One of my biggest accomplishments on Tuesday was relearning how to read "firstgradereez."
I know what this young boy did with his picture and his ice cube, but I had to ask about the brger. I discovered, that he
"tasted the burger." Duh on all of us.

January 16, 2019 - Wednesday morning

9 degrees/partly cloudy/breezy

Pentoga Road

As Gloria Gaynor so aptly warbled,

"I've got all my life to live

And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive

I will survive, HEY HEY!"

Darn straight I survived. 

In fact, I not only survived, I thrived.

The Junior Bob Kitties were a wonderful lot yesterday, full of questions, energy, more questions, lots of energy, a fountain of questions, and, ahem, shall we say, enthusiastic.

Lest I make it sound like a six-year-old free for all, it wasn't. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed the first of my three days with the eleven munchkins.

The morning was somewhat brutal. There was math, then English, spelling, science... all those subjects that take lots of energy to not only teach, but also, to learn. I don't know who was happier to see snack time arrive, the Junior Bob Kitties or Old Mr. P.

We worked hard, but then we sang hard too. Between each subject, assuming they were somewhat attentive, I'd teach them a new song. Oh, six year old's love to sing and dance.

Believe me when I say, we sang and danced.

I pulled out all the stops and taught them the Boogaloo to She'll be Comin' Round the Mountain. Oh yeah, baby, we wiggled our way right to the end.

What's the Boogaloo? Well, that's a dance reserved only for the Junior Bob Kitties and not for the general public. 

The afternoon was a bit easier on the academic side. The Junior Bob Kitties had recess and PE, so the old substitute got a breather. Those, combined with a hurry-up-and-eat-lunch period, gave me time to recharge. 

Neal, the principal, stopped in several times during the day to see if the kiddies had tied me up in a corner or duct taped me to a chair. Even my former student and now master teacher, Sarah, who teaches young ones in Wyoming, texted several times throughout the day asking how her old professor and mentor was doing.  

I think both were genuinely concerned that I might run out of energy before day's end.

NO WAY HOZAYEEE

I, along with the babies, bee bopped our way right up to the final bell. 

One of the afternoon activities was spent reinforcing how to tell time by reading a good, old-fashioned clock. You remember those, don't you? One with a big hand and a little hand that go round and round.

Matching the times on small flashcards to clocks lying on the table.

In recent years, I've seen adults that couldn't tell time. I'm here to tell you that I know a herd of six-year-olds that, for the most part, could teach them how. 

I was proud of the babies, very proud.

The day flew and before I knew it, the final bell rang. I helped many into their snow pants and boots, shoved more than one mitten onto outstretched hands, and gathered a few hugs. I felt like Mother Duck leading her flock as we made our way to the front door and the waiting buses.

I did the usual teacher after school stuff, then sprinted for the door. As I exited the school, I belted out the lyrics,

"Free again.... at long last I am free again."

The fifth grade teacher who was in front of me stopped, laughed, shook her head, then resumed walking.

If only she had my life, she'd understand. Oh wait, she does. (I've subbed for her too. Believe me when I say, the woman is a saint.)

I stopped at the store in Florence on my way home and picked up a steak and mushrooms to enjoy as a celebratory supper. Sargie wouldn't be home until well past 9:30 and she's not much of a steak eater. I later plunked the large hunk of bovine on the grill, sauteed some fresh mushrooms, and baked a potato.

As I lay in bed last night, right after saying my pillow prayers, I reveled in the fact that ten years ago, I was teaching graduate and post graduate students at the university level. Yesterday, I taught some of the youngest, some who won't see a university for another eleven years. 

I began my career teaching in elementary schools, progressed to the older grades, then onto the collegiate level. Suddenly, during my senior years, I find I'm back to where I began forty-five years ago and that's as it should be. It's reinforcing the fact that this cycle of education is not just for a bunch of university students seeking their masters degree, but also for six-year-old babies who are learning to count to a hundred and tell time. 

Sargie and I, both, are home today. With last night's snow squalls, the temperature's dropped by well over twenty degrees, so I doubt we'll be sitting out on the patio sipping ice tea and working on our tans.

I've turned the heat on in the shop and have every intention of spending this morning working on various projects.

The trailer needs to be dug out of a snow bank and hooked to the Blazer so we can go to town later and pick up a bunch of pallets at Yooper Brother Mark's plant. 

Tomorrow, I begin a two-day stint back in the same classroom from where I emerged Tuesday afternoon. Rather than being filled with dread and apprehension, I'm looking forward to it. 

Time to switch my teaching persona for that of a grandpa who likes to piddle around in his shop.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

Tuesday night's squalls saw some heavy snow fall at times. Thankfully, none lasted very long.