by Phillip Done
I wrote back, “They’re hot.”
She wrote another note: “Well, maybe you should let them take their coats and hats and gloves off in class!” And she sent them all back.
“Hey!” I screamed. “Why are you guys back? You’re sick! Get out of here!”
“The nurse said we’re fine,” Kenny said.
“But she asked if you were feeling all right,” said Amanda.
For weeks I sang, “Wash your hands with soap,” “Button your coats,” “Put on your mittens,” “Cover your mouths when you cough,” and “Don’t sneeze on me!”
I jumped back when they coughed. I ran away when they started to sneeze. I disinfected their pencils. I made them gargle with Listerine after lunch. I had three sick drills a day.
“OK, everyone,” I ordered, “cover your mouths! Now cough! Good. Now, let’s do it again.”
Oh, why didn’t they listen to me?
“I know Natalie did not want to miss the Christmas party, Mrs. Robertson, but she has a fever of a hundred and two!”
“Joshua, you have strep throat! What do you mean your mom has to get her hair done and can’t find a sitter?”
Right now Stephen is probably sledding somewhere in perfect health while I sit here with a Vick’s inhaler jammed up my nose. And Michael is probably playing computer games while I lie on the couch deciding what flowers I want at my funeral.
Oh, I am so glad my kiddies got well just in time to enjoy their hard-earned vacation. I am so happy that I didn’t cough or sneeze or sniff on them and prevent any one of them from having a well-deserved holiday.
Next year this will not happen. Next year if I hear so much as a sniffle, I’m not letting any of them into the classroom without a note from the surgeon general. Next year I will teach in a mask. Next year we will sterilize all scissors, pencils, and rulers. And if they raise their hands for help, they’d better be wearing gloves!
Jealous
At the beginning of each New Year, I always go out to lunch with my old friend Janis. Janis and I graduated from college at the same time. I was in the teacher education department. She was in business. Janis wanted to make money. I wanted to walk kids to the cafeteria.
Janis is a partner for some big finance firm with a lot of names in the title. I don’t know what she does, really. Something with audits, I think. I don’t even pretend to understand. The hardest math I teach is long division.
Janis just bought a summer house, flies to Monte Carlo for the weekend, and drives a BMW. I did not, cannot, and never will.
It really isn’t fair, if you think about it. Janis and I both entered the workforce at the same time, and now she makes over twice what I do. Janis drives a nice company car and gets a nice big ten to fifteen percent raise and a hefty bonus every year. Her company is always flying her somewhere. For me, the only good thing about all this is that I make her pay for lunch.
Last week Janis had just returned from Berlin. She stayed in one of those big fancy-shmancy hotels where they put fruit baskets in your room and cottonballs in the bathroom. She was treated to cocktail parties and seven-course meals with snails and caviar, and went on moonlit boat trips at night.
“I’m jealous!” I screamed, slamming my hands on the table.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because the last time my school sent me anywhere, it was to the Elk’s Lodge,” I explained. “And we had to bring our own bag lunch. That’s why! And you know something else? I have never had a cup of coffee without contributing to the coffee kitty. And I have never gone to a staff party without chipping in for the pizza.”
She laughed.
“Who pays for all your trips and hotels and fruit baskets?” I asked.
“Oh, sometimes my company. But mostly the clients,” she answered.
“Clients!” I screamed. “You know who my clients are? My clients don’t eat the crust. My clients only drink chocolate milk. My clients will only eat something if there is a toy inside the box. My clients do not eat anything with nuts. And my clients would make loud gagging noises and fall down dead if I asked them if they wanted any caviar. Stop laughing!”
“OK, OK,” she said. “But what if you want to go to a conference or something?” she asked.
“A conference?” I asked. “The only conferences I have are with parents who did not know their sweet little angels knew those four-letter words.”
“No, seriously,” she said.
I paused and leaned forward. “Janis,” I said, “let me explain. If we want to go to a conference, we pay for it ourselves.”
“Really?” she asked. “And how do you buy books and blocks, and all that stuff that you teachers use?”
I looked at her. “Janis, how much do you think teachers get each year to buy all that stuff?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Take a guess,” I said.
She thought about it. “I don’t know. A couple thousand maybe.”
“Take off a zero and you’ll be close.”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“Let’s just put it this way,” I explained. “We get about as much a year as you just paid for the minibar in Berlin.”
“No way!” she screamed.
“It’s true.” I continued, “And at least I’ve been teaching for a while. I’ve accumulated stuff. It’s worse for the new teachers. They start out with nothing. Do you know what I got when I started teaching?”
“What?” she asked.
“A staple remover, a globe from 1939, and an ant farm,” I explained. “I spent my whole first year picking staples out of the carpet and staring at ants.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” she said. Janis reached into her purse. “Here are the cottonballs you wanted.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The waiter placed our lunches on the table. I looked at her BLT.
“Say, can I have your toothpicks?” I asked.
She looked at her sandwich. “Sure. Why?”
“I can use them at school.”
She laughed. “You want my straw too?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m kidding.”
“I’m not. Hand it over,” I said, holding out my hand.
I smiled and stared at her salad. “Say, did I tell you we have a class bunny?” I said.
She covered her plate. “You are not taking my salad!”
Letter to Roald Dahl
Dear Mr. Dahl,
I so enjoy reading your books to my students. Your books have brought hours of happiness to my classroom. Thank you so much. I am writing to ask you one small favor. If at all possible, would you mind, please, changing one little word in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?
You see, every year I read Charlie to my students. Each child follows along in his or her own copy as I read it aloud. The children love the book. And so do I. Why, I have read it for twenty years, and I still love it. Yes, Mr. Dahl, everything is just grand. That is of course until we get to chapter 7.
At the end of chapter 6 I start to break out in a cold sweat. My voice starts to tremble because I know it is coming. Then I see it. I see the word that has ruined so many a reading hour. I try to skip over it quickly. I pray that no one will notice. But they always notice. In twenty years I have never had a student not notice. I ask you, Mr. Dahl, was it really necessary to write the word “ass”?
Do you know what it is like having a classroom full of third graders read that word? Do you? Let me explain what happens. First Michael jumps out of his seat and runs to show me. Then the rest of the class jumps out of their seats. They all run around the room laughing and pointing to that word.
Then Anthony keeps repeating the word. I scream, “Do not say that word!” Then some little wise guy asks, “What word?” trying to get me to say the word. Then I repeat, “Do not say that word!” Then another little smart aleck says, “But it’s in the book!” This, Mr. Dahl, goes on for about ten minutes.
Then the begging be
gins. They beg me to reread the chapter so that they can jump out of their seats and run around the room and point to the word and laugh some more.
This year was one of the worst. Melanie said she’s telling her mother that I swore in class. And Justin? Justin had to be rushed to the nurse’s office for oxygen. Quite frankly, Mr. Dahl, I’m trying to have a nice reading hour, and you’re ruining it!
Yours sincerely,
Mr. Done
I Had a Dream
On Monday morning the children walked into the room and sat down.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” I said. “I hope you all had a nice weekend. Oh, there will be no homework tonight. In fact, there will be no homework for the rest of the year.”
They all cheered.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Done?” asked Stephen.
“Yeah. Why are you being so nice?” Emily asked.
“Oh, no reason.” I smiled. “No reason at all.”
But there was a reason. You see, last night I had a dream.
I had a dream that I had to have a triple heart bypass, and right before they put me under, I looked up at my doctor, and it was Anthony.
I had a dream that I visited my financial planner the day after I retired, and it was Sarah.
I had a dream that I bought a house in Florida and the real estate agent was Katie.
I had a dream that I moved to a new house and my next door neighbor was Ronny.
I had a dream that I was flying to my fiftieth high school reunion and the pilot was Justin.
I had a dream that I had to have an emergency root canal and the oral surgeon was Stephen.
I had a dream that I got pulled over for speeding and the officer was Melanie.
I had a dream that the limousine picked me up for my niece’s wedding and Natalie was the chauffeur.
I had a dream that I went to the chiropractor and it was Brian.
I had a dream that I was being audited by the IRS and the agent was Peter.
I had a dream that I finally went to see a therapist and it was Emily.
“Anyone want any candy?” I asked.
“Yeah!” they all screamed.
I started handing it out.
“Mr. Done, are you sure you’re feeling OK?” Emily asked.
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Just fine, Emily. I just had a weird dream last night. That’s all,” I said.
She pulled up a chair and said, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Tortilla Snowflakes
When I was a kid, I would only eat two things: Kraft macaroni and cheese, and pork and beans. That was it. So my mom’s cupboards were always full of both. These were staples in my house.
Well, teachers have their staples too. Teacher staples are those tried-and-true activities that you can pull out at any time and know, like the pork and beans, the kids will love them.
One of my favorite teaching staples is making paper snowflakes. You know the kind I mean—the ones where you take a piece of white paper, fold it, cut out shapes, and open it back up. A recent study of 100,000 teachers found that making paper snowflakes is the one thing that all elementary school teachers have in common.
Well, one day I pulled out the white paper and scissors. As they began cutting their paper snowflakes, I announced, “Boys and girls, today we are going to make snowflakes that you can eat!”
“Yeah!” everyone screamed.
Edible snowflakes are similar to paper ones, but instead of paper, you use flour tortillas. You fold the tortillas, cut out shapes, open them up, and ta-da! Tortilla snowflakes. Fried in a little butter and topped with powdered sugar, they’re yummy. Kids love them.
Well, as the kids were cutting out their tortillas, I put some butter into a skillet, laid Natalie’s tortilla into the pan, and placed the pan on a single burner I borrowed from the science room. Then I went over to help Anthony cut his tortilla.
All of a sudden Natalie screamed, “Mr. Done! Look!”
I turned back around. Natalie’s snowflake was smoking. I ran to the burner, pulled the pan off, and ran to the window. Just as I was opening the window, the fire alarm went off.
I put my hand on my head and said a bad word under my breath.
“Mr. Done, the fire alarm!” Melissa screamed.
“Mr. Done, the fire alarm!” Joey yelled.
“Mr. Done, the fire alarm!” Sean shouted.
“OK, everyone, let’s go outside,” I said.
Emily grabbed her coat and Melanie grabbed Penel. We lined up and walked outside. In the hall we met Mike’s class.
“Hey, who was the dummy who set off the fire alarm?” asked Mike.
“I heard they set it off in the cafeteria,” I said.
Peter began to explain, “Mr. Done, you—”
I covered Peter’s mouth quickly. I did not want him to inhale any smoke.
Outside we lined up in the parking lot with 650 other students and teachers. It was raining.
Cathy came running over to me.
“What happened?” she asked.
I looked around for Amy. I did not see her.
“Uh … well,” I said, “Amy was cooking in class, and set off the smoke detector. Poor Amy,” I said. “She must be so embarrassed.”
Finally the bell rang and we all went back inside. We got back to the room and I sent the kids to lunch. I clicked on my computer.
Note: Never check your e-mails immediately after you have just set off the fire alarm and sent 650 students and their teachers outside into the rain.
Marion wrote, “My kids thank you. They got out of a spelling test today.”
Kim wrote, “I’d like mine extra crispy also please.”
Dawn wrote, “Join the club.”
There were about fifteen more e-mails, but I chose not to read them. Instead I clicked off the computer and called my mom.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Can I come over for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. Anything particular you want?”
“Yeah. Macaroni and cheese.”
Valentine’s Art
Once on Valentine’s Day I wrote “LOVE” in giant letters on six different pieces of large white paper.
“OK, boys and girls,” I said. “Today we’re going to decorate the letters. You may decorate them any way you’d like.”
I placed the letters on the floor and handed out crayons and markers and colored pencils. The kids sat around the giant letters and began to color away.
About ten minutes later in walked Mr. Anderson, the superintendent, with a group of about five or six men in suits and ties. I think they were other principals. They looked important. Mr. Anderson was giving them a tour of the school.
The men stood around the kids and watched them color. Tomoya was coloring in the L with rainbows. James drew happy faces in the O. Jenny was drawing big red polka dots in the V, and Erika was lying on her tummy, quite intent on filling in her E with hearts and arrows.
Mr. Anderson knelt down next to Erika.
“What are you doing there, honey?” Mr. Anderson asked.
Erika looked up from her work with an isn’t-it-obvious sort of look on her face and sighed.
“Can’t you see we’re making love?” she said.
Mr. Anderson’s face turned red. The other men turned away. Erika went back to work.
Spring
Spring Is Here
When do you know spring has arrived? When Safeway puts out their Easter candy? When we go on daylight savings time? When the drugstore starts selling kites?
I know spring is here when I hear the first song flute. Mrs. Fisher always passes out the song flutes the first week of March. She has done so for the past twenty years.
Come March, third graders in my school are everywhere practicing “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and “Jingle Bells.” On the blacktop. In the hall. In the cafeteria. Everywhere I go, it’s “Mr. Done, listen to this! Listen to this!”
One day before school I met three of
my boys in the hallway. They were sitting in their cubbies playing “Three Blind Mice.”
“Stop playing that song!” I yelled. “I have heard it three hundred times this week. Play something else!”
“That’s all we know,” said Peter.
“Well, that’s enough! Now go play outside!” I yelled.
I went into the staff room and poured the last bit of coffee into my World’s Greatest Teacher mug. Then I walked into the faculty bathroom, opened a stall door, and sat down. It’s my hideout.
All of a sudden, I heard music coming from the next stall.
“Who’s in there?” I screamed.
No answer.
“You heard me. Who’s in there?” I asked again.
“Me,” a voice answered quietly.
“Peter!” I yelled, “I told you to go play!”
“I am,” Peter said.
“I meant outside! Is Carlos in there too?” I asked.
No answer.
“Carlos?” I said slowly.
“Yeah,” Carlos mumbled.
“Anthony, are you in there too?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Anthony.
“Aha! The third mouse.”
“Mr. Done, listen to this echo,” said Peter.
He started playing. I sang along.
“Three bad boys. Three bad boys. See how they run. See how they run. They did not listen to Mr. Done. So their mommies came over and took them home. See how they run. See …”
The stall door opened. There was a scampering of feet. I stayed and drank my coffee.
A couple of minutes later, two more mice crept into the bathroom. I recognized their voices. They did not know I was having my morning coffee. I sat silent.
“Are you sure we can play in here?” Justin whispered.
“Yeah,” said Brian. “Come on. It echoes really good.”
They walked into the stall next to mine, closed the door, and began to play their song flutes. I waited a minute, then I howled as loud as I could. Both boys screamed and ran out of the bathroom. I think I gave Justin a heart attack.