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Iowa Teachers Write The Iowa Public Radio Pieces

Edited by James S. Davis

2009 Iowa Writing Project

Interludes

InterludeIntroductionEstablished in 1978, the Iowa Writing Project affiliated with the University of Northern Iowas Department of English and Center for Continuing Education in 1997. It relocated to the UNI campus in 2003, where it offers professional growth experiences in teaching writing and in writing to learn for teachers of elementary, middle and high school and college. As part of their learning experience, teachers write. IWP founding Director Jim Davis presents a sample of their work.

For more information see the IWP website at www.uni.edu/continuinged/iwp/

or contact Jim Davis at: 117 Baker Hall, UNI Cedar Falls, IA 50614-0502 Phone: 319-273-3842

Layout and Design by Scott Romine

ContentsPrologue..................................................................... byJamesS.Davis....................... 1Out of the Mouths of Babes..................................... bySylviaSteffen........................ 2The Tightrope ........................................................... bySandyMoore......................... 2Knee Hug .................................................................. byRichardHanzelka................ 2Young Love............................................................... byBarbHenry........................... 3Two Miles.................................................................. byJeanConover........................ 3Duck Blind................................................................ byChristieVilsack.................... 4Lounge Talk.............................................................. byRodCameron....................... 5The Button................................................................ byBarryHalden....................... 6Twice......................................................................... byChristineJensen.................. 6Shifting Sands........................................................... byCleoMartin.......................... 7These are the Lines that Try Mens Souls............... byJimMead............................. 8Saturday Night at the Moose.................................... byNickGeorge......................... 9A Call ......................................................................... byArdithJenkins................... 10August Curtains in an Old Couples Bedroom ........ byMarvelTorkelson.............. 10Mother Knows Best .................................................. byJimMead............................ 11Walking the Farm..................................................... byAnneWeir........................... 12Generator.................................................................. byJimBates............................. 13Contagion (Its about time)...................................... byJimBates............................. 13Ode to William Stafford ............................................ byJimBates............................. 13Dave.......................................................................... byGinnyV.Wildman.............. 14An Angel Strikes as Eve Leads Adam to Sin ........... byJimBrimeyer...................... 15Etiquette for the First Year A Guide for the Novice.... byKateRiepe........................... 16Story Problem ........................................................... byPegFinders......................... 17Morning Ritual......................................................... byBarbaraTurnwall............... 17Cycle .......................................................................... byMarilynNelson................... 18 down by the river ...................................................... byConnieSaunders................ 19

From the Iowa Writing Project

Untitled ...................................................................... byConnieSaunders................. 19 The Mud in Me......................................................... byAlBorszich.......................... 20Daughters.................................................................. byKristinAllen........................ 21Reservoir .................................................................. byBarbBrenneman................ 21Who Knows ................................................................ byMaureenEckland................ 22How Rude! ................................................................. bySharonGray........................ 22Present Tense ............................................................. byJamesBurke........................ 23November 14 My Son ............................................. byBradWeidenaar.................. 24Mrs. Harms ................................................................ byNancyPinkston.................... 24Kindergarten Teacher ................................................ byMaryBethVansteenburg.... 25Miss Perception ......................................................... byJimBates.............................. 26A Rainy Day ............................................................... byGayleSheetz......................... 27Tuesday Morning 3:00 a.m. ...................................... bySusanYoung......................... 27In Search of Shallow Waters ..................................... byJayneR.Vondrak................ 27The Buckeye .............................................................. byNancyKaiser....................... 28Into the Window of Grace ......................................... byKarenHerber...................... 29Redwoods ................................................................... byAnnWeir.............................. 30How long does this have to be? ................................. byPeteMuir............................. 30Redshirting................................................................. byRitaHughes......................... 31Midnight..................................................................... byKatieSeiberling................... 31Family History ........................................................... byFranFord............................. 31Dont Forget .............................................................. byJeremyHoffman.................. 32Bald Eagle.................................................................. byBillLyons............................. 32Why I Prefer Childrens Literature .......................... byChadMcClanahan.............. 33Companion Poems ..................................................... byBillBrozandJimBates...... 34It is an ugly war. It is a strange war. ......................... byRexMuston.......................... 35Ode to Joe .................................................................. byJimYoung............................ 36His Eyes ..................................................................... byKarenDeMello.................... 36Response When There are No Words .................... byPatKraus............................. 36Ill Have a Burrito ..................................................... bySusieBentley........................ 37The Fifty Year Old Scar ............................................. byKathyMeyer........................ 38Urge ............................................................................ byLisaKritchman................... 38The Exchange ............................................................ byLisaKritchman................... 38Bookend ..................................................................... byLisaKritchman................... 38Who Am I Saving? ..................................................... byGailMurphy........................ 39Where Im From ........................................................ byAshleyJorgenson................. 40

PrologueOn Good Friday in 2007, I appeared on a noon talk show with KUNIs Greg Shanley to share some information about the Iowa Writing Project, talk about the teaching of writing, and perhaps read some teacher writing. The reading did not happen because so many calls came in during the program, including some from people who had participated in IWP during the early years. The interest in and concern about writing in our schools was clear, though not all positive or optimistic.

Nearly a year later, Iowas public radio stations, while aligning and consolidating services, established a new Talk at 12:00 program. The format included a three minute break at 12:30, and Greg asked if I would like to record some writing by IWP teacher participants to be aired occasionally during that time. The opportunity to draw attention to the quality of Iowa teachers and their work was too good to pass up, so I selected a first set of pieces to record for a trial run. Soon teacher writing could be heard at 12:30 every other day, and the need to record additional pieces surfaced every couple of months.

I had assured Greg that I had an ample supply of teacher writing; he could not imagine the boxes of summer insti-tute publications in the IWP storeroom, each compiled with participant awareness of some potential, though not promised, exposure beyond the institute group. I, of course, had underestimated the challenge of selecting and preparing pieces to record. At first I could go to pieces I remembered from particular institutes or from readings at the annual fall conferences we held until the mid-1990s, peer response to those pieces still remarkably vivid. A few IWP instructors offered recommendations. Still, selecting pieces which could reach a radio audience in 2.5 minutes of actual reading time was demanding, as was preparing to read them effectively. (I admit to reliving DJ experiences which helped pay for undergraduate school in the 1960s!) That the call to record usually came a day or two before KUNI needed the new pieces further complicated my tasks, and too often limited introductions to Iowa teachers often write about Of course, fine pieces on parenting, teaching moments, love, loss, and those places and experiences we identify as Iowan, really speak for themselves, as writing must.

Digging into archives of institute publications was a joy, but could be a consuming one. More time would pass than I could afford while I pondered how to represent the span of IWP from 1978 to the present, the scope of IWP as a statewide phenomenon, and the range of teacher writing produced under IWP influence the varied types, the diverse topics, the amazing substance and tone achieved by so many writers from so many places representing so many roles. At times I was able to take a longer piece and cut it to fit the time frame; more often I confronted equally fine pieces and expediency demanded I choose the ones which would already fit. In effect, anyone whose piece found its way to the airwaves might justly feel commended; not having that experience should in no way be deemed a slight. The opportunity to air IWP teacher writing this way lasted about a year; the supply of exemplary work could have carried us much longer, and is replenished annually in IWP institutes and workshops.

Iowa teachers, at least the 9000 involved in more than three decades of the Iowa Writing Project, write and write well. Doing so helps them understand what they ask of young writers and how to nurture them, despite having too many classes, too many preparations, and too many students in the increasingly scrutinized and pressured place we call school. Calls requesting copies of pieces aired by KUNI, and the compliments expressed to teacher writ-ers as well as to me, suggest that part of their public appreciates their work. May this publication increase that audience and thereby foster support for the crucial work of teaching and learning in and beyond our schools.

James S. Davis, DirectorIowa Writing Project - 2009

- Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs

TheTightrope

Love is easy work.The open heart.The sheltered mind.Its not hard to give / take love.A gentle, rattling snore in the nightin my ear. Close.We spoon-fit together.Yes.Love is the easy part.

Friendship is hard work.Unspoken hurts.Snapped looks.Its hard to be friends together.A hiss of biting words under breathunder pain. Prickly.We word-sting each other.Careful.Friendship is the hard part.

We quiver on a balanceof pain and delight.

Sandy MooreMt. Pleasant Institute - 1980

OutoftheMouthsofBabes

Lisa meandered out of her bedroom. I put down my coffee mug as I saw her making her way across the living room. My instinct had been correct. She headed straight toward my lap.

Now it is no easy task for a twelve year old who is five foot two to curl up small enough to fit on a lap, even when the lap is my more than ample sized one!

Morning, Mom, she whispered as she snuggled her blond head under my chin.

Oh, Lisa, I moaned. Why do you still insist on sitting on my lap?

When Im on your lap, Mom, Im not me. Im part of you! Her reply came without a moments hesitation.

I thought about that. She curled tighter. Lisa, I said, what a beautiful thought! Why dont you go write it down?

Oh, Mom, she shouted as she shot to her feet. When is your silly class going to end anyhow?

What could I say? Some questions are just better left unanswered.

Sylvia SteffenFort Dodge Institute - 1981

KneeHug

I got a knee hug this morningI was just standing thereShavingWhen our fourth in a rowDaughterShuffled into the bathroomOn sleeper-clad feetPut her four year old armsAround my knee andHugged~Silently~Just for a moment.

We didnt say a wordshe justHuggedThen shuffled off toThe Disney Channel and herPre-school routine.

I keptShavingBut my legs werent stiffAnymore.

Richard HanzelkaSt. Ambrose University

Bettendorf Institute - 1995

Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs -

YoungLove

Young love.Remember it?

That charge of electricitythat comes withhis slightest touch.

That feeling ofwonderment thatsomeone so specialthinks youre special too.

Looking forany excuse tobe near him:to touch him,to punch him,to caress him.

Knowing thatyour are a part of something bigger thanyou.

Seeing my daughterwith her boyfriendbrings it all back.And Im a little enviousof young love.

Barb HenryLisbon Community Schools

Iowa City Institute - 1990

KneeHug

I got a knee hug this morningI was just standing thereShavingWhen our fourth in a rowDaughterShuffled into the bathroomOn sleeper-clad feetPut her four year old armsAround my knee andHugged~Silently~Just for a moment.

We didnt say a wordshe justHuggedThen shuffled off toThe Disney Channel and herPre-school routine.

I keptShavingBut my legs werent stiffAnymore.

Richard HanzelkaSt. Ambrose University

Bettendorf Institute - 1995

TwoMiles

After supperWe leave the dishes in the sinkLeash the dog,And walk to the highway and back.Two miles.

We fret overLoose gravel and passing carsWhich drench us in dust.We hash overWho thinks what, and why.

The one who is fifteenSpeaks little. She has an athletes swagger,A boyfriend, and all the answers.But our eyes meet aboveHer sisters bent head, and she smiles.

At nineteen,The sister doubts what she once knew.Her talking is like the sand underfootRoughing up our mindsWith gritty questions.

The me of forty-threeHas to hustle to keep even.I wedge in a breathy truth or twoIn case they care to listen

But mostly I savorTwo-miles of timeWhile I can.

Jean ConoverMaple Valley High SchoolSioux City Institute - 1992


DuckBlind

Coffee? My father asked.

I shook my head.

I wanted some. I was cold. Hed never offered before, always said it would stunt my growth. But Id never been duck hunting before, either. This must be a privilege that goes with the occasion. I had passed it up. Maybe later.

I tried not to look cold. I didnt want him to know my toes ached. I wanted him to think I was tough.

Duck hunting demanded silence. I was glad. I wouldnt know what to say. I didnt know the questions to ask about guns. I could just hear myself saying, Gee, the decoys are pretty, and hed never ask me again if I asked, How long?

He stood intent, his familiar profile watching the bleak grey sky. The barrel of his 12-gauge rested on the crude window sill. His brown canvas coat blended well with the scraps of lumber and old barn siding hed fash-ioned haphazardly into this hunters hideout. His brimmed Stetson had been temporarily replaced by Cranes Hardwares best with bill and flaps.

He stirred and motioned me to the opening. I heard them before I saw their perfect formation. They wailed syncopated stanzas of the bluesthe sax players of the sky.

I was glad they were too far away. I didnt want the shots to interrupt this moment. The death didnt bother me. I had seen the limp green heads and stroked their warm flecked feathers. Id watched the cleaning and marveled at the corn filled craws, and yet, this first time I didnt want to see the leader falter and fall.

I was content to share the solitude with my father, proud to be asked to come along.

Christie VilsackMt. Pleasant Junior High

SIWP Mount Pleasant Institute - 1979


LoungeTalk

He smells like gasoline, the Spanish teacher was saying. When he leaves the room, that odor stays, she continued.His fingers leave black, greasy smears on my desks, added the history teacher. He comes in wearing that damn,

filthy sweatshirt, unzips it so his t-shirt shows just enough so Ill be sure to read Go to hell, world, Im a senior printed across the front. Then he sprawls across his desk and sleeps the rest of the period.

Does he take off his John Deere cap? asks the Spanish teacher, still gasping from the memory of gasoline smelling up her room.

No, thank God, who knows what kind of smudge that would leave on something. He blinked hard and shook his head. I dunno how a kid can stand to be so dirty.

And stupid. The remark boomed from the corner of the lounge where the math teacher had been sitting, smoking a cigar. He cant understand enough in my class to even fake it. One day I handed out a simple work sheet, would take only ten minutes to do. He comes in the next day and says he lost it. You believe!

Was it on trapezoids? I asked.Howd you know?Just guessed. Some of the kids were checking over them in class. I didnt mention the lost one had been handed in

with a spelling quiz done on the back. Maybe I shouldnt let them use scrap paper anymore.He doesnt do much in my class either, but hell pass since history grades are based mostly on tests. He does just

enough to make it.Hell fail Spanish, for sure. You know he carries that big notebook. What the heck does he have in it anyway? He

must do work in someones class.No one seemed to realize, Its mostly poetry, I volunteered.Poetry! What, some scummy graffiti? The math teacher spoke sharply, then picked a thread of tobacco from his lips.No.Some copied stuff?No, I dont think so.He do it for your class? inquired the Spanish teacher in a where-were-you-the-night-of voice.No. But I read one oncehe asked me to.Any good?Yes.What was it called?No me importa? About school.The math teacher got up and said he thought lunch had been very good that day. The history teacher began reading

Sports Afield. The Spanish teacher shook her head as if I had explained something to her.

Rod CameronAbraham Lincoln High School - Council Bluffs

Carson Institute - 1982


TheButton

The faded patterns on the wall were allThat Grandma seemed to see through faded eyesAs nervous fingers played with buttons onHer house dress. Grandpa, once the rugged farmerFollowing the sterner disciplinesOf rural duties, gently moved to herTo place her hands upon her lap again,But not before a metal button fell,Catching the lamp light as it spun and rolled Behind the sofa. Grandma did not notice.Grandpa found the button and placed it inThe sewing box with others that my aunt Would get to sometime after laundry day.At dinnertime he held her fragile handsTo wipe them with his handkerchief. I watchedAnd thought of years before when Grandma made Me wash my hands before she would allowMe to indulge in sugar cookies onlyShe could make. Now calloused hands played motherTo those now playing child. Grandpa showedA kindness I had never seen him useBefore. I had expected the impatienceHe curtly would display when Queen or NellRefused the bit at plowing time, or whenA cow would not stand still to milk. But GrandpaSmiled and spoke as softly as his ruggedVoice allowed. It was his turn to offerLove and gentleness to one who hadSuccumbed to seven decades spent in ruralLiving and the raising of eight children.

I would prefer to think of them as they Had been in younger years; but yesterdayI saw my wife, her thoughts on other things,Playing with a button on her dress.

Barry HaldenBurlington Community High School

Mt. Pleasant Institute - 1979

Twice

January 1, 1977a little airportYoungstown, Ohiofreezing coldbaggage checked amplified anonymous voices rattle arrival and departure timesYou and I at the boarding gateunder greenish fluorescent lightsCrowds all around uswhispering good wishesYou walk me to the security deskand slip me a twenty(as if I were still in college)A hug and a kissand there you standYou look so much smaller to me nowLingering, Ithen turn and walk to the planeGood-bye, Dad

March 14, 1977A country churchBrooklyn, Iowafresh-cut spring flowerspungent odorrefrains of Fairest Lord JesusYour familygathers outsidein brilliant March sunwind whipping past our earsnoisy in the leafless treesWe walk to a fence behind the churchoverlooking a dark brown fieldYour sister opens the cardboard boxIt is so much smaller than I had imagined it would beShe gently removes the plastic bagAnd empties itWith arms extendedAshes explode in the windand disappearGood-by, Dad

Christine JensenWest Branch High SchoolIowa City Institute - 1981


ShiftingSands

Within the past eight months, my mother and three of my aunts died. I havent fully recovered from the painthe repeated trips down church aisles and then to the little cemetery near my home town, the hushed conversations, the somber music, the reiterated and not very helpful she lived a good long life.

But Im not ready to write about all of that. I need some time, distance.

What I want to write about is the startling recognition that my parents and their numerous brothers and sisters are all gone. I am now a part of the older generation. Even as I write that phrase it feels strange, like wear-ing somebody elses shoes. Shoes that dont really hurt my feet but cause periodic discomfort, a feeling that something is vaguely wrong.

.My nieces daughter, Sara, two, is full of energy and laughter and love. She comes to Aunt Teos house with open arms, tells stories about animals and people in the books she reads, races to serve us all popcorn three kernels at a time, seems intrigued when I write Sara and Daddy and Mommy for her, tries it herself. I wonder. Can I ever be as important to her as my aunts were to me? PearlClaraMabelEmmaEthelMildredIva HesterLoisRuthIva EuniceGladyseach in her own way a part of me, as were my parents and my uncles, from my first memories of them to their separate deaths. A part of me still.

.One of my cousins wrote recently that her sister, Eloise, was seriously ill in a hospital. In Bevs letter: I had to write to you about this, Cleo, because Im so lost without your mothermy dear Aunt Graceto talk to. Were my responses to Bev and Eloise as loving and helpful as my mothers always had been? I felt strangely adolescent as I tried.

.My two brothers and my sister are parents of adult children, the nephews and nieces who have enabled me to be-come a great aunt. My siblings and I havent talked about our recent role, the older generation, nor have we written to one another about it. Maybe they share my sense of strangenessthe pain and joy of the then and the now.

Cleo MartinUniversity of Iowa



ThesearetheLinesthatTryMensSouls

Mr. Mead, I see on the seating chart you have me sitting next to Brian. Perhaps youd better move me, as we tend to talk too much when were seated together.

In my wildest dreams I hear conversations like this, but never in the classroom. In fact, I suspect that Ill teach the rest of my life and never hear:

This book was terrific! Steinbeck was a genius. Do you have any more novels by him? I was going to party this weekend, but Id rather read a good book.

Dont forget to count me tardy, Mr. Mead. I know it was close, but I really wasnt in the door when the bell rang.

Youre probably wondering why my paper is late. I just didnt get it done. It was a choice between doing your assign-ment and watching MTV, and MTV won out.

Would you please explain the symbolism in Frosts Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening? There must be more to it than Im getting.

Will you please be quiet? Mr. Meads trying to say something.

Have a good weekend, Mr. Mead, and dont worry about my paper. Get it back to me whenever you get the time. I know you have a life outside of teaching.

Commas and periods always go inside quotation marks. I get itwhat a good rule. Ill never forget it.

If I teach another fifteen years I doubt Ill once hear any of those. However, I can predict some things I will hear, and how Ill respond to them, if only in my head:

This book is dumb! Look kid, if you hit your head with a book and hear a hollow sound, dont assume its the book that is hollow.

Are we going to do anything interesting today? No, no. Ive planned a mind-numbing lesson that should put you all to sleep in thirty seconds.

Does spelling count? Certainly not. You dont think Id count off for spelling just because this is a spelling test, do you?

How come we have to do this? Mr. Georges class didnt have to. You have to do it because if you dont Ill pout.

Do I have to sit in this seat all semester? Not at all. Sit on the floor, hang from the lights. Bring a hammock to class. Why on earth would I care where you sit?

I was gone last week. Did I miss anything? Miss anything? No, no. We just sat around wondering when youd be back. Some of the class wanted to go on, but I said wed just wait.

Are we just going to read and discuss and write in this class? Absolutely not. Dont ever think that. Next week were going to sculpt in clay and then I though wed learn some African folk dances. This is a literature class, why in pluperfect hell would we read and write?

I didnt copy his test. Why do you say I copied his test? Because he last answer was I dont know, and your last answer was Me neither.


How come she got a better grade than me? We both wrote pretty much the same thing. She got a better grade because I like her better.

Sorry my papers not done, but my grandmother died last night. Yes. And this makes the third grandmother this semester. Im concerned that a few more late papers will make you an orphan.

Can I go to the bathroom? Well, thats an interesting question. Im betting you can, but youve fooled me before on simpler tasks.

Even if I hear such things week after week and year after year, it really doesnt get me down. All it takes is a See ya, Mr. Mead, have a good weekend, to get me up the next day. And I hear that, or something similar, often enough to have kept me in this business for twenty-one years, which I think is more of a reflection on the kids I teach than it is on my staying power. Still, sometimes a small sigh escapes when I hear:

Do we have to read this book? I hear it sucks, and I want to say, and you, kid, are the best argument Ive seen lately for birth control. But I dont because I know some day that kid will say, See ya, Mr. Mead, have a good weekend, and all will be well.

Jim MeadLinn Mar High School - Marion

Cedar Rapids Institute - 1991

SaturdayNightattheMoose

The smoke-stained, dimly lighted,pale roomwill never come to life.The mooseWithout a body says it all.MotionlessEyes glazedperched above empty metalfolding chairswondering what became of his other half(probably in another hallon the wallin another countydirectly east of here).Imaginethe other halfsuspended over an arch.People passunder the carcassof the decapitated beastwaiting,groping,for fun.Saturday night at the moose.

Nick GeorgeLinn Mar High School - Marion


10 - Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs

AugustCurtainsinanOldCouplesBedroom

The gentle south wind teases snowy white curtainsUntil they become softly pregnantAnd then release their cool fullnessOn our warm, expectant flesh.

New life is borne on a caressing breath,Captured by the undulating gauzeAnd is set free without pain or cryA gentle birth to cool our limbs.

We lie, not stirring, watching, hoping asThe white gauze curtains billow to full bloomAnd a sweet child of the south wind comesTo us whose seed no longer bears fruit.

Marvel TorkelsonMount Pleasant Institute - 1980

ACall

I havent had the chance to say I love him. My husbands voice broke as he hung up the phone. The message:Dad had a severe stroke and might not live through the night.

We sat and he talked:

Dad had taught him all he knows about trees and wood.

Dad took him fishing and had the patience to teach him the sport.

Dad paintedhe had helped more than the other boys.

Dad was proud of his ability.

Dad really wants to see us more often.

Dad knows we love him.

Why dont people express love verbally?

The happy ending came. The would-be stroke was a reaction to combined medicines. Dad is an alert eighty-two year old, fully recovered from the ordeal. My husband frequently says, I love you, Dad.

I wish I had had that second chance!

(Writing is a voyage of discovery. - Miller)

Ardith JenkinsFort Dodge Institute - 1981

Iowa Writing Project and KUNI Memoirs - 11

MotherKnowsBest

She was a pleasant looking woman, matronly, well-dressed, with an attractive smile and an earnest eye. We were seated across the table from each other on Parent-Teachers Conference Day, discussing her sons progress in my writ-ing class. I had on my conference-day expression, she was wearing her concerned-parent mask. We were playing our roles beautifully; nodding our heads, arching our eyebrows knowingly, and clucking sympathetically. The conference had centered on her concern that schools were not getting back to the basics, which meant, of course, the teaching of grammar. The conference was moving to conclusion when she leaned across the table, rested her chin in her hand, looked deeply into my eyes, and asked:

Do you diaphragm?

Uh, well

Because we diaphragmed when I was in high school, and I found it very helpful.

Um, actually, no, we dont dia, uh, phragm. I was never good at it myself, and uh, never have felt qualified, really, to teach, uh, It.

Thats a shame. Still, I imagine you have other methods, dont you?

My brain was saying, Laugh, Mead, and youre washed up. Bite your tongue, you fool. The devil in me wanted to say, Look, lady, if you had diaphragmed when you were in high school we wouldnt be here now. Discretion won the day.

Yes, I have other methods. And thank you so much for coming today.

And thank you.

Yes, youre welcome.

Listen, you dont stay in this business for twenty-two years by saying what you want to say.

Jim MeadLinn Mar High School - Marion

Mt. Vernon Institute - 1988


WalkingtheFarm

The sun is finally down behind the trees so their black silhouettes stand out sharply against the fading orange, fall light. Im still full and pleasantly tired. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated your coming along on my walk this afternoon. Everyone was so full and drowsy after eating, and the conversations had gotten quieter. I didnt think anyone would miss your being gone. Still there was some football to watch, and you could have stayed behind to chat a bit more. But I am glad you let me take your hand and pull you out into the late afternoon sunshine to walk the farm with me. I suppose I should have told you to find older shoes. I worried as we crossed the creek and you had to step from rock to rock then almost jump the tractor ruts that lead on up to the barn. Theyve gotten so deep. I worry Mom will stick the tractor sometime this winter when she is moving bales. Shell cope; Ill just worry.

Was the pond further out than you imagined? I felt compelled to take you there because Ive always liked to walk or ride out there. I noticed you smiling (laughing?) as I told you when my girlfriend Carmen and I decided to go skinny dipping. Okay, okay, so we never got it done. But how were we to know the mud along the edge would be so deep and the tadpoles so thick? Once we got almost completely stuck wading in, skinny dipping didnt seem like the best idea anymore. If we had gotten out to the middle of the pond it would have been clean and cool from the underground spring and free of tadpoles, but we still would have had to get out sometime, right?

I noticed youre still adept at climbing a fence. (I wouldnt have let you catch on the barbed wire). We could have walked back the way we came, but I really wanted to take you back to that grove of cedars on the east property line where the deer lie in the winter. Its so quiet back there, almost secret. Maybe someday Ill find another antler back there before the mice get to it. I know the weeds were kind of high in places, the Buck weed tangled, but as long as we stayed on the deer trails it wasnt too bad was it? Im sorry you caught your sleeve on the raspberry bramble, sorrier still it poked a hole in my thumb when I unhooked you. And thanks. Kiss it and make it feel better still works.

Pretty good looking bunch of Herefords, huh? The cattle were so skittish today, maybe because we were strangers. Maybe they were just spooky because of the coyotes that occasionally run on the east end. Ive heard them on and off the last month. Youll have to remind me to tell Mom about the section of fence we saw that cow and her calf trample in their effort to get away from us. If all the fences on the place were in as good of shape as what Mom and I worked on in July those two wouldnt have gotten through, but its an old farm, and Mom cant give every section immediate attention. I feel bad that I dont or cant help more these days, but Mom knows my choices have taken me away from much of the farm work. When the mud is very deep, or the heat and humidity both range around 100 degrees, or when its ten below zero and the bales still need to be hauled out to the cattle, Im grateful Im not the farmer. Still, today as I walk the fields and pastures, Im drawn back. I somehow think you understand.

I hope the hike down off the bluff to the creek didnt bother your knee. If you had told me that it did, I would have confessed that mind was aching a little too. I wish Id thought to take along a jug of coffee. When we got down to the big flat rocks above the little waterfall, we could have sat and sipped, and you could have told me how different or similar the creeks were that you used to walk. Or maybe we should have crossed the creek and walked through whats left of Catalpa grove. I played pioneer woman there many times, dragging old limbs together to make log houses. The big, old white barn we passed was where my brother and our cousins used to play. Maybe I should have led you through the barn. We could have climbed the ladder, the sturdiest one, to the hay loft where my one cousin with allergies sneezed her way through the dust motes and promised not to tell, so we all could play Tarzan on hay ropes as thick as our arms. Aunt Helen would have had a fit that Cousin Patty lost her socks down a grain chute when we left the ropes to play in the grain room.

You didnt complain that I kept you out so long, that second servings of dessert were probably served while we walked. The final trek up the hill to the house was so rocky and eroded I noticed we both stumbled. Still Im glad I had you along.

Anne WeirMount Pleasant


Contagion(Itsabouttime.)

I gave them time to write

Theysat and talked and stared

and sharpened sharp pencilsand then talked some more.

But I was determinednot to give in.

I wanted them to use this timeto write

Aggravated,I walked back to the table

by the windowand started writing

in my journal.

After awhile,their silence bothered me,

and I looked up to seethat everyone was writing

now.

Jim BatesMarion

Generator

Armed with reams of Project plans,I marched back to my classroom,confident that I couldget them to write and write and writeAfter all, I brought in plentyOf paperandpencilandpensAnd story starters and listsof things to write about and my own thesaurus even some classical musicto huddle up against and getcozily-composed.And there was lots of room to writein my roomwith its four computerslap deskscarpet on the floortables by the windows to stare outto prewritely daydream.And so they wrotethat first day.They were MOTIVATED!But the next time this didnt work The writing had stalled, and they just sat there whining away their time.

Jim BatesMarion

Note: I wrote this poem after going back to the classroom following Level I and wrestling with generating writing. I learned the way to generate writing was not so much about providing ways to start but more about what hap-pened to their writing (response) once they had written.

OdetoWilliamStafford

I am not a wandererWho writes and strolls Through unknown destinations Across fields of white paper.Instead, I put it off.I AMthe grand procrastinator who sleeps and eats and reads and views and goes on long walksjust to AVOID the wordsBut when the time is right, I write. And sometimes (even when Im not ready) ideas come, and the words take over.

Jim BatesMarion


Dave

The past two years my husband had Dave on his little league baseball team. Dave is short, fat, and athletically untal-ented. He played baseball for the first time as a member of our team. I dont believe he had even played catch before joining our pre-season practices. He threw the ball in the general direction of his partner, but when it was thrown back to him, he put his arms in front of his face and ducked.

In little league, everyone plays, so we knew we had to put him in somewhere and tried to determine the best place to hide him each game. He usually played right field. He would position himself as far away from the game as pos-sibleway in the corner. We would hardly have been able to see him except for his size. There he would swat but-terflies, turn around and watch other games in progress, or just stand with his arms limp at his sides. If a ball was ever hit in his direction, the infield would do their best to cover it. If it was hit out, we just knew runs would score because it took forever for Dave to field the ball and throw it toward his cut-off man.

Daves entire family always attended the ballgames. I think it was their summer entertainment. Daves skinny, little dad was a city trash collector and came from work to the games. His mom was a big woman, obviously in charge, and a housewife. There were a variety of fat little, dirty, barefoot, younger siblings. They always brought a blanket and lots of snacks and drinks. The younger ones played in the dirt, ate, drank, fought, and climbed all over each other for the duration of the game. The parents generally ignored them except to shout an occasional scolding like, Get your butt over here! or Stop that or Ill take off my belt! Last year his mom was pregnant, again.

Dave always arrived just as the game was beginning. He would come up behind my husband, tug on his shirt and say, Coach, Im here! Since he was at the bottom of the line-up, his name could easily be erased if he failed to show, which is what we always secretly hoped forbut he always showed, even the evening he came especially late because his mom had had a baby that afternoon. I half expected her to be there with the newborn and the rest of the brood. She missed only two games and was there with all of them less than a week later.

The uniform had an almost magical effect on Dave. Normally dressed, he was shabby and unkempt looking. Wearing his uniform, he looked just like all the rest of the guys he was neat and tidy and uniform. He played better when he was in uniform. He looked proud and acted like a part of a team. He expected more of himself. He didnt want to let the rest of the team down. We joked that, if a team played us and didnt have their shirts tucked in, they couldnt possibly beat us. Looking good made us good.

One Friday game, my husband was out of town and had asked a friend to coach for him. My husband had the line-up and positions to be played for each player for each inning completed and I delivered it to the friend before the game. We were ahead 8-0 in the fifth inning (we play six innings). Dave asked the substitute coach if he could play in the infield. He put him at second base. I knew this substitution was dangerous but was a little nervous to point it out to our friend, who knew a whole lot more than I did about baseball. Never-the-less, I diplomatically reminded him that Dave had never, ever, played the infield. I somehow felt that I would be responsible if the other team had a rally and I had not warned him. He said, Thanks and left him there. I sweated out three outs. Fortunately the ball never went anywhere near second base and neither did a runner.

Near the end of Daves second season with us he began to have some shining moments in his sports career. In one of his final games he got a hit, made it to first base, got all the way around the bases, and scored! He caught a fly ball in the outfield! In the last game he played with us, he hit two doubles and threw two people out playing third base. The crowd who had followed this team for two years, was wild. He played two seasons of baseball in one game.

I see him out there on game nights, playing for another team. Hes gotten chubbier. His family is bigger, but they are all there watching him. I have fond memories of a kid who had unconditional, complete support from his family and who stuck with something that he was not good at until he had some real success. What a thrill that must have been for him.

Ginny V. WildmanSolon


AnAngelStrikesAsEveLeadsAdamtoSin

Our beautiful granddaughter Mariah is the best behaved and most reverent, prayerful, patient, intelligent, coopera-tive angel ever born. When Mariah visits Papa and Gammaw, she always accompanies us to Sunday Mass at St. Anthony Church, our place of worship and place of my wifes employment as a third grade teacher. Like EVERY other Sunday in church, Mariah had acted perfectly. She calmly sat through the one hour, ten minute liturgy with her hands folded prayerfully and her halo shining brightly above her silky, light brown hairat least when we filled her cheeks with cheeos, sheez, amul kackers, and milk.

Then, like every other Sunday, at the designated Communion time, Kay carried our Mariah to the front of Church to receive the Eucharist. I followed closely as I proudly admired my beautiful angel and her equally beautiful gammaw. As usual, Mariah gazed from side to side as we went up the middle aisle. She smiled at friends of ours who shook their fingers in a baby wave, and she laid her head gently on her gammaws shoulder. Oh what a cherub!

After receiving Communion, Kay, carrying Mariah, and I returned to our seats about three-fourths of the way to the rear of the church. Then for some reason, Kay leaned over and hissed, Lets go. We can beat the crowd and get on the road to Cedar Falls. Plus, Mariah is getting a little impatient. I couldnt believe my ears. My wife, like Eve with the apple, was teasing me into sin. As much as my spirit begged me to stay, my flesh became weak, so I rose from my con-templative, prayerful, pious position on my knees and quietly responded to Kays wicked plan. No one would notice.

As the pastor cleaned his chalice, I lifted Mariah into my arms to tiptoe from the church. Kay grabbed Mariahs sippy cup, books, snacks, and diaper bag. We tiptoed ever so quietly and gently toward the back doors of the church. As if struck by a bolt of lightning from heaven, our gentle, quiet angel Mariah spit out her binky and screamed. Bye Bye, Yeesus! Bye Bye, Yeesus! not once but at least forty times. Every eye in the church, including our pastors, turned to stare at this holy family in exodus. Feeling naked and embarrassed like Adam in the Garden, I picked up the pace. Suddenly the thirty-foot walk out of church felt like a twenty-mile walk up-hill against a Sea of Galilee typhoon. I could feel Kay turn twelve sheets of red. Every student in third grade happened to attend the liturgy that week. Plus, Kays principal, Mr. Burke, sat in the third last row. He must have witnessed Kay trying to execute this evil plan and recognized that I was simply an accomplice to the crime, not the perpetrator.

The first epistle that Sunday Psalm 8, Verse 2 read: Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings has thou ordained strength. Out of the mouth of our babe came a strength we had never heard before or since. How embarrassing! When we reached the ambulatory, Mariah gave us her usual tender, angelic smile after her heartfelt prayer of exit.

I love Mariahs gammaw dearly. I just hope she never again succumbs to such devilish temptations and leads us, members of the holy innocents, into such embarrassing iniquity. Deus in coeli, ora pro nobis.

Jim BrimeyerNICC Peosta Institute - 2006


EtiquettefortheFirstYearAGuidefortheNovice

Im just a nitwit let loose among children.Sylvia Ashton-Warner

As soon as I was accepted into the School of Education, I was given a great deal of advice. My professors, former teachers, parents, students, all seemed driven to bestow upon me the key to being a master teacher. Upon graduation more guidance, wisdom, warnings, challenges, ritualistic initiations, and Voodoo curses were heaved at me as I sent out my resumes. With all of this advice in hand I felt confident that I was prepared to meet any challenge. Unfortunately, the wise sages were not all-knowing. Experience became my mentor, and I began to relate to Liz Man-drells idea of a trial by error in the halls of ignorance. Now that I have completed my first years of teaching, I find myself ready to impart my great wisdom upon those who have chosen to enter into the educational field. I do not profess to have any startling insight into the pedagogical maelstrom of the educational world. However, I believe that through my own foibles and misfortunes, I can serve as a sort of Emily Post for my peers as they enter The First Year.

1. Meet the custodians first. Anyone who has a set of keys larger than yours is the person to know. Bake them cakes, buy them beer, anything to befriend a custodian.

2. Meet the secretaries second. Their powers are both mysterious and bountiful. Ask about the photos on the sec-retarys desk. Memorize names of children, grandchildren, and (if applicable) any ailment of the aforementioned employee.

3. Watch out for power struggles. As a novice teacher you may be recruited in a battle of wills within your buildingSTAY OUT. Dont be swindled by experienced teachers offering seemingly sweet intentions and help with lesson plans. Many a young teacher has been used as a pawn in an endless war over an ancient grudge con-cerning a stapler.

4. Steal good staplers.

5. Befriend anyone who seems to understand the quirks of your copier. Any nuance, pet names, favorite brand of cleaner should be known by you.

6. Treat your address and phone number as if it were a matter of national security. Your students will hunt for you in a twisted version of hide and seek where their prey has no prior knowledge that the game even exists. This game will also occur in grocery stores, the movies, shopping complexes (especially during the purchase of any potentially embarrassing personal item), and at any and all Dairy Queens.

7. In the inevitability of the mistakes you will make, take the following motto: Im new!

8. Do not eat anything from the cafeteria that has an evasive name like Chefs Choice. Demand that the meat can be rightfully identified as a member of the animal kingdom.

9. Locate each and every toilet in the building.

10. Listen. Listen to students. Listen to parents and colleagues. Listen to administrators, family members, professors, people on the street, grocery clerks, and Voodoo priests. You never know when you may get some good advice.

Kate RiepeHempstead High SchoolDubuque Institute - 2002


MorningRitual

Sitting at the breakfast tableChuckling over Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes,You drink your warm, black coffee from a large white mug andEat a small bowl of rhubarb sauce I made just for you.

Its 8:30 exactly. Time to call your sweetie.Shell be waiting by the phone,Soon asking if you can come right over.Grabbing the newspaper, you toddle off.

Today, will you make some vegetable soup,Or help her knead bread,Or wind balls of tan yarn,Or clean out her overstuffed closets?

No matter.Youll laugh and chat whilehumming perhaps dancing toSousa, Strauss or Lawrence Welk.

How can 86 years be so young?

Barbara TurnwallNorthwestern College

Sioux City Institute - 1992

StoryProblem

If one boy and one girlare giggling in the backof a seventh-grade classroom, and its lateMay with a malfunctioning thermostat that refuses to tell the air conditioningthe room is approaching 80 degreesat 2:14 before an early dismissalat 2:37 for some pep rally,How many problems do you have?

In the back of my class, Angie sitshuddled over her desk, squeezing her pen.The ink does not flow easily across her paper.Stevie stretches forward and leans in.Their heads meet and I wonderDo you have a problem? I hesitate. I dont ask.It looks like a spring romance.It looks like trouble.They whisper. Whispers turn to laughter.Do they have a problem? I dont ask.I worry. Will laughter turn to chaos?Mrs. Evans is next door.Did you have a problem? Shell ask.Do I have a PROBLEM?Shell ask.

Do I have a problem, I wonder?I turn back to Rachel who has been waiting, waiting for my signature soshe can go to the library.Angie lets out a little scream.I mean a tiny, little animal yelpthat Mrs. Evans couldnt possibly hear. I look upand Angies pen begins to glide.Stevie leans back, head down,his pen racing across the page.The bell rings. Stevie grimaces.Angie hesitates at her desk, lingeringover her prose.No problem.

Peg FindersBettendorf Institute - 1995

Peg Finders taught in Oskaloosa and at The University of Iowa.


Cycle

Sort, load, wash, rinse, spin, dry, fold Begin again

Cars pull up to homes and out spill cardboard boxes, milk carton carriers crammed With records, laundry bags of overstocked and waiting, grease encrusted popcornPoppers, Mr. Coffee, stereo equipment, hiking boots, tennis rackets, book bags


Cool, quietly running, chaste refrigerators neatly arranged with broiled chickenbreasts, thinly sliced diet bread, cans of chunk tuna in spring water suddenlybecome gorged with Coors, a half-eaten Wendys hamburger, three slices of left-over pizza, dripping sticky-red watermelons, and three gallon jugs of milk.


The stereo, KSUI, the shower, the hairdryer, the T.V., the doorbell, all the lights on the lower level and half of those on the second floor all runsimultaneously as well as the telephone which rings at 8, at 9, at 11, and worstof all at midnight and never for me.


Cars come and go, gas tanks are filled up again and yet again before the week is up, meals are fixed, eaten, dishes and glasses fill the counters, dishwashers areempty, and soon so are the cupboards.

Summer has returned and so have the children.

Marilyn NelsonLin-Mar High School - Marion



Steve & I sit in ouroffice together, back toback across the room not touching.Dueling computershis IBM; my APPLENeil Diamond in thebackgroundkids downstairs playingNintendoWatching videosand who knows doing what elseSomehow its socomfortablecomforting.

I thought Id bealoneLonely at 35No MarriageNo HomeJust a drab apartmentNo one there at the endof day.Solitary footsteps echoingdown the hallway.

Here I am. There you are.35 and marriedtogether2 kids; 2 cars in the garagethe mortgage, dental bills

No. Im not lonely.No regrets.Just want to be alone.Not forever.Just occasionally.

Connie SaundersSioux City Institute - 1992

downbytheriver

what was that boys namewho sat next to me in 73downbytheriverhot sun beating down on uslistening to Neil Diamondsing his song about Suzanne(takes you down to the place by the river)talking about life, liberty and thepursuit of sex and how a collegeEducation should teach us how to live and notjust how to make a living soft summer breezeblowing through his brown (?) hairis he making a livingdid he learn how to livedoes he wonderwhat was thatgirls namewho sat next to me in 73downbytheriver

Connie Saunders Sioux City Institute - 1992


Impressed upon me at an early age,The need to leave a mark was never lost.As children often did, we filled our playWith outcomes necessary to our time.Delighted, we observed that marks occurredIn many places just outside our door.We saw the cat with kittens, the shaded groundBeneath tall trees. The weeded garden stood A prime example of our best used time.But as a youth of only five or six,I watched the swallows. They could build those nestsOf mud. When springtime showers ended, out They came; as feathered darts they flew, aimedAt fresh, small puddles. Always oneAnd then another skimmed the surface, justTo dip that tiny head and beak intoThat mud, just barely interrupting flight,To stow their cache against some shaded board,Or tuck their beaks within some darkened spot,Concealed from eyes that proved too curious.And endlessly it went as bit by bitThe swallows built and built. Preordained it was.Their nests appeared where nothing was before.We watched, the cat and I. He had his thoughtsAs crouched beside my foot he stared, and IHad mine. If they use mud, why cant I?I walked to where the mud seemed fine and picked A fistful, shaped it to design what best,

I thought, it would create. Some squares I piledAlong with dented balls, and skinny ropesI strung almost to breaking point. When all,Arranged to grand proportions carefullyWas formed, I stood and looked approvingly.I walked to where the birds still busilyWere building, thought and weighed what I had doneAgainst their meagerness. I washed my hands.Much satisfied I felt; it was complete.Id left a mark, though some thought differently.None too soon had I concluded workWhen rain, as it will often do, returned To hurry me toward the house. I ran,Yet, cast my eyes behind, uncertainly,And saw my structure shrink as nearer to The safety of the house I came. Inside I watched. The drops grew into sheets, obscuredThe ground. It wasnt long, that rain, but itWas quick. The puddles into lakes they grew.Where once I was, no track, no mark remained.

Al BorszichFort Dodge Institute - 1981

Motivation: Sometimes, in reflecting back upon class-room situations, I have felt really satisfied with what I wanted my students to learn. But then they handed in their papers.

TheMudinMe


Daughters

I am born of many women.Drawn from the deep rich well of their joy, their sorrow, their love, their pain.Child of their experience, offspring of their memories.

Grandmother JohnsonWith dark eyes and tiny feetWho died old-aged still seated on her long black hairImmigrant from the NorthGifter of the familys history.

Ellie, Ella, AliceThe girl with three namesWho loved and left beautiful thingsEloped at 31 and died at 49Survived by a husband who never remarried.

DorothyThe English leaven in my Swedish loafWife of a mill manStrength of a nurturing spouseWhose twinkling eyes once saw the queen.

NormaJolly and bitter, expansive and repressedSacrificed college for a husband and five kidsAnd always looked backThe mourner, mourning the son who died.

And MarabelWho loved the boys and made them cryA prairie transplant from Pennsylvania hillsSettled in but never quite took rootMother to more than just her four.

I am born of many womenAnd all are midwives of my soulA woman born of manyDaughter of the tree.

Kristin AllenOrange City

Kent State, Ohio 1993

Reservoir Air stirs the dryground as anafterthoughtheat shimmers blur the horizonparching colors to white.

Wind stiffens bringing a rumor aswisps of vapor gather andclouds build to coverto the edgesthe land waits.

First drops fallheavy in a sudden quietbeginning solitary paths overthe droughted earth thenconnect and collectsoaking and pooling inreflective communities.

Repletethe land waits nowfor random seeds to touch and growsending up greenshoots to reach forthe light.

Barb BrennemanKalona Institute - 1994


WhoKnows?

Alzheimers.It gives a whole new meaningTo the idea that Im becoming my mother.

I wonder aloud what it must be like to be inside her skinShe, who once knew everything,Now doesnt even know my name.Does she know her own?

My children chide me.My reality is not hers, they sayWhos to say which is better.Can I know that shes not happy now?You dont know, my son insists.

When I wonder aloud what will happen to meWho will careHe slyly seeks to reassure my fears.Dont worry about it, Mom, he laughsYou wont know.

I know hes right,But Im not reassuredI wont know.

Maureen Ekeland West Des Moines Institute - 2000

HowRude! Cancer interrupts Your conversations with life.

Its highly annoyingAs it breaks the rhythm of your being.

It takes you asideTo watch others living.

You lose step in the marchAs it preoccupies your life with the physical.

Cancer embarrasses youAs emotions pour out of your mouth,

Tears parallel your loss of control and worse,You hear the pity in voices around you.

You agonize as you see its reflection, terror in the eyes of those who love you.

You become a small child again, dependent on others, their wisdom, medicine and machines.

You put out its fireBut continue to smell the smoldering ash knowing its there.

Cancer is a Wait and See gameI have no aptitude for.

I want the luxury of idle moments where growth of the soul life, happens.

I want release from memorizing moments I might not get another chance to experience.

It has become my teacher.The teacher I hate and have learned the most from.

Sharon Gray West Des Moines Institute - 2000


PresentTense Dad, does Jesus poop? It wasnt just the combination of the Divine and Poop that threw me, but the present tense of my sons question.

Well, Nathaniel, there is no biblical evidence that I know of indicating that the Messiah did NOT poop when He was here on earth, so I think its safe to say that He did.

But its almost certain that He was potty trained by the time He was your age. Whether He still does NOW I dont really know.

Does Grandma know?

Well, yes, I guess Grandma would know that now that she is up there with Jesus.

Why?

Why is Grandma with Jesus now?

No, why did He tell her about poop?

I guess He just wanted to get it out of the way so they could do other stuff in Heaven.

What other stuff?

Well, eat cotton candy for breakfast and stay up all night watching Power Ranger cartoons and stuff like that.

Dad, if you eat cotton candy for breakfast, your head will explode off. You told me.

Yea, but thats just for almost-three-year-old boys who dont listen to their fathers. There are no exploding heads in Heaven.

Mom will like it there.

Yea. Wanna go for a bike ride on the trail?

Okay.

James BurkeCedar Rapids Institute - June 2004


November14MySon

In the dark of the morningwhen the bed is electricwith the warmth of my skin,my breath soured by the night,he slips in next to me his hands ice, his feet coals and snuggles in to ask questions.Has he been a Jacob with thesetussling all night, onlyto come, touched, to me?Or do these come from thatsomewhere even less known that dark matter cleaned in the carwash of waking?He smiles wanly and asks,How much does the house weigh? Where are peoplebefore they are born?Does God live in outer space?How do babies breathein their mommys tummies?Where do all the colors go in the leaves afterfall is over? Whatam I to say to such?Would an answer longand tedious from a sleepthickened brain do muchgood to a six year old?We, my son and I, lay, headon our arms, looking atthe white ceiling in the coming light and I, I am prettysure God has felt this wayon occasion.

Brad WeidenaarMarshalltown

Mrs.Harms

Mrs. Harms was a hard, demanding,drill sergeantof a ninth grade English teacher,

who scared us daily,tested us weekly,and smiled, maybe, monthly.

She read to us,in her no-nonsense-youd-better-pay-attention voice,from The Man without a Country.

Just whenPhilip Opperman was really wishinghe had kept his mouth shut,

the principal walked in quietly,whispered in her ear,and left.

In her no-nonsense way,Mrs. Harms, in her best voice,told us that Coach Gourley had died,

excused herself politely,walked out of the room,and left us alone.

She returnedto our puzzled silence,wiped away a tear that had escaped her,

and resumed her no-nonsense reading,becoming again,the Mrs. Harms we knew.

But, not completely.

Nancy Pinkston University of Northern Iowa Institute - 2006


KindergartenTeacher

I am a kindergarten teacher .I am proud to go where only a select few have gone before.I am an educator, A coach, A nurse, A referee, A friend, A hostess, A grandma, A peacemaker, A cheerleader, I am a kindergarten teacher . I have a compassionate heart capable of motherly love, and hands nimble enough to tie 551 shoe laces a day. I can skillfully manage continuous chaos and teach at the same time. I have a wacky sense of humor, eyes that recognize the wonders of the world, and arms big enough to hug two dozen children at one time.

I am a kindergarten teacher . I know what I do matters in the lives of my students, I know I am irreplaceable in the eyes of my students,I know my work is more important than a doctor, or lawyer, or the President.

I am a kindergarten teacher .

Mary Beth Vansteenburg Dubuque Institute - 2005


MissPerception

The male ego is an amazingly simple beast. It needs to be fed a daily ration of reassurance from day one until it gives up the ghost, and even then Im sure it still seeks nourishment somewhere. Younger egos dont consider age issues like older ones, but they eventually feel the pressure. On my part, this need for reassurance has led to several misperceptions.

Yesterday I stopped at Barnes and Noble to look for a book for my sister. This sent me to the Personal Growth section where I figured I would find a book about Yoga or healthy desserts, or diets that help one lose 30 pounds in a day. There were other people around, both men and women, but there happened to be a young woman standing there perusing the same collection of Fix-it-yourself literature that I was seeking. After standing there just a short while, she spoke. To me! What do you think about a fancy cooking book? I glanced over at her and she smiled. Was this woman talking to me?

Sounds good to me, I responded and then went back to looking for a book for my sister, but not seeing anything too clearly anymore.

Should I get Sexy French Pastries or The Joy of Chocolate? she asked.Huh? I sheepishly asked. The Joy of Chocolate sounds great. I couldnt believe that she really was talking to

me. To me! It was when I turned once more to look at her again that things suddenly became clear. In her other hand, hidden under her long, blond hair, peeked her cell phone. She wasnt talking to me. We made eye contact, then she gave me a dirty look and whispered to her cellmate, Ill call you back; I think some old guy is trying to hit on me. I disappeared quickly, dragging my ego behind me like a deflated balloon.

This morning my ego and I stopped in a Paneras for a friendly cup of coffee. I enjoy sitting there to read and respond to the papers that come in the day before. After awhile, I looked up from one paper to see an intriguing, dark-haired woman standing outside of the window; she was pointing at me, smiling, and mouthing something to me. I smiled back, gave her an innocent, perplexed look, and a small, inoffensive wave. Did I know her? She pointed again and mouthed something else to me. Yes. Ego inflating wishfully, I did something really stupid. I got up and walked to the window to see what she wanted. When I got there, I quickly realized what was really happening. Standing near her, out of my line of sight stood her boss. He held a bucket and two squeegees and was explaining what windows needed to be cleaned. I did an immediate about-face, tripping over my ego as I scurried back to my coffee.

Disasters always occur in threes, and so do ego deflations. When I reached the UNI campus, I was still laughing inwardly at my Panera stupidity. I would be more wary from now on. As I reached the main doors into the KAB, a youthful woman, probably a college student, was standing there waiting for me. Again, I thought, Do I know her? Must be a former student, maybe just a friendly co-ed who needs directions And then it hit me. She was standing there holding the door open for me. I had reached that age when young girls were helping me through doors! I accepted it graciously. But I think my ego got caught in the threshold; it is now being used as a doormat.

Jim BatesMarion

University of Northern Iowa Institute - 2006


ARainyDay A rainy day a good day to write,so let the words flow.

An idea ripples through me and I respond,a trickle at first, then running faster and faster til it forms a current of thought.

A splash of distractionand I am swept away in a new direction,trying to resist the undertowyet lackingthe strength.

Finally a calm poolat the end of my journey,and I can look backand appreciate the experience.

Gayle SheetzIowa City - Weber Elementary - 2004

TuesdayMorning3:00a.m. Tonight I wrote themost eloquent poemover and over in mymind I tried to rehearsethe wordsSo that tomorrow Icould capture them withthis pen.By moonlight I liberate the wordsthat threaten tokeep me awakeand I returnto bed.Finally sleep came andbulldozed the images frommy mind.All I am left with is this the remembrance ofthe poem that never was.

Susan YoungIowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994

InSearchofShallowWaters On a disappointing summerafternoon we run downhillthrough field where a lanecuts the corn to the creekwhich divides the one hundredsixty acres and we kick offshoes to cool our feetin mud along waters edgewhere we dip the mason jarfor minnows and tadpoles waitingin shadows of cottonwoods and cattails.

With our half jarof clouded water betweenwe sit on bridge planksto swing our feet overthe stream widening beneathand watch silt settlein the glass and silentlywish the turmoil in our small stirred worlds would sinklike sediment in pond water.

Jayne R. VondrakSioux City Institute - 1992


TheBuckeye The day after my dad died, I was sitting in his easy chair and noticed his lucky buckeye on the table next to the chair. My first thought was to pick up that buckeye and claim it as mine. But logic crept into my brain and told me that everything in the house belonged to Mother. Everything! So I casually asked my mom if there was anything of Dads that I could have as a keepsake. I quickly added that it didnt have to be anything large. Just something to put in my purse to remember him by. Mom assured me that she was sure that we could find something. We got distracted by something or someone at that moment so the little something was not found then.

After the funeral, when most people had returned to their homes, I stayed a few days with Mom. She remembered our short conversation about the keepsake. My mom is very sentimental so I knew she would come back to this topic without being pushed. Now, Nancy, I know you have something in mind that you want, what is it?

My mom could always see right through me.

So I asked her how many buckeyes Dad had.

I knew how many he had. He had one. It was his lucky charm. He carried it in his pocket all the time. He rubbed it and squeezed it as he talked. He had this one for many years and his thumb and finger prints were worn into it. And I wanted it!

She told me that Dad only had one. Oh, she said, Is that what you want? Of course you can have it. And she gave it to me.

I always thought she probably was so relieved that I didnt ask for the deed to the farm, she gladly gave me the buckeye.

Dad has been gone nearly fifteen years and I still carry the buckeye in my purse. It went with me when I wrote my comps for my masters degree and it worked.

Nancy Kaiser Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994


IntotheWindowofGrace

Mommy, what are you doing? Reading. I continued to look at the words on my page. No, youre not. Theres no words coming out of your mouth, was the skeptical response as Grace looked at

me from underneath her frowning blonde eyebrows. At this moment I first glimpsed the inner workings of my three-year-olds mind and her notions of reading.

About the same time, I began to read articles in professional magazines about the acquisition of reading skills, learning new terminology like decoding and phoneme, and accessed new information on comprehension strategies. A friend and colleague was just finishing a masters degree in reading and I was hooked. My curiosity remained strong, and I have entertained many questions on this subject. How are reading and writing dependent on each other? How do our surroundings and personalities influence how we learn this life skill, and how we, or even if we, value it? The minute I heard the title of Anna Quindlens How Reading Changed My Life, I con-nected. At times I could have replaced the verb changed with saved. A line from the movie Matilda, inspired by Roald Dahls novel, summed it all up for me. Dahl says of Matilda, as she began to read, She had learned something comforting that we are not alone.

Lois Lowry, another childrens author, recalls her feelings as reading came together for her. First letters have names. Followed by the sounds of the letters coming together to make words. Then words make sentences. I can still remember my amazement in the fall of my first grade year as the letters, sounds, words, and sentences came together. When it happened, it was effortless. Like riding a bike, all of a sudden I was able to balance, and suddenly words came to life.

As I watch Grace, now five years old and about to embark on her school journey, write letters, copy words, and identify names in print, I wonder if she is on the verge of the same feelings of wonderment that I experienced in Sr. Margories first grade class so long ago. Grace, the youngest of my four kids, has certain hopes for herself in relation to the three big kids in our family and what they are able to do. She is eager to read mainly because her older siblings can, and frequently are engaged in reading all around her. However, none of them have the passion for reading I did and still do.

Ill never forget when, in the middle of a conversation about something unrelated, Grace piped up and an-nounced she could say a word and tell what letter the word began with by the sound that first letter made. My heart caught in my throat. And then I remembered First letters have names. Followed by the sounds of the letters coming together to make words. Then words make sentences. She is on the verge of words coming to life.

Last night after listening to a chapter of Little House in the Big Woods, Grace began to cry and told me she didnt think shed ever be able to put all the sounds together to read words in a book by herself. I reassured her that we would work on it a little at a time, adding that she was already a reader and writer the day she could form her name using the five letters necessary to spell G-R-A-C-E. She seemed satisfied with my answer.

Most of this frustration, the source of her tears, is the desire to be big like her brothers and sister. Actually, to be big was the only thing she requested on last years Christmas list. While I am in no hurry for my baby with the navy gray eyes, straw-colored hair, and ever-stretching knobby arms and legs to be big, I am anxious for her to discover the power of the written word and the joy that reading has brought her mother throughout life.

Karen HerberDubuque Institute - June 2005


Howlongdoesthishavetobe? I dont know.How long does it need to be?Puzzled expressions appear.No, they say,How long do you want it to be?I clench my teeth,sigh and take a gentle breath.How can my message overcome tradition?This is your story,your poem,your essay.Tell it to yourself until you think it is done.Make the reader in you happy,and the reader in mewill most likely be content.The old questionisnt going to be answered here.Two pages,fifteen-hundred words,no longer pass these lips.Perhaps some will turn in ten lines,ten wonderful lines whichthey will claim by saying,Yes, I wrote this. Can I read it to you?Others cant write fast enough.Stay out of their way asthe pencil chases thoughts across the paper,turning away from the edge at the last moment,balancing on line after blue line,writing from bell to bell;some of them outside writers too.They have stories to tell.Perhaps with timethe old refrain will be replacedwith a new litany.Will you read this and tell me what you think?Certainly.Can I submit this for publication?If you wish.Do I have time to do another draft?I think so.Easier questions to answer,asked with a different urgency.

Pete Muir Iowa City - Weber Elementary - 1994

Redwoods Twenty-first century hikerswaterproofed and designed by expertsto comfort the foot, to fit the trail,scuff softlyon 2000 year old sequoia needles.Quietas quiet as a Yurok?as quiet as a bear?Gentle giants tower over meTwo-hundred fifty feet ofstraighttall dignity.Wise old men with ruddy coatsor strapping youthin a worlds chronology?From the dizzying domesunlight spills through tiny needles anddapples leather leaf ferns as high as my head.In shades of chartreusethey quiver in moldering dirt.My toe kicks the sagey mossand a pencil of brown slips and slithers across my path.I breathe easy as the tiny tail disappearsinto tumbled rocks and gray lichens.Breaking afternoon quiet,the raucous caw of a Stellers Jay,Its cerulean blue flashes in front of me to sit on the trailhead sign.The trail had doubled back on itself.Back at the beginning, I pause.

God whispered todayAnd I was listening.

Anne Weir Cedar Rapids Institute - 2004


Redshirting

While reading the article To Whom It May Concern: An Open Letter to Keiths Teacher by Gerald Mackey, his use of the term redshirting jumped out at me. The article makes reference to allowing students with learning dis-abilities the extra time they need to master a skill to prevent their sense of failure.

The term redshirting most commonly refers to a college football player who has been injured and needs a year off to recuperate before being able to play again. It still allows him four years of eligibility. During his redshirting year, the player can eat at the training table, lift weights, work out with the team, and scrimmage with them, but he cannot suit, travel, or play in a game during that year or he loses his redshirt status.

To apply this idea to Writers Workshop, a student could be redshirted who has been injured by failure in past writing experiences and needs some time off to recuperate before being able to finish a writing project. The redshirt-ing time period could be one activity, one day, one week, one month, one quarter, etc. He would still be eligible to participate in any writing project when the redshirting time period is over. During this redshirting time, the student can waggle, look out the window, web, play with the paper and pencil, read, talk to other writers, maybe even make a rough draft, but he is not allowed or obligated to revise and edit the final draft for publishing.

Redshirting can certainly take away the pressure of publish or perish. Perhaps by relieving that pressure, their desire to join the team in training will increase just maybe.

Mackey used this idea in reference to students with learning disabilities. Arent there students in our classes who arent labeled L.D., but, in truth, have a writing learning disability? Would redshirting work?

Rita HughesOttumwa 1992

FamilyHistory Forget the past.Its over Done.Why recount old misery?

Wide eyedI listened to hushed conversationsAbout Grandpas brother, WilsonFor whom brief successUnleashed bold revelry.In angerHe shot his lady friend.Then pleading innocence Temporarily insane Was sentenced to spend his lifeConfined.

In childhood I thought It served him right. Waste no sympathy on him.

I ponder now, in retrospect.The tragedy, it seems to me,Was Dolly, his wife of all those years.Her prison was as real as his.

Fran FordGrimes School, Burlington

SIWP Mt. Pleasant Institute - 1979

Midnight

Right before sleep hits, I roll over on my side and ask, Whats your favorite part of you?

He narrows his eyebrows and asks, What?You know, I say. Whats your best feature?Thats embarrassing, he replies, beginning to roll back over.How bout I try?I love your hair. Its so soft. It reminds me of the blankie I used

to sleep with when I was little. I dont know if you know this or not, but sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I stroke your hair just like I used to do with my blankie.

I love your eyes. Theyre so brown. I love how they dart back and forth between each of mine when Im trying to tell you some-thing. Its like youre really with me, following every word.

I love your whiskers. Every so often, the light will hit you just right, and Ill see a red one. It makes me wonder what other kinds of genetic secrets you hold.

I love your skin. Whether Im touching yours, or youre touch-ing mine, my favorite times in life are when were connected skin to skin.

I love your lips. They share laughter, keep secrets, and give love.

I love your feet. Especially that big freckle on that one, right three. But mostly I love that theyre firmly planted on the ground, and they hold you up secure and solid in everything you do.

Still embarrassed? I ask.Nah, he says and envelops me in his arms.Oh, and your arms. Did I mention that I love your arms?

Katie SeiberlingWest Des Moines Institute - 2008


BaldEagle As I tied the canoe on the top of the vanAnd alternately puffed to inflate a rubber raftTo take another angle on peacefulness and calm,No one else on the lake this last hour,Just rain and sun and mirror-like water,It was then, as I puffed, that I saw leave the high trees near the beaver dam on the far south side of McKenzie LakeThe bald eagle Pete Muir had said to look forI watched, stunned, as it moved its wings slowly, powerfully, the furthest thing from flap, much closer to a symphony conductor leading an orchestra through a full, majestic piece of music.Then, as magnificent as the pauses between notes, the eagle glided, rising or falling as he chose, then moving, then gliding, slowly, like a flower opening in the morning sun.He circled the lake, steering clear of my shore, then angled slowly down, all calculated, to dip his talons into the lake and snatch a fish.Then back to the nest.No camera could have caught the silence of the still lake after rain, the sun just breaking through, my position as unwary observer preoccupied with puffing almost to hyperventilation, nor my awe, my admiration for this majestic bird, now etched in my memory of McKenzie Lake, Wisconsin.

Bill LyonsOttumwa Institute - 1992

DontForget Start the laundry, take out the trashWash the car, stop to get cash

Clean the cats litter, let out the dogFeed the animals, make time to jog

Change the linens, flip the mattressPick up the kids, take them to practice

Go to the doctors, mow the grassA dentist appointment, stop to get gas

Send out the bills, clean the kids closetBalance the checkbook, make the deposit

Drop off the movies, check you voicemailStop to get groceries, hamburgers on sale

A birthday, a wedding, a graduation cardDonations to Goodwill, fertilize the yard

Pharmacy, haircut, recycling binOil change, rebate, stamp, and send in

At work, a meeting, addressing the trendlineTurn in reports, approaching the deadline

Document progress, prepare presentationReschedule conference, set up consultation

Modern day jugglers, though no colorful ballsThoughts spin in our heads, a cognitive waltz

Well quit this circus, and all will crash downHowd we end up as jugglers when we started as clowns?

Jeremy HoffmanDubuque Institute - 2005


WhyIPreferChildrensLiterature

Ive always been something of a bookworm. I find it very difficult to check books out of a library and then simply give them back in two weeks. For some oddball reason, I feel the need to own every book Ive ever enjoyed reading. In my opinion there are few things better in life than staying up late reading a good book until your eyelids can no longer remain open. Some people may indulge themselves with chocolate or Ben and Jerrys ice cream, but Ill take a good book any day.

I often read several books at once. Sometimes I read one chapter in a fantasy novel and then switch to a Newberry Award book and read a chapter or two in it. Sometimes Ill put down one book in the middle and read another entire book before going back to the first book. I guess you could say that I read according to my mood.

I was almost ten years ago that I was reading two very different books at the same time. One book was The Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott ODell and the other was The Regulators by Richard Bachman (the alter ego of Stephen King). I finished both books at about the same time and was left with two very differ-ent feelings inside. One book was so real and distinct and hauntingly sad, whereas the other book was empty and senseless, and in my opinion, a complete waste of time. I remember holding the two books in both of my hands and thinking how The Island of the Blue Dolphins was one of the best books Ive ever read and how The Regulators was nothing but crap.

If youre a constant reader of Stephen King, you may be offended by me calling The Regulators a piece of crap, or you may strongly agree. Ive read more than a dozen of Mr. Kings books. A few of them, like The Shining, The Stand, The Green Mile, and Skeleton Crew, were very good books within their genre. Other books like Insomnia, Dolores Claiborne, and Bag of Bones were merely OK, if not somewhat forgettable.

Stephen King is certainly one of the most successful publishers of adult novels. He used to be one of my favorite authors, but I was so turned off by The Regulators that I have all but stopped reading adult books because of it. I used to love reading books by The New York Times bestselling authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, John Grisham, James Patterson, and Robin Cook, but after a while the characters and events seemed to start running together in my mind. Many characters seemed to be the same, only with different names, and the events that happened became predictable.

Ive always had a good memory of books Ive read and the things that happen in them. I distinctly re-member Taran and his friends Gurgi, Fflewddur Fflam, and Princess Eilonwy from the Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. I remember George and Lennie and telling about the rabbits from Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. And who could forget Piggy, poor dead Piggy, from Lord of the Flies by William Golding? Not only do I remember these characters after reading about them 15 20 years ago, but I still think about them occasionally.

When I think back to The Regulators, I cant remember one characters name or what happened in the story. All I remember is that it was incredibly long, and I was so mad after reading it that I shifted my reading from adult books to childrens and adolescent books.

Since my conversion, Ive read a vast number of good books. A few of my favorites have been My Side of the Mountain, Horrible Harry and the Ant Invasion, Frindle, Where the Red Fern Grows, Horton Hears a Who, Stargirl, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and the seven books in the Harry Potter series. I believe that these books have more heart, better themes, truly memorable characters, and are exceedingly more enjoy-able to read than any adult fiction book currently on the New York Times top ten book list.

If youve never read The Island of the Blue Dolphins, or havent read it for many years, I encourage you to find a copy of it to read. Then compare it to the last popular adult book you read. You may be surprised with what you find.

Chad McClanahanMount Pleasant Institute - 2008


Bates chastises Broz for over-generalized attack on high school coaches:

CompanionPoemsJim Bates of Marion High School and Bill Broz of the University of Northern Iowa wrote these poems and the concluding narrative during an Iowa Writing Project summer institute in June 2006. Both writers have been classroom English teachers for 35 years and have been participants together in several IWP summer institutes. For many years Bates coached football and wrestling. During his 25 years of public school teaching Broz religiously avoided all extra duty assignments.

Tothispoetryexchange,BatesaddedthefollowingnarrativethatshowedBrozheshouldnothave been so flip about the subject in the first place.

When I was hired as an English teacher, I had no extra-curricular assignment

iowa teachers write - university of northern iowa · interlude introduction established in 1978,...

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