Posts Tagged ‘Teachers’
May Day
May Day Fun
I rang the doorbell, turned and ran as fast as my feet would carry me toward the front gate. But, I hadn’t planned well. The gate was latched shut.
The seconds it took to make my way through the front yard exit cost me dearly. Miss Bearly was swift of foot. She caught me by the collar just a few strides outside her gate.
The penalty for trespassing was severe. I knew it before I rang the bell. A kiss. Or, a pinch. Probably both.
A game of ding dong ditch? No, it was May Day.
May Day – not to be confused with the Communist celebration – is one of those second tier holidays you greatly anticipate as a child and then forget completely until you have children of your own.
Our tradition was to make baskets filled with candy for our friends and neighbors – it was the sugar fix between Valentine’s Day and Halloween. Mom often added pansies to the baskets for the other Moms.
Apparently, flowers is supposed to be the featured item in a May basket. I cared only about the sweets.
My favorite “basket” was the cupcake with a pipe cleaner handle. I loved to decorate the cupcakes and lick the knife.
Once the baskets were complete, we left them on a friend’s or neighbor’s doorstop, rang the door bell and tried to escape. The chase was the best part of the holiday (okay, licking the knife with frosting was the best part but the chase was a close second). I liked being chased far more than chasing a culprit from our yard. I didn’t want to catch anyone. Especially if I had to kiss them.
We always went to Miss Bearly’s (now Mrs. Erickson) on 2nd Street, I think it was. She was my first grade teacher. She was fun. She was always up for a chase. We share a birthday of October 11. And, most of all, I’m grateful that she helped Mom discover I had dyslexia. That led to a lot doctor’s visits and exercises I wasn’t too keen on but paid off in the long run.
Joni was excited to renew the May Day tradition when we moved to Longmont. She had fond memories of the holiday, too. But, we soon discovered we were one of the few people who had ever celebrated the holiday as children. When our kids placed baskets on friend’s doorsteps and rang the door bell, no chase ensued. There were just strange looks and questions, “What are you doing.”
We still plan to celebrate this year. Our kids are getting older and we won’t have many May Day’s of interest left.
The debate in the house is what to include in the baskets. Our kids follow in my footsteps. They want candy.
Joni suggested flowers, fruit leathers and pistachios. Huh?
In the end, it won’t matter much what we give as gifts. The main thing is that May Day is our last good excuse to ding dong ditch.
The Dumbest Generation?
Billy Mills is the only American to win the Olympic gold medal in the 10,000 meters. His coach, before and after competing for the University of Kansas, was Bill Easton – who also coached Dad in college.
The “story” was that Mills and Easton never really got along. I had the chance to hear Billy Mills speak at the Kansas Relays in 1984 as part of a 20th Anniversary celebration of his Olympic victory. At one event, Mills was asked about his difficult relationship with Easton. I still remember his response: “I am the only American to win the Olympic 10,000 meters. Bill Easton was my only coach.” He said no more.
That was Billy Mills’ bottom line. His success spoke for itself. Bill Easton was a part of that success. No more explanation was needed.
That is how I feel about my academic preparation at Atwood High School. I have been fortunate to experience academic success at the University of Kansas and Harvard. I have had many years of professional success since that time. My preparation for this success began in Atwood.
Many Atwood teachers inspired me to work hard academically. Really, no more explanation is needed. But, there are some funny stories to tell, too. Things happened in the classrooms of AHS that would never fly today.
First, another tangent. I came across an article recently that identified people born in the late 1950s to the mid-1960s as, “The Dumbest Generation.” Ouch.
The article went on to explain that those of us in our mid-forties performed worse than any other cohort of students on tests such as the National Assessment of Educational Progress and the SATs (fortunately those of us from Atwood took the ACT and can be held responsible for low SAT scores). The article also suggested that standards in American schools were at an all time low during our years in K-12.
Neil Howe, the article’s author, had this to say about our generation: “Compared with earlier- or later-born students at the same age, these kids were assigned less homework, watched more TV and took more drugs.” Shall we all sing the chorus from Gilligan’s Island or the Beverly Hillbillies?
I like to make Howe’s point in a different way. We were the last generation to go to college before the mothers got mad and before C. Everett Koop told us to be careful.
I experienced both low standards and high at AHS. In some classrooms the standards were as high as any I’ve experienced anywhere. I was challenged to stretch myself on a regular basis. In other classrooms, the standards were non-existent. Just showing up gave you a good chance for an A.
In Biology class, we spent two weeks listening to and analyzing Pink Floyd The Wall. It made perfect sense at the time. “Biology is the study of life. Pink Floyd The Wall is an album about life.” I don’t think a biology teach could get by with that today.
And, there were one or two teachers in the building who found class time rather inconvenient. We were given assignments, told where to find the teachers manual if we needed help and then the teacher left the room to pursue other interests. No one held these teachers accountable.
Let me be clear, these teachers were the exception not the rule. On the other hand, the gaps in my college preparation track with the classrooms where teachers were absent. And, the reverse is true, too. In the classrooms with high standards, I was well prepared for college.
My bottom line is the same as Billy Mills. I’ve had success. I’m proud of what I’ve been able to accomplish. Atwood schools are the place where my preparation began.
Uncle Edmund
I have thought a lot about my multi-great Uncle Edmund since joining school board. I receive many articles discussing what students should do after high school.
Uncle Edmund is a man I met only a few times in my life. He also gave me advice that changed the course of my life.
I began college as many people do with a utilitarian mindset. What major will lead me to a good job at a good salary? I began with plans to be an engineer. By the end of my freshman year, I knew that wasn’t for me. I enjoyed finance and statistics so I turned next to the business school. I was cruising along through my sophmore year satisfied with my choice. Then, out of the blue, I received a letter from Uncle Edmund.
Uncle Edmund was a former business school professor, teaching in a prominent MBA program. Seems he heard through the family grapevine that I was in business school as an undergraduate. He was not impressed.
His letter was short and to the point. It went something like this: What are you doing? If you are going to be a professional of any note, you will have to go to graduate school. Why in the world are you pursuing a professional degree at this time in your life. You are missing your last opportunity for a liberal arts education.
Uncle Edmund’s opinion carried weight in our family. I took his advice to heart and I looked into what it would take to switch to a liberal arts major. It was the best thing I ever did. I fell in love with economics, which led me toward public policy. I took classes in South African History and learned about a part of the world I’d barely heard of before, gleaning lessons of human tenacity I still think about today. I took literature classes and Western Civilization, which gave me the opportunity to read classics I would have completely missed. I had the chance to study with a history professor who ripped my essays to shreds and motivated me to stretch myself. I entered subject areas that were far outside my comfort zone. And, for the first time in my life I experience the joy of serendipitous learning – discovering things I did not know existed.
Liberal Arts is not for everyone. And, there is a need to be a bit utilitarian when it comes to investing in college. I understand that. And, thank goodness we have people who stick with the engineering. But, I also learned that it’s easy to get caught up on a practical track and miss out on a lot that education and the world has to offer.
I still earned a business degree. I was far enough along that with an extra semester I earned two degrees. I also left college with with an education I never imagined was possible because it didn’t seem the sensible thing to do.
I appreciate my Uncle Edmund.
* * *
Also published here at www.johncreighton.com.
Motivating Our Kids
One challenge I wrestle with as a parent is the same challenge I encountered as a manager. What motivates me does not necessarily motivate others.
Our daughter Emma has a tender heart. She responds best to nurturing and praise. She abhors structure. And, she thinks and works visually. She’s decidedly a right brain kind of gal.
I’m not. My left brain dwarfs my right. I discard visuals to focus on text. I’ve had co-workers tell me I have ice in my veins and chafe at my penchant for “clear plans.” And, I get motivated when I get a kick in the pants.
For instance, the teachers who inspired me to elevate my “game” were those who made it clear I had underperformed. I can remember their words as if they were said (or written) only yesterday.
Miss Bearly, my first grade teacher, who made me stay after school to improve my work, “This is too sloppy.”
My high school sociology teacher, Mr. Finn who said, “I would have expected better from you.”
My high school history teacher, Mr. Bliss who explained my poor grade saying, “A student like you should choose better words.”
Dr. Seaver, a highly respected history professor at KU who wrote across the bottom of my paper, “This is rotten careless work.”
And, Dr. Malcolm, an economics professor, who simply wrote at the top of my first exam: 36 – F.
I dug myself out of a hole and earned an A in each of these classes (well I guess you don’t get As in first grade). I wasn’t pushed in the same way in the classes in which I received Bs.
What motivated me, in part, is I don’t like to lose. When the challenge was put squarely on the table, “you can do better,” the classes became a game. An “A” meant victory.
My professional mentors who pushed me hardest brought the most out of me, too. Neither Mike Hayden nor Rich Harwood was too concerned about my feelings when things needed to get done. Their attitude was have fun when the work was done. That was just fine with me.
Emma doesn’t respond so well to this approach. As you can imagine, we occasionally butt heads.
She was doing math homework the other night, calculating square footage, when she declared, “This is stupid. No one would do this in real life.”
I looked at the problem and offered, “I do this kind of math all the time in my work. Your mom has to figure out square footage when we do house projects.”
“Look at that problem again, Dad,” Emma demanded.
I read: A garden is 18.75 feet by 4 feet. If a bag of mulch covers 7.5 square feet, how many bags of mulch would you need to cover the garden?
“We do those kinds of problems all the time,” I said again.
“No you don’t,” Emma rebutted.
“We do, Emma,” I replied, trying not to be impatient.
“If it was you, you’d say, ‘Ah, it’s about 80 square feet. Buy a dozen bags and if we have extras we’ll take them back to the store,’” Emma concluded emphatically.
I had the feeblest response of all, “Please, just do your homework, Emma.”
Emma is self aware. She knows that competition is not her thing. She turned to me one night and stated flatly, “Dad, I’m just not competitive like you.”
On the outside, I was calm and understanding. “That’s okay, Emma. Not everyone is.” On the inside, a voice was shouting in my brain, “What is the matter with you?!?”
I learned a lot as a manager. I worked at it. I tried to understand my style and the styles of my employees. I wasn’t perfect by any stretch. Some days, I pushed too hard and had to back off.
But, I have good relationships with my former employees and we did kick-ass work. We set standards that people still talk about. I take that as a sign that something was right.
Somehow, what I learned as a manager doesn’t always translate well to the home. Emma and I still search for that space in which we can bring out the best in each other.
Sometimes we do better if we pick the right time of day. Late Sunday nights is not one of those times.
Sometimes we just need to give each other room – or at least I need to back off. Occasionally I’ll offer to help type a paper and she gives me a leery gaze. “No suggestions,” she’ll say. She knows me too well.
Mostly we do better if I’m disciplined about limiting my role to asking questions without commentary.
I also try to remember that the effort to discover what motivates our kids is part of the process of growing up. As Joni often reminds me, Emma’s only eleven years old. And, I’m only forty-four.
We both have a lot more growing to do.
It smells like spring… ugh!
Spring has come early to Colorado this year. At least we’re experiencing a faux spring along the Front Range. This is the fourth or fifth consecutive day in the seventies.
There are other signs of spring, too. Daffodils and crocuses are up in abundance in our flower beds. A neighbor’s lawn is beginning to green. Birds are singing before sunrise. The morning wind is like a half eaten swirly cone – warm and cold pockets of air mixing in the breeze. And, the air smells new.
I walk down our front walk early in the morning to retrieve the morning paper and pause to take in a deep breath. I get the same feeling each spring – nauseous. It smells like track practice.
I had a love hate relationship with track. I felt dread before practice as often as not. But, it is a sport more than any other that taught me life lessons.
Track was the most important sport in our house. My father was a competitive runner well into his forties. He was nationally competitive in his age group clocking a 2:41:00 marathon at age 45.
I was almost good at many things in my life. Track was one of those things. I struggled to meet my father’s standards – standards he never imposed on me. He was never disappointed that I was not more competitive and enthusiastic on those occasions I did have success.
Still, there was part of me that thought I should do better.
My dad organized a five mile county challenge race each July 4th in which runners from neighboring counties would compete against Rawlins County as teams. It was the heyday of road racing. Everyone still knew the names Frank Shorter and Bill Rodgers. The challenge race was very competitive.
The rule when I was in high school is that men had to complete the five mile course in 35 minutes or less or their time did not count. Many of my classmates could break or come close to 30 minutes. I always fell short of the 35 minute cut off by a few seconds. It stuck in my craw for several weeks each year.
The truth is I never really prepared for that race. Several of my friends ran every summer morning. I was inconsistent at best. My dad was extraordinarily disciplined about his training regimen.
I learned that there is nothing glamorous about achieving excellence. Preparing for success is done when nobody is watching – often alone and in the dark. Excellence comes when you get up every morning – especially when you don’t feel like it – and put in the miles.
Coaches John Terry and Jim Finn were building an outstanding track program at Atwood High School the years I was there. Coach Rhonda Carter (now Argabright) led the program my senior year.
During my years, our relay teams won several state championships. The 4×800 team set a long standing state record. More recently both the boys and girls teams have won overall state championships.
I ran the 800, 400 and 300 intermediate hurdles – and an occasional high hurdle race just for grins. I was a member of many winning relay teams but never at the state meet. I was typically first or second alternate.
I had my moments of individual success. My first victory came in a Frosh-Soph high hurdle race. My legs were not quite long enough to three-step the hurdles as one should. I was forced to alternate my lead leg but did not have quite enough spring in my left foot to clear the hurdle.
I stood in the blocks looking down the row of hurdles and made a choice. I wasn’t even going to try to clear every hurdle. I had good start. Leaping off my right foot, the first hurdle went fine. Then, I put my plan into action. I jumped off my left foot and planted my right squarely in the middle of the second hurdle. My aim was good. The hurdle fell without breaking my stride. I repeated the process five times and was first to hit the string.
I went to report my time to Coach Terry. He looked at me without saying word. He just shook his head. I suspect he was trying to suppress a laugh. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Hey, ten points.”
I learned that you get some things done better if you’re not concerned about looking silly.
My second victory came in Frosh-Soph meet, too. I ran the open 800. I knew the likely victor would be Andy Karlin – a classmate from Atwood who had moved to Colby. My strategy was simple. I attached myself to Andy’s shoulder – running in lane two – from the moment the starter shot his gun.
As we approached the last curve a Goodland runner overtook us both. Andy turned to me and said, “Go, I can’t get him.” I had a little left in my tank and claimed the lead with about 50 meters to go. I won by three strides.
Again, I found Coach Terry to report my time. He wrote it down on his clipboard then muttered his first words, “You could have run three seconds faster if you would have stayed in the first lane.” Then I got that familiar wink and half-smile that said, “Good job.”
But, his message was clear. Winning is fun. The question is how good can you be? Coaches Terry, Finn and Carter emphasized this lesson over and over again. Work to achieve your potential. If you do, the victories will come in due time.
There is a Chinese Proverb (well, I read it on a fortune cookie paper in a Chinese restaurant) that says, “Good to start well. Better to finish well.” I learned that lesson the hard way in the last race of my senior year.
I concentrated on the 300 hurdles my senior year. I thought it was my best chance of making it to state. A goal I was yet to achieve.
The regional finals would be run in two heats. My qualifying time put me in the fast heat. I knew the runners I had to beat. The top three would go to state.
I was assigned the first lane which meant I had to deal with a tight curve. But, I wasn’t concerned. My start was consistently strong. This race was no different. I was in the lead by the time we reached the first curve. Rounding the second curve I was still in the lead.
One year ago at the regional meet I was in the lead of the open 800 with eighty meters to go. That’s when my legs turned to jelly. This year heading down the home stretch my legs felt fresh. I could feel victory in my gut.
I don’t tend to look back on life and say “if only.” I acquired that trait from my father and grandfather Creighton. They taught me that you can do something about the present not the past.
I do think about my badly botched Rhoades Scholar interview and this hurdles race from time-to-time.
I approached the final hurdle and made the fatal hurdler’s error. I looked. I could not resist the temptation to check my place. My trail foot caught the hurdle and I stumbled to the tape.
Third place. I still had a chance. Top three go to state. But the winning time in the other heat was recorded as .03 faster than mine. My track career was over without competing at state.
It was a hard lesson.
I think about that last hurdle when I’m reaching the end of a project for a client – especially those projects that have gone well and it would be easy to coast to the end. I remind myself, “Good to start well. Better to finish well.”
One of the many life lessons I learned in track that I’m reminded of each time I smell spring.
