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to Mrs. McCurdie (continued...again)

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My memories of grade 4 and my gratitude to Mrs. McCurdie produced more writing than I anticipated. To get the full picture, check my posts from Day 5 and Day 6 . Mrs. McCurdie’s grandson was in our class that year. Another classmate found his own mother’s name scratch into the underside of his lift-lid student desk; Mrs. McCurdie had been her fourth grade teacher, too. Not much had changed since the name was carved there 21 years before. But things were starting to change. In 1989, construction of a United States Air Force base began on the edge of our small town. In the early 1960s, the sparse, unpopulated prairies of rural Montana had been deemed a prime location for a fleet of nuclear warheads. In 1991, with the Cold War drawing to an end, Conrad was selected as the best place to house the soldiers, and their families, who were tasked with keeping the country’s stash of nuclear missiles safe in this changing political landscape. New families from around the country started moving i
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to Mrs. McCurdie (continued)

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This is the backdrop upon which my fourth grade year was unfolding ... Our teacher, Mrs. McCurdie, was nearing retirement in 1991 and had been born and raised in Conrad, MT where she now taught. Looking back, through my own lens as a 21st century educator, I am impressed by just how “ahead of the times” she was as a practitioner. How does one manage to be forward thinking in a community that seems to be always digging in its heels and leaning backwards? A few things I remember about Mrs. McCurdie’s class:  Each week she gave us a photocopy of a new cursive letter, written in thick black marker. The gigantic single letter filled the page. Our task was to turn the letter into something new. We could rotate the page any direction we liked. Add crayon or watercolor, marker or chalk. At the end of the week, she displayed our art. Compared to the other bulletin boards lining the hallway with identical, follow-the-direction crafts, our class’s masterpieces stood as glowing examples of our ind
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to Mrs. McCurdie

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“It sounds like the town from Footloose,” is a common response to the stories I share about life in my hometown. There was only a single radio station whose transmission managed to reach our far flung corner of the middle of nowhere; its tagline was “where the mountains meet the prairies, this is wide open country.” Open skies? Sure. Open spaces? Definitely. But from the perspective of a flamboyant nine year-old, the place could feel pretty closed off. I was nearly the same age as MTV in 1991, having been born one year after they famously aired the world’s first music video. But thanks to a nearly unanimous vote from our very heterogeneous community, the popular channel was not available as part of any of the cable packages offered in our town. It’s fair to say we were all ignorant to much of what existed beyond our highway exit #355. Imagine my delight when a neighbor’s cousin arrived with a collection of compact discs, organized alphabetically in a zippered case, full of music that d
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to Wild Places

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The wilderness healed me. Twisted me. Set me free. I was a particular child.  I tapped fingers to thumb with each step. Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinky. One. Two. Three. Four. I shortened my steps as I neared the destination, a little shuffle in my walk to ensure that I crossed the threshold on a multiple of four.  I found items that fit together harmoniously. The placemat whose width was exactly two inches more than one of the wooden planks that made our dining room table. The cup that shared a circumference with the knot in the wood grain that was 2 inches above the edge of the placemat, when centered over the plank, extending one inch on each side. Everything had a rightful place, and my duty ensured each item ended where it belonged. Until I found the wilderness. Until I slept directly on the earth. Until I walked for days with all I needed strapped to my back. Until I dug holes. Squatted in a forest. Bathed in a stream.  Until I absorbed the beauty of that chaos around me. The trails
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to Cale

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Cale had fallen into the wrong crowd. He was a good kid, but he had started making some bad decisions. Alex was a sweeg kid, but having trouble finding his place. She often found him lingering in class, wanting to chat with her during recess. When the graffiti in the boys’ bathroom was traced back to Cale and his bad-influence friend, it was the final straw and Cale lost his recess. But this all proved to be too much. Recess was meant to be her time, but there was Alex with his puppy dog eyes pleading for her to give him attention. There was Cale cross-armed and scowling, breathing heavily. In a moment of desperation she caved. “You can go to recess, but only if you play with Alex.” Did she know that they would go outside and, with no common interests, agree to play basketball? That they would win every game they played because Cale was a foot taller than anyone else and Alex knew his job was to pass the ball immediately back?  Or that they would continue to be a team for the rest of g
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to New Beginnings

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There is a difference in the way he walks down the hall, and not because a trail of 25 kids follow; that’s the usual for him. There is an apprehension in his step, the slightest glance as he passes the principal’s door. He’s there. A jolt of electricity runs through his body, every muscle retracts and then releases with a breath. His students do not notice. Only one asks, “What’s in your hand?” And he draws the single page close against his chest. He does not answer. He ushers the students into the drama room and lingers at the door, waiting to catch his colleague’s eye. “I’m doing it,” he mouths and waves the paper beside his ear. She’s the only one who knows he was really considering it. He returns to the hallway without his tail of children, but the paper still held securely between finger and thumb. He has not, in years, felt so giddy, so alive. Why do we teach kids to never quit , he wonders aloud to his adrenaline-fueled body. He is back at the principal’s door, but he doesn’t s
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to Ms. Curwood

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Sometimes a sound erupts so loudly down that hallway that we must stop what we are doing. Must all run toward the door. Down the hall. Just to find the source. And there is Ms. Curwood. Curled over herself. Laughing from the belly. Stopping only long enough to draw in a deep breath before roaring again in laughter. Her laughter puts her students at ease when the hecticness of school can be overwhelming. It puts her colleagues at ease when the tension in the room has been pulled so tight we have forgotten that we are on the same team. It puts parents at ease when they have forgotten how to appreciate their child just as he or she is. So we stand there for a moment, in the ease she has created. Some of us laugh, too. Some crack a smile. All take a breath before we return to our classroom, our tasks, our duties, with a little lightness in our step.
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