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.

Tp Tech

I will say right off, from the beginning, this one may be a little strange, a bit odd. But stay with me if you can. I have point. Valid point? I do not know about that, but there will be a point.
Toilet paper plays a significant role in most of our daily lives. At least, we hope it does. If not, then you are probably experiencing some sort of gastrointestinal distress and need more fiber in your diet, or, perhaps, you are French. For most of us, however, toilet paper, in the end, is vitally important. It may not be air we breath or water we drink important, butt in the end it wipes away all of seemingly trivial items present in our daily lives. If you are an easily embarrassed sort and find yourself flushing a bit as you read, please, bear down and push onward: I will try not to let this swirl out of control.
Seriously though, many people do our best thinking in most private of spots, and sometimes those ideas lead to greatness. Sometimes, they are just ideas. I have not decided yet into which category this one might eventually drop. Here is my thought:
Does the way a person chooses to utilize TP say something about that person, his outlook or approach to life, or the principles by which he chooses to live?
By utilize, I do mean the more graphic or foul thoughts that some of you may be considering. No, I am basically referring to how an individual chooses to remove the perforated paper from the roll. There are a myriad of methods, and I would venture to say that the one that an individual selects, while not done through conscious thought, reveals much about that person. Take, as examples, the precise folder, the wadder, the catcher's mitt creator, the three square conservationist, loose layerer, or the stacker. Can a person be defined by the particular way in which he uses the bathroom roll? Does the wadder, who sends the roll spinning and gathers the long strip of quilted cloth into a bird's nest that gets the job done, approach his job the same way, never truly planning anything out precisely, but ensuring that there are plentiful resources available when needed, sometimes throwing them together as a deadline approaches, so that the process may not be pretty or efficient, but it is effective. He may roll through company resources and personnel, tossing some needlessly away without ever actually involving them in the business at hand, keeping them on the edges, even though they could be of better use elsewhere, or in the next job. This guy hopes to finish things cleanly, but he has gotten his hands dirty a time or two, usually if he has gotten into too big of a hurry or forgotten to check to see if there were adequate supplies at the beginning of the project.
Is the precision folder, and her close cousin, the three square conservationist, as neat and detailed in her personal life? Does she lay everything out, from clothes to meals to the route she will walk that evening? Precision is the goddess who guides each and every act of her day. No waste (Ok, there is waste, but no unnecessary waste). Every task is important enough to plan and every detail deserves attention. Clean. Precise. Efficient.
I will not go through each and every TP technique variation, but I hope the picture is becoming clearer. Actually, no, not the picture. That would be weird. I hope the concept, the idea is becoming clearer. However, there is one major issue, one aspect of my theory that does not quite work out. This theory is extremely hard to test. The act of using TP is, by its very nature, extremely private and unobserved. It is an extremely vulnerable time. A person is exposed, literally, and at his most human. Therefore, I truly know absolutely nothing about how a person does his paperwork. If I did know these intimate details, it would seem excessively intrusive. And kind of gross. And there, as The Bard would say, lies the rub. Or the wipe, if you will. I have no idea if the TP technique one chooses is even remotely representative of that person's lifestyle, principles, or outlook. It is a ritual performed in the seclusion of the stall, behind closed doors, alone. No one else should want to know or needs to know what occurs. Some things are not meant to be revealed, examined, or analyzed. There is always going to be something about a person that others do not know. One can take a swipe at figuring it out, but it would be only a guess, and nothing more. There are aspects of each person's life, each person's character, which most people keep hidden, either by choice or necessity.
It is something to think about, while one sits with little else to do.  In the end, however, does it really matter? In the end, does anyone really give a, well, hoot?

Observation Made While Writing by Hand

As I look down now at my hand, a hand which has pulled to me a beautiful woman who brightens my world, a hand which has held two miracles born of that angel and this poor mortal, a hand has felt my father’s firm handshake and has been clasped by a loving mother, a hand which has offered friendship and aid as well as disregard and belligerence, as I look down now at this hand, I am struck by this observation: a modern writing pen is constructed so that the printing on the side is upside down if one holds it in his left hand to write.  It does not matter the brand or the quality. It matters not if I am scribbling my name on a gas receipt or signing an insurance policy: the printing is upside down.

That doesn’t seem right.  It seems unfair. It is as if those who possess the strength of the left hand and the sharpness of the right brain are somehow unworthy of this tiniest bit of information. I must twist my head awkwardly, almost comically, just so I can see who produced this fine scribner's instrument or which drug company chose cheap ballpoints to push the latest antidepressant or erectile dysfunction silver bullet. Honestly though, is there a more fitting tool for advertising ED meds than a pen?

Still, I must ask: What have I done to deserve such treatment? What is the genesis of this bias? How am I, and those like me, to take this slight, this subtle “spit in the face”? Am I to feel inadequate, unappreciated, or belittled because I cannot effortlessly glance down to see that Bic is the culprit that produced the gloppy, smudgy, barely legible collection of scribblings on the page before me? Are we, those of the left-handedness, to be forever relegated to second-class status by an entire society that assumes that because we are nondominant in that manual dexterity which said society has declared dominant, we should not even be considered in low level mass-marketing strategic decisions? I am I doomed to write ever-lengthening draw-out, convoluted, confusing sentences as I rant about a topic which no one truly cares about, all the while unsure of who has crafted my writing utensil?

The answer? Probably not.  

After all, let’s face it: it’s just flippin' a pen.


*I actually wrote this last spring at Prairie Winds Writers and Artists Retreat, and had not looked at it for a year.

'Sweg' or 'Down the Youtube Rabbithole'

I sat down this morning to put together a lesson for this Friday. It is spring break (or spring burp, or spring pause, or whatever term you want to use) after all, so, as most teachers tend to do, I have been working on lessons. I am going to be out on Friday at the annual Writers' and Artists' Retreat at Rock Springs, so I need to have an enlightening and engaging lesson ready for my kids, especially my freshmen. So, I was looking for a couple specific video clips that would fit nicely into the what I had developed in my mind. Then it happened. I should have felt the Earth beginning to give way beneath me, but before I could stop it from happening, I was descending into a swirl of lights and sounds that washed over me and took me deeper and deeper.

This has happened before, and I have somehow managed to swim to the surface, gasping for breath, wondering how I could have given up the minutes, sometimes the hours, of my life to that vortex of bits and bytes. And then I would do it again. And again. Sometimes, I am not even draw in by its blackhole-like gravity; sometimes I jump in headfirst, happily, and swim as deeply as possible, smiling and laughing the whole time. Some of you know of what I speak. You have been there too, haven't you? You have tumbled down the Youtube Rabbithole.

Youtube is a seemingly endless universe of videos. Some are professionally produced. Most are not. Most are ameteur offerings of questionable quality. However, there are some truly entertaining, educational, and enlightening nuggets among the heaps of worthlessness. One of the greatest aspects of Youtube is that I can access videos that I would otherwise never see. Sometimes, that is amazing. Sometimes it is frightening.

On this fine morning, I started with TED Talks. These videos are lectures, lessons, presentations, and discussions by quite possibly the most varied collections of educators ever assembled. Many of them are not what we would call "traditional" educators, and they offer some of the most interesting insights. One presenter is a part of the Hip Hop Shakespeare Company, and his name is Akala. I have used one of his presentations with my classes, and I really enjoy what he has to offer.

I easily found one of the clips I was hoping to use in my lesson for Friday, mainly because a valued colleague of mine, Laura Miller, had found it first and emailed it to me. It is a boiled down and yet meaningful explanation of slam poetry and the process one might use to write it.  From there, I was able to locate a talk from Sarah Kay, a spoken word poet and teacher. That is when I should have felt the whirlpool beginning to rotate beneath me. But I didn't. I was doomed. Youtube has this little feature on the righthand side which suggests other videos one might want to view. Sometimes this list makes sense, and it is extremely useful in locating related clips. Sometimes, it is just the gateway dealer standing on the corner of the alley, not yet in the shadows and the filth, still safe and in the lamplight, but on the edge of something shadowing, something shady. Once he shakes your hand, slips you that first taste of what looks harmless and fun, there is no turning back. You are hooked and will only go deeper. At first you think you can handle it. It's just a video man, and I know what I am doing.  Yeah, right. Then three hours later, you look up, bleary eyed and numb, your coffee cup still half full but cold, the laundry still piled on the window seat and in need of folding, and kids wondering where their daddy went. Ok the last part is hyperbole; Dylan is still in bed, and Emily just came in and asked me a questions, but still, you get the point.

I had "wasted" three hours looking at videos ranging from TED Talks, to ADD Poetry, from "Rap God" to Def Poetry Jam, from lyrics video (full of grammatical errors and misspellings) to rambling video blogs. Was it really a waste though. I had never heard of ADD Poetry's channel before, and it has some great pieces on it, although I cannot use most of them in class. I found the "Fat Guy Poetry" clip that a student had told me about and that I wanted for the lesson. I found numerous new songs that I had never heard, and I saw examples of some truly horrible poetry. Was Alice's trip down the rabbithole a waste of time? Definitely not. And neither was this tumble. I will admit that I would be hard pressed to explain why some of my previous trips through the "suggestions" lists should be considered worthwhile, although I am sure I can develop a definition of "worthwhile" that would, in turn, support each and every internet excursion as somehow valuable. However, today's tumble yielded so many useful gems, few could argue that it was not time well-spent.  Odds are, I will end up diving headlong into the tempest once more, looking to repeat the outcome, and, more importantly, the adventure.

I feel that I owe any of you who are still held here some sort of reward for staying here this long. So, here you have it. George Watsky is a spoken word poet and artist who have a wide variety of clips on Youtube. He is interesting, and, I think, talented. His list of suggestions of the right led me to this video. It made me laugh. You will probably know why fairly quickly. Enjoy.

Well, now I did it.

Well, now I did it.  This weekend, I posted an entry about the competition that exists between siblings, most specifically between my sister, my brother, and me. It sprang from my brother Darrel's  (but not my other brother Daryl's) sharing his workout on Facebook. This prompted a rapid series of one upmanship that raced through our extended family, brother to sister to cousin to aunt. Today, Darrel had to carry it on with another workout status which included a specific mention of his older brother. That is just how this works.

And that is a good thing. I was not going to work out tonight. I had a meeting after school, we had to attend conferences with Dylan's teachers, and my sinuses had been killing me. Besides, it is a lifting day (Do you even lift, Bro?). However, I just could not let Darrel's volley across my bow go unanswered in some way.  So, I hit the bricks. Slowly, but hit nonetheless. I took a light walk on this glorious evening, just at dusk, as the sun sank to the horizon as it can only in Kansas. I did not match Darrel's distance, nor his pace. I did not match Kim's distance from her last workout either (which I am sure she increased based on my challenge; you're welcome.). I did, however, get out there. It cleared my sinuses to some degree, and my mind to an even greater extent. In short, it was good for me.

Thanks Darrel.