It's The Most Wonderful Time....

    

Ah, the delights of a junior high at the approach of Christmas. 

    

    Grading semester exams. 

    Starbucks gift cards and handwritten letters.

    PTA lunches that make you drowsy the rest of the day.

    And sometimes a moment of clarity and beauty that catches you as you round the corner headed for your classroom in the morning--not expecting a rush and swell of blaring trumpets a crunch of drums a shimmer of violins. 

    This time of year, the jing-jing-jing of jingle bells.

    This week and last, the orchestra, the band, and the choir have taken turns to regale passersby with holiday music at the entrance to the main hallway. Don't know how long they've been rehearsing but there have been emails directing teachers to send various combinations of students to rehearsal rooms for all month long.

    The kids are FANTASTIC.

    McMeans Junior High has a spectacular fine arts program. For the same reasons that some sports teams build long-lasting dynasties. A seasoned and motivating coaching program inspires talented recruits to achieve excellent results year after year.

    One of the constant adjustments of teaching is avoiding reductionism. Day in and day out, a diligent focus on instruction and results can result in tunnel vision. English teachers can forget that students also apply themselves in math and science, or math teachers that their pupils may be gifted in shop or history. We forget that these are not just students taking one class--our class.

    They are rounded individuals with complete personalities and distinct skills. To realize that the kid who struggles with the seven principles of government can saw out a pizzicato on a violin or that one who cannot determine when to use their-there-they're can hit a high note with precision and depth of feeling is nothing short of illuminating. A most welcome reminder that we are all of us complicated complex multilayer limitless and transcendent.

                               *****

    As I hang around in the hallway to the rousing strains of timeless classics, my daily classroom setup pushed to the back burner, I notice the growing crowd of teachers and staff around me. And I notice that the ones who stay the longest are the veterans. 

    Maybe the more you teach, the more you realize that these rousing instances of beauty and glory that burst forth from a grey December morning are precious beyond measure. And more's the acclaim when such artistry burts forth.

     Dazzling and impassioned....

                        *****

    So will I be back there every morning this week, to soak up the music and to close my eyes in sweet transport and glow with reflected pride at what these children have shown us? 

    You bet I will.

    

For Christmas, a story about..a Bunny?

     

Christmas is a time of wonder. Of reflection. Of memory. Of looking to the past and to the future while rooted in the present.

    Nothing brings the promise and emotion of Christmas together like stories.

    As we roll into December 2025, I have inaugurated this Christmas season as I have the past decade or so. First, I have watched the stirring video of a flash mob astonishing mall shoppers with a rendition of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus.

    Second, I have read an old 1970's story about a Christmas...bunny.

    Bunny?

    Aren't bunnies associated with Easter? 

    Well, let's begin with a story.

    Once upon a time, there was a brilliant priest who was a master storyteller....

    Martin Bell was a priest, a theologian, an educator, a musician, and an author. His particular genius was in writing fables which reimagined the Gospel or Parables in ways which lent richness and depth to familiar texts.

    Along his travels, he found his way to a small church in the foothills of the Appalachians, in Alabama....

    Martin served for several years as parish priest at St. Francis of Assisi Episcopal Church in Indian Springs and left his indelible fingerprint there. My time at St. Francis came years after he had left, but I heard so many stories-again, stories and legends-about his illuminating sermons and his wisdom-that I felt his presence constantly. Especially among those who had been around for the longest, who served on all the committees and who funded all the missions and who showed up every time the doors swung open.

    Once upon a time in my era, we chose as our church mission statement "Minds to Think, Hearts to Love, Hands to Serve". I am pretty sure the first clause of that statement came to us from the enduring influence of Martin Bell.

    So, back to my own story. 

    Deep in the mists of time, a wise woman opened her mouth and spoke words of truth and wisdom..

    One of these cornerstone members of St. Francis, Betty Bond, introduced me one early December to a most singular Christmas story by Martin Bell. The story was legendary among the old guard at the church.

    This unexpected fable is called "Barrington Bunny," and hails from his novel The Way of the Wolf. This short story has been the subject of short films, YouTube adaptations, sermons, and youth camps since its publication 50 years ago. It is not a comfortable story, but it is one of those that moves you to  think. To feel. To reconsider What It All Means. 

    Here it is--- 

***

                                        BARRINGTON BUNNY by Martin Bell 

Once upon a time in a large forest there lived a very furry bunny.  He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes.  His name was Barrington.

Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny. He was brown and speckled, and his ears didn’t stand up right. But he could hop and he was, as I have said, very furry.

In a way, winter is fun for bunnies. After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped. So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.

But in another way, winter made Barrington sad. For you see, winter marked the time where all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas. He could hop, and he was very furry, but as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest.

When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself. So he decided he would hop for a while in the clearing at the center of the forest.

Hop! Hop! Hippity-hop! Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow.

Hop! Hop! Hippity-hop! Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.  He thought to himself, “Bunnies can hop. And they are very warm too because of how furry they are.”

(But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)

When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home.  On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree. High in the branches there was a great deal of excited chattering going on. Barrington looked up. It was a squirrel family. And what a marvelous time they seemed to be having.

“Hello, up there,” called Barrington.

“Hello, down there,” came the reply. 

“Having a Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

“Oh yes!” answered the squirrels. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody is having a Christmas party!”

“May I come to your party?” said Barrington softly.

“Are you a squirrel?”

“No.”

“What are you then?”

“A bunny.”

“A bunny???”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny? Bunnies can’t climb trees.”

“That’s true,” Barrington said thoughtfully. “But I can hop and I’m very furry and warm.”

“We’re sorry,” called the squirrels. “We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to climb trees.”

“Oh, well,” said Barrington. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” chattered the squirrels.

The unfortunate bunny hopped off towards his tiny home. It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river. Near the river bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud. Inside there was singing. 

“It’s the beavers,” thought Barrington. “Maybe they will let me come to their party.”  And so he knocked on the door.

“Who’s out there?” called a voice.

“Barrington Bunny,” he replied.

There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.  “Hello, Barrington,” said the beaver

“May I come to your Christmas party?” Barrington asked.

The beaver thought for a while, and then said, “I suppose so. Do you know how to swim?”

“No,” said Barrington. “But I can hop and I am very furry and warm.”

“Sorry,” said the beaver. “I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to swim.”

“Oh well,” Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears. “I suppose that’s true.  Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” called the beaver. And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Even as furry as he was, Barrington was starting to get cold. The snow was falling so hard that his tiny bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him. He was almost home, however, when we heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground.

“It’s a party!” Barrington thought. Suddenly he blurted out through his tears, “Hello, field mice! This is Barrington Bunny. May I come to your party?”

But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him. When there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.

“Bunnies aren’t good to anyone,” he thought. “What good is it to be furry and to be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?”

Barrington cried and cried. When he stopped crying he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.  Suddenly, Barrington was aware that he was not alone.  He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there.

To his surprise, he saw a great silver wolf. The wolf was large and strong, and his eyes flashed fire. He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.

For a long time the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes. Then, slowly and deliberately, he asked in a gentle voice, “Why are you sitting in the snow?”

“Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Barrington, “and I don’t have any family and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.”

“Bunnies ARE good,” the wolf said. “Bunnies can hop and they are very warm.”

“What good is that?” Barrington sniffed.

“It’s very good indeed,” the wolf went on. “Because it’s a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached. And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason. Some day you will see why it is good to hop and to be warm and furry.”

“But it’s Christmas,” moaned Barrington. “I’m all alone. I don’t have any family at all.”

“Of course you do,” replied big silver wolf. “All of the animals in the forest are your family.” And then the wolf disappeared. He simply wasn’t there. Barrington had only blinked his eyes and when he looked, the wolf was gone.

“All of the animals in the forest are my family,” thought Barrington.  “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies can hop. That’s a gift.” And then he said it again: “A gift! A free gift!”

On into the night Barrington worked. First he found the best stick he could (and that was difficult because of the snow). Then hop, hop, hippity-hop, he went to the beavers’ house. He left the stick just outside the door with a note that read, “Here is a good stick for your house. It’s a gift — a free gift. No strings attached.” He signed it, “a member of your family.”

“It’s a good thing that I can hop because the snow is very deep,” he thought.

Then Barrington dug and dug. Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrels’ nest warmer. Hop, hop, hippity-hop!

He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message:  “A gift. A free gift! From a member of your family.”

It was late when Barrington finally started home. And what made things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning. Soon poor Barrington was lost. The wind howled furiously and it was very very cold. “It’s a good thing I’m so furry,” he said. “But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon, I might freeze.”

“Squeak. Squeak.”

And then he saw it — a baby field mouse lost in the snow. And the little mouse was crying.

“Hello, little mouse,” Barrington called. “Don’t cry, I’ll be right there.” Hippity-hop, and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.

“I’m lost,” sobbed the little fellow. “I’ll never find my way home, and I know I'm going to freeze.”

“You won’t freeze,” said Barrington.  “I’m a bunny and bunnies are very furry and warm. You stay right where you are and I’ll cover you up.”

Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tight. The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur. He cried for a while but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.

Barrington had only two thoughts that long cold night. First he thought, “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies are very furry and warm.” And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beating regularly, he thought, “All the animals in the forest are my family.”

Next morning, the field mice found their little boy asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.

As for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gift for them that Christmas Eve.

After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow. There was no sound excerpt that of the howling wind. And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown lop-eared carcass.

But the wolf did come. 

And he stood there, without moving or saying a word.

All Christmas Day.

  Until it was night. 

And then he disappeared into the forest.

    ***

    The first time I read this story it hit me like a punch in the gut. As other readers have noted through the years, the story reaches through Christmas and straight into the Easter season. Like the Parables, the story is complicated and complex. 

    The Incarnation of Christmas Eve is answered in the Passion of Easter. 

    Stories touch the mind, touch the memory, touch the heart. Stories are from our deep past, they are from our childhoods, and they are being made today for tomorrow's meaning.

    They are not always comfortable. Sometimes they remind us that love ends in sacrifice, that compassion can be painful. 

    That is why I welcome each year the tale of Barrington Bunny, to remember that sorrow will give way to joy and loneliness to belonging. It is a gift.

    A free gift.

    With no strings attached. 

    

    

      

I believe you

     Growing up in the 70s and 80s with two working parents, I was just like the rest of my Generation X latchkey cohort...

     ...raised on a lot of television. The afternoons were the golden age of syndication. Mainly sitcoms, from All In The Family to M*A*S*H* to Hogan's Heroes and more.

     Oh, that crazy Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz! (Where is my sarcasm font when I need it?)

    And there was always  The Andy Griffith Show. The black and white one, before it was flooded with too-sharp flooded-out garish color. The halcyon days when the scriptwriting was topnotch.

    I seem to have picked up a lot of ideas from The Andy Griffith Show. Despite marketing which primarily cast it as a comedy, laugh track and all, it was a keen character study of small-town or rural life and community. In interactions between the principal cast. it sketched an accurate portrayal of both character and situation, and regularly imparted astounding wisdom to viewers.

    Which brings me to the episode in which Andy faces evidence that son Opie's fanciful flights of imagination--encouraged by Andy, even--have given way to a series of bald-faced lies. 

    This is the first episode of the third season, titled "Mr. McBeevee." After an intro that established that not only does Opie show a vivid imagination in riding his imaginary horse Blackie, and a sidebar in which they sucker Barney into their make-believe, the show pivots to a more serious situation.

    To wit--Opie, visiting his father the sheriff in his office, turns down a request to help take out the office trash because he has to hurry back to his new friend. He describes this new friend fancifully.

    His new friend, "Mr. McBeevee," walks around in the treetops. He wears a shiny silver hat, and he jingles when he walks. 

    Blows smoke out of his ears. Has 12 extra hands in a toolbelt around his waist.

    So...a perfect set-up. Andy and Opie just a few hours ago were playacting an adventure in which Opie galloped an imaginary stallion around the backyard. Barney, sore at being reeled into the scenario, grumbled that Andy ought not to encourage his son in creating such fiction: 

        " I just don't think you ought to let the boy get started in that direction."

    Seemingly, just a few hours later, Opie is at it again. Making up a friend who is unbelievable, and selling this new fantasy to his father as well.

      So is Andy culpable in this extension of tall tales? What is the boundary between imaginary play and reality? How does a child learn one of our most important maxims--always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--without having his spirit crushed?

    The plot unfolds over the course of the day, and the tension between father and son grows to the critical scene that evening at bedtime.

    Andy sits stiffly and uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, and tells Opie that the time has come to tell the truth and "stop the playactin'." If he admits that he made up Mr. McBeevee, then he will be forgiven.

    "But if you don't, then somethin' else is gonna happen.

    I believe you know what I mean, don't you?"

    The choice is brutal--recant, or suffer a whipping. 

    Opie struggles to say the words. Struggles to save his backside.

    Can't do it.

    The regret and sorrow on Opie's face is so powerful that I just broke out with goosebumps and shivers down my spine recalling it. Just now.

    Opie looks at the floor, stands his ground. Says no, Mr. McBeevee is real.

    Then---

    "Don't you believe me, Paw? Don't you?"

    The eyes of a young boy, clear and innocent, but mouth wrinkled with worry that he has lost his beloved father's trust. Ron Howard--Ronnie, then--was 7 or 8 years old, maybe. A glorious Emmy-worthy bit of acting.

    A heartbeat separated the response from his father. Emotions war on Andy's face, his brow clouded with grim purpose. Then finally, the stern knife-edged lines wrinkling his forehead smoothed into repose and clarity. 

    They say that "I love you" are the three most powerful words we have, but so are these that Sheriff Taylor says to his son:

    I believe you.

    Downstairs, the ever-present Barney and Aunt Bee want to know if Opie came clean. If he confessed to lies or if he took his whipping. To their puzzlement that neither happened, that Andy told him he believed him, Andy replies that even though Opie's narrative about his new friend seems unbelievable, he realizes that he has also asked his son to believe in some things that must have been similarly impossible.

    "I guess it's a time like this when you're asked to believe somethin' that just don't seem possible...

    That's the moment that decides whether you got faith in somebody or not."

    Cue a sputtering Barney. Of course. He is just like us, the best representation of our failures and foibles and fears. Asks if Andy REALLY believes in Mr. McBeevee.

    Nope, Andy shakes his head, still grounded in objective reality.

    "But I do believe in Opie."

    

    Today, that would be a mic drop moment.

     Actors exit stage left. 

    Audience leaps to their feet in rapturous thunderous cataclysms of applause. 

    Roses tossed upon the stage and all that. Emmys or Oscars or what have you.

    However, this was the early '60s, and the laugh track went on and on. A neat wrap-up as Andy finally meets--in the woods--coming down from a tree--Mr. McBeevee. 

    A phone lineman.

     With a silver shiny hat. Who jingles as he walks. Has extra hands--tools--in his belt. With sleight-of-hand tricks where he seems to blow smoke from his ears. Relieved and reassured in his faith, Sheriff Taylor pumps Mr. McBeevee's hand in a vigorous handshake. Roll to credits...

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    So why did this hit me so hard that I gasped with the ragged effort of holding in great sobbing tears, even as the laugh track indicated I should be guffawing or at least chortling?

    This kernel about faith versus doubt goes to the heart of human experience. Shakespearean or Biblical. 

    How about this?  Faith in someone else is at its most powerful when it triumphs over our stubborn suspicion. That is why there is such a visceral reaction when Andy believes in his son, in his honesty and his truthfulness. 

    Belief is not a feeling, but an action. Andy moved himself to belief, struggled mightily with himself in front of us in our own living room. Overcame overwhelming doubt with unshakable faith.

    Here is a parallel:

    Thomas, the dour skeptical apostle, did not believe in the resurrected Christ until he jabbed his fingers into the wounds. To which Jesus gently but drolly observed that Thomas believed now that he saw, but more blessed are those who believe without seeing.

    Just like Andy Taylor did.

    One of my favorite quotes attributed to St. Francis is this one:

    "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary-use words."

    

    

Unwrap A Smile

    I know it's not just me.

    I know that almost everyone bears deep childhood memories of holidays and food and family lore that grow beyond their empirical meaning until they become wellsprings of identity and remembrance.

    Seeing Christmas lights wrapped tightly around light poles as you drive downtown. 

    Scented balsam fir candles.

    The ecstatic boom of fireworks in a dark winter night, or over a beach on Independence Day.

    Memories of comfort and pangs of nostalgia may energize your emotions.

    For me, I am always sent into nostalgia and reverie by the humble Star Crunch....

   Typically, Grandmother Harrington would cook fifteen or so dishes for our Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners. She would also put out innumerable homemade treats and sweets, and stock the kitchen with Cokes and snacks alike. Like any good Southern grandma, she was partial to anything from Little Debbie. Nutty Buddies. Oatmeal Creme Pies. Star Crunch. 

    If you have never had one, a Star Crunch is puffed rice covered in chocolate and caramel. Nicely crisp, not too sweet. The story has it that they were marketed right after the Apollo 11 moon landing as a Moon Crunch, then the name was changed and they were later added to the permanent menu.

        

       I have always felt very fortunate to have had grandmothers--3 of them, actually--in my life until my mid-40s. Even after growing up and starting a family of my own, I made a lot of trips to visit with my own kids along. So they were introduced to the family traditions, the family lore. 

    When Grandmother Harrington sold her house and moved into an assisted living complex, we continued to visit. Most of the times, we would take her to her favorite local restaurant, Buck's Dairy Quick. One of those old converted Dairy Queen-style cafes turned into a hamburger steak and chicken finger joint. 

    She always wanted a hamburger steak made from ground sirloin instead of ground beef, with diced onions mashed into the meat and fried along with it. Well done. "Don't be afraid to burn it" she would always say. We would spend a couple of hours hanging out at the table "visiting" after the meal, me and her and the kids. Thinking back on it, I am really proud of  Pam, Andrew, and Sarah for actually spending the time talking to her instead of running around the place. A lot of kids don't give a rip for hanging out with family, but mine sure did.

    When we would get back to her tiny little room, she would always pack us snacks to go.

    In her top dresser drawer she kept a ready supply of Star Crunch cookies.

    It seems they served them every night with dinner, and she always saved hers and squirreled them away in her room.

    For later. 

    Or for company. 

    Growing up in subsistence-farming Alabama during the Great Depression, Grandmother had learned to always put something back for later. 

    Growing up in an atmosphere rich in hospitality, of covered-dish suppers at church and visits from family that could come at any time, she always put something back to share with someone that dropped by.

    She would load us down--sometimes 8 or 9 of those little cakes. Press them on us. 

    "You have to have something to eat in the car on the way home."

    You know how it goes. You know what grandparents say. 

    

    I absolutely marvel at the discipline and the forethought she showed by such a simple act. Alone as a widow for almost 40 years, she excelled at being a great hostess and providing any food we could ever desire. Even selling her house and moving into a room the size of a hotel suite did not make her throw in the towel. 

    Instead, she continued to find a way to do what she did best, to provide for us. 

    When people get up and speak at funerals, they often talk of great deeds and stories from down the years. But as often as not, it may be the almost-unnoticed but inspiringly consequential small moves that give an eternal and lasting testimony of personality. 

    Of character.

    Of love.

    Not only am I fortunate to have been born into a family that loves each other so well, but I am unutterably blessed to have been shown how to live life.

      So, I feel like I need to add a box of Star Crunch to this week's grocery list....keep them in the pantry when the kids come calling...

    

3 rules for Bailey

    Only 3 hard-and-fast rules. 

    Housebroken.

    Good with cats.

    No puppies.

    Those are practical guidelines for a dog search, right?

    

    So after Stacey and I  talked it over and set those guidelines-sober and reasonable-we dropped by the local adoption shelter. 

      We had been without a dog in the house for a few years. It had taken a loooong time to feel ready. Because we had seen both Molly and Scout over the Rainbow Bridge within the past couple of years. They were with us for around 15 years. 15 years is enough time for a dog to slide into a rightful place as the center of the family. 

    Saying goodbye to such dogs after so much history leaves a huge empty gnawing hole that must be dealt with before opening your door to welcome another.

    But it was time. And Andrew had primed the pump, to be honest. He brought his newest dog, a small active personality-filled spaniel, to the house a couple of times. We just felt ready. So we did some research. Small, active, clever and affectionate were the order of the day.

    But those three musts we were sticking to-housebroken, good with cats, not a puppy.

    Shelters are chaotic places, full of barking dogs and whining puppies and mewing cats. No animal-or adopting family-is at the best in such an anxious setting. Sound and smell and emotion all in a whirlwind.

    When we walked by the small dog room, HE went CRAZY. Barking, whining, wiggling all over in his crate. Obviously, shouting "look at me" for all he was worth. His name was Brady, after the quarterback. 

                                                

    So we asked the staff about him, took our place in the courtyard outside to meet with him. He was full of boundless energy, jumping in our laps and licking our faces and chasing down a tossed ball over and over. Within a minute or two, he won us over and we knew he was going home with us.

    Scanning his folder? Well, he was almost a year old-so still a puppy. 

    He was untested with cats. Might like em. Might hate em. No information.

    He had been adopted and returned twice by other families. Among the problems the families reported were that he chewed everything up, and he refused housetraining.

    Hmmmm. 

    Seems to be zero-for-three. Right? Right. 

    Well, I still don't know if we just rationalized violating our principles away, or if we read closely enough in his documents to think that the other two families just had not worked very hard. But we took him home. Changed his name to the more palatable Bailey-because even Stacey, who does not follow football in the least, could not tolerate a dog named after Tom Brady.

    This was the Saturday before Thanksgiving. With a week of vacation from school, we had planned the timing so that I would have a whole week with Bailey to accustom him to the house. So we went into full-on training mode. We spent that first week leashed together with a 6-foot lead, one end on his harness and one end on a carabiner around my belt loop. Every 90 minutes-thank you, Alexa timer-I took him outside in case he had to use the bathroom. If he did, I loaded him full of treats. He only threw up treats once due to overfeeding. Ooops.

    During our meal times and at night, he was crated. No free roaming was possible, so he learned within about three days where to do his business and where to sleep. By the time I was ready to return to work after Thanksgiving, Bailey was accustomed to the house.

    Accustomed-he conquered it.

    Soon he learned, by the constant bribing with freeze-dried liver treats, to ring a bell hanging from the door handle when he needs to go out. He is a Yorkie, an intelligent and motivated breed, and he learns like a sponge. 

    As long as he is motivated..

    And he has turned out to be Mr. Personality Plus. Boundless energy. Will chase a ball about 30 minutes. A strong chewer, he destroys ropes and Kong toys and squeaky bones and all-but not furniture or shoes or anything of ours.

    Leaps from couch to recliner and back like a gazelle. Accompanies me to grocery pickup on Saturday morning, leaning eagerly toward the window to keep a suspicious eye on every dog we see on the sidewalk.

    And the cats? He gets along with them fine-but he has elected himself as their sheriff. If they growl at each other, Bailey rushes in to break up the alarm, and sends them to their neutral corners. 

       

    So, yes, it is intelligent to have a plan.

    But it is wise, and sometimes more rewarding, to deviate from the plan and follow your heart.

    

    

    

Nothing succeeds like....

     Once upon a time, long ago during a time of dragons and terrible destruction, there lived a little boy who didn't want to go to school...

    Well, to be honest, it was not that long ago.

    

    And it was not a time of dragons and terrible destruction.

    But it was during a time of terrible fear. Death. Anxiety. Upheaval.

    Yep, that's right. The lost days of the pandemic.

    I don't know how school went in your neck of the woods, but we went on Spring Break--very nervous about the rest of the year.

    Then didn't come back. Texas approved remote instruction. Online teaching. We found out it was a lot like Dora the Explorer.

    

    You ask a question. Wait expectantly and hopefully. No one answers.

    

    Ten or fifteen awkward seconds later, you answer the question yourself and move on.

    

    

    We took attendance daily, required students to show up on a Zoom meeting during the normal class schedule, and posted daily work online for them. If you are imagining that was a total disaster for kids with very little English, you would be 100% correct. 

    Some of our kids were still really engaged during remote learning. Like Victoria, who is the subject of a couple of other posts (A Face From The Past and Student of The...)   She was a superstar, and kept me on my toes by continually asking for more work once she caught up. 

    Other kiddoes? Not so much.

    

    Which brings us to Khalil, who was somewhat less diligent and motivated than the average students that year.

    As a stereotypical 7th grade boy, actually, he wasn't convinced that he needed a lot of schooling. He was conversant in social English--it was just the academic usage that he was weak in. As a stereotypical 7th grade boy, he was convinced that he was going to earn his daily bread in one of two ways.  Ways that DO NOT require a lot of schooling.

    One of his 7th grade goals was to be a famous YouTuber. I mean, Mr. Beast made it, so can anyone, right?

    Another of his 7th grade goals was to be a famous footballer. If Messi made it, so can anyone, right?

    So Khalil spent most of that year dodging work-first in class, and then on Zoom. He was one of the students who would "pretend" his Zoom camera was messed up, or set it pointing to the ceiling-I saw an awful lot of ceiling fans that year, I remember-and then tune out during the class. Turn in minimally completed assignments. Late, always late. 

    But Khalil was a naturally bright student, a glib and confident smooth-talker. A born salesman with charisma to spare. Those kids are the ones who break teacher's hearts and crush their optimistic outlooks. Those who could do it--but won't. Those who get get in their own way.

    But a funny thing happened during that awful year. He fell into success quite against his expectations.

    There are several supplementary programs that ESL students use in Katy ISD. One of them provides online news articles at the students' current reading levels, through which they progress with progressively harder and more challenging selections. Like the best of such programs for students, it incorporates some competition. 

    Both competition against themselves, for who makes the most progress against their beginning levels. And competition for who completes the most articles or the highest scores in a school. Or district. Even the entire state of Texas.

    So on a slower-than-normal Tuesday it began. Khalil logged into the program and completed two or three articles during class, on a day where no one else was really online.

    So he received a congratulatory email--Adobe Flash fanfare and confetti, even--that he was the daily top scorer for McMeans Junior High School. He showed it to me, and we noted together that he was pretty close to the daily leader for Katy ISD, the entire district. At the time, that was about 25 schools.

    That day he went into Beast Mode. Spent hours and hours completing articles. Learned how to answer the questions efficiently and quickly. How to pick out the main idea from the details. How to characterize opinion from fact. How to summarize properly. How to sequence events.

    Within the week, he was the top scorer in the program for the entire state of Texas. No idea how many students that includes, but I have never since had another student who came remotely close to his numbers. He literally completed over a hundred articles that week.

    And began to swagger. Noticeably. Perked up, showed interest in the rest of the class, in the work we were doing. Began to answer questions, to speak up and give his opinion when working with others.

    Once a month, I have my students submit a page-length writing sample. I use this to gauge the effectiveness of instruction in the class. This way I can tweak and monitor what they are learning as they learn it. Most months, I suggest a topic and a genre--fiction or informational, persuasive or entertainment. 

    That is how I assigned a personal reflection soon after his triumph. I was impressed at the newfound detail in his writing, which had been before now perfunctory and short. He went on at length about how he felt like a champion, how teachers he did not even know went out of their way to congratulate him--because you know I told everyone about his performance--and how he liked getting all the attention for his success. Of course he did. Of course he did.

    I would like to say this one taste of success turned him into a scholar, that he passed the STAAR that year and graduated the ESL program. That was a little too much to ask.

      But he did grow almost 3 years in reading level that year. He came to me reading on a 2nd-grade level, and at the end of the year, he was reading 5th grade texts successfully. That was a lot of deficit made up, and set him up for his 8th grade year only a couple of years behind. He did stop shirking work, as he saw he could stand with his peers and surpass them with a maniacal level of commitment. 

    And then he moved on after 8th grade. Moved to high school, and vanished from my student dashboard, as they all do. Khalil was one of the kids I always wondered about, and I used his story often in class, as an exemplar to what a dedicated student could pull off.

    

    

    I saw Khalil two days ago in the municipal library. At first he was unfamiliar to me-those puny little 7th graders change A LOT after they leave me. When a tall and serious young man stepped out from behind his computer and hailed me with a firm handshake, that same impish smile he sported as a 7th grader broke out on his face. He was amazed that I remembered his name, his story, his classmates. 

   

    Sheepishly, he admitted that he realized he was NOT going to be the next Mr. Beast, or the next Messi. He told me that he had decided to become a serious student in high school, and he had just applied online to the local community college. Probably a healthcare career, since he realizes his personality makes him good with people.

    Did I remember how he was the leading scorer in the whole state of Texas that week during Covid? That was one of his best memories of his school years, because it showed him he was a winner and was as smart as anyone else.

    

    Yep, I remember. How could I forget?

    Good luck, my friend. You have a brilliant future-cause I know you are going to light them up!

    

    

    

    

    

Everyone is obsessed with china-or not?

     Just a few days ago was 4th of July. As with any other 4th, I bought a couple of slabs of ribs, made sure I had a goodly supply of hardwood for smoking, and cleaned the smoker inside and out. Let the kids know the plans so they could drop in as their schedules allowed. Ribs, deviled eggs, cabbage, cornbread. Just the usual. Nothing fancy.

    But-and this is what makes it into a holiday...into a celebration....

    Table service was on china. 

    My grandmother's china, to be exact.

    The pattern is Royal Swirl. Mid-1960's. Fine China from Japan, according to the maker's mark on the back. Each plate has a pink rose in the center, with a scroll pattern on the rim of more flowers and grey curlicues, with a silverish rim. Maybe platinum? 

    The whole set, mind you. Plates, salad plates, cups and saucers. Gravy boats and underliners. Three separate sizes of small plates larger than a saucer and smaller than a salad plate. Soup tureens. Lids. Serving platters. Salt and pepper shakers. Everything.

    This china was intertwined with holidays and vacations in my childhood. Thanksgiving, Christmas, anytime we visited my grandmother, we ate off this china. 

    She must have had casual dinner plates, too, but I can't for the life of me remember using them. I do remember the huge oval glass tumblers, all embossed with a stylized Gothic "H" For Harrington, which held sweet tea. A sweet tea that was almost black, into which ice cubes would disappear, which was sweet enough to stand a spoon on end.

    When Grandmother moved into an assisted living facility, she sold the house. Furniture and furnishings went to whoever in the family wanted them. I remember no arguments between us. Kelly got the silver. Mom got her bedroom suit. Adam got the old console TV--which may still work. I got the china, the sideboard, the china cabinet.

    All these years later, I honor the memory of grandmother and her gatherings by using her china for important meals. It is remarkably light, and remarkably durable. No chips, no cracks, no fading. Maybe there is a metaphor there about life and family and memory and celebration. 

    Maybe there is a reminder that family, like well-made china, is forged to last for generations. 

    Or maybe it is just about plates. I don't know.

    Anyway, I have some great memories of using those plates. Our chaotic Christmas Eve dinners in Pelham, crowded into the kitchen and dining room around Grandmother's dining room table, eating from her heritage china.

    We've always washed those dishes by hand. Never trusted them to a dishwasher. The metallic trim would probably be discolored or damaged. So we always washed by hand. Following the age-old traditions, everyone would pitch in after dinner, fill the sink basin with soapy water as hot as could be tolerated, and wash and dry together.

    David would usually take over the soaping and scrubbing, with a kid on rinse and a couple or three to dry. I remember him hunched over the sink, toothpick working from side-to-side in his mouth. Hands plunged into soapy steam up to those bony elbows of his. Haranguing the rest of his team to work harder and keep up with him. 

    Setting the pace. 

    David really really set the pace. With everything. Since we lost him just a couple of months ago, I have reflected on just how central he was to all of us.

    Although it has been almost 15 years since the most recent of those huge Christmas dinners with everyone around the table, every time I pull Grandmother's china out of the cabinet, the one with the door that sticks on the top right corner, I think of all we did and said together. Sitting at the table over interminable cups of coffee and cake after dinner. 

    David on dish duty, directing his crew like George Patton barking out orders to the 3rd Army as they drove into Germany in the last months of WWII. 

    Culture changes, tastes change. Fine china, the type that costs hundreds of dollars and lasts a lifetime or more, has fallen out of favor. Estate sales and antique shops can't find buyers for their vintage sets, and young couples no longer register a china or silver pattern for wedding gifts. Which is a shame, I suppose.

    Treated with care, a good set of china will last for generations. 

    Just like the memories created whenever families gather to sit down together.