Those as Can, Do (and Should Teach)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Gimme Three Steps"

Time: Night.

Third Friday means hanging out with artists, which invariably means good conversation.

Tonight, I was at a reception, talking with an artist acquaintance who teaches at an area high school. He was bemoaning the fact that too many times, people who teach art at that level aren't producing artists themselves.

A writer friend has said the same thing for years, under another paw. He contends that to teach writing in high school, one should be a producing writer.

Granted, that is the case sometimes. There are artists who teach, writers who teach, directors and actors and techs who teach. And when that happens, it's a good thing.

But that should be the norm. Education should be a minor, not a major, in every case. Focus on expertise in the core subject, and it will be easier to teach it. And if someone knows the material-- has lived the material -- and can communicate it, why keep him or her from teaching?

In too many cases, though, the education degree is paramount -- and it shouldn't be. Would you rather have your kids learning from people who know how to do the work, or from people who have spent most of their undergraduate lives learning educational theory (much of which seems dedicated to the modern-day cult of self esteem)?

I'd better stop here. That last parenthetical could lead to a much longer rant, and it's late.

Tonight's scary story: Lafcadio Hearn, "The Corpse-Demon"

Testing ... one, two, three ...

Tea: Pu Erh Dante with vanilla

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Jan Vermeer"

Time: Night

Just over six months into my volunteer teaching gig -- working with fourth graders once a week on creative writing -- I'm about to find out what kind of an instructor I really am.

That's right. I'm giving my first real test: on poetic language, haiku, cinquains and limericks.

We reviewed last week, and everyone seemed to do well. But in a way, I may be more nervous than they are about tomorrow's exam. I want them all to succeed on it, but I also don't want to set the bar so low that succeeding isn't a challenge.

So once again, I'm reminded what a balancing act full-time teaching must be. Here's hoping I manage to strike the right balance tomorrow.

Three by Threes

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: Keiko Matsui, "Water Lily", "Forever Forever" and "Wildflower"

Time: Night.

It's Thursday, which means it was teaching day with the fourth graders.

Today's theme: Haiku. And not that tensionless 5-7-5 crap, written by textbook writers. The biggies, as translated by Robert Hass.

One by Basho:

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall --
still not a butterfly.

One by Buson:

Green plum --
it draws her eyebrows
together.

And one by Issa:

I envy
that child being scolded:
end of the year.

"So what," I asked, "do all three of these poems have in common?"

Hands shot up at almost every desk, with the same answer: "They don't make sense."

Oh, fun. Time to earn my volunteer's pay.

We started with the basics: Three lines (actually, two and one); no more than 17 syllables; and some sort of seasonal reference.

Then, the payoff point: "Each of these poems uses a few words to tell a much bigger story."

More blank looks. But we -- and I do mean we -- worked through it. And one by one, the light bulbs went on.

(No, I'm not going to spell out the stories. You're bright, or you wouldn't be here.)

So was the whole lesson -- including an assignment/exhortation to observe the world for a week and come up with at least one haiku based on that observation -- a bit heavy for nine- and ten-year-olds?

I don't think so. Kids are smarter than textbook writers think. Fourth graders get that seasons change, that moments happen and then are gone and that the stories are in the details.

And they can count to 17. They'll be fine.

Cup XVIII: Morning Has Broken (a Chair over My Head)

Tea: Arctic Storm (green tea with bergamot, lemon, red thistle and chile)

Music: Tegan and Sara, "Wake up Exhausted"

Time: Mo(u)rning.

My late father was the sort who woke up cheerful: "Good morning, Lord!" Not me. I'm more the "Good Lord, it's morning ..." sort.

My mother, who died when I was 17, was more pragmatic and disciplined. I'm not so sure she was all that thrilled about single-digit a.m. hours, but she got up and got after it.

The weekly teaching stint starts at 8 a.m. I'll be leading the senior AP English class' discussion for the first time. It's not until tomorrow, but I figured I'd better give myself a day of being at least semi-awake at this time of day.

And, of course, no good intention goes unpunished. Getting up earlier means I have more time to be lousy company, after the discovery in the basement.

During the good years between her first cancer surgery and the time the disease came back with reinforcements, my mother painted. Beautifully.

My father loved to fish. His favorite painting of hers was a photorealist piece of crappie in a net, on a stump over water. It was, in turn, her labor of love for him. I inherited it when he died, although it hung in my stepmother's house for a time as a reminder of him. I didn't mind. She was very good for him, and still is good to and for me and mine.

We'd been storing the painting in the basement, because there's been no place to display it properly in the main part of the house. Now it's picked up some mold damage. Not much, but noticeable.

I'm sure it can be cleaned, not so sure I can afford that before the damage gets worse.

I don't have many things that tie my parents together in tangible form. To lose this would be ... I can't think about it right now.

So I'll read, and make a lesson plan, and hope to return at some point today from the Land of Not Very Good Company.

In the meantime, here's today's creepy story:

Algernon Blackwood, "The Empty House"

Cup V: (But I Never Really Thought Everything Looked Worse in Black and White)

Tea: Ginger Peach with honey

Music: Paul Simon, "Kodachrome"

Time: Night.

"When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all ..." -Paul Simon

So today, dear Diary, I played teacher. Sort of. I sat in on a couple of senior Advanced Placement English classes and a fourth grade class at a local school. No, not at the same time.

Quite frankly, the prospect left me apprehensive. I know how to write, yes, but how to teach writing and critical reading? I pictured eyes glazing, rolling, looking out the window.

It wasn't so bad, even though the seniors were discussing Ralph Waldo Emerson instead of the Civil War book I stayed up until 3 a.m. finishing. Most of the time was spent in observation, interjection and familiarization. Good minds, although I wish some of them would dig in deeper to defend their points of view.

The fourth graders were a lot of fun (and I went in more intimidated by them than by the high school kids). Lively imaginations, for the most part, and they all seemed eager to get in on the story improvisation section.

So, I've been invited back. And I'll be going back. But don't start calling me "Sir" just yet.