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Final Reflection

Book Report #4

Book Report #4

On Their Way  by J. Fraser and D. Skolnick, Heinemann 1994

    This engaging book is a great way for teachers who want to look into the classrooms of two veteran teachers and see how they have set up their reading and writing curriculum.  It is targeted for teachers of second grade students, but any elementary teacher could glean ideas from it. 
    The book is organized into four main thematic sections.  In the first section the authors  talk about developmental issues because they believe that “understanding the complex nature of the second grader provides us with the patience and fortitude to love what we do and want to do it again.” (p. 15). The authors then explain how they taught reading and writing. The final section explores evaluation and reflections by students and the teachers.
    At times the situations in the book seem a little too ideal. Students are quoted saying just the right comment and their papers show wonderful examples.  The authors do acknowledge that they are seasoned teachers and have very strong support from their administration.  This is an important consideration that should not be overlooked by new teachers reading this book.  Also, in this “no child left behind” age, (this book was published in 1994), most teachers do not have the luxury of creating a completely developmental classroom model.
     The authors write with a relaxed conversational voice as if they are sharing their information with peers. It is very obvious that the students are the center of their desire to teach well.  For this reason it is an inspirational book for those of us who want to “love what we do and want to do it again.”(p. 15)

Book Report #1

    Let’s Make Books  by Dr. Sandra Brady (Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co.,1992) is a guide on how to write and make books.  The book is divided into four main chapters which are The Writing Process, The Bookmaking Process, A Bookmaking Center and Writing Across the Curriculum.  Each chapter has quick, easy to read pages that describe the steps for the process.  It also has sample organizers and examples of student work using those organizers.  For those teachers who only need tips on certain areas of bookmaking, there is an index printed on the inside cover. 
    This book could be used at all grade levels.  It has word lists and editing guides that are appropriate for intermediate grades, but also has samples of shape books that would delight primary children. One tip I found especially helpful for young children was to encourage them to choose a subject that they find very interesting because writing and publishing a book is a long process.
  The best part of this book is that it is organized in a way that makes the information with in it easily accessible for the time-crunched teacher.

Book Report #2

Book Review #2

Creating Young Writers by Vicki Spandel

    This very practical book uses the six writing traits as a framework for teaching writing to primary students.  It becomes very evident, however, that Ms. Spandel strongly believes that teaching these traits are not goals in and of themselves, but a vocabulary that is key to helping young writers become aware of good writing.  She says it is “centered around writers’ language. For this reason it is not curriculum unto itself...It is a way of thinking about writing that supports process-based writing instruction.”(pg.94)
    Ms. Spandel gives many practical, easily implemented suggestions for applying teaching with the six traits.  For example, she suggests having students model the different voices they would use if asking their parents, an annoying sibling or a toddler to close the door.  She says “you cannot really expect them to understand what you mean - yet...You are only planting the seed.”  This is a believable teacher talking!
  The book is organized in a very clear, usable format.  Each chapter ends with three especially useful sections: The chapter “in a nutshell” which is a summary of the chapter, “Extensions” which is usually thought provoking questions or further activities for the reader, and “Sources Cited”, a wonderful reference list of the books that apply to the chapter. These three sections are worth the price of the book.
  I was drawn to this book because I agree with her philosophy of writing.  She uses a process-based writing format, but within a context of immersing students in literature.  Her book is interesting, thoughtful, and well organized.  Obviously she’s the model of a good writer.

Book Report #3

Book Report #3

The Big Book of Reproducible Graphic Organizers by J. Jacobson & D. Raymer, Scholastic,1999

    This is a very practical book of reproducible graphic organizers to use in primary and intermediate grades.  In addition to the classic Venn diagrams and number grids, it has a variety of interesting organizers for a broad range of subjects: Language Arts, Social Studies, Science, Math and Study Skills.  The authors have included a page for each organizer which describes the purpose of the organizer, how it is used and the skills students will practice.  There are also completed examples of the organizer for both primary and intermediate levels.   
    The organizers are designed so that each one could have multiple uses.  The Language Arts organizers can be used to help students show what they learned after they have read books,  but the format can also be used as a brainstorming tool before writing. The Story Board,  Building A Story and River Flow Chart are examples of these. Students can complete the science organizers such as Sort and Classify and Focus on a Cycle as an assessment of what they have learned or use them as an organizer for expository writing.  In most cases the graphics are uncluttered, understandable, and allow enough room for writing or drawing.
    The process of organizing information is an important part of learning.  This book provides some new ideas to help students do this.  I plan on buying it!

Website Review

Multnomah County Library Homework Center

http://www.multcolib.org/homework/
    If your students are feeling grumpy about that research project, curious about the author of their favorite book, or just plain bored, send them to the Multnomah County Library Homework Center.  Don’t let the “homework” part discourage them.  This Center is like a candy shop filled with enticing morsels for all tastes. 
    It is organized by topics ranging from African-American Sites to What is a Search Engine.  Choose a subject, such as Literature & Authors, and you will find a list of links with descriptions about each of the sites. Google says that these links are “carefully reviewed K-12 resources for students and teachers.” 
    This Homework Center is appropriate for all ages of students.  For example, older students can find original source documents for their research reports on history or social studies. Spanish speaking students can go to Tareas Escolares and search in Spanish.  Younger students can find an assortment of activities and subjects on KidsPage.  The KidsPage section even has a place where students can post a review of a favorite book.
    The Multnomah County Library Homework Center even has links to homework reference resources at other library sites, just in case your students want more resource possibilities. Sweet!

Secret Rock - Paper #3

    I found my place hundreds of years ago when I rolled down from the mountains, pushed by earthquakes, ice and water.  Now I rest next to the shore, surrounded by swiftly changing waters.  I watch and wait.

    I watched them come thirty years ago emerging from the forest with fishing poles in hand.  There were just two then.  He was confident in his stride, stepping over tree branches with a natural ease. She came half stumbling over roots and tripping over small boulders.  He carried a green metal tackle box with his pole. She had a backpack filled with pop and potato chips. Their black and white dog took no notice of me, plunging blissfully into the waters surrounding me.  But they both paused as if surprised to see me.
    “Look at that rock! It’s the perfect place to fish,” he announced.  “Here.  If you step on these two flat rocks and hold on to this edge, here, you can climb up to the top.  Like this.”
    He was careful to help her navigate the water and she was willing to try. Their dog, not wanting to be left out, barked a plea to join them.  Grabbing its front paws, they pulled the wet dog up to them.   They were thanked with a splattering shake.  Shrieks and laughter followed.  When he cast his fishing line out to test the waters and got that first bite, I knew they would return again. 
    I would see them more during that first summer.  But time passed quickly like the waters flowing around me.  I knew they would not forget. I watched and I waited.
    Eight years later I heard the barking of dogs and the snapping of tree limbs. They appeared slowly this time.  He, turning back to watch her, carefully holding her arm as she stepped over downed tree limbs.  She, carrying their picnic lunch above her plump stomach.
    This time two dogs galloped towards me.  The black and white one again gleefully immersed itself in the water, but the fluffy white one held back, hesitant to go deeper than its belly.  The young woman was content to stay by the shore, soothing her swollen ankles in the icy waters, watching the dogs explore.  The young man, however, seemed pleased to join me like an old friend who never changes.
    Several winter rains came and went and cool spring mists followed.  The waters around me carved new edges in the shoreline.  I saw new rocks uncovered by the pulsing current.  I knew that their lives were changing, too.  I watched and I waited.
    Different sounds greeted me now.  Shouts and calls of excitement from little voices astonished at the world around them. They had been told about me and they greeted me with glee.
    “I see the secret rock, Daddy!  Can you help me up?  I want to fish, too.”
    Like leaf boats bobbing with the current, they moved quickly from one activity to another under their parents’ watchful gaze.  I enjoyed watching them, tightly bundled in their orange life jackets, exploring the water’s edge.  The little girl liked to throw pebbles in shallow pools.  She laughed with glee when the white dog stupidly barked under the water at them.  The quiet older boy would imitate his father, intent on catching his own trophy fish. 
    They came more frequently during those years.  “Let’s make pancakes on the secret rock, Daddy.”  Serious fishing was replaced with family picnics and water performances by the dogs.  I watched the children build dams in shallow pools and search for diamonds on exposed sand bars.  They stared at passing drift boats and explored the cool forest shadows, but they were never far from my side.
    Twelve years passed. The sun moved across the sky and the shadows of thunder clouds gathered and dispersed.  I watched and I waited.
    I saw them in the early hours of the morning.  It was the father and a sleepy teenage daughter who stood on the banks that wet spring morning. “We can’t even get to the secret rock today.  It’s almost completely covered in water!”  The green tackle box was set aside and replaced with a box of donuts.  They sipped hot chocolate and marveled at my watery blanket.
    He returned again on a beautiful sunny day with his gangly teenage son. They greeted me with smiles, each one bragging about catching the first fish of the day on the secret rock.  But their plans were interrupted by the pounding roar of a helicopter and a continuous stream of motor boats searching the river bottom.  They solemnly watched, keenly aware that life should not be taken for granted.
    It was rare to see all four of them together and I noticed that the black and white dog had not been with them for a long time.  Now I watched them come quietly to the water’s edge and this time the fluffy white dog was not with them.  Their eyes found me and then moved to the shallow pool by the bank.  Reaching into her pocket, the mother pulled out a carefully wrapped puff of white fur.  They placed it in the pool and watched it swirl, then float away like a cloud blown by the wind.
    Thirty years have passed.  There are just two now.  He appears first, stepping out of the forest with his fishing pole and tackle box. She follows close behind, a chair and a book in her hands.  She unfolds her chair in the shade of a sandy bank and begins to read. He climbs out to me and casts his line into the clear, cold water. 
    But their routine is interrupted by the excited shouts of a little boy who bursts through the branches and stops at the bank, his parents close behind.  “Are you catching anything on that rock?”  I listen as my faithful friend turns to acknowledge these newcomers.  He steps down and moves away from me to a smaller rock farther down stream.
    I watch as the little boy climbs up with the help of his father and I hear him shriek with delight at the sight of his father’s first fish. Sometime later I see my old friend wading back to his companion, smiling with pride and satisfaction. “It’s time to go.  I’ve caught my limit.” 
    I know they will return.  I will watch and wait.

Notes - Paper #2

    Memories are like melodies that fill a concert hall.  They linger for a moment, touch us and then disappear.  These are some memories of my experiences in the classroom. I write them down now, like a composer scratching notes in her notebook.

Charlie in the Easel:

    Charlie was missing.  He was the smallest member of my kindergarten.  A firecracker of energy, a bustling bundle of blissfulness that made us sigh with exhaustion.  I was told he had the intelligence of a two year old and would probably always be two. He struggled to understand verbal instructions and he spent most of the day content in his own little world.  Now he was lost somewhere in the classroom. 
    The other children were busy at their centers.  Children reading stories in the book corner.  No Charlie.  Children constructing cities in the block corner.  No Charlie.  Children writing and drawing in their journals.  No Charlie.  Children painting on both sides of the easel.
    Wait.  The easel.  There are feet sticking out of the easel.    Two feet, a head and two arms are sticking out the easel.
    Charlie had somehow squeezed his body through the middle shelf that held the easel together.   He was stuck like a hot dog in a bun, two feet above the floor, joyfully floating in his own little world.

Gnawing Hunger in Second Grade:

    “Teeeeacher, I’m hunnnnnnngry!”
    “Snack time is over, Nicky.  We’re writing in our journals now.”  Smile. Point to the journal page.
    “But I’m still huhhhhhhh-ngry.  I want foooooood.”
    “Lunch is just ten minutes away.  You can do it.  You can wait.”  Smile. Point to the journal page again.
    “I caaaan’t.   I want fooooooood.”
    This is going to be a power struggle.  Disengage.  Turn around.  Walk away and give your attention to Susie who is quietly trying to spell ‘favorite’.
    Silence. It’s working.  Now turn around and praise Nicky for his attempt at writing.
    “Oh, no, no, Nicky! Chewing on the corner of your desk is just not okay!  Desks are not for eating. You’re drooling on the floor. Let’s get up off of our knees, sit in a chair,  and I’ll get you some crackers to eat while you write.”

Sacred Animals:

    We were on a three hour field trip from Eugene to the Cascade Locks.  I had prepared a traveling bag filled with activities to keep each student happily engaged.  The students were marking off a checklist of animals they saw along the way.  Sandy suddenly stood up in her seat and shouted at the top of her voice, “Mrs. Westcott, look!  Look at all the Dahli Lamas in that field!”   

A Special Button:

    Mark was a child with autism.  He usually sat quietly at his desk, aware of the world around him, but not engaging with the other children.  He didn’t like changes of any kind because newness would disrupt his world and throw him into a state of confusion and distress.  Unfortunately,  the weather in Oregon is not predictable.  That day I had put the “recess” card on our schedule, not “indoor recess”.   It began to rain and it was obvious that we wouldn’t be going outside.   I changed the schedule card to “indoor recess” and the students scattered to the various indoor activities.  I looked for Mark, knowing that he would be distraught at this change of events.   I found him in the hallway, stiffly holding his basketball.  He turned from the window and frantically looked at the walls and ceiling of the hallway. 
    In a monotone whisper he pleaded, “I want a button.  I want a button to take the ceiling off.   I don’t want the ceiling on.  I want a button.”
    I wish I had that button for Mark.  I wish all schools had buttons for Mark.

Watching the World Go By:

    Isaac was the perfect student.  He would always arrive on time, neatly dressed in a polo shirt and jeans with his completed homework in hand.  Smaller than the other third graders, Isaac had remarkable blue eyes framed with baby-doll eyelashes. Those eyes seemed to absorb the world around him in a peaceful, accepting way.  When random chaos would frequently erupt in the classroom, Isaac would sit quietly, his eyes sparkling and laughing.  Those bright blue eyes took in everything. Obviously Isaac had a dream family, a perfect home environment.
    But then came the news no child deserves to hear. Isaac’s mother was dying of cancer.  She had refused any treatment so that Isaac’s unborn sibling would not be harmed by chemicals. It was a journey that Isaac was well aware of.  His mother, a deeply religious woman, wanted him to know.
    How do you teach a child about multiplication, electric circuits and cursive writing when his mother is going to leave him forever?  What can I say to help him cope?  What can I do to lessen the pain?
    Isaac returned to school a week after the funeral.  His loyal friends grabbed him and ran to the grassy playground.  But quiet Isaac was now quieter, and those blue eyes didn’t see the chalkboard, the books or his friends.  At rare, unexpected moments, those little blue eyes would fill with wet reality.  Then Isaac’s mouth would stiffen and blinking eyelashes would successfully hold in every drop of sadness.  Most of the time he was somewhere else and his feelings had left with him.
    Isaac transferred to a new school during the summer; a school his father had always wanted him to go to. New friends, new teachers, new life.  Now he was truly gone.
    Was he comforted with our private talk before that first Mother’s Day art activity?  Did warm hugs give him the reassurance that it was okay to grieve at school?  Did he learn that there will always be someone who will listen?
    I’ll never know.  I’m left with the memory of those blue eyes and the boy behind them who was busy coping with an undeserved new world.

    My notebook has some rough, undeveloped and incomplete memories. Some are like musical phrases that will be taken off this page and rewritten into a symphony, important enough to expand and develop into a work of its own.  Others are tiny phrases not even big enough to make into a melody, yet sweet in the pleasure they give me when reliving them.  But there are others.  Nagging irritating memories, like a never ending song that gets stuck in my head and just won’t go away.
    And yet, like the melodies of the concert hall, each one has somehow touched me and I want to keep them.

The Gift - Paper # 1

    It may be a universal dream of all American children: the fantasy of receiving an unexpected gift,  a box covered with brightly colored paper, tied with ribbons and carefully marked with your name.  The content of the package might be as varied as the children who dream it, but that feeling of wonder and excitement at recieving the gift is somthing even adults can imagine.  I was lucky to actually experience this, the earliest memory of my life.
    Even as a four year old, I knew that something special was about to happen.    We were moving from Zorzor, a small town in northeastern Liberia, to Wozi, a farming village twelve miles away.   I watched as my mother and father began packing our belongings into large metal oil barrels.  Curious about the excitement and added busyness around me,  I climbed up the step ladder and peered into the barrel’s wide mouth where sheets, towels, blankets, and clothing were carefully folded and placed.  Kerosene lanterns, extra wicks and curious looking water filters were wrapped in anticipation of a home with no electricity. Bags of flour, cases of green beans, fruit cocktail and Spam were counted, stacked and packed in preparation for a town which had no stores.
        When I woke from my naps that week, all these items had gradually vanished from our home.  The clutter and chaos of packing was replaced with the calm emptiness of rooms once filled with the hum of my mother’s sewing machine and the reassuring scatter of Tinker Toys and doll clothes.
    I clutched my doll tightly and stood on the concrete steps of our home in the boarding school.  Strong dark arms unbolted our metal bed frames and stored them in the back of the Landrover.  When our mattresses were lifted to the top of the vehicle and tied on tightly with rope,  I felt the excitement of the move changing to the anxiety of the unknown.  My five year old brother jumped into the back of the Landrover ready for any adventure.  But I felt uneasy and scared at leaving my familiar surroundings. 
    Suomo, our cook, scooped up our unsuspecting cat and quickly stuffed her into an empty flour sack. Kitty-Kitty yowled loudly and struggled to free herself as Suomo tied a knot to enclose her.  Suddenly I felt as if I too were being scooped up and stuffed into an unknown environment, not knowing where I was going or what I would find when I got there.  Kitty Kitty continued to struggle and howl as my mother lifted me up into the front seat next to her.
    We left Zorzor in the late afternoon and drove five miles on a narrow dirt road to the next town called Fisebu.   I felt the hot air, saturated with orange dust, blow through the open windows hitting my cheeks and forehead.  We had only traveled twenty minutes, but Kitty Kitty continued to howl and struggle in the flour sack in the back of the Rover, and I worried that she couldn’t breathe.  My mother sighed and wondered out loud if Kitty Kitty would continue to struggle all the way to our new home.  Although it was only seven miles further, it would take us an hour to get there.
    My father slowly drove the Landrover between the thatched mud homes in Fisebu, carefully missing goats, chickens, and curious children running along side of our vehicle.  Women poked their heads out of doors and men stopped and stared as we wound our way through the  town.  I found myself distracted by this new environment and looked at the happy faces of the children running next to us.  It felt like a parade now,  and I was part of the main attraction.  I forgot my anxiety, caught up in the excited shouts of the children surrounding us.
    The calls and chatter of the children slowly faded away as we reached the edge of the town and headed into the rain forest.  The sun was setting quickly now and the darkness of the night seemed to thicken as quickly as the jungle surrounding us.  The road was little more than a footpath widened to accommodate the four wheels of our Landrover.  Heavy rains had used the road as a channel for flash floods, and water had carved deep grooves along some edges of the road.  I could hear branches scrape across the canvas sides as if waiting to cover the path behind us.  The engine whined and groaned as my father carefully guided our Rover through the dark jungle, over the boulders, streams and swamps.
    Kitty Kitty had given up her protests and settled down in a lump on the lap of Suomo.  Sounds of the night now replaced her meows and entwined our car with the screeches of crickets, croaking frogs and occasional cries of surprised jungle animals.  The headlights danced up and down on the road and thick trees ahead of us.  I snuggled next to my mother feeling safe and secure between my parents.
     My thoughts returned to my unknown future.  Would it be as comforting as the home I just left?  Would I be as happy as the children I saw in Fisebu?  Would it be as dark and scary as the jungle before me?
    Suddenly my father slowed the lurching Landrover to a halt and we all sat up in our seats.  I peered out into the darkness ahead and followed the beams of the headlights.   The trees were tall and thick, creating a black curtain of vegetation above us.  There, dangling from a swaying branch was a rectangular package spinning a dainty pirouette in the spotlight.  Its brightly colored paper and large pink bow glowed like a star on a darkened stage.  I blinked.   
    My father opened the door and stepped into the waiting path.  The jungle grew silent as crickets, frogs and beetles suspended their routine chatter.  I held my breath with them.  Stepping over rocks and ridges in the pathway, my father made his way to the suspended gift.  I watched in amazement as he pulled out his pocket knife, cut the string and carried the package back to the Landrover.  More disbelief followed as he gently placed it on my lap and pointed to the letters on the top that spelled my name.   
    Forty five years have passed since we came upon that package in the darkness of an African jungle.  I have no recollection of opening it and no memory of the object that was inside.  But I have a very clear image of that unexpectected present suspended in the headlights of our Landrover and I find myself reliving the happiness of my home in Wozi.  It was an amazing gift.