As Christmas Break Nears...

As Christmas Break nears, and I see a glimpse of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel that is grading senior research papers, two particular thoughts rise up in my cloudy mind: first, as soon as I finish grading these research papers, I have to return to grading Honors Sophomore reviews of The Road because honors students expect writing to be graded, and second, I am blessed to work with some incredible kids.

The seniors at BHS undertake an ongoing project each year that begins with researching a topic for which the student holds a passion and then proceeds into an Extension Activity that allows the young person to somehow use or extend the research as part of an independent activity that is service related, builds something, develops and designs a lesson, or creates some time of production. They later will present the activity and the product to an audience. The undertaking has been a part of BHS for many moons, and the benefits and experiences that come from it are invaluable.

Part of the transition from research paper to activity is the creation of a proposal by each student which lays out exactly what they hope to accomplish in the spring semester regarding activity. As I have been working with students on these proposals, I am struck not only by the ambitious nature of some of the proposals, but also by the desire of our students to help others. Students are designing and building vehicles. Others are producing cooking segments that will demonstrate the proliferation of GMOs in the food we eat. One student is going to produce a portfolio of clothing made entirely from alternative, nontraditional materials. Examples of ambitious undertakings abound.

In addition to the ambitious nature of so many of the proposals, the number of students who are proposing to give of themselves in an effort to make the lives of others better is impressive. Students are planning charity drives to benefit The Open Door program that assists young mothers, they are organizing fundraising campaigns for Children's Mercy Hospital, and they are developing bullying and suicide prevention seminars to reach out students who need a helping hand. Students are designing lessons for freshmen to help them understand how alcohol affects decision-making in young people. They are reaching out to national organizations who assist athletes with disabilities. They are planning books to help educate the general public about the issue of homelessness in our community. Some of these students are what most would pray to have in any classroom. They have an internal drive that has propelled them throughout school to high grades and repeated recognition. They are the students you expect to dream big and then go chase those dreams. Others do no fall into that category. Some are students who struggle. Some seemed to want to be written off as sophomores, to be labeled as losers so no one would expect anything of them. But something happened; they grew up. They found themselves and they found a direction. They, along with the stellar classmates who drove them crazy answering questions that just confused them, are looking to provide some sort of light for people in need. They are thinking beyond themselves, and beyond just getting through without having to do much. They, along with their stellar classmates, are becoming the stories we will want to tell years down the road to remind us to never give up on the sophomore who finds every possible way to aggravate, well, just about everyone at some point in the day. That is why I am frustrated by the move to assess whether our kids are ready to succeed in the world at the sophomore level. So much growth takes place after that year. At the sophomore level, for some, success is sometimes means just getting through day. Give them a chance to grow; so often, they surprise us.

Are all of our kids perfect? Absolutely not. Actually, none of them are. However, they are our kids, and I am impressed every day with how some of them grow and mature and begin to dream, and then start working for those dreams.  So, as Christmas break approaches and my eyes grow more weary, I am already looking forward to 2016. Some great things are going to happen, and some amazing people are going to shine.

And I have not even told you about my sophomores yet...

School Days Are Here Again, Almost

This week, my little girl officially starts her college career. Tomorrow I officially start my 22nd year of teaching as football practice formally begins. By Wednesday, my son will, hopefully, have begun to alter his sleep schedule in anticipation of his first day of school. Yes, anticipation. I know some of you who started school last week or will this week are confused, but BHS students will report for their first day of classes on August 26. Hate me if you must.

So yes, it is that time of year again. Emily will dive into the next stage of her academic career and the challenges it will offer her. Dylan will embark on his high school adventure, and I am confident that he is going to surprise me more than once in the coming months and years. I have the opportunity to welcome back young men and women who have grown up before very eyes as well as those who will fearfully step through my door for the first time. It is exciting.

As often happens, my kids, those born to me by my beautiful wife, taught me, or retaught me, some things recently which should serve to focus my efforts and make me a better teacher. When I returned from the annual rafting trip last weekend, Emily handed me a two-CD set of music inspired by great literature. She had pulled together a collection of tunes connected to works by Huxley, Orwell, Shakespeare, Carrol, Faulkner, and Hemingway, among others. The music was created by bands such as Anthrax, Metallica, The Police, The Ramones, and Green Day. As part of the offering, Emily included not just the playlist of songs and artists, but also details of what works were connected and when they had been produced, as well as album and book cover artwork. 

"What's the big deal?" some might ask. Sure, I have some interesting music to listen to as I write lesson plans, workout, or watch film, but what is there beyond that? There is plenty. I have lesson resources at my fingertips, and I will use them; trust me on that one. I have examples of how creative minds used the written works from time centuries ago or mere decades past to inspire their own thought and creative processes, to stir up those mental juices. I also have before me one of the most clear examples of cross-curricular assessment that I could hope for. "What?" you say. In recent years, we have all heard about Common Core and its evil slithering through our schools. I have read the College and Career Readiness Standards for ELA, Literacy, and Speaking and Listening adopted by Kansas, I have placed them next to our former standards, benchmarks, and indicators to see how they match up or diverge, and I have applied those CCRS to my lesson planning. Despite all of the gnashing of teeth and hysterics, Common Core, no matter what term is used to identified it, are not evil and is not destroying our schools. They actually free many teachers to truly teach students on a more in-depth level. I will not say the CCRS have been implemented perfectly, or even remotely well, in some school systems, but that has more to do with those systems than anything else. CCRS give us guide and a destination; how we get there most effectively is up to us. 

But I digress. Back to Emily's compilation. One of the reasons that I am so confident that Emily will prove successful as she moves forward, beyond the obvious genetic advantages she holds, is that she has learned how to think. She can examine a piece of music and see its literary value, research its historical significance and relevance, ponder the psychological implications of the lyrics, and delve into the piece's artistic influences. How do I know this? Because she discusses these things with me on a daily basis. Emily learned how to think, and I owe a sincere thanks to those who guided her throughout school, the social studies teachers, the art instructors, the English teachers, the counselors, and the administrators. Now, no standardized test could measure the depth of thought and experience she can apply to her studies or her daily life. I do believe that her experiences prepared her well to succeed on those tests, but, more importantly, they allowed her to develop as an intelligent, confident young person. 

My son is beginning to display some of those same qualities despite his youth. This summer, he walked down to Hastings and returned with a book exploring Tolkien's writing process in creating Lord of the Rings. He wants to write, and he has learned that if you want to do something, and do it well, you must research it. That research might be academic, it might involve speaking to an expert, or it may take the form of personal experience. That last method has led Dylan to request that he be allowed to walk part of the way to Buhler one day. I have not passed that little tidbit on to his mother just yet. Dylan is currently writing a story whose protagonist ventures out from the safety of a walled city to find supplies and search for other survivors. Dylan told me that if he is going to effectively create a character who must walk the post-apocalyptic world, he must know what that character would feel, the exhaustion, the isolation, and the uncertainty. He can only discover those feelings through experience, he said. Dylan sometimes frightens me with his thought process, his vocabulary, and his wealth of seemingly irrelevant facts, as well as his ability to apply those facts to topics we discuss and his willingness to research whatever topic strikes him as interesting. Once again, I credit so many teachers in Dylan's life over the last decade who instilled in him the curiosity, the ability, and confidence to explore his world fairly independently. He will do fine on standardized tests. I do not think the most important lessons were focused on doing well on those assessments, however. The lessons that gave him the tools and inspiration to learn were the ones that have proved most valuable. 

Where am I headed with this rambling? I am glad you asked. We are not teaching assessments, we are not teaching the ACT, we are not teaching Student Growth Measures. We are teaching kids. We have to provide them with tools that will let them explore their worlds and then express what they have learned on those adventures. We have to inspire them to seek out the challenges that will test those tools. We have to push them to develop as people, not just as test-takers and assessment measures. I will not pretend that those mandated tests are not important, and we must be aware of them. However, I also believe that high achievement on those measures while providing the tool, inspiring challenges, and driving development in those young people.

So thank you, Emily and Dylan, for inadvertently reminding me why I am a teacher, and why I am a teacher at Buhler High School. You have focused my vision and inspired me once more as I begin this year. Hopefully, I can live up to the expectation. 

Now, how do I drop off my son on the side of the highway at 6:45 am so he can become a great writer without Heidi discovering such a questionable parenting choice?

Note: I won't drop Dylan of on K-61. Jason Williams has made several valuable suggestions such as Sand Hill State Park and the trails at Dillons Nature Center that may provide even more useful experience in creating Dylan's post-apocalyptic world.

So, Who Are You?

I saw this posted by Grammarly  today on Twitter:

Considering I am a huge nerd, I found the question intriguing. I would love to know "who you are" based on the last book you read. It might say something about a person, right? Or it might not.

Personally, I started this summer with the works of who is becoming one of my favorite authors. Greg Froese introduced me to Cormac McCarthy a while back, and I dived into a couple of his novels this June, All the Pretty Horses and No Country for No Men. Based on those two reads I am might be John Grady Cole, the young cowboy protagonist of All the Pretty Horses. Not a bad guy to be, if you like horses and brunette daughters of hacienda owners. Well, unless you are not a fan of imprisonment in Mexican prison, corrupt officials, knife fights, and social bigotry. The good with the bad, right? I suppose I could be one of the three main characters from No Country for Old Men.  I would lean toward Ed Tom Bell, the Texas sheriff who is thrown into the turmoil of a drug massacre and the carnage that follows the disappearance of a briefcase full of cash. He is an honorable man, and he simply wants to do what is right in a world where that is becoming more and more difficult. It makes him question who he is and whether he belongs there anymore. I would choose Ed Tom over Llewelyn Moss, the welder who stumbles upon a drug deal gone bad while on an early morning hunt and ends up walking away with a briefcase of cash that would change his life, and the lives of every person close to him, is the most horrible ways. He is not a bad guy; he is actually incredibly likable. However, his decision made in a briefest of moments, was ignorant and at the same time, innocently naive. I definitely would not choose to be Chirgurh. He is an assassin, and, surprisingly, he is the most principled of any character in the novel. He lives by a simple code, that he must keep his word and complete his given task, and he lives up to that code with cold dedication. One could say that is truly honorable. But then there is the whole killing people with an air-powered piston or a shotgun fitted with a makeshift silencer. He is also pretty creepy.

This week, I took a step away from McCarthy, although I do hope to continue reading ""The Border Trilogy" this summer; All the Pretty Horses  is the first novel of the trilogy. I had to move away from McCarthy for a little while, despite how much I love what he writes. There is a long list of books I want and need to read, and the list just keeps growing. I decided to pull from that list Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I am only about halfway through the work, and I am enjoying it immensely, but it is, shall we say, odd. I find myself laughing at things that really should be funny, and I feel bad a a while until it happens again. If I am the protagonist of this novel, I am Billy Pilgrim. Billy bounces through times from one point in his life to another, "unstuck in time" as he calls it, and even spends time in an alien zoo after being abducted by an alien race who takes him aboard their flying saucer and whisks him away to their home planet. You know, the usual stuff. So far, Billy has proven to be an incompetent chaplain's assistant in WWII, an optometrist on the verge of a mental breakdown, a senile 40-something (according to his frustrated daughter), and pathetic prisoner of war. I do not like Billy. Granted, no one seems to like Billy. I guess I should finish the novel before I make an actual judgment.

What would "being" any of these characters say about me?

For now, I am going to be Ed Tom. That is the last book I finished reading. John Grady Cole is a cool dude, but I am too old to go riding off for the border, although there are days when that sounds pretty desirable.

That is the great thing about this little exercise: if I do not like who I am, based on the last book I read, I simply have to pick up another book. Problem solved.

So off I go to get unstuck in time with Billy. Who are you going to be?

Come Out and Play

I try not to rant, or try not to rant to an extreme.

OK, I rant quite often. However, I usually try to cloak the rant in something so it does not come off as an obvious and unabashed rant. However, this time, I am simply going to rant.

Today I was driving through the mean streets of Hutchinson, windows down and the radio up, but, no, I was not blaring bro-country. I had the dial turned to the area's top alternative tunes. A little diddy came over the airwaves that I have listened to many times. In fact, it is on my iTunes, and it is on a CD of songs Emily put together for me. The song is "Come Out and Play" by The Offspring. It is an interesting, troubling song.

As the song came to a close, the last chord echoing through my cab, the DJ uttered one of the most ridiculous statements that has ever floated from transmitter to receiver: "That song is a perfect theme song for this weekend!"

You might be saying, "But Kohls, 'Come out and play' is a great thought for the weekend, especially if the weekend is extended and a national holiday is nestled into Saturday."  All right, not one of you is saying that, mainly because you would never use 'nestled' in that way, but you might be thinking that I am way off in this rant. However, I am not way off. The DJ was, but I am not.

The title might seem appropriate for the weekend, but the song should not be thrown out as a theme for anything. The song tells the story of two boys in school who do not get along. One chooses to end the conflict by carrying a gun into the school and ending the life of his rival and any hope for a life that he might have once held. "One got wasted, and the other's a waste." I have listened to the song many times. I appreciate the style of the music, and I am drawn to songs that paint a vivid picture or tell a meaningful story. By playing the song, I am not advocating school violence or the use of a gun to 'solve' any personal conflict. The song does not do so either. In fact, it is a warning and an eye-opener. The song reminds me each time I hear it of an issue that is far too close for me to ignore or avoid. Why would I want to have such images thrust into my mind? I have wondered that myself. There is a saying that the first step is admitting you have a problem. I know that that statement is being taken out of context here. However, it applies. If we do not recognize that there are issues in our society, in our communities, and in our schools, then how can we prepare ourselves to deal with those issues, and more importantly, to keep them from occurring? How can we teach our children to deal with conflict without resorting to the most violent measures? How can we instill into our children basic human goodness that will allow them to empathize with one another, and, therefore, treat one another with respect? The issue is not how to keep guns out of our schools, or our churches, or anywhere else really; the issue is how do we learn to deal with one another in such a way that we do not create the desperation that would lead one to even consider using a gun against a fellow member of our society as a possiblibitly?

My original intent here was to lament how ridiculous it is that a DJ would not listen closely enough to the music she was playing to understand how inappropriate her comment was. I was going to talk about how words have meaning and songs carry messages. I guess I got a little off track. Or maybe I actually got a little more on track. A DJ failing to actually listen to a song before saying how great it is as a theme song for this weekend is not nearly as important as the rest of us failing to listen to what is going on around us, of us neglecting to treat each other with respect and empathy or of us refusing to think about how we teach our young people to face the struggles of life. it starts with our expectations and it is demonstrated through our actions. We need to be reminded of that every once in a while. I need to be anyway.

A Summer Read: All the Pretty Horses

I have been meaning to get literary and all in my blog, but I must admit that I let summer set in. I finished reading my first book of the summer a while back, but I just did not sit down and put my thoughts on paper.

The book I chose to start the summer off with was All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. I had not read any of this author's work until one of his novels was suggested to me by Greg Froese and it was introduced into our Honors curriculum. The author has an incredibly unique style, and three of his novels are my summer reading list. All the Pretty Horses was my first because I found a copy of it at a garage sale in May. Sometimes I use such incredibly deep and meaningful methods of selecting literature to explore.

All the Pretty Horses  is a somewhat modern-day Western that follows two teenagers from Texas as they run away from home and search for adventure and meaning while riding across the sunbaked frontier of Mexico. They are joined by a third kid who rounds out their little riding party. The primary protagonist, John Cole, as to talk his best friend and riding companion into letting the kid, named Blevins, ride with them. Cole is a good person at heart, not because he is trying to be one but because he simply is by nature. He also seems to value the fact that Blevins rides a massive bay horse. Throughout this novel, we see decisions made and actions take, both honorable and despicable, based on the feelings the characters have for horses. I am not a cowboy, and my riding days ended when I was in middle school and Grampie sold Prince. Blaze, and Scout, the gelding, mare, and Shetland pony that we rode on Saturday and Sunday afternoons at the farm east of Ellsworth. However, I found interesting the passages in the novel when Cole would speak softly to an unbroken mare or calm him mount during a thunderstorm. Cole was a master when it came to horses, despite his youth.

It was his connection to horses that earned him favor on the hacienda where he and his friend Rawlings found work. It was also what allowed him to fall into favor with the ranch's owner, and eventually, with that proud man's teenage daughter.  I am not going to ramble on through a plot summary, but I will say that this novel has a Huckleberry-ish air about it for me, with Old Muddy replaced by the dry and dusty of the frontier. It offers adventure, romance, and suspense. The protagonist must not only explore an unknown land that seems created as a perfect place for him to spend his life, but also his own morality and conscience in a society full of prejudice, racism, and social bias, a world where morality seems to shift depending on who you are, what you can do for those in power, and who your ancestors might have stood with. There is cold-blooded murder and family vengeance There is a prison fight scene that would make Kurt Sutter proud. There is human decency and compassion. There is young love that challenges society. All of this is connected by the horses, animals that offer Cole a purity that society does not  seem to hold. They are honest in their reactions, in their demeanor, and in their attitudes; no bias or prejudice creeps into their actions. In that sense, Cole is much like those horses he values and loves so much. He seems to have found a kindred spirit, one which resides within a raven-haired angel who finds freedom atop a stallion and in the arms of a gringo. Seems to have found.

This novel was different, It was odd in the sense that the first part of the book was rather "slow" as the characters developed and the plot unfolded. Despite this quality, which fit perfectly with the plot fo the time and the realism of the work, I continually found myself draw pack to the text. I wanted to know what would happen to Cole, Rawlings, and Blevins. I wondered where they would settle, and if Rawlings would allow the nuisance Blevins to remain a part of their group. One evening, I rode with the boys for from early in the evening until the sun set. It was during that passage that the mood of the novel shifted to more harrowing and violence became more prevalent. Oddly enough, it was also during this passage that loyalty, love, and morality gained prominence. One of the qualities that I love about McCarthy is his presentation of the "adult" aspects of his writing. His violence is never gratuitous. He and Sutter share that quality. Violence is a part of the world in which these people exist and grow, and the violence drives the characters' development and plot's advancement. So much of today's popular literature simply uses violence, sex, or course language simply for shock value. Sometimes, that is needed, but to use it in isolation from any higher literary purpose is cheap and lazy. That is one reason why I love McCarthy and Sutter. Everything has a higher purpose. That purpose may take time to present itself, but the payoff is usually worthwhile.

In the end, I would say I truly enjoyed this novel. For some, the laid-back ride through the desert into the thunderstorm that ignites the conflict with its lightning and thunderclaps may seem somewhat dry, but it is both necessary and worth the ride. The sprinkling of Spanish into the dialogue might frustrate some readers, but it is easily overcome and plays a part in the realism. McCarthy's omission of some basic punctuation, especially quotation marks, may become a stumbling block for readers who let it. However, it also forces McCarthy to create stronger characters who are easily identifiable through their words and how they use them. Amazingly, what initially appears to be a weakness of the writer eventually proves an asset and tool that allows him to set himself and his writing apart from other pieces of literature.

So, as summer begins to roll, as it always does, I recommend you take a moment and pick up a book. If you do not know which one and no garage sales are handy, snag a copy of All the Pretty Horses. Give it a chance, and enjoy the ride.  I definitely did.

Proud Moment

This is my 100th "Ramblings" post.

Really though, I am somewhat proud of that. I should have breezed by that milestone long ago, however, if I had stayed on track and posted at least once a week. Still, it does mean that I have written 100 pieces and published them for public consumption. So, I have that going for me.

Anyway, since I am speaking of being proud, I want to turn to one of my favorite topics, my kids, and ramble about a moment that I am particularly proud of. As many of you may know, I am a teacher and coach. I had the immense pleasure of teaching Emily in honors English during her freshman year at BHS. The times we shared in my classroom provided me with countless moments that caused me to swell of with pride. I have watched her grow and develop as a person, a young person that makes it incredibly easy to be hopeful for the future.

Now, my son is preparing to enter his freshman year at BHS. Now, for most football coaches who are fortunate to be blessed with a son, one of the proudest moments that could occur is when they get to help him strap on the pads and lace up the cleats and coach him on the gridiron. That has to be a moment each one of those men files away in the warmest places of the heart to be thought of fondly over the years. I experienced a moment that I hold just a warmly and just and fondly, and it has absolutely nothing to do with football.

Let me step back a moment. Each year since Dylan 8, I asked Dylan if I should sign him up for Gladiator football. Each year, he said, "No, I don't think so this year." Going into the seventh grade,  he told me, "Dad, sports just aren't my thing." I won't lie; I was disappointed because I had to accept that I would not have the chance to coach my son share a passion for football, which does take up a good chunk of time for me. Should I have just signed him up when he was in the fourth grade and just forced him to develop the habit of playing football each fall? Honestly, I don't think so.  He is his own young man, and he has his "things" that he finds interesting and rewarding. He is not living my dream, and I am not living through him, trying to make him into someone I wished I might have been. Right or wrong, as far as sports are concerned, it ain't happening. And I am honestly fine with that. He provides and will continue to provide plenty of moments that will allow me to swell with pride, some of which will be obvious, and others that perhaps no one else will truly understand.

One of those pride-inducing moments took place recently. Last week, Dylan said something, and I am sure he has no idea just how much pride welled up for me at that instant. HE said, "Dad, I wrote a short story this week, and I emailed it to you."  For me, that is every bit as perfect a moment as anything that could take place on a grassy field. I love to write, and I love to read. I have a few creative pieces in the works. I would love to publish a collection of my poetry or some of my short stories someday. So, when Dylan let me know that he had put electronic pen to paper and let his creativity spill out onto the digital page, it was a special moment for me. Due to some email issues, I did not receive the email with the story. In the car on Saturday, as we drove to a celebration of my parents' 50 wedding anniversary (talk about something to be proud of), he asked me if I had had a chance to read his story. The fact that he asked me a second time about reading the story is an undeniable indication that he really wanted me to read it. That is a big deal. No, that is a mountain of a deal. The fact that he wants me to read what he wrote, that he wants me to be a part of that world of his is important to me.

So, I have that moment of irrepressible pride that each parent has to hope to experience. But it goes a step further than that. The story is really good. And I don't mean that "Um, yes son, that is, well, interesting"-type of good. It is actually a short story with a developed plot and twists of irony. It is titled "The Vents". With his permission, I am posting the story below. I hope you enjoy it. We have even discussed some revisions, which is was another one of those moments that I truly enjoyed and value.

So, with no further adieu, "The Vents" by Dylan Thomas Kohls, June 2015.

At my last home I heard a strange noise go throughout the vents. At the time I simply denoted it as maybe the ac kicking on. One of the first times I noticed this was when I was talking to my wife about buying a new car. Our old one was just about dead at the time. After the conversation was done the sound started up and then faded away. 

That night I went to a local bar. I sat down and ordered a drink. Then this guy sat down next to me and ordered the same drink. We started talking. He mentioned me getting a new car. I found it weird that he would know that but we live in a small town, news can travel fast. After a while I left. When I got home I described the guy to my wife and she said she saw him at the office. I came to the conclusion that she probably talked to him and mentioned it. 

Then next time I heard the noise was when I was talking to my wife in the morning about my daughters birth day party. She was turning nine at the time. After the conversation I made a call to a baker to make an order for a chocolate cake. My wife wasn't in the room at the time. After the order was made I heard the same noise again and almost the exact same fade. I again brushed it off as the ac. Later that day, in the late afternoon, again I went to the bar sat down and got a drink. And the exact same guy copied my actions and started to talk to me. He mentioned the cake being bought and I simply thought that my wife probably over heard me and again mentioned it. I checked my watch and said something about me leaving and he said his name. But I wasn't paying attention and I think he said Jimmy or something. When I got home I mentioned him to my wife and she said a Jimmy doesn't work there. 

The next day I mentioned the sounds to my wife and she said that it wasn't normal for the ac to randomly kick on, well at least with our model. So we at someone check it out. They said that it might take a while so if you wanted to leave for lunch of something go ahead. We left and when we had come back the one of the vents was open and a note was on a table. The note read "the vents are fine, the sound was probably just some mice that got in there, but got out by the time I got in." We thought that the open vent was probably just them forgetting to close it when they left. I sealed it back up and went on with life. In the next few days I found out about some problems with money the family had.  We sold the house and are living in an apartment right now. 

The reason I brought up this whole story is because a news report has showed up. What it reported was that a starved dead man was found in the vents of my old house after the new owners smelled a decaying body.

An Evening Well-Spent

Sometimes, you just have to sit back and, well, just sit back. I have not done that very much lately, but I did tonight. It was one of the best decisions I did not actually make in a long time. If that makes no sense whatsoever, let me ramble on just a little more. Maybe it will compel one or two people out there to allow the same thing to happen.

OK, here is what happened. This evening, after supper, with Emily at work, Dylan playing one of his video games, and Heidi already snug in her nightclothes, I wondered out to the back patio with a large tumbler of iced tea and a book by Cormac McCarthy. I had been introduced to the author by Greg Froese, a kindred spirit at BHS, and we read one of his works in Honors Sophomore English. He has his own unique style (McCarthy does, although Greg rolls his own way too), and he is quickly moving up my list of favorites. I had spotted one of his novels, All the Pretty Horses, at a garage sale this spring, but did not crack it open until last week, waiting until schools was out in hopes of simply reading for fun and relaxation.

And that is where I was this evening. I have a chair on the deck that requires one to display a great deal of trust in nylon and old cedar as he lets gravity draw him into the depths of the chair's reclination. I fell into that chair with the book in hand and tea within reach. The sun blazed through the leaves of the cottonwood and created stark contrast between the inked letters and the dull white pages upon which they were printed, a fact that allows these tired eyes to more comfortably make out McCarthy's words and sentences and paragraphs as they paint pictures of Mexican jails and greenbroke horses.

Kansas evenings in early June are something special, and few people allow themselves to slow down and let them take effect. That is unfortunate.

When I started reading, the sun was bright and fairly high above the horizon. When I closed the book and grabbed my empty tea glass, I had to strain to read the words on the page. I had not noticed the light begin to dim or the sun dip behind the peaks of the rooftops to the west as it made its way toward the horizon, but eventually it was too dark to make out what was on the page, so I had to stop. I was at one of those spots where I wanted to discover how John Grady's decision would play out, if fate was to lead him to happiness or hardship, if the obviously dubious choice to retrieve his horse Redbo would bring on more mental and emotion anguish or simply to his physical demise. Alas, I would have to wait.

As I climbed out of the patio chair, I felt oddly relaxed and satisfied. I had made no conscious choice to sit there in the Kansas breeze and read until the light was gone. It just happened. Did I have other things to do? Yeah. There is always something else to do. But do you know what? I will have those things to do tomorrow too. Right now, not making a decision to go do something "important" was the best decision I couldn't make. I am glad it happened that way. It needs to happen more often.

By the way, I have not decided exactly how I feel about the novel itself. After this evening, I am only about 270 pages in, so there is time yet. Several times, I have thought "This moves a little slowly," but then I found myself continuing to want to move through it. I guess that makes it a good read. Regardless, the is is well-spent.

And that is what really matters.

Emily Has One More Day As A BHS Student.

Today, one of my seniors told me that I made her cry. It was one of the best moments of my year.

Now, before you think me a complete and utterly heartless jerk, let me give yo a little more of the story. Last Friday, as each class of seniors walked out my door, I handed each young person a copy of a poem I wrote last year as part of our spoken word study. I posted the poem here last week. When the student told me she cried a little, it was a good thing, not because she was made sad by what I wrote, but because that told me she got what I was trying to say, which was, in part, that some of these kids are truly special, and I am proud to have shared these halls and these walls with them for a brief time before they exit and begin their quests toward their individual greatnesses. I always enjoy working with seniors, and each year they surprise me and amaze me, while at the same time frustrating me to no end in a way that only those on the precipice of adulthood and yet still sheltered in the cocoon of adolescence can do. This year is a little different, however. You see, this year, my daughter Emily is graduating. I have been trying for weeks to figure out just how to put into words what is going through my head, filtered through my heart, as my little girl prepares to cross the stage and receive her Buhler High School diploma. It is not an easy thing for me to do. For some of you, this may seem odd, seeing as I tend to ramble on at times and let whatever thoughts might be stewing simply gush forth. As I said, this is different. So, here we go; a true Rambling.

Emily was born shortly after 11:30 pm. After we met her, and I was given the chance to give her her first bath, and Heidi and Emily were quiet and sleeping, I had to slip away and write lesson plans and take them up to my classroom. We had rushed to Southwest Medical Center shortly after midnight that morning, and I while patiently waited through an endless loop of Andy Griffith reruns, Emily made sure that we knew she was going to do things her way from the very beginning. She wasn't rude about it, but she just quietly waited, seemingly ignoring what was going on around her, literally around her, as Heidi strained and cried through over 23 hours of labor. Emily had apparently decided she would join us when she was ready. But I digress.

At around 4 am I made my way to Liberal High School and put my plans on my desk, went back to our apartment for an hour or two, and then returned to the hospital. I went to Heidi's room, where I found her sleeping, but no Emily. I went to the nursery. No Emily. That is a little frightening. I found her, in her bassinette, in the nurse's lounge.  The nurse told me she took her in so the other nurses could see just how perfect she was. I believed her, and I had proof right there.

Now, what is the point of this little stumble through the past? Well, that perfect little girl is still perfect. Does she meet some standard laid out by Cosmo or MTV or other society measuring stick? I don't know, and she doesn't care. You see, she is still doing it her way, just doing what she knows is right amidst all the commotion around her. Sure, she sheds tears (a lot sometimes), and life frustrates her at times. However, she is growing up, from that tiny little picture of perfection, into her own young woman who is uniquely her. And I am proud of her for that. I could recount story after story to show you just how special she is to me, from the times in the neighborhood pool in Liberal to the time I learned she was afraid of heights when she crawled up the bleachers on her hands and knees to the advice about giving the "crazy eye" to the girl who picked on her in the lunch line to the driving lesson that ended in the yard at the end of the block to the excitement she showed when she discovered art classes at BHS to glowing smile she had when Mrs. Dewitt announced at the awards banquet that she had won a scholarship for her passion for art.  The other day in the hallway, I was walking and talking to a football coach from Garden City Community College when Emily strolled up, held her arms out wide, and gave me the warmest of hugs before continuing down the corridor. The coach seemed a bit perplexed, but he chuckled a little when I said, "That is my daughter by the way, in case you were wondering."

When Emily was a freshman, Mrs. Susan Jordan told me that little girls need dads. The truth is, this dad needs his little girl too. The last 18 plus years have been a blessing, and the last four years have been a treasure. Thank you, Emily. And congratulations. You are still perfect, and you are still keep doing it your way.

That Time of Year + A Letter to My Seniors

For those of you who do not teach, or who are not blessed have seniors in your classrooms each day, you may have missed the daily countdown of how many days our seniors have left. We are smack-dab in the middle of that time of year when teachers a grumbling and sporting bloodshot eyes from grading essays, labs, and tests. Oh and those "OMG! I forgot to put that in my folder! can I still turn it in?" assignments that we all love so much. Yes, Kellie, I am talking about you.

This year is a little different for me. My daughter, Emily, has blessed me over the last four years in ways that few people can understand. I had the proud pleasure of teaching her as a freshman in honors English, and she has continued to visit my classroom each school day since. Her sophomore year, on a day my senior classes were in the library, I heard a senior laughingly utter, "She;s coming in hot! and I turned to see this brown-haired angel sprinting (in a running style all her own) across the LMC to give me a hug. Mrs. Jordan has been telling me for two years that I need to value each and every one of those hugs in the hallway, but until recently, I did not really grasp just what she meant. My little girl is graduating. She will always be my little girl, but the days where she will be a daily constant are numbered. And I am starting to realize just how much I am going to miss it. It might not seem like a big deal to be able to trot down the southeast stairwell and duck into Mrs. Smith's room to see her, head bent low over some new sketch or painting, but it will be when I can no longer do it. I will miss flannel, an overloaded messenger bag, and bulky portfolio working their way down the hallway more than anyone can imagine. I will only need one coffee cup, but I will still keep a second around, just in case. The drawer of granola bars will stay stocked much longer, and that makes me sad.

And all of that is ok. You see, she is growing up, and that is how it is supposed to be. I know sometimes it seems as if life would be easier if our little ones just stayed little. But then we would never get to see them grow, and that is something we never want to miss. Emily is not that freshman drying her eyes before she slips back in the classroom, although she is in there somewhere, and always will be. She much more complex, stronger, and more mature. She is a young woman, a young adult who is uniquely herself. She is becoming more and more that person she is destined to be. Is she there yet? I don't think so; she has more growing to do. Shoot, so do I. And that is ok, too.

Without a doubt, I have been blessed beyond belief. For that, I say thank you. The amazing thing is, next year, I will be blessed to have my son in our building. And Dylan, he is definitely his own unique self, too.

I will probably write again on this topic as we near graduation, but I really do not want to right now. I would rather just enjoy the time that is left.  So instead, I will share a poem that I wrote.  I actually wrote this last year, but as we near the end of the year, my beautiful daughter's senior year, I thought I would repost.

“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’s in the fridge

After your roommates ate the last hotdogs and it’s 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 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.

Tell My Story...

This weekend I have had the pleasure of working with young writers at the Prairie Winds Retreat. It is an amazing opportunity, and it is a terrific way to begin spring break. One of the greatest aspects of the camp is that I get to actually complete some of the writing activities with the kids. Yesterday, one of the tasks was for each kid to find something at the camp that they found interesting, silly, impressive, you know, basically awesome. They were to take a picture, and later we returned to the scenes and wrote the story that scene had to tell. 

Below is my offering. I had fun with it. Some of the young writers created some truly impressive tales. 

So, here you have it:

"Tell My Story..."

My rings should tell my story, swirling the years of growth and drought, etching my tale for the world to read. That is not happening. The surface where the saw bit through decades is now charred, and my voice is choked, even as young feet shuffle past what is left of me toward something better, something new, with concrete and steel. I want to scream out that I was not always this stump, this lifeless remnant of what had once been strong and tall.

I want to once again whisper with the breeze, to tell the story of those two laughing lovers who sat beneath my branches. He had leaned against me as he sat, and she had leaned into him, letting the sunlight that tumbled through my leaves dance on freckled cheeks as she closed those bluest of eyes and allowed his arms to wrap around her. Later, as the rays of the sun dipped below my branches, he took a small blade and pressed the tip through my rough bark, carving four letters set in pairs and joined within the border for a heart. I did not mind the discomfort that the scar left, no more than he regretted the indelible mark she would carve into his heart itself, where he hoped to hold her forever. The scar on me fell when I did; I wonder now if those four initials one day became three, or if those two youths would one day become one more.

But I cannot let that story drift do to those who walk past me. That gently carved heart has been replaced with only the blackened char of regret and death.

What treasures I would shower if I could only once more drop the leaves of the tales from years passed. Someone should hold a leaf to the sky and trace the veins that reveal the story of that young girl, pig-tailed and pinkless, who clamored up my lower branches to the highest limbs that would hold her, climbing a ladder seemingly built just for her. I must admit that more than once I leaned my arms toward her, allowing an outstretched hand to pull her up higher, leaving those boys far below. Boys who threw rocks, pine cones, and cruel names, but who would later chase her as high as she would let them.  In my fallen state, I cannot see beyond the horizon of age, and I wonder if she is still climbing, forever fearless, no limbo out of reach, or did she one day fall to earth?

In my leveled state, I cannot see. But, the truth is, I know now I never truly fell. Not when the weevil bored deep within my core, ring by ring, and left me creaking in the Kansas wind. Not when then dropped me from my height, sending me crashing to the grass. Not even when they reduced me with blades and wedges and let flames devour me. No, I still live on. As long as new initials trace the roots to those carved initials or young climbers give life to tiny crawlers, I continue to spread my branches.

Hey you! Yes you, Skinny. I have been ignoring you since they dropped you into the earth and your roots began intertwining with mine. I see they have staked you upright. That is good. We all need a little guidance, especially when we are young and easily bent by the winds that blow. Grow straight and grow strong. And listen: if one day, small, filthy  hands yank you down, trying to pull some laughing creature up or if some smooth, strong hand presses a steel point into your rough flesh, do not sway away. The scars will be worth it.

Thanks, Lacy Pitts @pacylitts

I was called out last night. It must have bothered me because I awoke at 2:30 this morning in a cold sweat, tossing and turning in a fit of guilt and anxiety that would not let me rest. I tried to coax sleep back to my bed, willing my eyes to remain closed while behind those fitful eyelids danced images of failure and frustration. Tortured and tormented, I lifted myself from my useless cocoon of slumber and resigned myself to a long day, thanks entirely to a cruel jab on social media that shined a light on my failure as a writer, a teacher, and, in essence, a man.

Thanks Lacy Pitts.

Maybe I exaggerate, just a bit. It was awake a 2:30 am. I did toss and turn before giving up and getting up just after 3:30. I was not thrown into turmoil by a tweet by young Miss Pitts. I am not really sure what woke me and kept me from falling back into sleep, but I suspect the second enchilada may have had a part in the process. Perhaps another bill making its way through the dual houses in Topeka started my mind turning. Shoot; the Governor may have introduced another education bill for discussion about the time I gave up on sleep. To paraphrase Hamlet, now, in the darkness of night, is the best time to do dirt, to undertake deeds that would force one to blush in the light of day. Of course, that idea assumes that said individuals are actually capable of feeling embarrassment and shame. Evidence would indicate some of our "leaders" have lost such ability.

So no, I should not blame Lacy Pitts and her tweet calling me out for not blogging enough for my inability to settle gently into the peace of sleep. However, I will thank her for nudging me to work toward clicking "Publish" once again.

So, instead of filling my mind, and yours, with more images of sleazy politicians masquerading as social and economic scientists gathered in a back room filled with cigar smoke and the stench of failed "experiments", passing money from pocket to pocket and chuckling about the ignorant fools who actually put them in the position to achieve, well, whatever it is they think they are achieving for the state of Kansas, I will compose incredibly long and rambling sentences that even Vicki Jewel would find challenging to diagram, sentences that turn our thoughts toward more cheerful ideas and more energizing ambitions.

Ironically, I turn to my classroom for such inspiration. My honors sophomores are studying poetry, you see. Currently, they are attempting to create audio-visual products which bring to life extended metaphors that they fashioned to create images of school. The assignment is inspired by Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' Is a Thing with Feathers", Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall", and Shane Koyczon's "To This Day".

This project can be a minefield at times, but it can aso allow some students to blossom. "Writer what you know" is how the old saying goes, right? We did discuss cliques this year, and I was hoping to avoid the yearly nugget "School is a prison." I pointed out that that metaphor may have outlived its usefulness and has lost its value due to overuse as an expression of young hyperbolic angst. "Elsinore is a prison" muttered the inky-cloaked Hamlet, and ages later he was echoes by Will Farrel's "This house is a prison!" in Stepbrothers. If that sentiment is in fact what this year's crop of creative minds wants to convey, they should strive to develop a new image that strikes the mind's eye of the reader.

I am excited by what I read. Not every student has a positive  view of school, and the images created by their metaphors are clouded in gloom or cracked by violence. While I am not happy to see those images tied to my mission, the creativity and emotion is sometimes truly impressive. Many are positive, and some shift in mood and tone as the mental pictures unfold on the page. The young poets  have created images for school and its various aspects that range from carrot cake to zoos, from racetracks to shoes, from beehives to mountains as they ahve crafted their extended metaphors (I have avoided calling these poems in class; I have found that simply calling them extended metaphors results in a much lower level of frustration for young men and women who i am trying to nudge away from groaning when they hear the word poetry).

I have witnessed young people labor for dozens of minutes trying to discover just the right word to fit in one line, only to change it again the next day when they reopen the document. Students become poets as they shift from using tired adjectives to vibrant participles. One event that no one outside my classroom may notice truly made me appreciate the opportunity I have each day. One student had created a rather lengthy metaphor comparing school to a zoo. The assignment required 8 lines, and she had placed at least twice that on the class document that held the entire class's offerings. However, she had actually composed perhaps 16 additional lines that she had not pasted with her other work. She was not sure if it was good enough, and she asked me to read it. In it she compared herself, as a student, to a wolverine, caged and observed, but eternally ferocious, fighting to overcome and break free, following an inner drive to go beyond the zoo's walls. It was not flawless, as no piece of writing ever is, but it was vivid. When I told her that her metaphor needed the lines she had written, that it completed the image and the idea, her face lit up, and she smiled, squirming in her seat.

That reaction made my day. That is why I teach young people. Those moments are present each and every day, and we sometimes have to remind ourselves to enjoy them. The smile when a kid finds just the right word, the tear that runs down a cheek when a stanza or paragraph touches something inside a 16-year-old, the furrowed brow when a bright student pushes a little harder to reach a higher expectation, the look of hopeful satisfaction on the face of the student who went beyond the basic requirements for an assignment for the first time this year. Those moments lead to higher assessment scores, and they allow a student to meet standards, believe it or not. More importantly, they lead to learning and growth. They open up minds and hearts, and they let kids find their ways. It does not happen with every kid on every activity, but we strive to make it happen as often as possible. It is not always immediately quantifiable, but it is without a doubt qualifiable.

So, it am going to go to work now. It is what we do. I will image upon image about school. Some will make me laugh, some will make me grind my teeth, and some will warm heart.  And one more thing is certain: they will make me want to go back tomorrow.

Oh, and thank you Lacy for calling me out. Sometimes it has to be done.

Play it a gain, Sam

This evening before I pull up my Honors Sophomore research papers and dive into grading another batch (Yes, Sydney, I am going to grade your tonight, so chill a minute), I decided I need to clear my head a bit, for the good of my students and myself. I do not mind giving the students' work my time on a Wednesday evening, despite the fact that our state senators cannot give even five minutes to discuss a proposed bill that will directly affect how and what we teach in our classrooms.  I chose my profession, and this is my job. It is what we do. However, as I said, I need to clear my head, so I will not write about that. You're welcome.

This week we did a creative writing activity in class which used music. I have the kids close their eyes and listen to a portion of a song. They then have three minutes to create the scene they see. Some kids love it; some do not love it quite so much.  I was impressed with what some of the students produced. I try to use a variety of music with each one offering a different tone and painting a different picture. After one song, a student muttered, "Wow, they just ruined that song." Personally, I like the song. I started thinking. It is amazing how often comments from my students lead me to thinking. I starting thinking about cover songs. Songs originally performed by one musician or band that some other performer has chosen to remake. For some individuals, it is a veritable crime against music to do this. I disagree. The error that is sometimes made is when a band tries to be the original when they cover a song. That is a mistake. Odds are that the second go around will fail precisely because the first attempt was exceptional. A cover song has the potential to be something more, something great, when the performers recreate the song, not in the image of the original but as their own. Notice I said "potential". Even if the new performers make a song their own, it still may not be very good. The potential for greatness is there, however, if the performers are potentially great in the first place.

I am sure some out there will disagree with me. That is completely understandable. However, they are wrong. All right, they are not wrong; they just have a different opinion and differing tastes. And they are wrong. Here is the song that started this rambling train of thought. The original is performed by Elvis Presley. The cover is by a punk band that goes by Leatherface.

Personally, I like the second version. They make no attempt to be Elvis or sound like him. That would be true folly. What they do is perform the song in their own way. They are a punk band, and they made it a punk song. The words are the same, but the tone is different. The energy is different. The song is different. And it is good.

Music is often a matter of taste. I am not a Taylor Swift hater. I actually like her music. However, one band had the guts and gusto to take Taylor's tune and craft it in their own, unique way. The second band is I Prevail, and they might be considered hardcore. It's not screamo. Personally, I prefer their jam, and it is on my workout playlist.

Maybe I Prevail had an easier time with covering "Blank Space" because the song was so new when they put out their cover. Other artists, like Leatherface reach back and grab a classic. That takes some intestinal fortitude. Another band that did that was featured in my previous blog post, but I will use them again. Battleme put out a tune titledPlay it  "Into the Black" which is a cover of a Neil Young song.  My seniors definitely preferred the newer version. The songs are different. Once again, Battleme made the song their own. They did not copy or regurgitate what Young produced. They performed it as Battleme. The made the right choice.

I am sure someone is wondering how in the world I can prefer a cover over an original, or the original over the cover. Honestly, each song stands on its own. The shifts in genre and tone fascinate me. Granted, I am a massive nerd.

At this point, I must go. The music is playing, the paper are waiting, and I made Sydney a promise.  I must do what I do, and do so with a clear mind. Mission accomplished.