ongoing narrative as we moved along. He got so good at it that he gave tours for the County Historical Society and for school groups. They had three distinct tours in the county. One trip was to the Northwest, one to the Southwest and one to the East. They would load up a school bus and take kids or adults on one of the routes. It took most of the day. Along the way he pointed out spots of historical significance and told stories of human interest.
The trips with the family were just the same. A spot along the road would prompt him and he would start in. He even did it on our jaunts to hunt arrowheads. If we headed west on Highway 34 he would talk about how the railroad was built by crews and one of their camps was west of town and he would point off to the northwest. The landowner had taken him out there once and there was still evidence of the camp after over a hundred years. You could see where the sod houses were and some of the cave like holes they had dug into the side of hills.
Cresting the hill on Highway 34, Westwood is on the left. When I was in high school an ancient bundle burial was found when they were digging the sewage lagoon for the community. They called Dad and he called the State Archeologist’s Office. They came to see it and Terry and I went out that day with them. I remember Terry found a perfect spear point there that day.
Four or five native Americans were buried in one spot there. It was called a bundle burial because they were all piled up together. It was conjectured that they were a hunting party or a war party and were all killed far from their home. You can read about it if you go to the State Archeologist’s Office.
North of the highway and almost right across from the Westwood, high on a rise are three large Indian mounds. You can’t see them from the road. Dad and I visited them a couple times, measured and photographed them, and sent the information to the State Archeologist’s Office. There is another mound about a mile southwest across the Skunk. You can see the bluff from these mounds.
Still going west we drop into Jennings’s bottom. Usually it was too wet and silted in for arrowhead hunting. It flooded many times in the spring. Nancy did find a hematite celt where they cut a drainage ditch on the west side. We never found much else there.
(To Be Continued)
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Becoming a Teacher X
The Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SIWP) class started on July 30, 1979. It met each day from 8:00 to 4:00 in the basement of the library at Iowa Wesleyan College. The air-conditioner went out for a few days of the three-week course and we moved to the basement of Henry County Savings Bank until it was repaired. I liked the campus setting much better.
The mornings were devoted to reading research and professional opinions about effective instruction in general and writing specifically. There was a large collection of articles and books to read. We also spent a lot of time talking about our own teaching and discussing the reading material both in large and small groups. It was an incredible learning opportunity. Talking about your professional practice and reading and hearing about that of others was rich experience.
In the afternoons we wrote and shared our own writing. Suddenly, we were all in the position we placed our students in all the time. That was very intimidating! Sharing something as personal as your writing is risk taking. It made many of us all very nervous. Some very brave ones did it right away and that made it harder for everyone concerned because the pieces were very good and I remember thinking that I was way out of my league with this group.
There were rules. We followed a response process that was called PQP. The first P was for Praise. The second letter was for Question and the last for Polish. We were to first tell the writer what we liked about their piece, then ask any questions we had about the piece and last, make any suggestions we might have.
Writers could choose to have their writing only seen by the instructors, shared anonymously or identified in the small or large group. Each afternoon we learned a new way to share and respond to writing using the writing generated by the group. Up to that time most knew of only one way to respond to student writing. Write corrections and suggestions with a red pen on the paper and hand it back.
For most of us this model was revolutionary! We soon realized its power! The response to our writing was always very positive. We were motivated to write a lot more and could see that overtime we were getting better at doing it. The principle was very simple. If you want to be a good writer, write a lot. The teacher’s role was to make that happen with the student. We began to ponder about how this would work in our own classrooms.
By responding positively to student writing the student is motivated to write more. Slowly the writer learns the complex skills of writing. Most of us came from classroom where grammar and punctuation were drilled into students day in and day out and they seldom got to do any writing. With this approach the skill instruction came using the actual student writing. That method, of course, ran contrary to traditionalists and the publishers of textbooks and workbooks.
The mornings were devoted to reading research and professional opinions about effective instruction in general and writing specifically. There was a large collection of articles and books to read. We also spent a lot of time talking about our own teaching and discussing the reading material both in large and small groups. It was an incredible learning opportunity. Talking about your professional practice and reading and hearing about that of others was rich experience.
In the afternoons we wrote and shared our own writing. Suddenly, we were all in the position we placed our students in all the time. That was very intimidating! Sharing something as personal as your writing is risk taking. It made many of us all very nervous. Some very brave ones did it right away and that made it harder for everyone concerned because the pieces were very good and I remember thinking that I was way out of my league with this group.
There were rules. We followed a response process that was called PQP. The first P was for Praise. The second letter was for Question and the last for Polish. We were to first tell the writer what we liked about their piece, then ask any questions we had about the piece and last, make any suggestions we might have.
Writers could choose to have their writing only seen by the instructors, shared anonymously or identified in the small or large group. Each afternoon we learned a new way to share and respond to writing using the writing generated by the group. Up to that time most knew of only one way to respond to student writing. Write corrections and suggestions with a red pen on the paper and hand it back.
For most of us this model was revolutionary! We soon realized its power! The response to our writing was always very positive. We were motivated to write a lot more and could see that overtime we were getting better at doing it. The principle was very simple. If you want to be a good writer, write a lot. The teacher’s role was to make that happen with the student. We began to ponder about how this would work in our own classrooms.
By responding positively to student writing the student is motivated to write more. Slowly the writer learns the complex skills of writing. Most of us came from classroom where grammar and punctuation were drilled into students day in and day out and they seldom got to do any writing. With this approach the skill instruction came using the actual student writing. That method, of course, ran contrary to traditionalists and the publishers of textbooks and workbooks.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Becoming a Teacher IX
Teachers usually don’t think much about leaving the profession until about February each year. That is when the school year seems like it will never end and they are stressed and tired. After about eight years at teaching I began to think about my options.
I was really comfortable with what I was doing although never quite satisfied with my lessons and student performance. I felt I understood the curriculum and could modify instruction to meet the needs of my students. I had grown tired of trying to buck a system that seemed to stifle innovation and stopped change dead in its tracks.
I thought about graduate school but doubted I could get in. I looked at my friends and saw that they were making a lot more money than I was and their families were a lot better off. I didn’t feel like their jobs were all that appealing and could see that most worked solely for the money. That is something educators obviously don’t do. I wasn’t sure what else I could do and make a living.
In late winter of 1979 I read in the Area Education Agency newsletter about an interesting opportunity. It changed my life! The article encouraged teachers to apply for admittance to something called the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SWIP). Enrollment was limited and interested teachers needed to fill out an application and write an essay to get in. There were great incentives! Those accepted would get four hours of University of Iowa graduate credit free and a stipend of $500. I didn’t think I would get in but thought it was too good to pass up trying.
I filled out the form and wrote the essay. It was about how I used writing in science to help my students learn. I sent it all off to the AEA and waited. I still have the letter I got back saying I had been accepted! I was giddy with excitement! I didn’t know where it would lead me but I was ready for the adventure.
In March I was invited to an orientation meeting at the Ft. Madison office of the AEA. There I met Chris Rauscher and Jim Davis. They were the two people who would be teaching the class. The other participants intimidated me. Most were high school English teachers. I pinched myself and wondered how I got accepted with this group.
Chris and Jim gave an overview of what to expect and gave us some articles to read before the class that was scheduled for three weeks that summer. I was pleased to learn that it would be offered in the library at Iowa Wesleyan College. They told us we would be reading and journaling a lot. They said we would all need a journal and showed us a couple examples.
At one point during the orientation Chris and Jim came around and talked to us individually. I was surprised at how much they knew about me! Jim talked about the piece I had written and my background as a science teacher. I was impressed!
And, so, began the adventure that would change my life in ways I could never have imagined.
I was really comfortable with what I was doing although never quite satisfied with my lessons and student performance. I felt I understood the curriculum and could modify instruction to meet the needs of my students. I had grown tired of trying to buck a system that seemed to stifle innovation and stopped change dead in its tracks.
I thought about graduate school but doubted I could get in. I looked at my friends and saw that they were making a lot more money than I was and their families were a lot better off. I didn’t feel like their jobs were all that appealing and could see that most worked solely for the money. That is something educators obviously don’t do. I wasn’t sure what else I could do and make a living.
In late winter of 1979 I read in the Area Education Agency newsletter about an interesting opportunity. It changed my life! The article encouraged teachers to apply for admittance to something called the Southeast Iowa Writing Project (SWIP). Enrollment was limited and interested teachers needed to fill out an application and write an essay to get in. There were great incentives! Those accepted would get four hours of University of Iowa graduate credit free and a stipend of $500. I didn’t think I would get in but thought it was too good to pass up trying.
I filled out the form and wrote the essay. It was about how I used writing in science to help my students learn. I sent it all off to the AEA and waited. I still have the letter I got back saying I had been accepted! I was giddy with excitement! I didn’t know where it would lead me but I was ready for the adventure.
In March I was invited to an orientation meeting at the Ft. Madison office of the AEA. There I met Chris Rauscher and Jim Davis. They were the two people who would be teaching the class. The other participants intimidated me. Most were high school English teachers. I pinched myself and wondered how I got accepted with this group.
Chris and Jim gave an overview of what to expect and gave us some articles to read before the class that was scheduled for three weeks that summer. I was pleased to learn that it would be offered in the library at Iowa Wesleyan College. They told us we would be reading and journaling a lot. They said we would all need a journal and showed us a couple examples.
At one point during the orientation Chris and Jim came around and talked to us individually. I was surprised at how much they knew about me! Jim talked about the piece I had written and my background as a science teacher. I was impressed!
And, so, began the adventure that would change my life in ways I could never have imagined.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Becoming a Teacher VIII
70s39 Becoming a Teacher
In the seventies and eighties teacher’s were required to write lesson plans and turn a copy in each week. The idea was that if something happened to you, whoever took your place would be able to start where you left off. It was useful for substitutes if you didn’t get a chance to write up specific plans. Many teachers resented having to turn a copy in because they felt the administration didn’t trust them.
I really didn’t have a problem with making a copy and turning it in. In those days we used a piece of carbon paper so it was just remembering to use it and put it in the right way when you did it. A few times I put the carbon in backwards and the copy ended up on the back of the page. I found my own lesson plans very useful and didn’t feel I could teach well without them.
I still have every one I wrote, even the ones I did when I was a student teacher. They are full of all kinds of interesting things. I wrote detailed plans about what I would do each day of the week in each subject. There are also notes and comments about specific students or events. I usually crossed out things when I completed them and drew arrows to the next day if I didn’t get to it.
I also had a full school year plan for each subject I taught. It laid out what I would do each month for the year. I never got everything I thought I would do done because I tended to over plan. I didn’t want to not have enough to do when I wrote the daily and yearly plans so I always put in more than I knew I could get done.
Writing the lesson plan required me to look very carefully at the material I was using to determine how best to present it to the students. Most of the reader and math series were scripted and told you exactly what to do and say. You really only needed to know how to read to teach that way. Many times the scripts were way off and written by someone who didn’t know kids, learning, or hadn’t been in a classroom for a long time.
I have heard of principals that expected teachers to follow those scripts and to be exactly where they said they would be each day in their lesson plans. I never had an administrator like that and I don’t think too many of that type exist anymore, at least in Iowa. That practice is still prevalent, unfortunately, in some states. Generally, they are places where teachers typically are not highly trained.
Most training now focuses on teaching teachers to be instructional decision makers and how to tailor instruction to meet the needs of all of their students. Sometimes teachers can do that as they plan the lesson and sometimes they do it on the fly if they feel the need to make adjustments to help the students learn.
In the seventies and eighties teacher’s were required to write lesson plans and turn a copy in each week. The idea was that if something happened to you, whoever took your place would be able to start where you left off. It was useful for substitutes if you didn’t get a chance to write up specific plans. Many teachers resented having to turn a copy in because they felt the administration didn’t trust them.
I really didn’t have a problem with making a copy and turning it in. In those days we used a piece of carbon paper so it was just remembering to use it and put it in the right way when you did it. A few times I put the carbon in backwards and the copy ended up on the back of the page. I found my own lesson plans very useful and didn’t feel I could teach well without them.
I still have every one I wrote, even the ones I did when I was a student teacher. They are full of all kinds of interesting things. I wrote detailed plans about what I would do each day of the week in each subject. There are also notes and comments about specific students or events. I usually crossed out things when I completed them and drew arrows to the next day if I didn’t get to it.
I also had a full school year plan for each subject I taught. It laid out what I would do each month for the year. I never got everything I thought I would do done because I tended to over plan. I didn’t want to not have enough to do when I wrote the daily and yearly plans so I always put in more than I knew I could get done.
Writing the lesson plan required me to look very carefully at the material I was using to determine how best to present it to the students. Most of the reader and math series were scripted and told you exactly what to do and say. You really only needed to know how to read to teach that way. Many times the scripts were way off and written by someone who didn’t know kids, learning, or hadn’t been in a classroom for a long time.
I have heard of principals that expected teachers to follow those scripts and to be exactly where they said they would be each day in their lesson plans. I never had an administrator like that and I don’t think too many of that type exist anymore, at least in Iowa. That practice is still prevalent, unfortunately, in some states. Generally, they are places where teachers typically are not highly trained.
Most training now focuses on teaching teachers to be instructional decision makers and how to tailor instruction to meet the needs of all of their students. Sometimes teachers can do that as they plan the lesson and sometimes they do it on the fly if they feel the need to make adjustments to help the students learn.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Becoming a Teacher VII
I had some great success with difficult students early on in my career and as I have said, that meant that I got almost every difficult one that came along. Most of those kids would be in a behavior disorder classroom now but there wasn’t such a place back then. Several times the district transferred a difficult kid in town to be in my room. On one occasion a student from the Salem Elementary school was bused to my building to be in my room. Twice students from the Trenton area who would have gone to Pleasant Lawn were bused to my classroom.
These were kids who generally brought terror to the eyes of teachers in the building and students on the playground. Somehow, with patience, I was able to calm everyone including the kid. Sometimes the kid would come and there wouldn’t be any problems at all. The change and having a male teacher had been enough to influence the behavior. Other times it wasn’t so easy! Then it was a journey.
Negative behavior usually just doesn’t go away overnight. It takes time and persistence. Even the smallest gain must be celebrated and rewarded. The goal is to constantly reframe every situation so the student is ready to learn. Some of my colleagues wanted the kid to be contrite while I wanted the kid to be back in the room with a positive attitude. That meant that he/she didn’t carry the punishment, whatever it was, on his shoulders for long. There is a strong psychological foundation for that approach but some of my colleagues were more into punishment until it hurts.
Many parents believed in the latter philosophy. If their child was involved in some kind of a problem they always wanted to make sure everyone got the same punishment. If it was clearly the other kids fault they wanted to make sure his punishment was severe. They always pressed me for details but the consequences for someone else’s child is really done of their business. I usually assured them the child was punished and left it at that.
I had a particularly challenging kid who was very violent during my time at Harlan. His family background was horrible. He had witnessed a great deal of violence and inappropriate behavior in his ten years of life. Some of the stories related to him made me physically ill.
I tried every trick in the book to manage him with little success. His father told me to “just whup his butt!” and the principal actually did that once. I was a witness to it and found it very sobering. It worked for a while.
What really finally worked was developing a relationship with the kid…eventually playing with him and others on the playground. The better I knew him and he knew me the more I could reason with him. That was an important point in my emerging belief that relationships are everything. I have held fast to that since.
Once, I had to ask this student to leave the room. In the hall I chastised him severely and shaking my finger backed him into the wall. Suddenly, I saw a tear run down his cheek. I couldn’t believe my words had that kind of effect and, bewildered, I said, “Why are you crying?” He meekly responded, “I backed in to the wall heater!”
These were kids who generally brought terror to the eyes of teachers in the building and students on the playground. Somehow, with patience, I was able to calm everyone including the kid. Sometimes the kid would come and there wouldn’t be any problems at all. The change and having a male teacher had been enough to influence the behavior. Other times it wasn’t so easy! Then it was a journey.
Negative behavior usually just doesn’t go away overnight. It takes time and persistence. Even the smallest gain must be celebrated and rewarded. The goal is to constantly reframe every situation so the student is ready to learn. Some of my colleagues wanted the kid to be contrite while I wanted the kid to be back in the room with a positive attitude. That meant that he/she didn’t carry the punishment, whatever it was, on his shoulders for long. There is a strong psychological foundation for that approach but some of my colleagues were more into punishment until it hurts.
Many parents believed in the latter philosophy. If their child was involved in some kind of a problem they always wanted to make sure everyone got the same punishment. If it was clearly the other kids fault they wanted to make sure his punishment was severe. They always pressed me for details but the consequences for someone else’s child is really done of their business. I usually assured them the child was punished and left it at that.
I had a particularly challenging kid who was very violent during my time at Harlan. His family background was horrible. He had witnessed a great deal of violence and inappropriate behavior in his ten years of life. Some of the stories related to him made me physically ill.
I tried every trick in the book to manage him with little success. His father told me to “just whup his butt!” and the principal actually did that once. I was a witness to it and found it very sobering. It worked for a while.
What really finally worked was developing a relationship with the kid…eventually playing with him and others on the playground. The better I knew him and he knew me the more I could reason with him. That was an important point in my emerging belief that relationships are everything. I have held fast to that since.
Once, I had to ask this student to leave the room. In the hall I chastised him severely and shaking my finger backed him into the wall. Suddenly, I saw a tear run down his cheek. I couldn’t believe my words had that kind of effect and, bewildered, I said, “Why are you crying?” He meekly responded, “I backed in to the wall heater!”
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Becoming a Teacher VI
Teaching is a sacred trust! Families place their most prized things in your trust…their children. They trust that you will nurture them and keep them safe. It is something not to be taken lightly by educators. Because they do that, they are sometimes cautious. Probably more so today than in the 1970s when I first started teaching.
When I started some parents were a little leery of me. One, because I was a male in a field dominated by females and two, because I was a local boy with a not so great academic reputation. I got lots of questions and I am sure the school administration did to.
I was asked similar questions so many times that they began to annoy me! “Why would a male want to go into elementary education?” Do you plan to continue your education so you can be a high school teacher? And “Are you going to become an administrator?” There was/is the perception by some of the clueless that “People who can, do. People who can’t, teach”
Nothing has been heavier on my mind than safety in my entire career as an educator. I have had this terrible fear that someone would be seriously hurt or die on my watch. I took what some thought were extreme measures to see that didn’t happen.
In the first few years of my career and occasionally after that I had parents volunteer in my classroom. Actually, that first year a couple insisted on it. One wanted to organize the books in the classroom library. Given the small size of the library that took about 15 minutes. They were all obviously concerned about what I might do to their children. By Thanksgiving I had won them over and they disappeared. I guess they decided I could be trusted after all.
Because I was the first male the kids had encountered as a teacher there were other problems, too. My voice was too loud for some and others thought I was mean. I worked hard to win the kids over by over compensating. I learned to speak softly and to joke around with the kids. When we all began to have fun it made it easier for us all.
Overtime it became clear to me that being positive created an environment where kids were ready to learn. That stayed with me during my entire career whether I was teaching kindergarteners or senior citizens. A positive supportive environment is ten times more effective that a stern critical one… something some of my colleagues never learned. I have seen many coaches fall into the negative pattern of only criticizing and belittling their players and then wondering why they have such a poor record. They usually end up blaming the players. I have seen others that build on the strengths of their players and have great success. It seems so simple yet so hard for some.
When I started some parents were a little leery of me. One, because I was a male in a field dominated by females and two, because I was a local boy with a not so great academic reputation. I got lots of questions and I am sure the school administration did to.
I was asked similar questions so many times that they began to annoy me! “Why would a male want to go into elementary education?” Do you plan to continue your education so you can be a high school teacher? And “Are you going to become an administrator?” There was/is the perception by some of the clueless that “People who can, do. People who can’t, teach”
Nothing has been heavier on my mind than safety in my entire career as an educator. I have had this terrible fear that someone would be seriously hurt or die on my watch. I took what some thought were extreme measures to see that didn’t happen.
In the first few years of my career and occasionally after that I had parents volunteer in my classroom. Actually, that first year a couple insisted on it. One wanted to organize the books in the classroom library. Given the small size of the library that took about 15 minutes. They were all obviously concerned about what I might do to their children. By Thanksgiving I had won them over and they disappeared. I guess they decided I could be trusted after all.
Because I was the first male the kids had encountered as a teacher there were other problems, too. My voice was too loud for some and others thought I was mean. I worked hard to win the kids over by over compensating. I learned to speak softly and to joke around with the kids. When we all began to have fun it made it easier for us all.
Overtime it became clear to me that being positive created an environment where kids were ready to learn. That stayed with me during my entire career whether I was teaching kindergarteners or senior citizens. A positive supportive environment is ten times more effective that a stern critical one… something some of my colleagues never learned. I have seen many coaches fall into the negative pattern of only criticizing and belittling their players and then wondering why they have such a poor record. They usually end up blaming the players. I have seen others that build on the strengths of their players and have great success. It seems so simple yet so hard for some.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Becoming a Teacher V
During my childhood and the early years of my teacher career I think education was a more powerful source and influence in the lives of kids than it is now. I have seen a dramatic change that seemed to begin in the 1970s. It could have been earlier and I just wasn’t aware of it. I don’t mean to say that education isn’t a powerful influence now but that there are other equally, or more powerful, forces now.
In my early years parents rarely questioned educators. They almost always supported the teacher in issues of discipline and curriculum. Teachers were highly revered people, although underpaid. Teachers begged for more parent and state involvement in education issues and funding. They raised concerns about the inadequate curriculum and support.
At Saunders we struggled to keep a viable district parent teacher organization. I served as vice president for a time. Only teachers showed up at the meetings. Parents didn’t see the urgency we felt and they were content to let things go along as they always had.
In the mid seventies Iowa passed collective bargaining for public school teachers. That meant we could negotiate with the school board about salaries. I got involved in that for a while as chair of the teacher negotiation team and then chief negotiator. It is a thankless job with lots of hours outside the school day. At least we were able to negotiate a good contract that served as a model for many other districts.
The bad part is that it set up an adversarial relationship between the teachers and the board and administration. The board and administration then slowly begin to convince the community that the teachers were bad because they were taking their tax dollars. Public sentiment began to shift.
Another problem was on the horizon. Fundamentalism was on the rise across the world. Americans were held hostage in Iran. Locally, religious fundamentals jumped on the bandwagon and condemned public education for the evils of the world. They were against values education, evolution, and generally anything else that might teach their children to think. It was scary! These critics really had no idea what went on in a typical classroom.
A small group from a local church refused to send their kids to public school. The kids were truant, parents were charged, and eventually the group opened their own school. A public forum was held in the community room of a local bank and leaders of the group chastised us for being evil. Our own pastor, Ron McMenimen, rose and spoke passionately in rebuttal and our defense. He made me proud to be a Presbyterian that day! The critics were speechless when he was he finished. He knew their brand of Christianity better than they did, but the damage was done.
The irony is that most of the Sunday school teachers in all of the churches in town were “evil” public school teachers during the week.
I read this week of the teacher in the Middle East that was to be flogged for letting students name a teddy bear Mohammad and I was immediately reminded of the intolerance of our own far right. Scary!
In my early years parents rarely questioned educators. They almost always supported the teacher in issues of discipline and curriculum. Teachers were highly revered people, although underpaid. Teachers begged for more parent and state involvement in education issues and funding. They raised concerns about the inadequate curriculum and support.
At Saunders we struggled to keep a viable district parent teacher organization. I served as vice president for a time. Only teachers showed up at the meetings. Parents didn’t see the urgency we felt and they were content to let things go along as they always had.
In the mid seventies Iowa passed collective bargaining for public school teachers. That meant we could negotiate with the school board about salaries. I got involved in that for a while as chair of the teacher negotiation team and then chief negotiator. It is a thankless job with lots of hours outside the school day. At least we were able to negotiate a good contract that served as a model for many other districts.
The bad part is that it set up an adversarial relationship between the teachers and the board and administration. The board and administration then slowly begin to convince the community that the teachers were bad because they were taking their tax dollars. Public sentiment began to shift.
Another problem was on the horizon. Fundamentalism was on the rise across the world. Americans were held hostage in Iran. Locally, religious fundamentals jumped on the bandwagon and condemned public education for the evils of the world. They were against values education, evolution, and generally anything else that might teach their children to think. It was scary! These critics really had no idea what went on in a typical classroom.
A small group from a local church refused to send their kids to public school. The kids were truant, parents were charged, and eventually the group opened their own school. A public forum was held in the community room of a local bank and leaders of the group chastised us for being evil. Our own pastor, Ron McMenimen, rose and spoke passionately in rebuttal and our defense. He made me proud to be a Presbyterian that day! The critics were speechless when he was he finished. He knew their brand of Christianity better than they did, but the damage was done.
The irony is that most of the Sunday school teachers in all of the churches in town were “evil” public school teachers during the week.
I read this week of the teacher in the Middle East that was to be flogged for letting students name a teddy bear Mohammad and I was immediately reminded of the intolerance of our own far right. Scary!
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