Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Teachers

  CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL®

  CELEBRATES TEACHERS

  CHICKEN SOUP

  FOR THE SOUL®

  CELEBRATES TEACHERS

  A Collection in Words and Photographs by

  Jack Canfield & Mark Victor Hansen

  and

  Sharon J. Wohlmuth

  Backlist, LLC, a unit of

  Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

  Cos Cob, CT

  www.chickensoup.com

  CONTENTS

  The First Day of School Christine Pisera Naman

  A Teacher’s Lament Linda Paterson

  Precious Gift of Language Stan K. Sujka

  Journal Power Julia Graff

  Second-Grade Math Sara Henderson

  Un-Thanked People Steve Goodier

  Student Teacher Mike Ashton

  Clarissa’s Space Sandra H. Swindall

  Tommy Was Real R. Lynn Baker

  Snow Angels Christine Pisera Naman

  Lilies of the Valley Kay Conner Pliszka

  The Principal Is Their Pal Maria D. Laso

  Wonderfulness Ellen T. Johnston-Hale

  Mrs. Keeling’s Class Dixie Frantz

  Petals of Thanks Kristin Spengler Zerbe

  Contributors

  Permissions

  THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

  It was the first day of school, the first hour to be exact, and I sat at my desk in the front of the room surveying the class before me. The motley crew of five-year-olds scattered in front of me created this year’s kindergarten class. The names and faces change from year to year. They are boys and girls, tall and short, plump and thin. They are blonde and brunette (one is always a redhead). Their hair is short and long. Their uniforms are neatly pressed and wrinkled. They come bearing supplies (everything but the kitchen sink) as well as empty-handed. They are always very different from, yet very similar to, last year’s class and very different from, yet very similar to, one another. However, although each comes in a unique outer wrapping, inside they are all five-year-olds. And I have found five-year-olds to be a very good thing.

  They sat before me, each coloring a paper caterpillar with their name printed on it. This was one of my favorite“getting to know you” activities. I have found through the years that there is nothing children enjoy more than seeing their name anywhere and everywhere. Printed big, bright and bold. They enjoy it; they are flattered and proud.“If my name is here, I must belong here,”their eyes seem to say.

  I studied them with interest noting how uniquely they approached the task assigned to them. Some sat straight and tall coloring perfectly and confidently inside of the lines as if they were modeling for a Norman Rockwell painting. While others looked more like one of the Little Rascals, slouching, wielding each crayon wildly like a sword.

  I rose from my desk and walked around the room offering encouragement through positive words and gentle touches on the shoulder. “These are simply the most beautiful caterpillars I have ever seen,” I gushed.

  As I continued to weave in and out of the desks, a clamor from the hallway drew my attention. Another class was passing by my doorway on their way to gym. I did a double take as I realized it was not just any class but my kindergarten class from last year, this year’s first-graders. I paused and watched as they scampered by, some of them waving. They had outgrown me. My heart melted and a lump formed in my throat as I watched them. A flood of memories washed over me. How they had grown! They had stumbled in last year so young, so insecure with wide eyes and cowering shoulders. And throughout the year they had grown, and by June their eyes became sure and their shoulders straight. As the line of children dwindled, the flood of memories dried leaving just a drop in the corner of my eye. I sighed and wiped the tear away with a quick hand.

  “Teacher?” My thoughts were interrupted. Last year disappeared.

  “Teacher?” persisted a voice from a straight and tall, inside-ofthe-lines colorer in the front row. “If we are caterpillars now,” she asked with her blonde ponytail bobbing, “will we be butterflies when kindergarten is over?”

  I smiled at her as she tilted her head to admire her perfectly crayoned caterpillar. “Yes, Lauren,” I said, reading her name off the page. Her eyes darted to mine at the sound of her name. She smiled and blushed, surprised that I knew it.

  “Yes,” I said again, smiling to myself enjoying the irony of the thought. I savored the image in my head for a moment longer, then as fast as the last first-grader flew by my door I said, “Yes, I believe you will be.”

  And with that, I somehow had a new understanding of the work set before me for the next ten months—nurturing wiggling little caterpillars into beautiful baby butterflies.

  Christine Pisera Naman

  Excerpted from Once Upon a Classroom

  (Thomas More, Spring 2004 Release)

  A TEACHER’S LAMENT

  Is it already August? It blows my mind.

  Soon we’ll be back to the same old grind

  Of putting up bulletin boards, papers and such—

  Who knew that teaching would require so much?

  Of our hearts, our souls, our brains and our life?

  Why can’t I just stay home and be a housewife?

  Many years back, I thought it would be gravy—

  Who knew this job would drive me so crazy?

  Correcting essays, breaking up fights

  Learning new curriculum, getting stage fright

  Are just some of the things we can look forward to

  While directing our students to be true blue

  To our beliefs, our rules and our expectations.

  Oh where did it go?—our summer vacation?

  Yet as we walk into September’s class,

  Eager eyes and smiles will make time pass.

  We’ll listen, we’ll nurture, we’ll love each voice

  And know after all—we made the right choice!

  Linda Paterson

  PRECIOUS GIFT OF LANGUAGE

  Holly Warchol, a moonfaced girl in first grade, gave me a gift I will never forget.

  Every time I speak, I realize that it is because of her kindness and encouragement. In the loneliest part of my childhood, she taught me to speak the language and understand life in America.

  For a number of years, my father tried to get our family out of Poland.

  The government did not allow us to leave. Warsaw would give us a passport but then not our visa. Once the passport expired, we would be granted a visa.

  You can imagine my father’s frustration.

  One day, a Polish Communist official was expelled from France. This man was a friend of my father. So my dad asked him to intervene on our behalf in Warsaw. Our papers almost miraculously appeared.

  I said good-bye to my teacher and schoolmates. Fearing some unknown reversal of fortune, we took only what we could carry and quickly departed for the United States.

  I met Holly when my parents put me into St. Stanislaus Catholic School in Youngstown, Ohio. This was a Polish parish. Almost all the nuns who taught at St. Stan’s spoke Polish. My parents knew that a language barrier would cause me difficulty in an American public school.

  Even though in 1964 I was almost eight, the nuns decided that I should begin in first grade. They knew of a little girl in the first grade who possibly could help me.

  My desk was put into the back of the classroom, right next to Holly’s. When the teacher spoke, Holly occasionally would lean over to me, brush her shoulder-length, dark-mahogany hair away from her face, hang it over her right ear and whisper to me a Polish translation of what the teacher had just said.

  At first, I spe
nt most of my time staring as I looked around the classroom. In my school in Poland, there was no statue of a man nailed to a cross hanging over the blackboard.

  In my classroom in Poland, we did not have one single picture on the walls. Nor had I ever seen a picture of a black-bearded man with a tall hat or a silver-haired old man who appeared to be trying hard not to smile.

  Holly told me that they were among America’s former presidents and that they were being honored that month.

  Holly seemed to enjoy helping me. Her birthday party was the only one I was invited to that year. She even took time from her friends Grace and Cheryl and played with me at recess.

  She was my translator on the playground. However, when kids called me a “dumb Polack,” she would explain to me that they were not being nice. To this day, I still don’t understand why some of them called me “Herman the German.” Maybe it was because I was European.

  Even though a nun taught our class, Holly was my true teacher. By teaching me English, she allowed me to become involved in class.

  I soon forgot about my cherished ice skates, which I had left behind in Poland. I stopped crying at night for my Polish friends, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Holly made me look forward to going to my new American school.

  By the end of the school year, because of Holly, I was starting to understand English. And the little girl who had given me the gift of language had also become my friend.

  That summer, we moved only a block away from Holly’s house. She and I played together as often as possible.

  To Holly Warchol, wherever life has taken her, I would like to whisper dzekuje—“thank you” in Polish—into her ear.

  Stan K. Sujka

  JOURNAL POWER

  I joyously anticipate the second semester of first grade. The children have matured by then, and many are good readers. Because they are capable of writing simple and sometimes even complex sentences, I introduce them to journal writing. I am propelled by the students’ excitement as they each receive a brightly colored spiral notebook. They eagerly date their entry each day. I give them topics or story starters to start them off— for instance, “I Get Scared When . . .” or “My Favorite Animal.” For many, creating an illustration with their entry is a favorite part of journal keeping and is particularly important to the child who is struggling with writing skills. Quite often, too, we have a “free” writing day when they initiate all their own ideas.

  Although writing in a journal is primarily a personal endeavor, the children often ask to read their writing aloud to their classmates or to me. I am gratified as a teacher when they stand close to me and—quietly but excitedly—read what they have just written. There is magic in their effort to phonetically write and then read words freely without correction or criticism. They smile and giggle as they read their own words. Describing everything from slightly exaggerated camping trips to painful feelings of hurt and sadness, I marvel that at such a young age they are able to express themselves with great depth and creativity. The interest the children show in each others’ journal entries is amazing, too.

  They listen and laugh spontaneously as their classmates share funny experiences about learning to swim or ride a bike. They identify easily with getting embarrassed at a friend’s birthday party when they get cake frosting all over their mouth and nose.

  It wasn’t, however, until one spring Open House that I truly saw the power of journal writing. The journals, like other projects, were laid out on the desks. Most parents opened the journal, turned a few pages and glanced at the words. But that day, I noticed one little boy who went to his desk and sat down. His mother knelt beside him and listened as he read. Then she put her arm around him and spoke softly. I heard her say, “I didn’t remember that! Really?” He nodded, and they both laughed.

  Here was the value of writing and the importance of self-expression. The child, through his own words, was conveying who he was. He was grown up and powerful. For an instant, his writing allowed his mother to see inside him. She grasped the journal in her hands, pressed it to her chest and said, “I’ll treasure this.” The little boy looked into his mother’s eyes, quickly put his head down and grinned.

  Julia Graff

  SECOND - GRADE MATH

  Second-grade math can be challenging, and not just for the students. As a second-grade teacher I was always looking for new ways to help my students understand the concepts of “borrowing” and “carrying” when doing addition and subtraction problems.

  Lynn was having a particularly hard time with subtraction. Every attempt to help her understand was met with the same blank look. Her difficulty focusing on a task was not helping matters.

  Determined to help her be successful, I worked with Lynn, one-on-one, every day for a few minutes during recess. We tried large-muscle activities, manipulatives and worksheets. Sometimes we would sit together at her desk and work. She enjoyed the extra attention, but still the concept eluded her.

  One day, it seemed as if the light was finally beginning to dawn for Lynn and subtraction. We were standing at the chalkboard working on a subtraction problem. Her normally distracted demeanor was subdued, and she was intently watching me, hanging on my every word.

  Silently I was congratulating myself and reveling in one of those rewarding moments in teaching when you know that learning is taking place.

  When I finished my explanation, I was confident that we had had a breakthrough. Lynn’s attention had not wavered.

  “Do you think you understand it now, Lynn?” I asked, sure that I was destined for the Teachers Hall of Fame.

  Lynn paused, still focused on me. With furrowed brow, she cocked her head to one side. Pointing her finger up toward me, she finally spoke. “Mrs. Henderson,” she asked, “are those your real teeth?”

  Sara Henderson

  UN - THANKED PEOPLE

  When William Stidger taught at Boston University, he once reflected upon the great number of un-thanked people in his life. Those who had helped nurture him, inspire him or cared enough about him to leave a lasting impression.

  One was a schoolteacher he’d not heard of in many years. But he remembered that she had gone out of her way to put a love of verse in him, and Will had loved poetry all his life. He wrote a letter of thanks to her.

  The reply he received, written in a feeble scrawl of the aged, began, “My dear Willie.” He was delighted. Now over fifty, bald and a professor, he didn’t think there was a person left in the world who would call him “Willie.” Here is a copy of that letter:

  My dear Willie,

  I cannot tell you how much your note meant to me. I am in my eighties, living alone in a small room, cooking my own meals, lonely and, like the last leaf of autumn, lingering behind. You will be interested to know that I taught school for fifty years and yours is the first note of appreciation I ever received. It came on a blue-cold morning and it cheered me as nothing has in many years.

  Not prone to cry easily, Will wept over that note.

  She was one of the GREATEST UN-THANKED PEOPLE from Will’s past. You know them. We all do. The teacher who made a difference. That coach we’ll never forget. The music instructor or Sunday school worker who helped us to believe in ourselves. That Scout leader who cared.

  We all remember people who shaped our lives in various ways. People whose influence changed us. Will Stidger found a way to show his appreciation—he wrote them letters.

  Who are some of the un-thanked people from your past? It may not be too late to say, “Thanks.”

  Steve Goodier

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: “Un-Thanked People” was broadcast by William L. Stidger on his nationwide radio program, Getting the Most Out of Life, aired by NBC from 1937 to 1940 and later published in Sermon Nuggets in Stories, Abingdon-Cokesbury Press, 1946. Stidger’s grandson, Jack Hyland, recently published a biography entitled Evangelism’s First Modern Media Star: The Life of Reverend Bill Stidger, Cooper Square Press, 2002. (www.stidger.com).]

  STUDENT TEACH
ER

  I was a little nervous about my students remembering the more difficult songs. I thought that we didn’t rehearse enough to do the songs justice. However, I was sadly mistaken. My students performed brilliantly. Bing Crosby himself couldn’t have done a better job on that warm Arizona winter day. My students sang with an honest heart and with simple intentions. I believe that this sentiment is what made them shine through as beautifully as they did.

  My class and I were on a field trip to Chris Ridge Retirement Home and Care Center in Phoenix, Arizona. We were there to sing holiday songs to people who might have needed a little cheering up during the holiday season. This care center has three floors. The first two floors were for residents requiring help in taking care of themselves. The third floor was an Alzheimer’s unit—a lockdown floor where the patients’ dementia had progressed significantly. Most residents on this floor seemed to wander around in a dazed and confused state. The lockdown was to prevent any of the residents from wandering off and becoming lost in the busy city. This floor made my students the most nervous.

  We sang beautifully on the first two floors. The residents loved our songs and the cards that we left with them. My students were truly feeling the holiday spirit as we entered the elevator to take us to the third floor. Their apprehensions quickly set in as we stepped off the elevator and into the lobby of the third-floor unit. As the residents were put into their chairs for our performance, my selfish mind asked itself, What good will we do here? These people don’t recognize that we are even here. How are they going to appreciate our singing?