Kids and Books – Is it a blast from the past? Is it beyond comprehension to expect (pun intended) kids to read books? Is it old school teaching and expectations?  Getting kids and young adults to enjoy independent reading is sometimes thought of, or described as, a daunting task. Just ask the parents and teachers of these populations, especially with the online presence that many kids are not only used to, but rather expert at.Enter books, some brand new titles and many old, familiar titles. Enter books that capture imaginations and bring young adult literature alive. Hatchet book by Gary Paulsen is one of those books.

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen

I am a retired high school English Teacher and Reading Specialist and I enjoy reading the books that my grandkids (12 of them, 3 – 18 years old, and another on-the-way) are reading. Many of these titles are school required. OK, most of them are required and I do have a couple of reluctant readers. I discuss these books with my grandkids with no expectations other than conversation. Sharing of ideas. Sometimes to explain plot or vocabulary. I love to unobtrusively share my passion for literacy, and sharing books is one such way. I don’t have to test them or grade them. I just have to enjoy them – the kids and the books.

I just recently finished a book that my 5th grade grandson was required to read – Hatchet book by Gary Paulsen.  His entire 5th grade was required to read it, which made getting a copy from the library in his town impossible and the local bookstore had sold out, too. This turned out to be grandly positive thing for me because I discovered an intesesting copy in my town library – 2007 Edition celebrating the 20th Anniversary of this Newbery Honor Book, filled with notes from the author, illustrations and interesting tidbits of information about life in the wilderness where the action of the story takes place.

This Hatchet edition also includes Gary Paulsen autobiographically writing of being a “terrible student” when he was a kid, a boy who failed ninth grade and avoided reading. These little facts are monumentally important/interesting/significant to kids. It makes them feel maybe a bit more OK about themselves and school and books as they set into reading the words of this author.

Kids and Books – 

Enter a book like Hatchet book by Gary Paulsen, in kids’ hands and hearts since 1987 and still going strong with its fast-paced story of a 13-year old boy, Brian Robeson, with recently divorced parents, a “secret” and a plane (Cessna 406) crash in a desolate wilderness.

Like many 13-year old boys, Brian is coming into “his own,” but additionally struggling with his life turned upside down. He is very angry with his Mom for “the breaking and shattering of all the solid things in his life” – his home and his life.  As the story begins, Brian can barely speak to his Mom as she drives him to an airport a couple of hours from home to meet the pilot of a small plane, hop aboard and fly to visit his Dad, a mechanical engineer, who works in the oil fields in Canada.

The only conversation that Brian (barely) engages during the emotionally uncomfortable drive is reluctantly thanking his Mom for a little token that she bought for him for this trip – a hatchet – with a steel handle, rubber grip and a leather case for the head of the hatchet with a brass riveted belt loop. Brian is impatient with anything his Mom could possibly say or do, but feels badly enough for ignoring her the entire trip that he attaches the hatchet to his belt. He feels ridiculous and embarrassed, but as readers, knowing the title of the book, we figure that the hatchet will become central to the story of Brian.

Not long into the flight over “the endless green northern wilderness below,” the pilot, a man of few words himself, opens up a bit and talks to Brian about the plane and flying and even allowing Brian to take over the controls and fly the plane. This is where my 10-year old grandson was hooked.

I always say that there’s a hook to every book, a hook that grabs a reader and makes that reader feel something, something of joy or surprise or fear or any emotion that makes the words on a page come alive.

Hatchet Book Synopsis

THIS is the magic of reading, of turning symbols into sounds into words into thoughts and images into understanding in one’s own head and heart what is going on in the life or adventures of a character or characters in a book. It is a complex process, but one that is discovered only by actually reading. If I had a dollar for each time I explained this mystery and magic to a student… well, you know I’d be a billionaire. 

But back to Hatchet because the action would only increase a hundredfold from there as the pilot suffers a fatal heart attack and dies in the cockpit. Brian is forced to take control of the wheel, the rudder pedals and fly. Trembling, he attempts to study the dashboard, find a compass, radio, altimeter – anything – but not knowing how to do anything – thoughts flying through his brain – knowing he needed to land – trying to see something blue like a lake, where a crash might be better than hitting trees.

Brian crashes the plane, a metal ripping, windshield shattering, screaming crash into a lake, Brian finding himself pulling his body out of the plane and up, up, up to the surface, then vomiting and swimming and anguished with pain and, as the book says, “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” of course, means just that. Brian is in a strange place of vicious mosquitos and endless trees, having barely survived the plane crash. His body is nothing but pain. The only “something” is the beat of his heart, of being alive. But being alive means something even deeper, and that is to stay alive.

From that moment on, Brian changes from sullen teenager to survivor. The silence in his new world is really thousands of sounds and hundreds of things that he has to learn. He has to learn to master one thing at a time, one day at a time, one morsel of food at a time.

He has to think. He must improvise. He remembers a teacher, Mr. Perpich, telling him to talk positive, think positive, stay on top of things. Get motivated. Quit messing around. Look at ALL of it.

Brian’s mind shifts to the drum of Mr. Perpich’s words, “You are your most valuable asset. Don’t forget that. You are the best thing you have.”

And there, at his side, is the hatchet, the hatchet that would become his life, his survival, the gift he didn’t want from the mother who made him so angry with “the secret” – a boyfriend – a secret he hadn’t shared with his father.

For 54 days, Brian would learn about edible berries and birds and fish and turtle eggs. He would learn of building fire, the dangers of bears and wolves and porcupines and moose. He would master one thing at a time with thought and common sense and trial and error – building a shelter, creating spears and bows and arrows, using shoestrings and remnants of fabric for usefulness. He would learn from mistakes and begin anew because he has to. He would come to know the destruction of tornadoes, yet marvel at the beauty of his surroundings.

He would become industrious and competent and confident. More tolerant and observant.

And the hatchet, the gift from the Mom he so resented, became his friend, his ally, his survival.

Brian is rescued after those 54 days of learning, growing, maturing, surviving by a fur buyer who was mapping the area for trapping camps.

Those days in the wilderness made Brian realize his most valuable asset, the best thing he had – himself.

Why I Enjoyed Hatchet Book

I enjoyed this book because the action and pace of the story makes it a page-turner. Brian stayed with me even as I turned the last page, thinking of his great emotional growth and maturity. My grandson Henry felt the same way and we’ve had lots of discussions about this book. We’ve talked about the deceased pilot in the plane in the lake. About the puke and diarrhea after Brian ate the “gut cherries.” About the porcupine attack. About “the secret” of the man his Mom was kissing. About making bows and arrows and spears. About surviving.

We’ve talked about the possible autobiographical tidbits.

We’ve talked about how many times the hatchet saved the day for Brian, and how the hatchet is a connection to his Mom, too, even through the anger.

We both agree that Hatchet book is the perfect title for this book.

And last, but not least, THIS message – “You are your most valuable asset. Don’t forget that. You are the best thing you have.”

A book with a great message.

Kids and Books – not a blast from the past, but a pathway to the future.

Get books. Read books. Share books with your kids and grandkids!

See Sharon’s review on The Little Giraffe poem!

Definitely pick up Hatchet book by Gary Paulsen – it’s worth a read!

The post Hatchet Book by Gary Paulsen appeared first on Stylish Life for Moms.

Reading Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, by Eleanor Coerr, with hundreds of students in both my English and Reading classes spanning 30 years, it remains an unforgettable true story in my heart, and, I’m certain, in the hearts of my former high school students. For them, it always began as a quick in-class read while studying literature from World War II. For me, it was taking them on a journey to Japan, to Hiroshima Peace Park, where in 1958 a statue was erected to Sadako, a young girl standing on top of a granite mountain, holding a golden crane in her outstretched hands.

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Set in Japan, the story begins on Peace Day in August 1954, 9 years after the United States had dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima in the effort to end World War II. For 11-year old Sadako and her friends, Peace Day was a day of “people, music, and fireworks” and foods such as spun cotton candy. To the adults, Peace Day was a memorial day to remember those whom had died when the Thunderbolt, the atomic bomb, “had turned Hiroshima into a desert.” The bomb not only killed tens of thousands of people, but left a long-term “poison” causing wide-spread leukemia that would continue to kill.

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

My high school students were a few years older than Sadako, the main character, but they strongly identified with her as a younger sister or cousin or neighbor. Sadako was fun and she loved festivities. She was active. She was always on-the-go, always in a rush, always skipping, hopping, jumping. She was a talented runner and her great wish was to be the fastest runner at her school. Sadako’s independence and zest for life captured my students’ hearts.

But things for Sadako would change in almost an instant when she began to feel a strange dizziness, a dizziness that she would fear but explain away while hanging onto her beliefs in prayers and good luck symbols. These beliefs and this keeping a “secret” of her inner fears of her health were things that my students could identify with. Very interesting classroom conversations arose. Many religious beliefs and opinions on prayer and good luck charms/omens were shared. These teenagers discussed their own fears of health issues in themselves and loved ones as the journey of Sadako took her to hospitalization with the fears of leukemia.

The hospital. The sickness. The leukemia. This is where the Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes began – the Wish, the Blessing, the Magic, the Lucky Charm – as Sadako’s best friend, Chizuko, brought to the hospital the gift of a golden crane and told Sadako of the old story – If a sick person folds one thousand paper cranes, the gods will grant her wish and make her healthy again.

So began Sadako working with paper, folding, folding, folding paper into paper cranes, discovering just how difficult it is to do so. But she persevered. After creating 10 cranes, Sadako said, “Now I have only nine hundred and ninety to make.” This is the positivity that Sadako embodied.

My high school students would be whipping through the pages of Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, while feeling placed into the story itself. In each class, there was at least one student who asked if we could make paper cranes. Each time, I said yes. (I became quite adept at making paper cranes, a skill that would impress my own children and now my *grandkids.)

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Soon, there were too many cranes to fit on Sadako’s hospital table, so they were hung from the ceiling. Friends and family and nurses saved paper for the cranes and every new one that Sadako made was strung from the ceiling. In my classes, we always hung our paper cranes from the ceiling. Students began making them at home and bringing them to class, in great tribute to Sadako and remembrance of this tragic time in the history of the United States and Japan. It was stunning to see. To experience.

Sadako’s health would continue to diminish, even as she folded more and more cranes. By the following autumn, Sadako had made 644 paper cranes before she died in her hospital room under her ceiling of rustling paper cranes.

I never read the end of this story of Sadako without a least one student (most times, many) in tears. The story gripped them with the both the glories and tragedies of human life. But I think it’s what happened after Sadako’s death that captured their hearts, learning that Sadako’s classmates folded 356 cranes in order that 1,000 were buried with her. After her funeral, a book entitled Kokeshi was published, containing Sadako’s letters and journal and of the 1,000 paper cranes.

The book led to a monument in Hiroshima Peace Park, unveiled in 1958, to Sadako and all the children killed by the atom bomb. She is standing on top of a granite mountain of paradise, holding a golden crane with outstretched arms.

A Folded Crane Club was organized in Sadako’s honor. To this day, thousands of paper cranes are placed beneath the statue, which is engraved with the words:

This is our cry, this is our prayer; peace in the world

As I have said, I know that this little book has stayed with my high school students. It has stayed with me. It is history and life and tragedy and man vs man and its impact on children. It is life and it is death. It is profoundly sad and profoundly uplifting.

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes for Middle School

This is why I have introduced this Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes to my *grandkids, the most recent my 5th and 6th grade grandsons. Very powerful discussions come from this 63-page story. And there is, of course, the creation of paper cranes… one of the most difficult little thing to accomplish at first, but with patience and practice, the lovely result of not only the following intricate directions, great patience, even greater sense of accomplishment, but a connection to a girl from Hiroshima, Japan, from 70+ years ago and to a war that we as adults address so that one like it will never happen again.

I think you, my reader, feel that I endorse Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes and the discussions it coaxes and demands and the HOPE it creates.

I also offer this little crane-creating tutorial. I found that my students and children (now grown) were… and my *grandkids are far more adept than I in creating these masterpieces!

Pick up a copy of Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes!

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I was called “F-ing Stupid” – The profanity came in the form of a question, “Are you f-ing stupid?” 44 years ago. Addressed to me. By my employer. Using the full f-word. This incident has stayed with me for 44 years and will stay with me for the rest of my life. Lessons Learned in Life aren’t lost. Actually – lessons learned in life really stick with you. They stay with you forever and ever and ever.

Lessons Learned in Life

I’ll begin this long-ago incident, though, with last week. My 10-year old grandson, Henry, had stayed home from school with a bad headache and as his headache diminished, I offered to take him out for lunch. As 10-year old boys are when feeling better, he was hungry.

His Mama said, “Sure, if Henry’s up to it.”

A half hour or so later, Henry and I were ordering our lunches at Newport Creamery. He was still a bit pale and a bit less hungry than usual, but our waitress was very kind with a couple of requests/changes regarding his *Kids’ Meal Special.

When our waitress left our table, *Henry said, “Grandma, you are always friendly to waitresses.”

“I am,” I answered, “because it’s an honorable and tough job.”

He looked at me kinda quizzically. “How is it tough?” he asked.

I answered something like this… “I worked my way through college doing office work, cashiering,  waitressing and some piece work,” I said, “but I REALLY discovered waitressing after college. I know how hard it can be to deal with the public, to get everything right with busy chefs and cooks and bartenders, with managers, and with all the people behind the scenes. AND I relied on tips. So if a customer is friendly, it can make that day better.”

“Like what?” Henry asked. “And what’s piece-work?”

“Well,” I answered…

Lessons Learned in Life

And I told him the waitress part of the story. (We didn’t have time to get around to piece-work, a topic for another lunch.)

It was Autumn 1974. I had graduated from Rhode Island College that previous Spring with a BA in Education with an English Major, but there was an abundance of teachers and no jobs. I got a job doing piece-work at a small jewelry company, working a few afternoon hours per week, pretty much making my own hours for a few extra dollars.

I was also researching schools at which to apply for study of Reading and earn a Master’s Degree in Education. Nights, I was waitressing. I waitressed at a family, burger-style restaurant where patrons tossed peanut shells on the floor and where waitresses were often the target of flying peanut shells and whom also swept up the peanut shells after each shift into big piles and dust-panned them into trash barrels. I didn’t mind it. It was busy, loud, time passed quickly and tips were fairly good. And, I had become friendly with one of the bartenders, an older and experienced bartender who tutored me in garnishes – cherries, lemons, cocktail onions, celery stalks, lime twist, wedge or slice, and even some spices, etc. This skill made all the difference in getting drinks out swiftly and, of course, garnered better tips. I also learned at that restaurant that men who left unusually large tips might just ask for a date (none of which I accepted).

Henry grimaced at the description of me getting hit with peanut shells and the date requests. Ewww.

Lessons Learned in Life – for Grandkids

But back to my story of the profanity and lesson.

When I decided to take a Spring 1975 semester graduate level course in Reading Education at Rhode Island College that required some field work of interviews with educators, administrators, etc., and lots of research and writing, I applied for a primarily evening cocktail waitress shift, with a conference luncheon here and there, at a local, high-end hotel/conference facility. I got the job. The one caveat is that the “uniform” was a red corset-type thing with white ruffled panties and a very low neckline. Ouch. AND no comfy, padded waitress shoes; but rather black heels — low heels, but heels just the same.

Henry, I’m sure, was shuddering in his seat as I explained THAT uniform. A longer and more dramatic ewwwww.

But at the same time in my life, as I told Henry, I was thoroughly invested in the graduate-level course I was taking; setting up interviews, researching programs around the State of Rhode Island in different subject areas, but always seeming to come back to Reading as the key to unlock every possibility for kids. For our course thesis, we were given areas of study from which to choose, and I was immediately drawn to one: Desegregation in the City of Providence. I wanted to know the timeline, the shifts in schools, the minutes of the meetings, the politicians’ thoughts, the students’ and parents’ and teachers’ and administrators’ thoughts. The volcanic shift. How did this impact an entire city? Statistics? Test scores? A million questions. One of my interviews at the RI State Department of Education lead me to a state-run vocational-technical school in Rhode Island via that interview that I had set up by combing the yellow pages of a phone book in a telephone cubicle at Rhode Island College.

Lessons Learned in Life

BUT, back to waitressing. As a cocktail waitress, I found that customers, primarily businessmen, were polite until they had too much to drink, but management and bartenders at that establishment were omnipresent and caring. Tips were grand. It would be a group of women at a conference one afternoon that would take me by surprise. It was a Teachers’/Administrators’ Conference, and although I knew I could not connect with some of these education big-wigs in that setting, I paid close attention to topics, schools represented, and any hints of personnel needs.

Of course, for this afternoon function, waitresses donned black skirts, white shirts and sensible shoes. But to this one group of five female administrators, I was just a lowly waitress. So lowly, in fact, that their table left me a combined tip of 6 cents. 6 CENTS. One nickel and one penny. I suppose the penny was to seal the deal that the lowly tip was purposeful, like lowly li’l ol’ me didn’t deserve even a dime. It took everything I had in my mind, spirit and body to not chase these women outside and yell, “Hey, is this how you treat kids and students, too?” and throw that 6 cents at them.

I didn’t. But I will never forget this incident. Ever. As a waitress. As a woman. As a human being. Lessons Learned in Life – they stick with you to the core. Always.

I explained to Henry that this encounter with educated women made me even more cognizant of treating waitresses/waiters with the respect they deserve for working, working hard and working well. Amen.

Ironically, it would be conferences such as this one that would change the course of my life. Because management thought I did such a good job serving at conferences, they requested that my work schedule change from evening cocktails to luncheons/conferences. I knew that this would reduce tips and tie up too much time for my graduate course work, so I declined and interviewed and got hired on-the-spot at a primarily dinner restaurant with an extensive menu. When I asked about training, the owner told me that his wife would train me. Right then and there.

The training consisted of the owner’s wife handing me an apron and a menu and telling me that she, as maitre’d, would receive 15% of my tips and that she was keenly aware of tipping percentages at her restaurant (i.e., waitress beware).

I would be starting that night.

What you Take from Lessons Learned in Life

What? I hadn’t given my notice to the cocktail waitress job. I hadn’t even seen the menu. I didn’t know the kitchen or anything about anything.

But I put on my apron. Black, around the neck and tied at waist. I pursed the menu, but “the wife” was chattering about specials and no switches in veggies and potatoes and a bunch of other stuff that I cannot, and do not want to, remember. But I do remember customers, most elderly, coming into the lobby. The “wife” seating them. Me being told to wait on them. I did. After a few drink and meal orders, I realized that the waitstaff had lots of responsibilities – go to the kitchen, place the orders with the cook (maitre’d’s husband and owner of establishment), put correct salad dressings and veggies on each order, serve the orders, garnish the mixed drinks (thank goodness for this skill), bus the tables, set the tables. There were two waitress there with me, but they were very busy and had no time for me. I can still see them carrying monstrous trays of food to her tables. No one smiled.

I tried. I really did. But with one older couple, I brought peas rather than green beans and the wife was irritated. She wanted GREEN BEANS, not PEAS. OK. I raced to the kitchen and told the chef, THE OWNER OF THE RESTAURANT, THE WIFE’S (who was getting 15% of my tips) HUSBAND that I needed to exchange a vegetable.

He looked at me from behind the cooking area and yelled, “ARE YOU F-ING STUPID?” (using the full f-word).

*(Henry was stunned. He looked up from his mac ‘n cheese special order. “No, he didn’t,” he said. “Did he?”)

I can feel to this moment the both silence and thunder of that question in my brain.

All I had was one word for this man confronting me with this insidious question. “No.”

I untied the black apron, pulled it over my head, left the kitchen and the restaurant and waitressing and went back to piece-work at that little jewelry company with the clarity to honor every person of every profession.

Lessons Learned in Life – You Remember Details

On April 5, 1975 (I will always remember this date), I would be sitting in the office of that State of Rhode Island Department of Education employee taking pages and pages of notes during own interview. He would give me resources at my disposal and a contact at a school where he thought I may enjoy volunteering.

I did it all. The contact. The school. The volunteering. The research paper. The course. The A+ grade.

I met the principal of that school, a gruff, retired Naval officer, but a man who loved kids and thought each one deserved a trade and solid academics and honor and respect. He thought young teachers like me should volunteer to help these kids. Each morning, I began my day tutoring at that school, primarily helping students with reading skills. Each afternoon, was piece-work. That summer of 1975, that same principal offered me a paid position as a summer school teacher in a program for disadvantaged kids.

I met a math teacher that summer who would become my husband, the father of our children and grandfather to our 12, going on 13 grandkids.

I would be accepted to Boston University and earn my Master’s Degree in Reading.

I would teach English and Reading at that school for 30 years.

Lessons Learned in Life – No, I am not f-ing stupid.

But I’ll always give waitressing, the ups and the downs, some credit for my success.

Waitressing is very much like teaching. You have multiple people, multiple personalities, multiple needs, multiple everything coming at you at the same moment, and then multiply those moments by minutes, hours, days, weeks, years.

No moment is the same. No student is the same. No class is the same.

No moment is the same. No customer is the same. No table is the same.

But for each and all professions, and of these honorable professions – Teacher, Waitress/Waiter – a student/customer smile and a friendly demeanor means so very much. For me, this goes way, way, way back.

Poor Henry. He didn’t know what he was in for when Grandma invited him for lunch.

Next installment of “Lunch with Grandma”: Piece-work!

Share with me Lessons Learned in Life  – that you’ve learned… even the hard way.

Here’s an article my daughter write regarding the 1st week of Middle School.

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Technical/Vocational Training is not Back. It Never Left.

In opening, I will admit my bias toward William M. Davies Technical High School and the hundreds of students with whom I became partners in education. These young men and women inspired me in ways that are almost impossible to explain, but because I love words so much, I will offer a few:

Inspired (yes, I know that I already stated this), Inspirited, Enlivened, Affected, Invigorated, Sparked, Instilled, Influenced, Heartened – to name a few of a million.

I taught English and Reading at Davies Tech, a State of Rhode Island managed high school serving northern Rhode Island, for nearly 30 years.

What surprises me about this Wall Street Journal article is that its writer, Michelle Hackman, seems to have researched nothing about this school, its history, its great and sustained success at vocational/technical training and its student placements in/at businesses/companies throughout Rhode Island and beyond for decades.

There was a vision for this school facility.

Davies Technical High School was founded in 1971, 47 years ago, and in that time period, hundreds upon hundreds of students have not only been successfully placed in cooperative work settings, but have excelled at them. Many Davies graduates have become owners/proprietors of their own successful companies, or worked for/managed successful companies, and this is a mere snapshot of the past 5 decades:

Instead, the writer speaks of (currently) Rhode Island partnering with companies like CVS and governors “clamoring to work with their states’ companies to shape curricula” as if this partnering is a brand new idea, a revolution in vocational education. Rhode Island Governor Gina Raimondo is specifically cited as saying, “For a long time, there was a little bit of a stigma around vocational training.”

This vocational “stigma” perception is not just very old thinking and old news in the arena of vocational/technical education in Rhode Island, but it speaks to elected officials’ lack of information/knowledge, as well.

THERE IS NOT ONLY NO STIGMA around vocational/technical training, but students of all ranges of abilities are on waiting lists to be enrolled. Davies’ curricula was and is shaped by leading educators and the state’s companies and includes a competitive college prep component. Just look to its partnerships with Brown University, Amica, Axalta Coating Systems, Electric Boat, CVS, Lifespan and so many more ALREADY, both in the past and currently.

Students and parents and guidance counselors have and have had for multiple decades this important vocational/technical education option to add to students’ career selections. Perhaps more light should shine upon vocational/technical training and the successes it has shepherded.

A short history of my knowledge of vocational/technical education, I first stepped into the Davies school building in April 1975 to interview its Principal for a research paper on which I was working (“Desegregation in the City of Providence”) at my graduate-level course, sent by a Diversity Consultant at the RI Department of Education whom I had interviewed.

The facility was rather new, very modern in design, located in northern Rhode Island in a rural area. I was rather surprised, expecting of an more industrial setting, but finding a sprawling campus much like a business complex.

Large, wide windows brought in lots of sunlight. The design was open, with wide ramps several stories high where I felt one with the entire school. I could hear the hum of vocational areas, yet see directional signs to the academic wings. The library seemed to look over the expanse of both with its large windows to this world.

But I was thinking at the same time, What does this school have in common with desegregation in Providence?

It really had nothing to do with this topic other than the school population at Davies was very diverse. I did meet with a Vice-Principal, and he gave me the snap-shot history of this school and a tour. As a college-prep high school student myself, a graduate of Rhode Island College with a BA in Education (’74), and then searching for a graduate school to further my educational pursuits (I would earn my M.Ed in Education from Boston University),  I must say that I was mesmerized with this school. Kids were smiling, teachers were welcoming – in both academic and vocational areas – and the school buzzed with activity and positivity. Visitors were very welcomed and students often lead tours.

I was excited to volunteer in a tutorial capacity at Davies for several months and the following September, I was hired as an English teacher. I would work as an English Teacher/Reading Specialist at Davies alongside some of the most brilliant and driven young people I have ever known. I always say that many of my students taught me more than I could ever have taught them. They were not only leap-years ahead of their peers in career training and in partnerships with businesses, but offered an educational path to college, as well, if they so chose. I loved calling them “Renaissance Men.”

It makes good headlines/news feeds to highlight governors speaking about the “new” movement in vocational training, and it makes for good campaign rhetoric.

But the truth is that these programs have existed for decades and have educated/trained/gainfully employed thousands of students over 5 decades+ in Rhode Island alone.

Vocational Training is not back. It has never left.

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A very tough First (and Second and Third) Day of School 1960 and a Dad and Principal who knew how to infiltrate a frightened 4th grade brain ~

This morning, several of my 12 grandkids headed back to school.

Ah, that monumental First Day of School, the end to hours of daytime outdoors, sunshine, hopefully sleeping a bit later. Summer Reading done. Backpacks packed. Moms and Dads back to routines.

This morning, as I drove through my town and a couple of towns north, I saw kids walking, kids waiting at school bus stops, police monitoring crosswalks on busy thoroughfares, parents waving.

First Day Of School.

I waved to my own kids as they headed off to first days of school, from Kindergarten to seniors in high school.

I taught high school for 30 years and welcomed my students into my English or Reading classes each first day of school.

There is an excitement… as well as, often, trepidation.

I remember my first day of 4th grade as clearly as if it happened this morning. This happens each first day of school because of my 4th grade trauma of being a new kid in a new state, all the way across the United States from California to New Hampshire.

My Dad was in the Navy and when his California duty was up, my family moved to another duty station in New Hampshire. I was sad to leave my friends and a school I loved, but New Hampshire meant being closer to my Mom’s big family with lots of aunts, uncles and cousins. We actually stayed with one of my Mom’s sisters and her family when we arrived in New Hampshire, got enrolled in the local elementary school, all within a few days before school began.

Sounds easy. OK. I headed to the school bus stop on that first day, surrounded with my cousin (3rd grade) and brothers (1st and 5th grades). The walk to the bus stop was up the street, left through the ball field behind the historic school house next to the church and adjacent to the horse corral. I can still see all of this.

I wore a white blouse and black and white checkered skirt and carried a lunch box that I don’t remember.

A bunch of kids were already at the bus stop, an enclosed porch on the front of that historic school. I don’t remember anything about the kids. But I do remember feeling sick to my stomach. I had never ridden a school bus. In California, we walked to school with a gigantic pack of kids, talking and often bending down to check out the tiny lizards that ran by our feet.

OK.

At some point, on that new first day of 4th grade in New Hampshire, I just ran from that bus stop porch. Past that horse corral and ball field with the church and old school behind me and taking a running right to the house at the near end of that street.

My Dad was there at my aunt’s house with my Mom and her sister. I was surprised to see my Dad still there, but I ran into his arms and never wanted to let go.

We talked, I don’t remember how long, but soon I was in the back seat of that blue and white station wagon and heading off to the bus stop. As we approached that old school bus stop, I saw no kids, meaning the bus had already arrived.

Phew.

Not so quick.

My Dad told me that we were driving to school.

The next thing I remember is sitting in the principal’s office. Mr. Raymond. I still remember this formidable man as if I’m sitting before him right now. He wore a suit, a gray suit. His voice was deep and calm as he and my Dad talked. If I remember correctly, Mr. Raymond may have been retired military. I’m not sure. But these two men connected on some level that brought this little girl into the world of change, of new, of new things, of school and going to school.

There was no disappointment by them about me. No.

Just the expectation of going to school. I was sent off to Miss Plante’s class, feeling even more intimidated because now I was not only new, but standing before all of my new classmates like a science project.

Well, I ran back “home” from the bus stop on that second day of school, too.

I also “missed” the bus that second day.

And third day.

Repeat the meetings with Mr. Raymond. But on the third day, my Dad hugged me and left the office. I was there alone with Mr. Raymond and in his very deep voice, he told me that I would not be doing this again.

And I didn’t.

Bottom Line: A little patience, a bit of understanding, and a firm grasp of child development and compassionate discipline goes a long, long way.

And I loved 4th grade… and would survive each First Day of School beyond 4th grade all the way up to graduating from high school, college and a Master’s Degree in Education from Boston University.

The post A very tough First (and Second and Third) Day of School 1960 and a Dad and Prinicpal who knew how to infiltrate a frightened 4th grade brain appeared first on Stylish Life for Moms.

 ~ LET IT BE ~ A TRIBUTE TO MY MOM

I haven’t written a blog post in a very long time.

March 8, 2018, to be exact.

I’ve been living my life and celebrating the flow of days since my Mom passed into eternal life on December 7, 2017. But the missing of my Mom has been sometimes a shadow, sometimes a conversation, other times a full-out river of tears, but oftentimes a string of memories of moments that travel back to my first recollections that a child of 3-or-so can muster to every single moment I spent with my Mom since.

Rita was always a presence. She was quiet and gentle and tiny in stature, but she was the strongest and most formidable woman I would ever know or meet, and I would be the only girl to call her Mom. Like others of The Greatest Generation, my Mom, Rita, lived through a lot. A LOT. Her two brothers going off overseas during WW II. The early death of her father, a fireman in Boston, who would leave a wife and 6 children, Rita being the second child and oldest daughter. Rita was 18 at the time and worked in an office, helping her Mom with household necessities. Not marrying young, waiting for someone, someone to sweep her off her feet, all the while labeled an “old maid” at age 25 by her many Irish uncles. And there were plenty of uncles, one blind, verbally abusive, whom my Nana was kind enough to take into her home. My Mom would marry a Navy man, travel the country, love every minute of this, but spend months upon months as a “single Mom” of 3 young kids while my Dad was out-to-sea. She never complained. Rita was meticulously organized and loved chores done early so us kids could get out the house to the Navy Pool or San Diego Zoo or playground or any activity that kept us busy and active. My youth was activity. My Dad would retire from the Navy, get a very nice civilian job, and suffer a fatal heart attack at age 47. My Mom became a widow at age 50 (yes, we always teased her about her “cougar” status). She began applying for office jobs 3 weeks later, was hired, and worked until she retired.

I wouldn’t see, or perhaps recognize, until much later in MY life, the philosophy that my Mom had developed way, way early in her life, perhaps as a close-out-the-noise mechanism as a girl or as a forerunner to how she dealt with Life’s great moments as well as its most tragic moments.

A forerunner to perhaps the greatest of all Paul McCartney songs – LET IT BE (1970) – was my Mom’s mantra far prior to this song. If she said this to me once, or a trillion times, I can still see her beautiful, calm demeanor and face, her tiny frame saying the biggest 3 words in this universe. LET IT BE.

Because I am the fire to her calm. I am the crazy to her sane. I am the loud to her soft. I am the obscenities to her pure.  My favorite memories of Rita is when she’d say, “Sharon, I don’t know where you came from.” And laugh. Truly LAUGH. Because she meant it. Then she’d say, about whatever it was that burned my heart, soul, spirit or mind at that moment, “Sharon, LET IT BE.”

I loved the song. I was 17 when this song was released.

I just didn’t know that its philosophy not only defined my Mom, but would come to define me.

It wasn’t ’til I began running and competing in triathlons many years ago that in the quiet of my training and playlist, I would hear, truly hear, the lyrics to one of my favorite songs of all time – LET IT BE.

I was so mesmerized with how much these lyrics were my Mom, that I researched the song:

Paul McCartney: Then one night, somewhere between deep sleep and insomnia, I had the most comforting dream about my mother, who died when I was only 14. She had been a nurse, my mum, and very hardworking, because she wanted the best for us. We weren’t a well-off family- we didn’t have a car, we just about had a television – so both of my parents went out to work, and Mum contributed a good half to the family income. At night when she came home, she would cook, so we didn’t have a lot of time with each other. But she was just a very comforting presence in my life. And when she died, one of the difficulties I had, as the years went by, was that I couldn’t recall her face so easily. That’s how it is for everyone, I think. As each day goes by, you just can’t bring their face into your mind, you have to use photographs and reminders like that.

So in this dream twelve years later, my mother appeared, and there was her face, completely clear, particularly her eyes, and she said to me very gently, very reassuringly: “Let it be.”

It was lovely. I woke up with a great feeling. It was really like she had visited me at this very difficult point in my life and gave me this message: Be gentle, don’t fight things, just try and go with the flow and it will all work out.

So, being a musician, I went right over to the piano and started writing a song: “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me”… Mary was my mother’s name… “Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.” There will be an answer, let it be.” It didn’t take long. I wrote the main body of it in one go, and then the subsequent verses developed from there: “When all the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be.”

The most interesting and magical and personal thing about the lyrics of Let It Be is that my Mom’s birth name is Mary Rita and that I have a deep devotion to the Blessed Mother, Mary. Each time this song popped up on my shuffled playlist, I was deeply moved, sometimes to tears, at the feeling, aura, presence of my own mother, “Mary” Rita.

When Rita died in December, I grasped onto this song on a much higher level, a spiritual level, an ethereal and continued message from my Mom. Coming from the afterlife.

Her mantra to me. Her calm, her experience, her brilliance, her advice, her goodness, her spiritual meaning, her reassurance, her TIP to me to just “Let It Be” — all the meaningless stuff and things people do to each other and stuff we must not endure, but rather dismiss.

LET IT BE.

Move on, out, above.

Enjoy Life.

There will be an answer.

LET IT BE.

Last evening, I attended a very fun “Reclaimed and Refined Signs” night out, where each participant created her own personal piece of art. This is mine, ready to hang in my kitchen, to inspire me each day. I stained the wood to purposely keep the grain like Life itself — weathered where its weathered, nicked where it’s nicked, knotted where some strength was required to keep it together — Black & White.

Pure.

There are many things as human beings that we are required to address. There are many times when our humanity alone demands that we speak out and take action.

But there are also times of LET IT BE.

These times of peace give us the strength of spirit to listen to the answers of our hearts and get the important things done.

My Mom knew this all along and continues to teach me this great, great Lesson.

LET IT BE.

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Carter’s – Wonderful Customer Experience for this Grandma ~

I have a story about Carter’s that I wish to share.

I’m a Grandma of 12 (ages 21 months – 17), and like lots of grandparents, I love to shop for my grandkids. I am not too overindulgent, I think, but I love well-made apparel and if a bargain is tossed in… well, that’s the strawberry on top.

And speaking of strawberries, I was searching on-line earlier this week for a clothing item for my granddaughter Victoria, who is turning 5 in July, an item with a strawberry motif.

Since my oldest granddaughter’s first birthday 17 years ago (and every birthday since, for EACH of 12 grandchildren), I have selected a shirt/top that *means something special to the child that year, that birthday, and have it monogrammed with the child’s name and the date. Please don’t make me count how many shirts! And *oh, goodness – we’ve had princesses, cartoon characters, ballerinas, every sport represented, favorite athletes, a special town’s name, to name a few. This year, for example, my oldest granddaughter is taking a missionary trip to Nepal and I found a shirt with this country’s flag. I LOVE the search just to see the kids’ faces!

The kids have come to appreciate and love these special birthday tradition shirts, often trying to guess what that birthday’s theme may be. (And trust me that I often search long and far!)

But back to Victoria. She has a little different twist on her birthday tradition shirt that involves strawberries. I’ll take you back to the end of October 2012. My daughter Audrey and her husband had 4 young boys and had recently suffered a miscarriage. She had invited me to breakfast this day and we met at a little restaurant on a main street in a little neighboring town. I hadn’t been with her for a second when she announced, “I’m pregnant!” with the most radiant smile and hugs upon hugs. We ate, then stopped into a little gift shop, just gloriously poking around when I saw a little white onesie with a little strawberry embroidered on front. I told her that I wanted to buy this onesie with the strawberry for the baby because some of my most beautiful memories from my own childhood are of picking strawberries – fields and fields of strawberries – with my Grandma on her farm in Michigan. To honor my Grandma, I have a tattoo of two strawberries on my left wrist.

Strawberries mean everything to me — my Grandma and her beautiful face with deep wrinkles and a smile that touched the sun. Sunshine. Early Mornings. Fresh Air. Michigan. The Farm. My Family. My Grandma’s Roadside Fruit & Vegetable Stand – and so much more. That morning with my daughter Audrey and her glorious baby news and that onesie with the strawberry brought back each of these wonderful memories. Like magic.

I said to Audrey, “If this baby is another boy or a girl, this is a very special gift from my heart and my very own Grandma’s heart, too.”

I knew right then and there that this child’s special birthday shirt would always involve a Strawberry on it, somewhere.

In July 2013, we celebrated the arrival of a beautiful baby Girl, the adored 5th child and adored baby sister to her 4 brothers. AND my promise to honor this child and my Grandma with the Strawberry, the symbol of Love for its heart shape and red color.

Fast forward almost 5 years. I have found an item of clothing each birthday for our precious Victoria (also known as “Sissy”) with a strawberry motif. Let me tell you, though, it is not often easy! I start early, like now, for July!

Which brings me the l-o-n-g road back to my stop at Carter’s yesterday, the children’s store chain located in Seekonk, MA.

I had found an adorable girls’ shirt 3 days previously, with an adorable strawberry on it, at Carter’s on-line. I immediately added it in my cart and began the purchase process…

I had a problem logging in. OK. Try again later. I did try again later. Still, the site wasn’t entering my email address, and I tried signing in as Guest, too. Nothing.

OK. I waited until the next morning. Same thing. Now, I know in my mind that Carter’s isn’t going to sell out of this perfect shirt in a day or two. BUT WHAT IF?

The next day, I had an appointment with my husband close to the Carter’s location, so decided that I’d stop into the store. My husband asked why I hadn’t called on-line Customer Service (he knows how I get when I discover the perfect birthday shirt!), and I explained to him that Carter’s has THE BEST in-store customer service of any store – hands’ down. We own our own business, so we know a thing or two about excellent customer service. I told him that Carter’s should do seminars in Customer Service training.

You know what he said? “You’ve told me this before!” Indeed!

So off he went. And off I went to Carter’s. There, I explained to customer service rep Kris what happened during my on-line ordering. I had a photo of the Tee, and Kris helped me search the store.

No-where to be found.

Kris headed to the back room where newly arrived boxes were stacked and she began looking through the new merchandise. Friendly. Helpful. Knowledgeable. Patient.

The Strawberry Shirt was not to be found, but Kris asked if I’d like to order it there at the store and pick it up there at that location.

YES!

The store was getting busy, but there were other salespeople answering questions and working the other register. Kris didn’t rush me, making sure that I was ordering what I wanted. I truly appreciate this.

Kris was also patient when I added one more item to that order, a little hooded tunic for my youngest granddaughter Eve Sharon, for her 2nd birthday in May – with her special motif of Roses because she has my name Sharon as her middle name and my Dad loved Rose of Sharon. Eve will always have Roses just as Victoria will always have Strawberries.

Yep. I find my grandkids’ special birthday shirts with serious love!

And personal Customer Service with friendly, knowledgeable, kind people means everything and ADDS so much to a shopping experience.

Carter’s – Wonderful Customer Experience for this Grandma – impeccable!

Bravo, Carter’s.

The post Carter’s – Wonderful Customer Experience for this Grandma appeared first on Stylish Life for Moms.

A Tiny Moment turned Major Memory with Grandkids ~

Early last Tuesday morning, I was at Audrey and Matt’s house to get their 5 kids breakfasted (is this a word?) and off to school while the parents had business to attend to.

The two older guys, grades 6 and 7, are rather self-sufficient and ate, geared for school and headed to the bus stop in no time at all.

The younger three – Ben (grade 5), Henry (grade 4) and Victoria (pre-school) – had time for a little treat at Dunkin’ Donuts before school. So off we went.

We were lucky to get a nice corner table where we could enjoy each other and some good conversation. These are the grandparent moments that I cherish, everyone sitting and chatting and laughing and eating things only grandparents allow on school mornings and drinking chocolate milk, to boot!

Pure pleasure.

Henry was excited about a group project that he was working on at school, one that required that a student-designed car actually accelerate. He was so, so very excited that his partner was bringing a balloon to school that day, one that they were going to blow up, then attach to a straw that would accelerate the car that they had carefully designed.

The excitement in Henry’s eyes and voice and hands – at that tiny moment in time – as he described the automobile project, was better than Christmas morning magic to me.

(As a retired teacher, I only hope that I had inspired this enthusiasm in a student!)

Then Henry’s big brother, Ben, – thinking, thinking, thinking – asked the question of the morning… “What if your partner doesn’t bring in a balloon?”

Henry wasn’t deterred, but I could almost see that question sneak into his mind.

But Ben was already one step ahead. “Grandma,” he asked, “do you think CVS sells balloons? We have time to stop there before school. Just in case.”

(I wanted to hug Ben with his brotherly love. Wait, I did!)

Henry was all aboard with this suggestion, so Ben, Henry, Victoria and I packed up the chocolate milk and half-eaten donuts and took off for the local CVS.

We had a 5-minute wait for CVS to open, but our excitement at this back-up plan sustained us all. Even 4-year old Victoria was all-in!

Once inside, we headed to the “birthday” section, if you will, where cards, streamers, cups, plates, ribbons, etc. are sold.

NO BALLOONS.

Ben ran to a saleswoman to ask about balloons. She said that CVS no longer carries latex balloon, but rather helium balloons. Henry asked if a helium balloon would work on the experiment that he explained in a nutshell.

Nope. (But a good side lesson in “air” acceleration, just the same, for a 4th grader.)

She offered that perhaps the bookstore across the plaza may sell balloons.

Nope. Not even opened at by-now 8:10 am.

Then Ben spotted Shaw’s Supermarket at the very far end of the plaza, so we piled into my car and drove there, stopped, hopped out, ran to the door and entered into the Produce department. I think we were the only 4 people in the entire store, but we did spot a man in a Shaw’s jacket stacking fruit.

We ran to him and I quickly asked in which aisle latex balloons would be.

He offered that there were lots of helium balloons already filled in the Florist department, but I quickly explained that my grandson needed a latex balloon.

Just one latex balloon! 

He kindly brought us to a woman who would know about things such as balloons (as I checked the clock because the boys’ school start time is 8:40 at the latest.)

The very kind woman who did know such things brought us up and down two “decorations” kinds of aisles and, no, there were no latex balloons.

STUMPED, we began to walk to the store’s exit. But I was too invested by then in this balloon for this grandchild who was so excited about this school project and the brother who wanted his brother to have a spare balloon just in case his partner forgot to bring one to school and the sister who was SO excited to find a balloon for Henry… that I told the kids to run with me to the Florist department.

I said to the kids, “ONE MORE LOOK!”

And there, like magic, like some angel or mythical being or fairy-tale hero or leprechaun or halcyon was following the path of our adventure, a vision appeared from behind the gorgeousness of the dancing and smiling helium balloons –

… almost hiding, careful to make our Party-of-4 truly appreciate the GIFT we were about to receive, if we looked closely enough and truly believed!

A Rainbow of Colors tacked to a corkboard – Latex Balloons –

Latex Balloons waiting for a boy who truly needed and wanted one and a brother who wanted his brother to have one and a sister who squeaked with delight at the discovery like we were miners of gold and a Grandma who understands the power of one Tiny Moment of excited conversation turned into Major Memory unfolding like true, true magic before my very eyes.

Ben looked around to find someone to retrieve the magic and the Produce guy came with a smile at Ben’s enthusiasm. He was very happy with our discovery of the tucked-out-of-sight latex balloons and asked Henry what color balloon he wanted.

Henry chose a black balloon because the car he and his partner had designed was black and he thought that would be cool.

I pulled out my wallet, but the now-Balloon Man handed Henry an un-inflated black balloon, but truly passed along the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow to us travelers on our morning quest. He waved my money away and just smiled.

And there in the Shaw’s parking lot on that beautiful morning –

The Treasure. The Boy –

The Smile –

The Brother –

If my heart could have been photographed, it would be too big to fit on this page.

This journey of a tiny moment of conversation about a balloon turned into a major memory for each of us – forever.

I got the kids to school in the nick-of-time.

Henry and his partner each brought a balloon to school.

They would need 2 balloons to complete the automobile acceleration project.

The project was a great success!

The post A Tiny Moment turned Major Memory with Grandkids ~ appeared first on Stylish Life for Moms.

CleanWell Hand Sanitizers to the rescue ~

As a Grandma of 12 precious grandkids, there is nothing more important to me than keeping them happy, safe and active.

But generally with active, comes a bit of (or an abundance of) germs.

Germs are the enemies of grandparents, believe me. And during the winter season, germs are the ultimate enemy.

Take this winter – 2018 has been the highest flu hospitalization rate since the CDC started keeping comparable records in 2010. Since children can’t avoid school and we don’t want them to miss fun activities, there are products we can always have on hand (literally) to protect our grandkids, kids and ourselves from daily germs.

Enter into my life CleanWell Hand Sanitizers: 

CleanWell hand sanitizers kill germs with a patented formulation of thyme. This natural formulation leaves skin feeling soft and it won’t
sting cuts.

I have fought the battle of hand sanitizers that make my grandkids wince in pain when a myriad of unnatural ingredients and alcohol penetrate cuts and chapped areas of hands. I know this pain myself and it is unbearable.

Not so with the soft, soothing ingredients and feel and natural scents of CleanWell –

The containers are sleek with a secure hinged top, making it very convenient for me to keep in a pocket of my purse (I love this feature)…

… and also sleek and kids’ safe enough for older kids to easily apply a spritz of CleanWell themselves before a treat out with the grandparents –

Or after a competitively active sports afternoon with friends!

I think the most remarkable quality goes back to CleanWell’s natural non-sting formulation and subtle fresh scents (Original and Orange Vanilla)  that allow me to easily apply this hand sanitizer even to my youngest grandkids, the ones who need clean-hands supervision so very, very much. The kids who will run from hand sanitizers that sting or overpower them with scent. The ones who do not independently wash their hands, yet touch everything in sight and put so many things into their mouths.

The kids who need a safe, effective hand sanitizer before AND after group activities with other young children!

For anywhere I take my grandkids outside, or a rainy day inside waiting to bust outside, CleanWell Hand Sanitizer is for me…

It’s that extra layer of confidence in the health, safety and well-being of my priceless, active treasures of my life – my grandkids.

And, of course, the adults in our family, too!

Because no germs are the only germs!

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I ditched my To-Do list today and followed my Heart(s)!

Some days are filled with things to do.

Today was one such day.

But I ditched all those things.

Got my hair done.

Trekked to Michael’s in Seekonk, Massachusetts.

Bought some hearts. On sale. 7 little packages. 29 cents/package. WHAT??!!

Got back home.

Removed all the pine garland (for Christmas) from the little white lights on the railings on our deck.

Winded in (or wound in??). You’d think I know, as a former English teacher. WHAT??!!

———- But nothing matters today.

———–Because I ditched all the To-Do List stuff.

———–For the Want-To-Do List.

I wound my Hearts into the white lights on the railings on our deck.

For my family.

For Valentine’s Day.

I’m in Love!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Because I followed my Heart(s) today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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