Saturday Morning

Saturday morning. For whatever reason, Saturday mornings have become a bit of a quandary for me. I have no idea why, but I am not able to sleep in on Saturday mornings any more. Everyone else in my house can, but I woke up this morning at little before 5:30, rolled around and listened to the cats run up and down the hall for half an hour or so, and finally got up. I guess it is not a bad thing, really. I got a nice workout before most of the garage sales were set up. I am sipping on my second cup of coffee, and plan to have a third on the back patio (The WiFi does not seem to reach that spot, or I would be there now). I get to enjoy Top 20 Countdown on VH1, which is apparently the only time VH1 or MTV still play music videos. I spotted a new blog post from a friend and fellow teacher, and reading it was time well spent. You should click the link and go read it. So, despite feelings as if I have wasted an opportunity to build up a little credit in the sleep bank, my morning so far has been a good one. I need to take advantage of the chance to grade a few more projects and papers this morning, but we will just have to wait and see if that path develops or remains want of wear.
Oh, and I have the time to blog. Any time one of my friends blogs, I feel a responsibility to step up to the keyboard and do a little writing of my own. It is one of neat advantages of being friends with literate people. Sometimes this compelled writing is inspired by the posts I have just read, sometimes it is in response to those posts, and sometimes it is entirely unrelated. I am not sure where this one will go, but I bet it will go somewhere. Sam's post was about an incident this week at school and some of the situations we, as teachers, face each and every day as we work with our kids. Our kids. I heard myself say that the other day. I was not sure just how I felt about using that phrase, but it comes naturally, so I feel as if it must be right. I have two of my own children, my kids, and they are the center of my world. They are amazing human beings who are growing into their own persons, taking that base clay of genetics with which they were endowed and molding it, with the help of so many great people, from grandparents to friends to teachers, into the unique individuals that they are becoming.  So, I wondered if I was being unfair to Emily and Dylan by referring to the young people that I spend so much time with in my classroom, on the field, and in the weightroom. I don't think so, but I wonder sometimes. In addition, I have been told more than once that the word "kid" is too informal and can be almost insulting. "What are they? Goats?" I never have seen it that way. I agree that it is informal. However, I also grew up with a Nana and a Grandma, not two grandmothers. I had a Grampie and a Grandpa, not two grandfathers. Mother and Father are more likely to be used around Mom and Dad in sarcastic formality by my brother than in sincere reverence. And yet, not once have I used such terms with a hint of disrespect or insult. Quite the opposite. The same goes for calling Emily "Sweets" when she walks into my classroom throughout the day or referring to Dylan as "Bubba" when I ask him how his day went.
Hmm. I am probably thinking far more about that than I need to. Oh well, at least I am thinking about something, right? Or not. Whatever.
My coffee cup is empty, the patio is calling my name, and "Dark Horse" just came on VH1. I liked that song the first 7000 times it was on the radio. This week. On every station.  So, I will close out this post. Enjoy the Saturday. You deserve it.

The House on the Hill

Just over a year ago, Grandma Kohls, in the words of her obituary, "fell asleep surrounded by her children." She was a special lady, and she would have turned 99 last winter. Yesterday, my Aunt Linda Marie hosted a party at the farm, a second housewarming for the home that Grandpa Kohls helped build and where Grandpa and Grandma built a family. Linda has moved out to the farm, and over the last few months, the house has undergone a transition that has somehow updated it while not changing it at all. The house looks incredible, and work has been done from the upstairs bedrooms where Dad and my uncles slept to the basement where my cousins and I played dress-up and put on shows. Despite the new siding and windows, the flooring and sink, the house is still what we all remember from our childhoods. At least, it is for me.

I really enjoyed the get-together. There was a lot of laughter, a little sarcasm, some good-natured ribbing, and, as always, great food. We were reminded that strawberries are a luxury, Uncle Kenny wore a 15 year old, flat bill trucker hat (the Kohls men are always ahead of the curve when it comes to fashion), kids scattered around the yard to explore, Delmar gave Linda Matthew (that is what we used to call our other Aunt Linda at my house; Linda Marie was Linda Motorcycle.) a hard time, and the milkhouse still stood unchained. It was a diverse group, and there was a cotton candy machine. Why wouldn't there be?

A year ago, Andrew asked me to write a poem for Grandma. Many people had input, and I revised it as much as any piece I have ever written. I was able to read it in the church that day, and I am thankful for that opportunity. I thought that for Easter Sunday following the Saturday of gathering at the farm, it would be appropriate to share the poem here.  So, Happy Easter to all my family and friends.

“Simply Grandma”

April 2013

She’s simple to describe, isn’t she?

White hair, gleaming glasses, short stature.

Weathered face, wrinkled hands, quick smile.

Simple and true.

That is her.

Simply Mom.

A wife who built a house

She never will truly leave.

A mother who saw her family swell

Scattering and returning again and again to her kitchen.

A wonder who reared four boys

And nursed bruises from adventures and brawls.

An example who raised one daughter

Who carries on her spirit and smile.

A chronicler of the purest sort

Weaving tales of parents and grandparents before and sons and daughter to follow..

A rock who stood strong

Unwavering in what she knew was right.

A survivor who quietly marched on

Forgetting more wonders than most get to see.

Simple and true.

Simply Grandma.

A cook who had to oversee every dish,

Never willing to sit until everyone else was full.

A guardian as we slept on the dining room floor

And woke us early for church.

An expert driver who weaved her way to the pond,

A pickup full of grandkids hanging on and laughing.

A baker who could pass on simple treats

And hide zucchini in places never meant for squash.

A prepper before prepping was cool,

With closets of TP and sugar and a basement of sealed jars.

An outfitter prepared for any occasion,

From dress up to sledding to football in the snow.

An artist who fashioned quilt after quilt

That would wrap each of us in warmth no blanket could provide.

A gift giver who treated each of us

With whatever she could that she hoped we might treasure.

The lookout for the train

While picking that sunflower with two smiling faces.

Simple and true.

She is simple to describe, isn’t she?

That simple, white hair

On a head full of memories and simple wisdom.

Those gleaming glasses

Over eyes that captured countless wonders and watched us all.

That short stature

That disguised a giant heart and infinite spirit.

That weathered face

Creased by time, by laughter, by tears, by long life.

Those wrinkled hands

That built a family, created a home, provided treats and treasures.

And that quick smile

That she shared with us all, and is undoubtedly wearing now,

Embarrassed by the fuss, but glowing to see her family together,

Her lips mouthing the comforting words of the Lord’s Prayer,

As she surely makes one more trip back to the farm,

To the house on the hill, where the milkhouse stands unchanged,

And the porch looks out over familiar fields,

Where the front room echoes with laughter,

And the whole house creaks with memories too precious to ever fade,

To the farm, where she created a life and willed it to grow,

Simple and true.

Written by Jason Kohls with inspiration from many

"A Letter to My Seniors"

If you have read "Ramblings" lately, then you know that my seniors are exploring the wonderful world of spoken word poetry. It has been a worthwhile path. There have been some amazing pieces of writing produced by these young people. Some have been poignant, others shocking, and others extremely funny.

I always try to write an example for the class when I give an assignment in this area of study. So many of the students are hesitant because this is something new, and others just lack the confidence that their work deserves. So, I tell them that if they are going to put themselves out there for us all to see, or hear, or read, then the least I can do is the same. One of the recent assignments was to write a poem in the form of a letter. We heard George Watsky's "Letter to my 16 year old Self", heard a piece called "Dear Future Wife" by Trae Elijah, and "Breakup Letter from Tinkerbell" by Rozlind Silva. Then, I assigned the same type of poem to my classes. The results were varied and interesting. One student wrote a letter to his 35 year old self. Others wrote to themselves as freshmen. Some wrote to the freshmen who will be coming up.  For my example, I wrote a letter to my seniors. This group of seniors is special.  However, after rereading what I had written, I realized that while I definitely was writing to so many kids that have graced my classroom this year, this piece could be to any of the special kids I have taught over the years.

Today was a frustrating day in many ways. The Kansas legislature saw to that. However, we have the pleasure of standing among some many amazing young people day. That is what most teachers will tell you keeps their heads up and drives them to do a little more because the kids deserve it. Those teachers keep after it, even if they are "getting tired".  But I digress.

So, here is my latest Rambling. It may not be great, but I am glad I wrote it and presented it to my classes.

“A Letter to My Seniors”

Jason Kohls

I just want to take the time, while I still can, to say one more thing to you

Before you walk out those doors and toss the cap and tassel.

Now, before you groan too loudly,

Remember that with one click, all evidence that you finished that senior project,

Will be gone. Poof. Just like that.

So zip it.

This is what I wanted to tell you, while I still can:

YOU DON’T KNOW.

You don’t know that this place,

Which some of you call a prison,

Has offered the freedom that only security can,

That for some,

This is the only place they feel warm, and safe, and unafraid.

Not everyone, but some,

But you don’t know.

You don’t know

That turning 18 does not really make you an adult

That some were forced to be grown up long ago,

And that others will take, just a little longer.

And some, much, much longer.

You don’t know

How much you will crave Taco Crunch

When you are reheating leftover ramen noodles because that is all that is in the fridge

After your roommates ate the last hotdogs and its 7 days until payday.

You don’t know

That for one kid here,

That already happens every month, except mom lets him have the last hotdog

While she goes without,

Again.

You don’t know

That just when I want you to be gone from here,

Just like you dream of being and do not hesitate to express,

One of you will amaze me with a thought, an act, or words on a page.

You don’t know

That the impact you made here

Where you say you hate coming every day

Is deep and will be seen long after you are gone,

That someone little with wide eyes wants to be just like you

Even though you will be be gone,

That the freshman you said “Hey” to on the stairs

Or the boy you helped with his books,

Or the kid who sees you and says,

“He’s like me, and if he can make it, then so can I”

You don’t know that each one of them

Feels a little better today than yesterday

Because of you.

You don’t know

How many times your mom, your dad, your aunt, or your grandpa

Has thought “I’m proud” and smiled

Because you are you.

You don’t know

What the word “commencement” actually means,

That is is not an end, but a new beginning,

You don’t know

That what you are now is no where near what you will become

And that where you will go could surprise nearly everyone

Including you.

You don’t know

How many doctors, builders, teachers, mechanics, mothers, lawyers, nurses, musicians, artists, and leaders

Sit among you right now,

You don’t know

That for every heartbreak and struggle you have felt these past years,

You will feel even more as you grow,

And they will each be worth it,

As you become who you are meant to be.

You don’t know

That despite the headaches

The frustration,

The struggles,

And the anger,

I am glad you have been here,

For a moment or two,

Before you go.

"Why do we have to do this?"

This week, I thought my seniors needed to work a little more with poetry.  I wanted to give them a little exposure to some modern works, I wanted them to think, and I wanted them to write. So, we have been looking at spoken word poetry. As with every art form, there are truly talented poets and amazingly high quality poetry to be found in this genre. There are also some pieces that do not measure up. We forget, however, that there we terrible poets in Shakespeare's day to, but we do not ignore the Renaissance based on that simple fact.

Long story short, my seniors are surprising me once again. I had to smile when more than one student told me she had lost track of time searching for a poem online that could be shared in class, which was the assignment Monday night, and had spent over two hours listening to young poets present their work.  Another student said that she and a friend had listened to poetry all the way to school that morning. I had to thank the girl who told me she did not really like poetry, but that this was pretty neat. She was enjoying the writing assignment I had given them. I was impressed after student after student stood up today in class and recited their original works, about school, being a senior, or their lives, and images and emotions, the metaphors and the alliteration, spilled from their minds.  I was just as happy as time after time, their classmates responded supportively, sometimes with the traditional snap, sometimes with stunned silence, and even once in a while with a muted "Wow." In short, it has been neat.

As part of the study, each student are to write and recite a series of poems. The first was due today. I feel it is only fair that if I am going to ask my kids to put pieces of themselves out their in their works, I should be willing to do the same. I have spent the last hour trying to put words on a page for the second poem so I can have it as an example tomorrow. The poem is to be in the form of a letter to someone, a past or future self, a future significant other, or someone you want to say something to but never have. It could be a letter from one fictional character to another.  I am struggling. Homework sucks. This school is a prison!

Sorry, I lost myself for a moment. I feel better now. I shared my efforts for the first assignment yesterday in class, with the students following suit today, and today was a good day. Below is my piece. It is not Frost, Shakespeare, or Hughes, but I like it.

"For my Seniors"

“Why do we have to do this?”

It echoes, the volume and tone slightly different,

But the sentiment always the same.

It might be grammar,

Essay or reading

Research or revision,

Quadratic equations or governing precepts.

“Why do we have to to do this?”

I ask myself the same thing,

Not because you didn’t get it,

But because you didn’t listen.

“We had this in fourth grade,”

I heard one voice

Not even trying to hide under her breath

As I explain a simple grammar rule.

“And yet you still don’t understand.”

Those words could bounce off the walls,

But they won’t,

Even though we want them to,

We -

The kid in front who got it in the fourth grade,

And the boy in the back who caught on in sixth,

And the girl in the hoodie who quit doodling long enough in seventh to deposit the concept in her memory.

I introduced a new poetry unit with my seniors.

Five weeks left,

So let’s try something new,

Something different,

Something creative.

“Why do we have to do this?”

He mutters as the boy behind him inserts earbuds and listens

To a rapper who attempts to craft images as skillfully

As the ones we will hear in class,

Sometimes dropping verbal bombs that burst  through the eardrum and invade the mind,

Sometimes lobbing lines that die in the ear channel like wax needing to be flushed away.

I want to scream,

“We do this so you can listen,

And think,

And write!”

I want to burst out,

“We do this

Because that kid in back,

The one who hands his writing to the teacher because if he reads it out loud you will poke fun,

Is openly engaged,

Because that one in the front who does her homework without prodding

Might find a connection,

Because that little one over there with a notebook full of scribblings, but a gradebook full of zeros,

Needs to be heard once in a while too.”

I want to say,

“We are doing this for the ones who one day might answer your question of

‘Why do I have to do this?’

With “You will do it because it needs to be done,

I am your boss, and I have assigned it to you.

So shut up and finish your task so the project can move forward.”   

But I don’t scream.

I don’t raise my voice,

Because the one in the back,

The little one with the notebook,

The girl in the hoodie,

Others scattered about the room

Are already listening, and always have been,

But you never will.