At Home (1.9)

“Hey,” my brother says, walking through the door of our house.

“Hey.”

“Do I want to know how it went?”

“It didn’t.”

“It didn’t?”

“It didn’t go. C’mon J.L. C’mon. How can I tell them that? How can I tell them that the school that they’ve gone to their entire life, that the teachers they’ve known for six, six…what that so-called Mayor is…what this, this….” I start to cry.

J.L. puts his arm around me. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Oh, okay, uh huh, really, yeah, ‘it’s okay.’ Yeah, ‘okay’ was just the adjective I was looking for to describe this situation. Thanks for that, really.”

“No, no, c’mon, it’s okay because it’s not resolved yet, it’s okay because there’s still an opportunity, a chance to turn all this stupidness around. And starting to tell the older students is the first step in…look, it’s, it’s like what Dad always, always said, okay? ‘As long as there is hope, you must do your duty and try to make a bad situation better.’ Okay? So please, won’t you listen to Dad?”

There’s a long pause before I reply. ” I don’t remember Dad ever saying anything remotely like that.”

“No? Are you sure? Who was that, then? Mr. Rogers? Ghandi? Charles Barkley?”

“Hey, I really don’t care. But look, I can’t tell those kids that they’re probably losing their school. I know we need their help, of course we need their help, but I just, I just…”

“You need to…I know, I know you have a hard time breaking bad news to people, like after Mom was diagonosed with…”

“No, no, no, we are not getting into this again.”

“Fine, fine. But we need these kids to know to help get the support we need to save the school, so either you tell them or I’ll tell them.”

—

“Hey, Sarah, Tyler,” J.L. says from his classroom. “I’m glad that you guys could make it.”

“Hey, Mr. Williams,” Tyler says. “Where’s Miss Williams?”

“She’s, uh, she wanted to be here, but…well, anyway, I need to tell you guys something. No beating around the bush.”

“Cliche,” Sarah and Tyler say together, putting hand Cs on their foreheads.

“Uh, yeah, yep, that’s a cliche, you guys may be going to Tri-County High School next year.”

There’s a pause. “What?” Tyler asks.

“There is a chance — a not insignificant chance — that Bradford School might be closing and…”

“Both rooms?” Tyler asks.

“Both rooms, both grade levels, and in that case our school district would be taken over by Tri-County.”

“That’s horrible!” Tyler says. “we…is there anything we can do? There has to be. There must be some escape clause, or…”

“Actually, we’re early enough that nothing’s official yet. The Mayor is going to hold a public hearing on it, and he’s agreed to go with whatever the public wants.”

“Great!” Tyler says. “Look, let me just talk to my parents, they went here, too, and I’m sure that we can get some other families on board, even those without kids in school. Am I…”

“Excused? Yes, go, go, go!”

Tyler runs off. My brother looks at Sarah, who’s been quiet the whole time. “So, uh, Sarah, do you think your Mom will be able to drum up some…”

“Why’s the school closing?” Sarah asks quietly.

“Because The Mayor has decided that he wants to merge our school district with…”

“No, no, I got that. I mean, why is The Mayor looking to close the school?”

“Financial reasons.”

“What sort of financial reasons?”

“Well, uh…I don’t want to bother you with the specifics, but we’ll just say the school is running a bit in the red, and there’s a lot of repairs that need to be done to the building besides that.”

“And what’s your plan for meeting those deficits?”

“Uh, there’s, um, a few different options we’ve considered, but there would probably have to be increase in the local property tax or some similar, uh, increase in revenue.”

“How much?”

“Come again?”

“How much, what percent, would our property taxes go up to keep Bradford School, and what happens if we join up with Tri-County — do they stay the same as they currently are, or do they go down, or…”

“Hey, hey, why do you care so much? You’re not paying any…”

“Hey you, my mom, duh, pays property taxes, and since she’s already having her own financial problems, raising taxes on us even more just…”

“But isn’t worth something, a couple hundred dollars extra a year per family or whatever, to keep the school together, to keep the school as the focal point of the town, to not throw that history in the trash?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Look, there’s — just, uh, just let me think about this, and um, if you have any literature supporting your view, please send it my way, and, uh, you know, I’ll make a decision soon enough one way or the other, and if I decide on your side I’ll be happy to help you guys however I can. But, y’know, we ought to at least think this through rationally, right?”

“Um, sure, Sarah, if you need to.”

Sarah turns to go. “Oh, and please don’t tell Miss Williams about this, okay? I don’t want it to affect…just don’t tell her, all right?”

From behind the door to my classroom, without Mr. Williams or Sarah or Tyler knowing, I hear it all.

School daze (1.8)

“…so that’s how you use the arcsine, the arccosine, and the arctangent to solve for the angles in a triangle,” I tell Randy, Paul and Sarah. “Does that more or less make sense to you guys?”

“Arc no!” says Sarah. We look at her. “See, you know, uh, since arc means the inverse of a function, and no is the inverse of yes, I’m…yes, yes, we’re fine. Really. Just fine.”

The bell rings. “Okay,” I say, “those of you who are not Tyler and Sarah can eat their lunches now. Those of you who are Tyler and Sarah, come with me outside.” Tyler and Sarah walk with me just outside the schoolhouse. “Look. As the two oldest students who will be returning to school here next year…”

Tyler: “Unless Randy fails out.”

Me: “Randy is not failing out. As the two oldest students returning…”

Sarah: “Are you sure, ’cause, uh, you know he’s been having a lot of problems, and…well, I…I should keep my pretty nose out of this, since I guess I don’t know exactly what the state requirements are for graduation, or the…”

Me: “He’s fine, Sarah. Really, he’s…this isn’t the point. Look. The…I had a talk with the Mayor yesterday, me and Mr. Williams and Danny, and…no, I’m sorry, forget it, I shouldn’t bring this up, I really can’t bring this up. Go back to your…”

Tyler: “Is it about the Harrises, because there was a rumor going around a while back that once Janice got old enough, they’d…”

Me: “No, it’s not about the Harrises, but…look, I can’t say anything, so if you would kindly…”

Sarah: “You say you can’t say anything, eh, but hey, you’ve already told us two things: You told us it doesn’t involve the Harrises, and you’ve implicitly told us that, wow, it must be big for you to want to tell us but not be able to. I myself am thinking it’s…”

Me: “You’re thinking it’s nothing. No more thinking, no more talking, no ever mentioning it again before I take away 25 merit points from each of you.”

Sarah and Tyler look at each other with shock.

Sarah: “Wow, 25 merit points is…25? But, um, you were the one who originally mentioned…”

I make the lip-zipping motion, and then draw the same motion on my forehead. Sarah and Tyler look at each other again and walk toward the school. Sarah whispers to Tyler, and I can just barely hear it. “This isn’t just big. This is blue whale big.”

This meeting is now called to order, part 2 (1.7)

Since the end of part 1, Danny has read The Mayor’s document. The transcript continues:

Danny: Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. We can…we can fix this, we can fix this. Mayor, did you talk to anyone before deciding to do this?

Mayor: Dude, I don’t know why everyone’s getting all insane in the membrane. I saw the problem, I saw the solution to the problem, boom! goes the dynamite, and I save the people in Bradford mucho dinero — muy mucho dinero.

Danny: Okay, fine, so you saved us some money, but don’t you think that some people in…no, most people in town would rather spend a little extra money and keep…

[J.L. and I walk in.]

J.L.: Okay, all right, I think that we’ve calmed down a little bit, so, if we could, we’d just like a little time here to state our very reasonable…

Me: HOW DARE YOU! HOW CAN YOU EVEN YOU TRY TO…HOW DARE YOU, YOU HALF-BRAINED, EMBRIOTIC EXCUSE FOR A…

[J.L. pushes me out the door.]

J.L.: Okay, okay. Okay. Now, first off — and let’s just try to ignore the feelings that we’re having right now — there is no way you have the right as the mayor, without Danny’s permission as the school board president, without the school board’s permission in total, to close down Bradford School.

Mayor: Yes I do.

Danny: Yes he does.

J.L.: Ah. Okay. Scratch that. Um, so, uh, second off, you can’t just leave the kids at this school without fulfilling our public duty to give them an education. I am absolutely positive that there are laws — Federal laws, state laws, Interglobal laws, I don’t know what kind of laws, but some laws — that say that we are required to offer public school education to all minors starting at the age of 5, and if we close down our school…

Mayor: Tri-County Elementary and Tri-County Junior-Senior High have agreed to take Bradford’s students.

J.L: For free?

Mayor: No, dude, not for free. But their school tax rate is a third less than what ours is, and with all the repairs we need for Bradford School, our rate is gonna have to go up, up, up. And Tri-County’s a financially solventish district, so we should be set on the long road to kickin’ back and watching less of our money flying away. And after we sell the Bradford School building, we’ll…

J.L.: Sell it?!?

Mayor: Dude, what do you think, we’re going to keep it around as a museum for all you teachers and former students to go, “Wow, how awesome is this empty building.” No. Anyway, what do you care? You and Miss Will will have jobs with Tri-County.

J.L.: What do I care?!? What do I care?!? What do I care?!?

Mayor: I believe that was the question, yes.

[J.L. lunges at the Mayor, while Danny holds J.L. back.]

Danny: Look, look, we…have you mentioned this to anyone in the town yet? Anyone? Even Rand and Thomas?

[The Mayor shakes his head no.]

Danny: Do you have any idea how angry people in the town are going to get about this idea? Any idea? Can you…I mean, if this town had a rail, they’d ride you out on it. You saw what Miss Williams’ reaction was, and she’s only been here six years. Think of the people who have gone to Bradford School, and then they saw their kids go to that school, and now they’re just waiting to see their kids’ kids go to the same school they went to fifty years earlier.

Mayor: Dude, this is not a town of Richie Riches…

Danny: I realize that.

Mayor: …and I know they’ll be much happier pulling out much less from their wallet then spending more and keeping a school nearby.

[There's a long pause.]

Danny: You’re sure about this, that getting rid of the school and saving money is what the townspeople want.

Mayor: Yes.

Danny: You’re positive.

Mayor: Yes.

Danny: Okay. How about this: We call a town meeting next week, and if the townspeople like your proposal, fine, we take it, we join Tri-County, we sell the school.

J.L.: Danny!

Danny: Hey, hey. It’s okay. Let me finish. But if they don’t agree with you, if they hate the idea of selling the school, if you start hearing guns being cocked, you throw away this idiotic idea and never speak of it again. Capeesh?

[The Mayor points and winks at Danny a la Herb Tarlek. He walks out the door, whereby I, while yelling, jump on his back and try to wrestle him to the ground.]

This meeting is now called to order, part 1 (1.6)

Attending this meeting: The school’s two teachers (myself and J.L.), school board president Danny, and The Mayor. The following is a transcript made from the recording of the meeting (along with a couple small additions the recording missed).

[shuffling of papers]

Danny: [yelling into the tape recorder] Is this thing on?!? Is this thing on?!?

[Danny stops the recorder, rewinds it, and hits play.]

Recorded Danny: [yelling loudly] Is this thing on?!? Is this thing on?!?

Me: I say…yes.

[Danny glares at me, hits stop on the recorder, and hits record.]

Danny: [talking directly into the recorder] Okay, okay, we’re ready to…

The Mayor: [takes the recorder away and puts it on the table] Hey, man, this isn’t some giant Vegas lounge lizard microphone. It’s a tape recorder with a omnidirectional mic. Just lay back and give it some chillin’ space.

Danny: Fine. Okay, I officially bring this meeting of…

Me: Officially?

J.L.: Yeah, you know, um, is there anything at all official about this? I’m not sure what this meeting is about, or why The Mayor picked us three to be at the meeting, or why if the four of us are at a meeting why Cindy isn’t joining us too, and Betsy, and Wagner, and…

The Mayor: Dude? Dude? Dude, just, just…dude? Just…relax.

Me: No, no, duuude, you need to let us know why in the world you needed to talk to us outside the confines of a normal school board meeting? You know, I have a life, I have lot going on that I could…

[All three look at me skeptically.]

Me: Hey, hey, finishing the new Langewiesche essay in the Atlantic Monthly is absolutely having a life. I’ve already learned so much I didn’t already know about local Sri Lankan politics…

J.L.: Okay, I don’t care if this is official or not, we’re taking a binding vote right now. How many people believe that my sister has a life, aye or nay?

The Mayor: Nay.

Danny: Nay.

J.L.: Nay.

[All three look at me.]

Me: [sigh] Abstain.

J.L.: Okay, now that we have that important piece of business settled, Mayor, can you please let us know why in the world we’re all here?

The Mayor: Righteous. Okay, dudes, I am trying to do better at my speaking in front of people, so I wrote this all down so I could talk all better and such. [He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and alternates reading from it and explaining it.] Okay. “Hello, Mr. School Board President and Mr. and Miss Teachers. ” Dudes, I mean I know you dudes already know who you are, but I’m taking a public speaking class at Nebraska, and my professor told us we always need to say who it is we’re talking to, and she’s hot, so I’m doing what she says. “I am the mayor of Bradford, Nebraska.” She also said that we have to always say who it is that is me speaking, and she’s hot, so…anyway, dudes. “I am happy to be speaking to you today.” See, my hot professor says that it’s a good idea to…

J.L: Oh, forget you and your sexy teacher! [He steals the paper out of The Mayor's hand and skims it. Halfway down, he slowly getting angrier and angrier.] What? What? What, you’re…no! Even if you wanted to, you can’t, at least not without…no, wait, you can? No, no, no, no, there’s no way you have the power…

The Mayor: Dude, yes I do, but if we could just…

[J.L. throws the paper at the Mayor and leaves. I pick it up, read for a while, then start softly crying. As calmly as I can, I leave the room, leaving the paper behind. There's a long pause, then Danny eventually picks up the paper.]

Danny: [with fake enthusiasm] Boy, am I looking forward to reading this!

The rest of this next time…

Church at the Diner (1.5)

It’s noon on Sunday. My brother J.L. and I walk into The Bradford Broadway Diner, the only eating establishment in Bradford. The owner’s son, Danny — in his early 20s — sees us at the door and, with a concerned look, waves us in. “Hurry, hurry!” Danny says. We scurry in and sit down as the owner, Daniel, comes out.

“They didn’t make it,” Daniel says.

“Yes, they did,” Danny replies.

“No, no they didn’t. No way. It’s 12:03, and they just came in 30 seconds ago, so that puts them at 12:02 and 30 seconds at the latest. Go away.”

We stand up. “Sit down,” Daniel says. “Look, Dad, my watch says…”

“We went over this — look, look, there is one official clock, and that official clock — which is, by the way, set to the Official Official Government Clock in, oh, I don’t know, Wyoming or something — is (gestures) this clock. This clock that is above this doorway. This isn’t a game. This is real life. We can’t choose to only listen to clocks that tell us the times we want them to tell us.”

My student Randy pops his head in the door. “Pastor Matthew is running late.”

“How late,” Daniel asks?

“Quadruple baptism at his Crab Orchard church. He says probably 1:30 at the earliest.”

Danny smiles. “Fine, fine,” Daniel says, resignedly, “But that means Monsieur and Mademoiselle Williams have to leave right at 1:15. Okay? Right. At. One. Fif….”

“Got it, got it, got it,” J.L. says. “Two eggs over hard with bacon and hash browns. And an orange juice.”

“Denver omelet,” I say, “hold the Denver.”

Daniel sighs. “I remember when that joke was funny. I think you were 8.”

While Daniel makes our breakfasts, J.L. pulls out his Omaha World-Herald and we pick through the sections. As we’re reading, Danny comes over.

“So, uh, hey guys, a quick question. Why did the Mayor ask you guys and me to meet with him tomorrow? Did he say what it’s about?”

“Uh, Dude,” J.L. replies, “You’re the school board president. We should be asking you what the meeting is about.”

Danny shrugs. “All I know is that it’s, as he put it to me, “Important with a capital IMP.”

J.L and I look at each other. “He didn’t mention to me that it was that serious,” I say. We all think for a moment. “Hey, just, just wait a minute. Remember back a couple months, when the Mayor was talking about maybe trying to annex the Harris farm and the Sutton farm into Bradford? Isn’t the Harris’ oldest kid Janice starting kindergarten next year?”

“Got me,” says J.L.

“Yeah, yeah,” I add, “Ever since Janice was born the Harrises have been all about wanting to move their kids into our school district, and…oh, I don’t know, I’m just speculating wildly. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, maybe you’re on to something,” says Danny. “The Mayor talked to me about the Harrises and the Suttons too, maybe — gosh — six weeks ago. Oh man, oh man, I really hope he made that happen. God knows we need the extra money. The school’s been operating at a deficit for, what…”

“Three years now,” J.L. says.

“…three years now, and there’s not much that we can do without increasing the tax base of the town, or raising the property taxes on everyone, or…”

“Or,” I add, “cut J.L.’s and my salaries so we’re as low-paid as…as…”

“Teachers?” asks J.L. sarcastically.

“A little too late for that.”

There’s a pause. “How much is there in the reserve fund?” J.L. asks.

“Maybe enough to cover another year’s worth of deficits,” Daniel answers while he drops off our food at our table. “Danny and June [Daniel's wife] and I were just looking at the books. Maybe, maybe if we scrimp we can pull off another semester somehow while not being in debt. But none of this is even considering all the repairs that need to be done to the building: The roof that needs to be fixed, and the windows that don’t quite seal shut, and the heater that works intermittently, and the…”

Randy runs in. “Emergency! Emergency! The baptisms have been canceled! Repeat, the baptisms have been canceled! The church service is back on for 1:00! 1:00 people!”

Daniel takes back our food and runs to the kitchen. Danny pushes us out of the diner while Randy starts quickly collapsing tables…

Calculus (1.4)

Sarah runs to me as we are leaving school. “Miss Williams, hey, hey, hey, Miss Williams!” she calls. I wait for her. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I says.

“So, um,” she stumbles, “Hi and, uh…I have a question for you.” She pauses for a few seconds. “Oh, uh, yeah, I should probably ask it.” She pauses again. “Oh, um, can you teach calculus?”

I look at her quizzically.

“I’m asking because I just thought about it and, uh, you know, I’m taking trig now, and — gosh, I don’t want to offend you.”

“Why would I be offended?” I ask.

“Because…I don’t know, but I’m taking trig now, and I know I’m the only student you’ve ever had who’s taken trig before their senior year, right? So um…you’ve never taught calculus before, have you?”

I shake my head no.

“Do you even remember calculus?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, oh, of course,” I say. “Calculus…really, calculus is just one of those things that once you’ve learned it, you always remember it. It’s, uh, stuck up here,” — I point to my head — “forever taking up valuable space I should be using to remember how to solve a Rubik’s Cube or…uh…cure male-pattern baldness on rats. Honestly, it’s just like how you never forget how to ride a bike.”

In unison, we turn our right hands into Cs, put them on our forehead and say, “No cliches.”

“Are you really, really, really, really, really sure?” she asks. “Have you, uh, have you actually taught Calc before?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Look, then maybe I go up to Lincoln Southwest, I take a Calc class up there first thing in the morning or at the very end of the day, I mean if you don’t offer it at Bradford Secondary it’s state law they have to let me in for the one class, and it’s not far, it’s just up 77, then I can just come back here the rest of the day and take the…”

“Sarah, that’s 45 minutes each way.”

“No, no, I can make it in a half-hour. I’ve done it before.”

I pause. “I’m…I’m not going to do the math and figure out what speed you would have to average to drive 39 miles in a half… — sorry, I can’t help myself, it’s 78 miles per hour — but look. Really. Really. I have calculus under control. You’ll do fine. You’ll learn calculus, you’ll ace the Calculus AP test, just like you aced the Biology AP test, just like you’re going to ace the European History AP test later this year. You’ll do fine. You’ll do fine.”

—

I accost my brother in the general store. “J.L., please please please tell me you remember something about calculus.”

“I never took calculus,” he says.

“Ahh! How can you get a college degree without having taken even one calculus class?”

“I know, sis, I know, but for some exceptionally odd reason Nebraska didn’t understand the importance of teaching calculus to elementary education teachers. I know that I hardly go through a day without thinking to myself, ‘Self, if only you had taken that calculus class, you could get through so much better to those kindergarteners.’”

I slap him upside the head.

I see the town’s three NU students milling around in the store. “Hey Rand, Thomas, Mayor.”

“Yo, yo, yo!” says the Mayor. (Yes, he is the town’s mayor. Long story.)

“Um, so, uh,” I stutter, “any of you guys remember much about calculus? Just, you know, first year calc, nothing too fancy?”

Rand and Thomas shake their heads. “No, no, no!” says the Mayor. I start walking away, and the Mayor catches up to me. “Yo, Miss Will, can you and Mr. Will meet me and the school board dude next Monday at 8 p. in the m.?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Aww yeah. Sweet.”

I walk toward the store’s owner, Buck, and consider asking him for help. I then see him scratching beard with two chopsticks and think better of it. I walk back to my brother. “Okay,” I say. “What’s our plan?”

“Perhaps I’m overestimating you, but I’m not sure you need that much of a plan,” J.L. says. “Look, you’ve taken the class before, presumably you passed it, so I would guess that if you just spent a few hours looking over the textbook, you’d…. Wait a second. Why in the world are you trying to relearn calculus anyway?”

“Look!” I cry and point. “It’s…uh…something you should look at to distract you while I run way!” I run away.

The Nebraska counties song (1.3)

While my students were at lunch, I sneaked into my brother’s class to ask him a question.  He was talking to his fifth-grade student, Kimberly.  “Okay, Kimberly, you already know the biggest project of your fifth-grade year is the Nebraska unit.  But what you don’t yet know is that one of the aspects that that project is to memorize all 93 counties in our fair state.”

“What?” Kimberly asked.   “Are you serious?”

“Really, really, I promise, it’s not that bad.  Okay, like — okay, remember when you were having trouble with long division a couple years ago?  What was it that helped you through that?”

Kimberly thought.  “Mostly it was ‘The Long Division Polka,’ I think”

“Exactly, ‘The Long Division Polka,’ which is why I’ve written a song: a song that’s gotten the last two fifth-graders I’ve had to memorize the counties, a song it’s going to get you through it as well.” My brother gets his guitar, tunes it briefly, and hands Kimberly a lyric sheet. “Okay, I cheated on the music on this one and stole it from Arthur Sullivan, but hey, he wasn’t too bad of a composer, was he?

“Arthur who?”

“Oh, never mind.  Just…just listen.”  And my brother starts singing, to the tune of “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General”,

Adams, Antelope and Arthur
Banner, Blaine and Boone, Box Butte
Boyd, Brown, Buffalo and Burt
and Butler, Cass and Cedar, whoo!

Chase, Cherry, Cheyenne and Clay
and Colfax, Cuming, Custer Co.
Dakota, Dawes, and Dawson, Deuel,
Dixon, Dodge and more to go!

Douglas, Dundy, Fillmore, Franklin,
Frontier, Furnas, Gage, what fun!
Garden, Garfield, Gosper, Grant
and Greeley, Hall, and Hamilton

Harlan, Hayes, and Hitchcock, Holt
and Hooker, Howard, Jefferson
Johnson, Kearney, Keith, and then there’s
Keya Paha — such a run!

Kimball, Knox, and Lancaster
and Lincoln, Logan, Loup, la la
Madison, McPherson, Merrick
Morrill, Nance, and Nemaha

Nuckols, Otoe, Pawanee and
Perkins, Phelps and Pierce and Platte
Polk, Red Willow, Richardson,
and Rock and Saline — look at that!

Sarpy, Saunders, Scotts Bluff, Seward,
Sheridan and then Sherman
Sioux and Stanton, Thayer, Thomas
Thurston, Valley — so much fun

Washington and Wayne and Webster
Wheeler and then York does end
Our song with all the ninety-three
Nebraska counties!  Yes, my friend!

Learning (1.2)

To give you some idea what its like teaching students at four different levels, a sample English class:

Me: So, Randy, Paul, what did you think of the first act of “Romeo & Juliet”?

Randy, grade 12: Oh, Miss Williams, it was pretty good, although I do have some questions about some parts that don’t quite make sense to me.

Me: Okay, fire away.

Randy: Like, I didn’t even realize they had guns back in Shakespeare’s time.

Me: They…didn’t. No, that’s not quite true, actually. There were a few guns around, but they were incredibly slow to load and…

Randy: I guess I just thought it was weird that “Romeo & Juliet” had so many guns.

Me: It…did?

Randy: You know, the Sword Gun, the Dagger Gun, the Longsword MAG-7…

(Paul, also grade 12, slaps his head.)

Me: Randy, did you watch the Leonardo DiCaprio “Romeo Plus Juliet” movie rather than read the play?

Randy: Nnnn….yes.

Sarah, grade 10: Miss Williams, this correction ain’t not right!

Me: Randy, read act 1. Paul, read act 2 or help Randy understand what weaponry was like in the late 16th Century. Sarah, do you always have to use intentionally incorrect grammar to get my attention?

Sarah: Yes. Now, great, please explain why you put a red x next to this line: “If I was on my deathbed, how could I regret spending three of the final hours of my life reading the endless and giddy fun that was Melville’s 200 straight pages of monotonous whale hunting…”

Me: You missed the past subjunctive case.

Sarah: Ah, oh, of course, yes, the past subjunctive case, the case that’s both subjunctive and in the past, yes, okay…

Me: You have…

Sarah: I have no idea.

Me: Right. When you use “if” to indicate that…

Tyler, grade 8: Miss Williams?

Me: Just a second, Tyler — to indicate a past that didn’t happen, or that may not have happened, you change the first person “was” to “were.” “If I were as rich as Warren Buffett…,” “If I were quarterback for the Huskers,” “If I were on my deathbed…”

Sarah: Ah, great, gotcha. So, uh, I don’t want to complain, but did you ever actually teach that to me before?

Me: Tyler, when did we learn about using “if I were” instead of “if I was”?

Tyler: Last week.

Me: So you learned it two years, one week ago.

Sarah: And I didn’t remember from learning it just 105 weeks in the past? Shocking, absolutely shocking.

(I smile.)

Me: Okay, Tyler, what do you have for me?

Tyler: What part of speech is “very”?

Me: “Very”?

Tyler: “Very.”

Me: Read your sentence.

Tyler: “The owner’s manual was very old, but the car looked brand new.”

Me: Okay, so what’s “very” doing in that sentence?

Tyler: Um, modifying “old,” I guess.

Me: And what’s “old”?

Tyler: A…an adjective?

Me: Yep. And what modifies an adjective?

Tyler: An adverb!

Me: See, you don’t even need me. Who’s next?

(A bell rings.)

Me: Okay guys, we’re done with English.

Sarah: The language? Forever?

Me: Yes, forever and ever. We’re only going to talk in numbers and arithmetic operators from now on. So in light of that brave new world, let’s all get out our trigonometry, algebra I, and seventh-grade math books…

Founders’ Day (1.1)

The elementary schoolers are at recess. Their teacher, my brother Steven, calls them to the front steps of the school as I bring out my secondary students to the same location.

“Why are we all out here?” asks Jacob, grade five.

“Miss Williams has something very important that she needs to tell all of us,” my brother says, “so please give her your undivided attention.”

I give the class my most somber look. My hands are behind my back, holding a book. “Mr. Williams is right. This is a very serious matter, and I need all of you to pay close attention — close quiet attention — while I am conveying this information to all of you. Please, no talking, no interrupting.”

I let it sink in for a few seconds. Then I take the book from behind me and start to quickly read it. “It was January of 1879, and a sprightly young man named Daniel Bradford and his wife Rebe….”

“No!” the students all say in unison, except the two kindergarteners, who look confused.

“No, no, no no no!” says Sarah, grade 10. “Oh, c’mon, it is not Founders’ Day again!”

I try continuing. “…and his wife Rebecca were traveling west-northwest from…”

“No no no!” says Sarah. “If I have to listen to this history lesson for the tenth…”

“Eleventh,” I correct.

“…eleventh time, I’m just going to found my own town, and bylaw number one is going to be ‘No One Shall Ever Mention the Name of Britney Spears,’ but bylaw number two, the very next, is going to be ‘There Shall Be No Forcing Schoolchildren to Listen to The History of The Town’s Formation Every Single Stupid Year.’”

“Look,” I argue, “It’s not my idea of fun reading 5000 esoteric…

“Confusing, complicated,” my brother translates to his students.

“…esoteric words about how Daniel Bradford, his wife, three sons, four cows, a buffalo and a flock of wayward geese founded the place now known as Bradford, Nebraska.”

“Don’t forget the seven-day journey on the Platte River,” adds Tyler, grade 8, “When somehow, against the mighty current, they manage to…”

“No one is forgetting the seven-day journey on the Platte River against the mighty current,” I respond. “In fact, no one is forgetting any of this, because we’re going to listen to it all once again. Now. ‘It was January of 1879, and a sprightly…’”

“Wait, wait, wait a minute,” says Sarah. “You’re right, of course you have to read it, because there’s a town law saying that a teacher has to read out loud the entire history of the town from the schoolhouse steps on Founders’ Day. “

“Yes.”

“But that’s all the law says, right?”

I look at my brother. He shrugs. “Um, sure, yeah,” he says.

“Great. Then while you are reading the history over on the steps, I…” — and she runs to the playground, 90 feet away, and starts yelling — “…am going to listen to it from the swings and the slide over here. Nothing in the law says we can’t listen from a more enjoyable location much, much further away, right? Great! Anyone else?”

The rest of the students run over to her at the playground, except for the two kindergarteners. “I want to hear the S-O-teric,” says Amanda.

I smile. “Are you sure?”

“What’s a Platte?” says Michael.

I open up the book. “It was January of 1879, and a sprightly young man named Daniel Bradford and his wife Rebecca were traveling west-northwest from Independence, Missouri. They were no doubt looked on as foolish at the time, as they only followed the well-known Oregon Trail for 125 miles before veering off the path to a road barely trodden on….”

Well, hello.

My name is Miss Williams. I’m a 30-year-old teacher for what is probably the smallest public school in Nebraska: 11 students grades K through twelve. I teach the six students grades seven through twelve. My brother, Mr. Williams, teaches the five elementary students.

I’m going to try to use this blog to give sort of a first-person view of what it’s like to teach in a modern-day two-room schoolhouse as well to live in a town with barely 100 people. Since many of the people involved are minors, some names will be changed, but I’ll otherwise try to be true to the school and the town.