I just added...

I just added shelfari to my blog. Check it out. Listed are some of my favorite finds or the ones I read to take me away Calgon. My new favorite is Where the River Ends by Charles Martin. I picked it up and started reading while on vacation in Vermont. Once in my hands I couldn't put it down and ended up taking it back with me to North Carolina, and then finishing it up before mailing it back to my mom. A story of a man who travels one last time with his wife to where the river ends. A last goodbye between two people in love-until next time...

On the road ramblings...

I have a great deal of time to write when I am on the road. I don't mean writing drafts on paper, but crafting the lines inside. Somehow driving and writing in the literal sense would not be a good idea, though honestly, I have seen some things drivers do that surprise the heck out of me. One morning on my way out of town driving down Monroe Avenue, I saw a woman balance the application of eye shadow while driving. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

On second thought, that is so wrong.

My recent purchase of a Garmin (GPS) has proved to be a worthwhile investment considering the traveling I have been doing lately. The voice speaks to me and when I make a wrong turn, I am waiting for the voice from the box to say: "You dang fool. Turn the other way!!!" I also find myself talking to the box on the windshield calling out: "Hey Lady, which way you taking me this morning?" I have yet to name it. For some reason I'm thinking that if I did, it would be time to check myself in... until next time-Teach.

Sometimes...

Over the course of the next few days, I will be writing my thoughts on supporting classroom teachers and the responsibility of instructional coaches to meet this end.

Over the years, I've listened to more nonsense than I can count; attended more workshops that ship me off to "johnny-land"; and sat through numerous planning sessions. And the ending note is the same: a colleague looks into my eyes and I into theirs, and with the glazed look, I say to myself out loud, HUH! what just happened here? And the realization after all is said and done is what we have left is a bunch of nonsense to put on the shelf of nothingness.....

Therefore.....

.....sometimes the responsibility of an instructional coach lies in the listening. Sometimes I just have to listen to what they are saying, and oftentimes, to what they are not saying. Then, based on what they give will determine what they get.

......sometimes the responsibility of an instructional coach lies with autonomy. Classroom teachers having control in making informed decisions. This doesn't mean they do so without question, however, it can be done in a way that values all perspectives.

.....sometimes the responsibility of an instructional coach is to find solid ground. Sometimes being placed on a pedestal is hard work and one never knows when you will be knocked off. And when you fall on your head, it hurts. It is important to find colleagues who won't let you stay on that pedestal for long, and if you are having trouble finding one, let me know. I have a few I left behind.....until next time-Teach

Finding your way back home again...

I am on the road a great deal traveling the blacktop weaving my way across, around and up and down the state of North Carolina. I leave in the early morning hours at the beginning of the week and return four days later. They say once you leave you can never go home again, and whoever "they" happens to be, I choose to disagree. I have traveled the road leading to nowhere many times, and the wheels always point me in the right direction: wherever home is at the time.

On the road I meet lots of interesting folk. Something can be said about living in the rural south where the people are friendly, the tea sweet and the peaches aplenty. After living in cities most of my adult life, I find myself in my travels returning to those spaces where everybody knows your name.

I am reminded of the song "Life in a Northern Town" by Sugarland. High on the hill on Prospect Street, the house of gray still stands tall and my parents, they still live there as well. A place of their own for over fifty years where they raised a family of seven, which in and of itself, is no small feat.

I am reminded that going home happens over and over again when something new sparks a memory, a thought or an idea experienced long ago.

And when I visit the woman alongside the road at the peach stand, in some crazy way, she reminds me of Geraldine. She was a neighbor up the road who would run out of the house on those days when the football would find its way over the fence. Instead of tossing it back, she scooped it up in her hands and the white robe, which matched the color of her hair, would lift her as she speed streaked back to her front porch.

The football. It was lost forever.....

.....until one day, her husband Charlie brought a box and once opened, an assortment of balls were filled to the brim. We graciously thanked him for his kindness not letting on that we knew. We could see in it his eyes knowing that the one thing he wanted most to come home was finally home.

Where are the sparks in your life found? Go in search of these treasures and you, too, will find yourself returning home time and time again... until next time...-Teach

Sunday Scribblings: The invitation...

The letters came by mail two or three times a year, finding their way to my hands across the miles and miles of concrete slabs reaching the place where the cactus blooms; gently creasing the branch of the birch pines high atop the Sierra mountain range; and the token on the seat of a subway train on Chicago's west side; til finally resting in my open arms amidst the suburban sprawl on the outskirts of Charlotte, North Carolina.

From 1987-2000, “Woodstock” as she was fondly called, would share her life on the page. And as always, it ended with the invitation....

“Will you come back and be my teacher in ____ grade?

I, too, would respond via letter and share snippets of my own life. Though the last time I saw her was during her second grade year, before my eyes she grew up developing her language and her ability to express herself, and in turn, sharing vignettes of the life she created.

In June of 2000, “Woodstock” graduated from High School and this time, the invitation read: “Will you come to my graduation?”

Unfortunately this wasn’t to be the case, however, I did pick up the phone on the day in question and talked to Meghan, (and Kenneth, and Keith) wishing them well in the world and then I thanked Meghan for including their 2nd grade teacher in the celebration. Little do they know that this letter is framed and placed above my writing desk, providing inspiration and validation that a piece of the journey that is “work” is worth it-….read other noteworthy invitations at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/ - until next time......Teach.

And then he danced....

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.

My four brothers, two sisters and I,
we waited. Waited until we heard the
putt, putt, shutter, hum of the rusty ol’ pickup
come to a stop at the end of the driveway:
it woke us up.

We waited until we heard
the click, clack, shutter, clump
of the rusty ol’ screen door shut:
it woke us up.

And we waited until we heard
the shoo, shoo, shutter, hum
of momma whispering in daddy’s ear
telling him to stop all his nonsense: it woke us up.

So, one by one.
one by one by one by one,
we made it to the top of the stair
for we knew that a celebration
was commencing to begin.

My older brother,
he was already there,
leaning against the wooden banister,
playing the sweet, sweet sound of music with his lips.

My brother,
he played that harmonica
with all his heart and soul
and I loved the rhythm of its beat.
I could tell by the way my daddy
was laughing and carrying on,
with his arms draped over my momma’s shoulder
that he loved it too.

Taking hold of my momma’s hand
he took two steps back
doing the side-swerving,
hip-swinging shuffle
with his shoes, tip-tapping
across that hardwood floor.

We, too, moved our feet
from side to side,
my sister showing us how
to feel the rhythm
of daddy’s love song
to momma.

My momma,
she leaned her head back just so,
and with a move that surprises me still,
she fell with her back into my daddy’s arms.

We gasped.
All of us did.

He caught her though,
always did, and lifting her up in the air,
we sang along to the music clapping real loud
with our knees knocking together
as they continued to swoosh, swoosh, swoosh
across that dance floor.

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.

Sunday Scribblings: I use to think....

I use to think that my morning trip to the nearest coffeehouse was based on laziness of not wanting to make it at home anymore. I use to think that when I steered my vehicle to the parking lot in the back of the coffee house that it would be a one time thing. And then, when the next morning came and I did it again, I realized that possibly doing it once may have been what I thought, but, in reality, I could no longer think myself into believing this to be so. A friend of mine use to tell me that I was spending too much money. She also said that if I was to put that money away, at the end of the year I would have $751.90 to add to my bank account.

Well. This is what I think. If all I do is have one mild Venti each morning, then I'm doing OK. How bout u?

PS- Check out this blogspot for more.... http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/