Texas Bluebonnet Writing Project - Recently Updated Pages

NCTEpresentation2007

jeanninehirtle — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 10:16:30 CST

Janelle,

I started this page to collaborate on our NCTE 2007 presentation. I would like our theme to be:

Ecology of Learning: Bluebonnets 2007

I would like us to use these characteristics of learning as the framework of our presentation and then show how we exemplified those with work from this summer.

http://www.elearnspace.org/Articles/learning_communities.htm

Learning Ecology, Communities, and Networks
Extending the classroom

I put the whole article in here below--today, I'm going to write the theory part, using multiple sources, etc. Can you start pulling examples and dropping into keynote or power point--whichever--the examples from our site that exemplify these characteristics--just label the slides with the characterstics???? I'll add to that!!! Thank you!!!!! Miss you and I HOPE YOU ARE COMING TO NEW YORK!

George Siemens
October 17, 2003

Summary

Learner-centered, lifelong learning has been the cry of knowledge society visionaries for the last decade. Yet learning continues to be delivered with teacher-centric tools in a twelve week format. Society is changing. Learners needs are changing. The course, as a model for learning, is being challenged by communities and networks, which are better able to attend to the varied characteristics of the learning process by using multiple approaches, orchestrated within a learning ecology.

Overview

What we know is less important than our capacity to continue to learn more. The connections we make (between individual specialized communities/bodies of knowledge) ensure that we remain current. These connections determine knowledge flow and continual learning. To remain relevant, education needs to align with the needs of learners and the changing climate of work. Courses are not effective when the field of knowledge they represent is changing rapidly. We need to respond to these changes in a way that meets learner's needs and that reflects the reality of knowledge required in the work force.

Learning Stages and Types

Not all learning is just knowledge acquisition - often it is a process of several stages with several distinct components. Exploration, decision making, selecting, deselecting are all preparatory activities before we even enter the learning experience (the learning experience being defined as the moment when we actively acquire the knowledge that is missing in order for us to complete the needed tasks or solve a problem). During (and following) the learning experience, evaluations and assessments are occurring that measure if the learning needed has occurred. Each stage has different requirements. Preparatory learning relies more on informal tools, the learning experience most likely utilizes structured content and dialogue with gurus, the evaluation stage requires informal discussion, reflection and self-expression. One tool or approach does not adequately address the entire process. Learning can also be defined by type. Some learning shapes our thinking. Some learning helps us complete a simple task. Other learning gives us the understanding to innovate. Or it helps us to better perform our work. Other learning is recreational...or professional. We need to ensure that we do not talk about learning in its entirety when we are really only referring to a certain stage or a certain type of learning. For example, if I were to say "learning communities are great for learning", but fail to specify that I'm referring to the preparatory stage of learning in order to foster innovation, my ambiguity makes it difficult to dialogue with others on the concept. The listener may have a different focus of a particular learning stage or learning type, and will attempt to engage/refute my comments from her/his own perspective. We end up talking past each other. When we talk learning, we need to state the stage, the type, and the process we are referring to. The manner in which we learn (courses and/or communities) needs to reflect the seamless nature of our learning: informal, structured, knowledge sharing, and just-in-time.

Course Limitations

Learning is multi-faceted. The task determines the approach. Often, learning theories are presented as being the only solution to a concern, when in reality, even the best theories are only accurate some of the time. In certain settings, constructivist learning approaches work well (learning new ideas and concepts), in other settings, rote learning is needed (often in compliance training). Neither is always the best choice, or always the worst choice. To apply varying methodologies, a construct is needed that houses and fosters different aspects of the learning process. Communities offer much potential in meeting learner needs in this regard. A course is an artificial construct presenting a one-sided view of a subject (the instructor's or course designer's) and is typically presented in isolation. While, very effective for providing structured learning and feedback (see Why Courses are Good), courses do have several limitations that make them impractical in all learning circumstances.

Antithetical to today’s environment in terms of speed of change, flexibility of learning, and dynamics of content.
Life of knowledge changes too quickly. Some courses in the Information Technology field have complete content displacement within two - four years.
Caters to the norm. Formal education is geared towards the average student. Students with exceptional skills or with high needs typically suffer.
Life long learning doesn’t fit into twelve weeks.
Knowledge is intertwined. Learning in one area causes ripples in other areas. Courses present content in isolation

New views in education are also adding additional pressure for course reformation. This chart details some of the transitions instructors are making with regards to learning (changes that are much more difficult to accommodate in a course model, than in a community model):

From	To
Lecturing on factual information Working as an individual Teacher was the primary source of knowledge Teacher and print media served as the primary means of communication Learning was separated from the rest of the community	Guiding, motivating, and facilitating Valuing working together Many rich sources of immediate knowledge Learning using a vast variety of media including the Internet Learning now occurs globally

What is needed?

We need to bring elements into the learning experience that allow for extension beyond classrooms…and integration with “real life” We need to be able to "tap into" a means of staying current within our fields. Courses can't serve this function when information is rapidly expanding. We need to create a knowledge construct that is adaptive, self-sufficient, and permanent (at least until the learner not longer needs it).

Learning is an ecology, community, network

In order for learning institutions to be relevant in an era of life-long learning, they must move past the concept of start/stop learning. Learning is fluid. It impacts other areas of work and life. It's ongoing. Courses are start/stop. As stated previously, a course is an artificial construct, erected at the start of the term, that assumes to provide learners with the information and knowledge they need...and is torn down twelve weeks later. A learner who has a knowledge need six months later doesn't have access to the environment where he/she initially learned. After four years, the entire environment (i.e. the program) that awarded the degree is gone (inaccessible by the learner). A learner certainly still has the ability to contact Instructors after the program is finished, but the richness of the learning environment has largely faded. In this situation, not only the knowledge specific construct (course), but the entire ecology (program) is gone. A better, more permanent, option is required.

What is the Role of Technology?

Technology as an enabler of learning...and of creating connections. The Internet has revealed that large fields of knowledge are given value when connected. Technology in communities is essentially just a means of creating fluidity between knowledge segments...and connecting people

Where do people go to learn today?

Through a variety of means, formal and informal, we seek out to meet our own information needs. This may include research in a library, searching on the Internet, asking a colleague (or posting to a listserv), taking a workshop, or taking a course. Each approach is valuable when properly matched with the knowledge need.

What is an ecology?

An ecology is an environment that fosters and supports the creation of communities. The definition applied to gardening applies well to learning communities: "“Ecological gardening is about gardening with nature, not against it.” A learning ecology is an environment that is consistent with (not antagonistic to) how learners learn. John Seely Brown has written extensively on the concept of a knowledge ecology. He defines an ecology as an open system, dynamic and interdependent, diverse, partially self organizing, adaptive, and fragile. This concept is then extended to include the following characteristics of a learning ecology:

A collection of overlapping communities of interest
Cross pollinating with each other
Constantly evolving
Largely self organizing

Learning ecologies can certainly exceed the characteristics presented by Brown. In more formal education environments, the concept of self organizing gives way to a more structured process for knowledge transmission. The Instructor plays the role of gardener.

What are the needs of learning ecology?

Learning/knowledge is more than static content. It's a dynamic, living, and evolving state. Within an ecology, a knowledge sharing environment should have the following components:

Informal, not structured. The system should not define the learning and discussion that happens. The system should be flexible enough to allow participants to create according to their needs.
Tool-rich - many opportunities for users to dialogue and connect.
Consistency and time. New communities, projects and ideas start with much hype and promotion...and then slowly fade. To create a knowledge sharing ecology, participants need to see a consistently evolving environment.
Trust. High, social contact (face to face or online) is needed to foster a sense of trust and comfort. Secure and safe environments are critical for trust to develop.
Simplicity. Other characteristics need to be balanced with the need for simplicity. Great ideas fail because of complexity. Simple, social approaches work most effectively. The selection of tools and the creation of the community structure should reflect this need for simplicity.
Decentralized, fostered, connected...as compared to centralized, managed, and isolated.
High tolerance for experimentation and failure

What is a community?

A community is the clustering of similar areas of interest that allows for interaction, sharing, dialoguing, and thinking together. Virtual and physical communities share many similar traits:

A gathering place for diverse people to meet
Nurturing place for learning and developing
A growing place - allowing members to try new ideas and concepts in a safe environment
Integrated. As an ecology, activities ripple across the domain. Knowledge in one area filters to another. Courses as a stand alone unit often do not have this transference.
Connected. People, resources, and ideas are connected and accessible across the community.
Symbiotic. A connection that is beneficial to all members of the community...needed in order for the community to survive.

These aspects of community address our social needs as learners. Much of our learning comes through informal, social means (see The Other 80%). Learning processes can capitalize on this through design of materials and learning environment. Rather than strictly being content presentation by the Instructor, learning should include knowledge sharing between learners. These connections are the real source of value - not the content itself. Since rapidly developing knowledge continues to render much of what we know as obsolete, we can no longer derive our value from what we know. Our value is in our capacity to stay current. It's the connection to continued learning, not existing learning, that is valuable. A learning community is comprised of different spaces. Each space address a type of learning, as well as a stage in the learning process. The major spaces needed in an community are:

A space for Gurus and Beginners to connect (master/apprentice)
A space for self-expression (blog, journal)
A space for debate and dialogue (listserv, discussion forum, open meetings)
A space to search archived knowledge (portal, website)
A space to learn in a structured manner (courses, tutorials)

The particular space needed by a learner is determined by the knowledge need and the level of competence of the learner. Learners new to a community or subject matter will find structured content the most effective place to start. After an understanding of the language, the terms, and the concepts of the community, the learner advances and begins to participate in other spaces of the community. The use of communities as a construct for learning (within the larger construct of an ecology) results in additional benefits that are often concerns in classrooms. Peer-to-peer learning is as valuable as teacher instruction. Much learning happens in small group discussions, and this allows instructors in a community environment to play a facilitative, rather than instructive role. Small communities, loosely joined, are the future of effective life-long learning (connected specialization). One of the most significant values of communities is the concept of serendipity. John Seely Brown details the concept when explaining how Xerox was unable to capitalize on its development of a graphical user interface (which was subsequently popularized by Apple and Microsoft):

"However, this famous "fumble of the future" was not the result of a grand miscalculation or obvious oversight (not obvious, at least, at the time). It was a failure of divergent communities of practice to turn ideas into knowledge that others could act on. Few people in 1978 understood the commercial potential of the personal computer. And PARC's small, eccentric community of researchers were as uncommunicative with outsiders (including engineers from down the hall) as we were inventive. Likewise, most others in the company (whom we as researchers derided as "toner heads") focused narrowly on what they knew best -- commercial copiers. It took a then tiny community of practice outside the firm -- personal computer designers -- to recognize the potential of the personal computer. Yet even an uncommon ability to coordinate diverse communities of practice is not enough to move from invention to innovation. Organizations play two key roles in that process. The first was articulated by economist Kenneth Arrow 25 years ago: "innovation by firms is in many cases simply a question of putting an item on its agenda before other firms do." And setting an agenda that reflects the skills, capacities, and mission of the organization means recognizing that what is right for one organization may not be right for another. The second task of organizations, of course, is to execute their agenda. Here again, leaders must attend to social patterns and practices, not just to strategy and technology. "

What is a network?

A network consists of two or more nodes linked in order to share resources. A node is a connection point to a larger network. Learning communities are nodes. Courses need to be redesigned to reflect networked economy. A network, in the context of an ecology and communities, is how we organize our learning communities...resulting in a personal learning network.

Drawbacks to Communities

As effective as communities can be for sharing knowledge, connecting with others, and learning, drawbacks and concerns exist for those who wish to use them as learning tools:

Difficult for new members to get up to speed.
Lack of Structure. The very strength of communities - the flexibility, lack of structure - make it difficult for some people to participate. Communities favour self-directed learners who are aware of what they know...and what they need to learn. (Lilia Efimova)
Feedback. Rich, pointed, developmental feedback is often missing. Most feedback is in the form of discussions and dialogue, which are not as effective as a focused feedback.
Curriculum of the Commons (Jeremy Hiebert). How are errors handled in a community? Misinformation? Personal learning agendas? Curriculum of the commons may be positive if it's in response to the needs of learners, but negative if the commons is focused on misinformation or personal agendas. It may be difficult to manage for an Instructor.
Motivation. Self-directed learners who are self-aware (they know what they need to learn) have an advantage in this environment. Less self-sufficient learners may find it difficult to function in a community-based environment.
Evaluation. If learning communities are used in education, Instructors need the ability to evaluate the progress and activities of participants.

The solution lies in selecting a variety of tools and utilizing different approaches and methodologies. One solution won't work in every situation. Lifelong learning is not a plug and play activity. It's a living, vibrant state of functioning.

Conclusion

Variety is a central requirement for learning. There are certainly times where formal, structured courses are required. Some times the knowledge requirements are such that the course model is best - if learning needs have a start and an end. In other cases, learning needs are complex...and difficult to anticipate. The more complex the learning needs, and the more quickly the field of knowledge evolves, the more valuable a learning community and network becomes. The task of managers, administrators, and Instructors is to create the ecology, shape the communities, and release learners into this environment. Segments of the community can bring in other members (potential employers, graduates) allowing them to grow and learn with existing learners. Through the process, each learner is connected to a network allowing for life-long learning and the ability to care for their own learning needs in the future.

I Have a Dream...

kbarneyteach — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 21:36:36 CST

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Scott S. Floyd

scottsfloyd — Fri, 17 Nov 2006 13:48:13 CST

Oxford
by Scott S. Floyd

As we wound through the back country roads, my sister and I bounced around in the back of the van in anticipation of what we had ahead of us. It was our annual trek to Oxford where anyone who was anyone in the Floyd family would be for the weekend. My grandparents always went ahead of us to get their camper set up so we would have a place to sleep. Granted, we slept on the floor of the camper since there were so many of us, but at least we had a place indoors to sleep. The mosquitoes in Oxford had been known to carry off small children at night. Best I can recall, it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

After what seemed like days of driving, we pulled into the bumpy dirt drive of what Uncle NJ loved to call his home. He was one of the last remaining family members in the area that they had settled decades before. Hundreds of acres were still left, but little of it was used. It had grown up and out just like the family. That was fine with us kids, though. It was our haven of retreat away from the hugs, kisses, and pinches from the older family members. The woods were what we lived for once a year.

We piled out of the car and headed for relief at the outhouse. Dad was a driver, not a stopper. And, yes, I said outhouse. The settlement was still way out of the city, so there was no septic system. It was just like in the movies. You could either go there, or go find a spot in the woods. That was another good reason to have a camper, but Grandma would have nothing of us filling up her holding tanks so early in the weekend. My sister beat me to the “facility” first, so she ran in and spun the wooden bar that was used for a lock. I tried uselessly to yank the door open so I could run her out of there, but it was no use. The door held.

Amongst all of her sarcastic comments about me being too slow, I failed to notice that my cousins had walked up quietly from behind the building. It was at this point I was glad I had been slow. My cousins show no mercy to any of the family, old or young. As they peeked around the side of the outhouse, I saw grins on their faces that meant trouble. I had seen it before, but they seemed especially proud of themselves this time. Smoke slowly started to seep out the cracks of the old wood that made up the movable restroom. Denise, my sister, started screaming like she was on fire herself. She blasted out the door yelling something about the outhouse burning down and me having something to do with it. My grandparents snatched her up by the arm as she went flying past them. They knew what was going on, and it had nothing to do with fire or me. My cousins, Buddy and Sarah, were quick to slide a smoke bomb into a crack of the outhouse wall for all of the early arrivals for the weekend. It was their crafty way of welcoming everyone to the backwoods of Oxford. My sister did not find it very funny and it took her several minutes to calm down from the excitement, but that didn’t stop the four of us from planning our trip into the woods for the afternoon. We were ready for the weekend.

We always ran as fast as we could down to the river that ran through the back of the settlement. It was a nice place to get away from the family and cool off at the same time. Ropes hanging from the overhanging tree branches gave us the opportunity to see who could fly the highest and farthest before splashing down with a thud into the river. Buddy, barefoot and in overalls, usually could fly halfway across. I was generally on the losing side of all of these since I was the youngest. I hated river water for all of the things I could not see beneath me, but I did it anyway to avoid all of the picking we did on each other. We would swing for hours on end from that rope. Sometimes we would just climb the tree and sit talking to each other about all of the things that were going on in our lives at school. Really, it was nothing serious. Mostly talk about what we were doing that was better than what the others were doing.

Today was all about the swing. We climbed the rough-barked tree like monkeys. We had to get high enough to take full advantage of the length of the rope if we had any hope of challenging Buddy. My sister went first nearly falling off the branch halfway out. After several rounds of laughter from the rest of us, she quieted us enough to concentrate on her attempt. It didn’t take long before she was flying through the air and splashing down roughly twenty feet from shore. We all chided her in the weak attempt. I went next falling short of my sister’s mark. There was plenty of laughter as I broke the surface of the water, but I didn’t care. I was used to being outdone on this front. Sarah was next to launch herself off the branch. She made it about as far as my sister and everyone voted that it was a tie. It was a waste of time to argue about it since we all knew Buddy was going to cream us. Sure enough. Buddy climbed the tree, grabbed the rope, let out a Tarzan yell like nobody’s business, and flew gracefully through sky landing twice as far out as the best of our attempts. He was yelling “I win!” before he ever hit the water. Like that was news to us. He had been beating us for years at that. Nothing made this year any different. That is, until we decided to swim across the river and back.

Since we were all decent swimmers we created a new challenge that just might even the score for us against Buddy. The first person to swim across the river and back was the winner. We all agreed that it was a great idea and began with a running start from the shoreline. As our bodies splashed into the water from our meager attempts to dive and get a lead on the others, we had no idea the water beneath us changing. The river seemed as wide as the ocean once we got out there. I swam forever expecting to hit the other side any moment. As I glanced ahead, I realized I was no further than halfway across while the others were cutting through the water about twenty yards ahead of me. Since the river bottom was shallow in the middle, I decided to take a much needed break. I stopped and stood about shoulder deep in the river yelling ahead to my competitors that I needed a rest. I guess they liked the idea as well since they did the same, stopping in about waste deep water a little closer to shore. We weren’t still ten seconds when the river decided it wanted us for lunch. The bottom gave way and disappeared into the murky depths beneath us leaving us stranded, tired, and dog paddling for all its worth. Denise and I had a pool at home and were fairly strong swimmers. Sarah and Buddy had the river as their playground on a regular basis, so they too were capable of making the trek. What we didn’t take into account was the terror Sarah felt when the bottom left beneath her feet. Her garbled screams could be heard as she bobbed up and down in the river.

Since I was the closest to the shore we started on, I turned to swim back for help. I didn’t get more than about ten feet when my dad and Uncle NJ came tearing through the bushes on the trail apparently hearing the noise Sarah was making. They slid to a stop at the edge of the river surveying the problem quickly. I overheard my uncle crying out to my dad that he didn’t know how to swim. With Sarah starting to come up less and less, Dad ripped off his shoes, threw his watch and billfold to the ground and ran into the water finally getting deep enough to dive into a strong swim.

Mom, Aunt Carol, and my grandparents were just making it through the brush to the clearing as Dad was nearing the halfway point between Sarah and the shoreline. Unfortunately, Sarah was coming up less and less. Her struggling had worn her out to the point of exhaustion. Dad just swam faster all the while Uncle NJ and Aunt Carol were crying out hysterically on the edge of the river bank.

I continued treading water watching my father in awe as I forgot that I was still near the middle of the river turned ocean. Denise and Buddy had already made it to the other side and were yelling for Sarah to hang on and keep swimming. Add to that the chorus of my mother, grandmother, Aunt Carol, and Uncle NJ screaming directions to both my father and Sarah, and there was quite a scene unfolding. My grandfather had taken off his shoes and was treading out into the river himself. I didn’t realize he was coming for me until I felt his strong arm reach around my back clasping my shoulders tightly pulling me to shore. While I wasn’t in any trouble, he wanted to make sure I was safe.

Dad had just about reached Sarah as she went under one last time. Dad went down himself only to break the water in what seemed like an eternity but in reality had only been about five seconds. He had her by the neck like a lifeguard and was slowly pulling her back to shore. She was awake and breathing when Dad laid her on the river’s edge. Uncle NJ was sobbing and thanking my father for saving his girl’s life. Aunt Carol was hugging Sarah as if she was a baby being cradled for protection. Mom was trying to help Dad dry off, but he was already climbing into a canoe with Papa and headed across the river to get the other two.

Later that evening after all the emotions had settled down, Papa told us how he and Uncle NJ used to swim that river as kids when their momma would run them out of the house for making too much noise. They would collect frogs and sell them to the Indians that fished the river regularly. A nickel each was their reward. According to Papa, it wasn’t uncommon for the floor to shift and seemingly drop out from underneath your feet. He poked fun at his brother for “forgetting how to swim in the excitement and screaming like a girl. We were able to laugh at it then, but a few hours earlier, there was only fear.

My father was a hero that day. He continues to be one of mine. He didn’t think twice about the dangers of diving in after a drowning girl, hysterical and fearing death. He did what I hope I would do in the same situation. Saved a life.

-----------------------------------------........

Teacher Library

scottsfloyd — Sun, 10 Sep 2006 15:51:29 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Katherine's Anthology

kbarneyteach — Sun, 06 Aug 2006 20:57:31 CDT

Self-actualization

Katherine Barney

I wake,

wonder,
dream.

I stretch,

reach,
dare.

I pursue,

shadow,
chase.

For knowledge,

reflection,
transformation.

Teresa Anderson

tkcanderson — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 16:01:13 CDT

Close By

The sight of salami and mustard sandwiches still remind me of going to car races with my dad. Of course there are other things that remind me of him: cokes, beer, M & M’s, oil smell and Aqua Velva. My dad and I spent every other weekend together when I was a little girl. People use to call me “Bud’s little girl”. One of my fondest memories goes back to when we went to car races together.
You see my dad was a kid at heart. He grew up in the 50’s when slicked back hair, car racing, and smoking were cool. He never picked up the habit of smoking, but car racing was in his blood. Stories have been told that he and my mom raced themselves but that was before MY time. Just as dads do, he took me along to enjoy the race track with him.
Friday nights were round track racing and Saturday or Sundays were drag races. Don’t get the idea that we were there every weekend because that just isn’t so. We only went every once in a while. Even so, these were some of my favorite times with my dad.
We would pack the ice chest with drinks and food, load up the car, and head off to some remote location which seemed like hours away. I couldn’t even tell you today how far we traveled, but I always knew we were close by the sound of engines rumbling and bright stadium lights.
Upon arriving at the round track, Debbie and Kelly, my sister and step-sister, Ann, my step-mom and I gathered around my dad and headed to the gate. Dad always had the cooler in one hand and me on the other side grasping his calloused pinky finger. The noise was so deafening we couldn’t talk, but we knew the routine. Scout the bleachers for the best possible seat, not too far up to miss all the excitement of the crashes, but not too close where the mud and grease splattered up onto us. I can still feel the excitement in the air as we watched the cars slide sideways around the curve, rev the motors, and slide around the next curve. Each of us would select the car that would be “ours” for the evening to be the winner.
I scoped out a car that looked cool, was fast, and had an aggressive driver. There was nothing scientific about my choice of ‘coolest’; usually I would select my favorite color or number. As I watched the cars rumble around the track some would be ahead of the others or try to squeeze in between to become the leader. The driver maneuvered back and forth proving his engine was fast. Of course I wanted a fast one. The slow guy would never make me a winner for the night. Also, I looked for the cars with big heavy spoilers on the front and back. My dad had explained to me how the spoilers kept the car from coming off the ground to prevent crashes and be more air-dynamic.
Just about the time each of us had selected “our car” for the evening the cars began to line up in preparation for the start. Two by two, side by side, the cars were placed in order. It always amazed me how the drivers were able to circle round and round, edging forward then backing off the gas within inches of each other without hitting one another until the man up on the platform waved the green flag. For hours we would scream, laugh, and joke among us as the cars traveled round and round.
Some nights I was the “winner” and other nights someone else gained the title. Soon the races would end and we found our way back to the car. I still remember how my ears would hum from the sound of engines all the way home as I dozed in the back seat of the car.
These days are long past. I haven’t visited a race track since. But anytime I’m out driving and see bright stadium lights, I’m reminded of the special times I spent sitting next to my dad on hard aluminum bleachers eating salami and mustard sandwiches.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Off to college

As we loaded up the car, my throat began to constrict. I knew it was going to be both exciting and sad as we drove Casey to college. How do you face one of the pivotal points in your child’s life?
Thank goodness the rush of excitement filled the air as soon as we pulled off the highway. Hundreds of cars were lined up full of parents just like us ready to unload those hormonal teenagers into a world of their own. I wondered if all those life lessons we tried to instill would some how rise to the surface.
All in one day we felt the full spectrum of emotions: excitement, frustration, anxiousness, and yes, sadness as we prepared the dorm room as her new place of residency. Questions kept creeping into my mind-Would they accept her? Will she get along with her roommate? Will she hold strong to her morals? How will she survive in this new world? So many questions and no answers.
As the three of us walked out to the parking lot, we all new life would never be the same. Courage-oh yes. And what a road it has been. Would I do it another way? No way! Because to become who we are, one must step out to see what lays on the other side of the road, and from that step a new person evolves.

Principal's Staff Directory

kmc0521 — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 21:47:37 CDT

Add your contact information for other BWP teachers to contact you. I recommend just your name and email.

Barbara H. Fleischman email: bjfleisc@flash.net
Jeannine Hirtle: jeanninehirtle@yahoo.com
Scott S. Floyd: floyds at whiteoak dot esc7 dot net
S. Janelle Quintans: janelle dot quintans at gmail dot com
Morgan Chappell: morgan_hilley@hotmail.com

Stacy Antonino

santonin — Thu, 13 Jul 2006 10:44:12 CDT

On Goldfish Pond

I was six years old and it must have been summertime. It must have been summertime, because this seemed to be the time of year when most of us kids were getting into the worst possible trouble. On this particular day, I was out and about with my sister and our two best friends, Angelo and Keisha from down the street. We were a gang of ragamuffins who terrorized C Street with our laughter and good times that were naturally birthed through simply growing up in the country. Today we were particularly focused on any type of mischief we could get into that involved the house at the end of the street.
The house at the end of the street was owned by an elderly white woman who just seemed as if she had a lot of money because of the milky color of her skin. Along with this, to a pint-sized, six-year old kid like me, her three-story house seemed like a veritable mansion. I imagined that there were armed guards that manned her door and a maid and a butler who waited on every member of her house, hand and foot. This was because although I was one of the poor girls who spent her summers in the two-story house down at the other end of the block, at six-years old, I knew something of how the other half lived.
I can’t recall what the rich, white woman’s name was, but she always looked so well put together that we just referred to her as Ma’am. We kids would always pass by her house on the way to the corner store to get some lemon heads or baked beans or some such candy that we could buy in bulk with just the coins that jingled in our pockets. However, on this particular day instead of just passing by Ma’am’s house we found ourselves passing through Ma’am’s yard.
This was not just any ordinary yard, though. This yard was huge. To a pint-sized, six-year old it seemed to contain a whole forest full of trees instead of the four or five that actually littered the yard and created the beautiful scenery. Ma’am had a large, decorated shed that looked more like a beautiful storage barn. But, the pecan trees and the shed were not what attracted us ragamuffins. You see, Ma’am had something in her yard that we African-American kids had never before seen in any one’s yard. It was so interesting that I couldn’t even fathom the other half owning such an oddity. It was a pond filled with goldfish.
This pond was absolutely breathtaking to the six-year old eye. It looked like a small swimming pool, but it had orange looking fish in it. Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to make this pond which was a cemented white structure built into the ground with decorative flowers surrounding it. That same someone had taken even greater care to place various sized goldfish that darted here and there, in the clear, flowing water. The colors of the fish were so deep and beautiful, they made the gang and me think that we could reach out and catch one and bring it home with us. The colors invited us for a closer look on this particular day, and so as true members of the ragamuffin gang, my friends and I set out to catch one of Ma’am’s fish. After all, how hard could it be to pull a brightly colored fish out of a pond that had been built into a backyard?
Well, we all tried to grab at the fish, but our tiny hands were no match for the slippery vertebrates. The goldfish managed to elude capture even though eight small hands splashed and splashed at the water. I knew Ma’am had to know that we were trespassing on her property but in all of our escapades on her land, she never said a word. She must have enjoyed the sight. Four little kids splashing for goldfish in a pond. We must have looked plain silly to a grown-up.
Once we realized that catching even one goldfish for a possible prize was going to be nearly impossible, we decided to play a game of sheer bravery and athletics and jump over the pond. We were young at heart and restless, indeed. So, we each took turns jumping, yelling, and laughing and making a show of our courage and our physical prowess. I can’t quite remember whether I gave myself a running start or not, but I do remember that my legs didn’t quite go as far as I had calculated and in I went. Into the cold pond water that housed so many goldfish. So there I was. A quivering and shivering mess in my shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers. I tried to jump out quickly, but the water that soaked through my body weighed me down and made me feel rather sluggish. I am sure that there was laughter and we continued to play throughout the day. However, I had learned my lesson. I realized that scenery was meant to be looked at and appreciated. That day, I got to know the goldfish in the pond a little too well. It was interesting, but not all that fun to a pint-sized six-year old kid. And although, I know she saw me, through it all, Ma’am never said a word.

My Grandmother’s Face

Finding my green stone early in life wasn’t too hard at all. I found it through a personal relationship with a wonderful woman that most people called Mrs. Sanders. To me, though, she was grandma. I was about 10 years old when two things happened to me at the same time. I noticed my crooked teeth in my mouth and realized how loving and caring my grandmother was. People would call me bucktooth but grandma never drew attention to my shortcomings. She had a way of talking to you that made you feel alright. She was a slender and delicately framed woman with a tender touch. She used to tell me that the kids would tease her by calling her six o’ clock because she was so skinny and tall. I felt closer to my grandmother when she let me in on the secret that she wasn’t perfect either. Just being in her presence let me know that I was loved. She played Bid Whiz, Gin, and Pokeeno with the people that she cared about. Playing Pokeeno with my grandmother always made me feel safe and special. It was the avenue that helped me enjoy life and love being loved. It was the avenue that allowed my green stone to shine its brightest.
Even now, memories of my grandmother allow me to re-experience the comfort and joy she gave me. Every summer, I would visit my grandmother in New Bern, North Carolina. Those summers were beautiful, just like my grandmother. My grandmother lived in a two-story house that was painted white. Somehow, the fact that her house was painted white made me feel that my grandmother was rich even though she never had much money. Some of her floors were bare and some were carpeted. Most of her dishes consisted of jelly jars used as drinking glasses and old tubs of Parkay margarine serving as Tupperware substitutes. But even though she wasn’t rich monetarily, she was rich at heart.
Old, but familiar and very sweet smells clung to the walls and draperies of my grandmother’s two-story white house. Those sweet smells could hug you and remind you of grandma’s presence even when she wasn’t around. But being around grandma was quite a nice feeling. I remember when the smells of grandma’s cooking would waft through the house, moving from room to room enticing all children and visitors alike to come and eat their fill. Scrumptious odors of smothered pork chops, fried catfish, collard greens, homemade biscuits, and chicken and pastry invited everyone to come and enjoy the down-home cooking of Essie Mae Sanders. She was a woman with a big heart. Willingly, she often took in stray cats and dogs and she enjoyed helping people who were “down on their luck” so to speak. Her love seemed to know no boundaries. For many summers she brought great joy into my world. She made me know the true meaning of love and the true meaning of happiness. For many years and every summer of my life, she was my green stone.
Now that I am older, my grandmother has passed on. But my green stone still shines brightly every time I think of her. Every time I think of the way she laughed, the way she lived, or the way she took care of me. I remember the love she gave me and I can see my green stone just as clearly as I can see my grandmother’s face.

Catherine's Page

catfenoglio — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 14:13:30 CDT

Searching

Racing across the universe of time.
Seeking answers.
Floating, swirling through space.
Reflecting on moments of change and challenge.
Pondering the uncertainties of life.

A canvass of illuminating colors and celestial lights
Has been created.
Encouraging man to forge through
Dissonant sounds and tormenting sights.
Struggling through the perplexities of life.

Billowing clouds.
Four o’clocks blooming with timely precision.
Delicate wildflowers dotting the countryside.
Precious drops of rain slowly dripping from parched leaves.
The inaugural cry of new life.

I rejoice as a veil of bewilderment is lifted
As hope and promise filter into my soul.
I stop to ponder all that surrounds me.
Calmed by the light brush of a hand.
Soothed by His wonders of life.

Rebecca's Page

rebeccasandles — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 14:08:58 CDT

June 12, 2006
Book Reflection: The Green Stone

My Stone

To me my green stone shines the brightest when I am working with children or enjoying life with my family. These are the places where I find comfort and can truly be myself. I find that when I am working with children I am able to try new things and grow in the process. I love to learn and explore so I am confident that when I am doing so my green stone is shining as bright as the sun. In the same way, being around my family makes me equally happy. My green stone shines just as bright while I am visiting with them. On the other hand, I find that my green stone becomes dull when I am stressed out about something which happens as often as I am happy. It turns a bitter black color and is not longer green, but dark similar to how my sole feels during these times. It is drained of color like I am drained. It also becomes colorless when I feel unappreciated or my opinions are not being validated at work or home.

June 20, 2006
Color Poem: Strawberry Rose

Strawberry Rose

The feel of a warm summer’s day surrounded by country

Gazing at the corn fields on my grandparent’s

Farm

Calm

The smell of my garden taken over by pink

Hibiscus flowers

Enchanting

The embracing arms of the man I adore

Safe

The taste of a rip fire red object that seems to satisfy

My taste buds in an unimaginable way

Delicious

The flowers that surround the happiest and hardest days of my life

A beginning to an end

Barbara Fleischman

Barbarahope — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:50:19 CDT

A Gift From Mrs. Disney

I don’t even know how long it had been since I’d slept as well as I did last night, it was unusual for me to wake in the morning with that weighted-down feeling of coming out of a deep, long, involved dream. I hadn’t remembered my dreams for a while. I was usually exhausted in a stressed-out rather than physically tired sort of way when I lay down, and was often woken in the night by the yowling of my lonely and traumatized surviving cat. It missed its sister, who hadn’t been seen since the house fire two months ago. Lately when I did sleep I just lost consciousness. I wasn’t even having the expected dreams about my upcoming wedding and marriage. You would have thought I would be more scared of marriage, considering how much I wanted my parents to divorce. But I didn’t have time for any crises; I was too busy and over-scheduled. And why in the world was I dreaming about my grade school teacher? Where did that come from? Why now? Wasn’t it a little crazy to be so focused on a teacher that I had had as a kid that I dreamed about her?

Feeling a little embarrassed by the sentimental dream, but feeling so drawn back to it, I rolled over and let myself remember it for a few minutes. Okay, so lets try to figure this out. Was I a kid in the dream? No, it had been in the present. I’d been in my hometown but it was like it is today, nearly a ghost town. I’d been at the site of the old school. The school building had been missing, torn down, again right and logical. There was only some playground equipment left. Then there had been a secret entrance that my dream self had gone into, knowing what was there. Inside was a huge open space. Where had that been? Underground, I think. It was like a cathedral inside, with a vaulted space, and stunningly beautiful. I had so wanted to be there. There was such yearning in my heart for this place. I remember thinking to myself, “I could get married in this space.” It was that beautiful. It was grand and ancient, and built with lovely stone and wood, so very classic and yet comfortable. In the dream I knew what it was – it was a memorial museum for Mrs. Disney, my teacher. I rejoiced in my dream that it was so right and good that the town had been wise enough to build this place, this amazing, beautiful place. I toured the room, stopping at the pictures and displays about Mrs. Disney. Then I noticed a door. I went through it and found myself in Mrs. Disney’s science room, exactly as it had been. Somehow, I had thought in the dream, they kept the room intact when they tore down the school – how wonderful!

I walked around the room. There was everything, just as it had been when the school board had closed our school during Christmas vacation and bussed us to Vincent school. There along the back counter were the unknown solutions and powders we had been testing. I’d almost been done with my planned set of experiments, and had never forgiven the school board for not understanding that we shouldn’t just be taken from our work and sent to another school. There was Mrs. Disney’s library, her closets full of interesting and important equipment, the shelves where we kept out science notebooks. And there, of course, was Mrs. Disney, with that smile that was beaming and so scary at the same time. “Okay,” I thought, “this is getting too weird.” Why are you obsessing over this teacher?”

I got up, got myself to work and got on with things. Emails, phone messages to be answered, and the list of tasks to be done before I left work. Less than two weeks left in this tan cubicle that I had been so proud of but that now I couldn’t care less about. The most annoying thing about my list of things to do was that I wasn’t even trusted by the new boss to be honorable enough to finish all my work before I left. When I gave him notice that I would be leaving, and living in Texas after the wedding, he replied that he needed a schedule of all my projects, the date that they would be completed, and scheduled a daily meeting to review how I was progressing with respect to the schedule. Gee thanks, I’ll miss you to. It makes it so much more empowering when you are followed up on to make sure you are trustworthy. He doesn’t have a clue who I am or how to manage people.

Okay, so the dream is more interesting than this final project report. When was it that I’d first been a student in Mrs. Disney’s basement room? Was it fourth grade or third? I remember I’d had her in third grade. For English and math, I think. After Mrs. Thompson had left, and Mrs. Henry had retired, they hadn’t replaced them. Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Disney had taught third, fourth, and fifth, splitting the subjects. But surely I would have had Mrs. Disney for science. They wouldn’t have had anyone but her teach science.

Mrs. Disney was pretty scary in those days. I hadn’t ever seen anybody with skin that color. Her hair was old-fashioned, and I remember her in old, tailored, black dresses. She had inexplicable habits, like shading herself from the sun with a big, dark umbrella and leading us in stretches on Iowa Test of Basic Skills days. She was way more flexible than any of us. Years later someone had told me that her father was Asian Indian. Scared as we were of her, we looked forward to being old enough to be her student, in that wonderful downstairs room. My last two years in grade school the fourth and fifth grades were in the basement room full time. Everything that she taught there was just more important and more mysterious that anything that had come before. I remember the first assignment in the unit on weather in fourth grade. “You will each be making a weather instrument. You can find some ideas in the books over there,” she said, gesturing to her wall of personal library books. “When you have a plan written out, check with me before beginning.” Enough said. I loved it. She trusted us with her books. She trusted us to make our own plans. Who knows what we would find. We could do great things. In that room we put together our carefully labeled and mounted insect collections and leaf collections. We used our weather instruments and predicted the weather. We built an exploding volcano and turned wood to charcoal. We were special because we were more challenged, trusted, and believed in than any other students in the district, and we knew it. We knew that more students from Mrs. Disney’s class made it to advanced math and science in high school than from any other elementary school in our district. It felt like an honor to learn and use words like “hypothesis”. And everything important was recorded and illustrated in those science notebooks, the notebooks that were left behind when we were bussed to Vincent.

So when was it that Mrs. Disney started to change? And why? My older sisters got to have the smart, strict Mrs. Disney, and do the important science work with her, but I also got a Mrs. Disney who read to us every day after lunch, and formed us into teams that kept our own records of the work we did, competing to get the most answers right. There were rumors that she was taking classes at the University of Northern Iowa, and trying out what she learned in class. Sometimes she just talked to us. She told us stories about her life, and told us that we were lucky to be young and to be able to live to see the wonderful things that were coming. I remember when we got off the busses that first day of school at Vincent, feeling like the world had ended, there she was in her bright pantsuit, smiling and arms open wide. Just seeing her meant that everything would be okay. We would be safe and protected. But when did the clothes become bright and stylish, and the hair close-cropped and modern? When had the smiles become more frequent? It hadn’t happened overnight, but she was dramatically different in fifth grade than she had been in third. And how did she know that sometimes we needed to spend our one class a day with her talking about how awful and unfair things were at Vincent. Then, how could she tell when it was time to steer us back to work?

Mrs. Disney unexpectedly died one night a little over a year after we had left fifth grade and gone on to middle school. I was distressed when the pastor at the funeral quoted a student saying Mrs. Disney was, “Real nice”. Nice didn’t even come close. I wish that he had asked me. I never saw her when I was old enough to show her that she made me brave enough to do anything, even study and work in her beloved science. In the space of her classroom we could do anything. She believed in us. She believed in me. She cared. She loved life and was growing, experimenting, and changing to the end of her life. In her classroom, the present was an honor to participate in, and all things were possible in our future. In the space of her classroom………in my dream, I had been confidently joyful that I could get married in her space. Space. She gave us the space to believe in ourselves. She gave us the space to confidently work for and expect a bright future. That was it! The dream was my heart’s way of reminding me that I could do good and important things – work, even marry. That was Mrs. Disney’s gift to me - I could live into an unknown future and feel safe. Mrs. Disney had created that space for me. But how had she done that? How can a teacher get students to feel the subject she is teaching is important? How can she make them feel like they are capable of great things? How can she make them feel safe?

Morgan Chappell

kmc0521 — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:49:04 CDT

My Green Stone

The day I was born
My Green Stone came to life.

My Mother and Father surrounded me
With love, comfort, hugs, and kisses.

My Green Stone sparkled everyday in my eyes
A happy baby playing, hardly ever a cry.

Seven years later my daddy left
My Green Stone soon turned to a darker gray.

Two years passed and a new dad entered my world
My gray stone was turning back to a sparkly green one.

Years passed and I grew older
My Green Stone turned gray again, green again, and then gray once more.

The day I walked down the aisle to marry
I saw my Green Stone sparkle the brightest I had ever seen it before.

Then my Green sparkly Stone united with another green stone in my husband's eyes.
Together we have the biggest, brightest green stones
When we look into each other’s green eyes.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Matheson Family Reunion

The two-hour drive was always so tiring and long, but I couldn’t wait to get to grandma’s lake house in Nocona, Texas. I had my pillow, blanket, and books all ready for the drive. Mom turned around and reminded my sister and I that we can’t cross over the imaginary line in the back seat. My sister and I tended to fight, kick, pinch, and hit if we got into each other’s space, so mom made up this imaginary line and it actually worked most of the time. In the event that it did not work, mom turned around and smacked each of us on the leg and told us to stop it now or we would pull over and she would blister our butts until we couldn’t sit down or swim at the reunion. Most of the time, I would end up falling asleep or slipping into my chapter book story on the drive and loose all track of time. So, the two hours seemed to be more like one hour or less. I always knew we were half way when we stopped at the Dairy Queen. We got to get out, stretch our legs, and use the restroom. If we didn’t fight on the way, we might get a coke.

Driving down the bumpy path to the lake house was always so exciting because I knew around the corner would be all the relatives waiting to see who showed up next in the family. We always parked along the side of the dusty pathway and had to walk up to the lake house. My sister, Paige, and I would change into our bathing suits as soon as we arrived and be ready to go splash in the murky water. Paige had the polka dot two-piece bathing suit, which hung from her skinny frame. I, on the other hand, had the one-piece suit that hugged my chunky belly and thick thighs. Before we could swim, we had to do the famous family picture. We had to take the picture first because the kids would get dirty in the water and mud and the elderly relatives would fall asleep in the house for their afternoon naps. Each family gathered the kids and posed while the camera took the picture. I looked forward to the next picture grandma would hang up in her hallway of the family reunion when I visited her.

Outside, Paige and I liked to make mud pies and walk along the water’s edge to feel the mud squish between our toes then have the waves come in to the shore and wash the mud away again and again. Uncle Lad, with his belly hanging over his swim trunks yelling at the kids to get away from the fire, always cooked out on the huge grill every year. He seemed to be the man in charge of cooking and the smell of the fish lingered out across the water and through the hills. The food at the family reunions was my second favorite thing next to the swimming and making mud pies. Somehow, the family would always gather around the game table and begin with stories of growing up and reminisce about the past. All the cousins would chime in and add to the stories when the appropriate time would come.

I never really liked to fall asleep because I knew when I awoke the next morning it would be time to travel back home. The time we gathered was so precious and it seemed to slip away when the sun would set and the reflection on the water faded. It was as if the water opened up and swallowed the sun casting darkness on the sky. I would drift off to sleep listening to the crickets chirping and the waves crashing onto the shore whispering swish swish sounds.

The next morning the sun peeked out from the horizon and inched its way to the surface of the sky lighting the dark rooms of the house. Uncle Lad was already frying scrambled and sunny-side up eggs, crisp bacon, and charcoaled sausage links over the grill. We gave out hugs, kisses, and promised to keep in touch before the family reunion the next year. The ride home seemed to last forever, but I had the memories of the reunion clouding my thoughts and circling my heart. My family is my forever, my connection to my soul.

Erin Rita

erinandrose — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:47:45 CDT

Journal 6.22
On her 21st birthday, Rose performed for thousands of young dancers in an Italian opera house, which transformed into a backdropless stage. The night was filled with pure sighs of amazement as she pirouetted from corner to corner on her pink satin point shoes. Her display of pure innocence intrigued the audience; you could feel the lightness of her feet as the flutes and high noted violins danced like air, and the heaviness of her heart as the cellos and basses pounced like rain.

Poem from Teresa's Rock Lesson
Broken tip
like my heart has been nipped;
Peaks and valleys
like the danger of my highs and lows;
Scratch and dent
like the age of a naive soul;
Thin and round
like the time I blew away;
Old and silent,
can I be Rose's rock?

Renee Courier

rcourier — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:42:05 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Janelle Quintans

sjquintans — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:38:38 CDT

Unbridled Genius

Lazily reaching for the alarm clock, KT slammed the annoying alert like a tennis player acing a serve. She buried her face deeper in the pillow, hoping to to shut out the brightness until it finally disappeared...but it didn't work.

In a smog of cigarettes and electricity, she rolled off of the studio couch and slouched against its side as she examined the inventory of her pile of instruments: a Peruvian cajon, a looper, her acoustic, her electric, a guitar effects pedals, a tambourine...and on and on.

Suddenly, she excitedly reached for her acoustic with a new energy that lit her face, her hands, her voice... She quickly fastened the blue, green, and white stitched strap and hungrily strummed her trustworthy Martin. The chords echoed with rich reverberation and just a trace of a metal twang.

She laughed as she jetted over to the mic saying incredulously, "This is work?!??"

In response to "If you knew how much work went into it, you wouldn't call it genius." ----Michelangelo

Dashboard

Another year is over
I can’t believe it’s gone
Another time is through
And I don’t know what will happen
Between me and you

It’s so hard
When I see you cry
It’s so hard
But I know now you will try
And I won’t let it happen
No more
And I won’t let it happen
Again

Wasn’t it yesterday
When we first talked
You said I ignored you and turned you away
I don’t remember, but
I now have to say

CHORUS

And I’ve seen you grow
And I’d like to think I helped
But I know better
It was you
Your secret notes
Have shown me the real you

CHORUS

BRIDGE
So you asked me
What will I do?
I will miss you
I will miss you

CHORUS

Catie

catie — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:30:45 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Becky's page

blculley — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 13:16:46 CDT

Thanks—A Reflection to Someone Dear.

The last time I saw Frances, she was agitated, on the verge of tears, frantically pawing through her over stuffed, worn and tattered handbag, pulling out old tissues, packets of assorted condiments and a variety of oddities that to me seemed equally useless.
“Oh.” She worried, upon seeing my husband and I enter the room. “I’m looking for something, and I just can’t find it.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t remember”, she lamented, her face strained with frustration, her voice quivering.
“Well, if you don’t remember what you are looking for, how will you know when you find it?” I offered, attempting to put forth the voice of reason.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she assured, her tone now firm and direct.
“Well,” I said again, really already weary of this, my heart sinking. I had been hoping for a more productive, pleasant visit, and those hopes had already taken their place among of the pile of junk Frances had piled in the middle of the table. “Why don’t you just leave it for now, and you will probably think of it later. That happens to me all the time.”
She was even closer to tears now, a pitiful, painful wailing sound, soft but distinct, making its way past her throat, her voice again quivering with frustration. “It’s important. I have to find it.”
And thus the conversation continued for several minutes as I urged her to give up this desperate search, attempting to pull her back into the world of reality, a world she seldom visited these days. It was my world, and I wanted her in it right then, if just for that moment. I felt terribly guilty as I was struggling with my own feelings: helplessness, anger, love, pity and frustration.
This is my dear mother in law, who took me into the family like the mother I never really had. She praised and loved, pulling me gingerly from behind the walls I had built around my heart: walls carefully built and zealously guarded. I was a hard case, with no intentions or desire to change. Life had hurt me, and I nurtured that hurt like a living creature, terrified to let it die, least I forget and open myself up to repeating the behaviors that had brought it about. I was distrustful of all humanity, myself most of all. I needed the pain to remind me of where it came from. I could not, would not forget.
Frances was sweetly oblivious to my walls, unknowingly poking holes through them each time she embraced me into her rich, loving family. Slowly, the small holes became windows, the windows morphed into doors, until eventually the walls had no structure or support. They didn’t so much tumble as simply disappear. I’m not sure when, I only know that eventually they just weren’t there. I can’t quite credit her with all of this process, but she played a crucial role. I never told her how much that meant to me.
She doesn’t remember any of this. She doesn’t remember anything, as Alzheimer’s has ravaged her mind and her life. My heart breaks as I witness this cruel destruction and loss of dignity. If ever a human being deserved all the grace of God, she does. My eyes search the nursing home for signs of that grace. I don’t see it.
I feel helpless. What can I do? What can I say?
I want to say “thank you,” but words are meaningless at this point. The only way I know now to thank her is to be here for her as she struggles, clearing the path if and when I can, and do the best to ease her way, as she eased mine. Thank you Frances, and I hope you some day find what you are searching for.

The Big Catfish
By Becky Culley

We were all gathered at my aunt and uncle’s house, which was one of my favorite places to go. My aunt was a pack rat, the house bursting to the seams, comfortably stuffed with old books, games and toys. It seemed to me that something interesting and exciting always happened, and this time turned out to be no exception.
We had decided on the spur of the moment to visit, and Mom had not taken the time to pack and prepare as much food as she usually did. After all, there were seven of us including my parents, and my aunt and uncle could certainly not feed that many extra people at a moment’s notice. Then, some other cousins and families popped in, so the question came as to what to prepare for dinner. It was a large bustling crowd, and growing hungry.
Daddy and Uncle Bob were picked to go to town, and they took me, about age seven and my little brother, one year younger. As we bumped along on the six mile journey to town, I noticed with childlike interest all of the flooded cotton fields from the recent rains. Daddy and Uncle Bob were discussing the recent floods also, when all of a sudden the car came to a screeching halt, Daddy jumped out, and without explanation took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and took off, admonishing my brother and me to stay in the car and not follow. We waited anxiously, as he took off across the field, in the direction of where I could now see something floundering in the muddy water, splashing muddy water onto the cotton plants, barely gaining their foothold in the wet spring soil.
I was excited and frightened. What was going on? Where was he going? Soon, he came back, triumphant, holding a huge catfish in his bloodied hands, the victor in the battle of man and fish. Uncle Bob found some rope in the car and made a stringer. Off Daddy went again, at times going out of site, but always when he came into view, he held up the stringer with even more fish. I was so tickled, bouncing and giffling with childish pleasure. Imagine! I really wanted to run out there, but Uncle Bob made me stay, disappointed but yet a little grateful for the safety.
When he finally decided that he had caught all of the fish that had washed into the field by the flood, and gotten trapped, Daddy came back to the car, tired, muddy and somewhat bloody from the catfish fins that had caught him. After all, this was really not a job to be done bare handed, but that is exactly what he did.
The adults decided not to go on into town, but to get back and clean the fish, and for Daddy to get cleaned up. He really was a mess, but all of us were excited about the fish and the way he caught them. What a hero! We would have a great fish fry! I could almost taste the fish, battered in cornmeal, deep fried, and served with onions, pinto beans and hush puppies. My mouth watered at the vision.
My mother was not quite as excited as we were. Well, she was, but hers was a different kind of excitement. We had been gone so long that she had started to fume and worry, and then when Daddy got out of the car all muddy, with blood on his hands and arms, and his pants rolled up, she just went hysterical. What was wrong with that woman anyway, I wondered? Couldn’t she see how really neat that was? And, if she would just quit screeching for a few minutes, we could tell the exciting story and show her the big stringer of fish that were in the trunk.
We did eventually get to that, and the whole family was excited. We had not gotten to town for supplies, but we certainly did have plenty of catfish for everyone. Dad skinned and cleaned the fish, my mother and my aunts fried them up with hush puppies and found some canned goods to add to the table. Meanwhile, brother and I regaled the cousins with the exciting tale of the big catfish and how we had helped Daddy catch them.

Technology Resources

scottsfloyd — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 22:53:26 CDT

Feel free to add useful technology literacy links here. Add new categories if needed.

Blogs/Blogging/Bloggers
Class Blogmeister - free SECURE teacher/student blogs

Podcasts/Podcasting/Podcasters

Read/Write Web Links

Video

Teacher Research

scottsfloyd — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 22:49:30 CDT

Feel free to add research links that might aid other BWP teachers. Create a Category heading for it if there is not one already listed.

ESL

ELL

6 Traits

Summer 2006

scottsfloyd — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 17:45:24 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Texas Bluebonnet Writing Project - Recently Updated Pages

NCTEpresentation2007

George Siemens October 17, 2003

Summary

Overview

Learning Stages and Types

Course Limitations

What is needed?

Learning is an ecology, community, network

What is the Role of Technology?

Where do people go to learn today?

What is an ecology?

What are the needs of learning ecology?

What is a community?

What is a network?

Drawbacks to Communities

Conclusion

I Have a Dream...

Scott S. Floyd

Teacher Library

Katherine's Anthology

Self-actualization

Teresa Anderson

Principal's Staff Directory

Stacy Antonino

Catherine's Page

Rebecca's Page

Barbara Fleischman

Morgan Chappell

Erin Rita

Renee Courier

Janelle Quintans

Unbridled Genius

Dashboard

Catie

Becky's page

Technology Resources

Teacher Research

Summer 2006

George Siemens
October 17, 2003