Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind

by Phillip Done

  “Commanded!” Brian shouted.

  “Proclaimed!” Laura squealed.

  I eyed the clock. “It’s almost time for recess.” Everyone looked above the pull-down screen. The big hand was on the 11. Five minutes left. Suddenly the room became more animated. Christopher ran over a third time and tapped me on the shoulder. He was practically hyperventilating.

  “I got another one! I got another one!” Then he stood on his tiptoes. I cupped my ear. “Burped.”

  “No way,” I said, pulling away.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, you cannot burp and talk at the same time.”

  “Yes you can. Yes you can,” he asserted, tapping my arm. “Listen.” Then Christopher cleared his throat, took a giant gulp of air, and started burping the alphabet. “A… B… C…”

  Immediately the room fell silent.

  “D… E… F…”

  All eyes were glued to the burping boy. The class was entranced. Christopher looked triumphant. I was speechless.

  “Does it count?” Dylan yelled.

  “G… H…”

  “Mr. Done,” Dylan repeated, “does it count?”

  “I… J… ”

  I threw up my hands. “You win.”

  DRAMA

  This morning I walked out of the staff room with my coffee mug in hand to meet my students. It had just started to rain. When I got to my door, the kids were pretending to pass something down the line.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, patting my pocket for my keys.

  “Playing Pass-It-On,” Angela replied.

  “What are you passing?”

  “The imaginary sausage,” Brian answered, happily.

  I took a gulp of coffee. This is going to be a long day.

  As I started unlocking the door, Angela tossed the sausage to Brian. Brian tossed the sausage to Jay.

  “Mr. Done,” Joshua said, “catch!”

  “Sorry,” I replied, swinging the door open. “My hands are full. No more sausage. Time to come in now. Wipe your feet.”

  It started to rain a little harder. The children hurried inside. After the last one was in, I shut the door. I pictured Noah when he closed the door on the Ark, trapped inside with a bunch of wild animals.

  When I walked into the classroom, all of the kids were waving their hands and shouting, “Me! Me! Me!” Brian was standing on his chair looking for someone to catch his pass.

  I teacher-pointed him. “I told you to put that sausage away!”

  “I did,” he stated. “This is the imaginary pickle.”

  Brian tossed the pickle to James. I took another gulp of coffee.

  * * *

  Kids love pretend. When we’re studying Antarctica, they all want to jump off the desks and act like they’re penguins diving off glaciers. When we’re learning about the rain forest, all the boys want to play boa constrictor and squeeze the life out of one another. When we’re learning the difference between predator and prey, everyone in the class wants to be the tiger. They beg me to be the hurt little antelope.

  Children never need to be taught how to pretend. They’re natural performers. In all my years of teaching I have never had to instruct a child in how to faint, yawn, die, snore, trip, beg, fly, move in slow motion, or sing like an opera star. Send them up on the jungle gym and they’re on the Santa Maria searching for land. Push a few desks together, and they’re climbing the Sierras in a covered wagon. Spray them with a little water and those wagons are crossing the Platte River. One smart aleck will always fall out, yell he can’t swim, and drown.

  Kids love costumes, too. Sheets are capes. Rolls of masking tape are halos. Give a boy an eye patch and he’ll say, “Ahoy there, matey!” Put a paper crown on a girl and she’ll order, “Off with his head.” Hand a kid a bandanna and he’ll turn into a bandit. Let him have two black staplers and he’ll twirl them like revolvers.

  No child ever needs help handling a prop. Chairs are thrones, desks are caves, paper towel rolls are spyglasses, trash cans are treasure chests, pull-down screens are magic mirrors, jump ropes are lassos, tennis balls are poisoned apples, and my coffee mug is a bottle of rum.

  Nothing makes a better prop than a yardstick. Yardsticks can double as swords, bows, arrows, canes, spears, javelins, axes, brooms, machetes, branches, flagpoles, rifles, hockey sticks, bayonets, lightsabers, and magic wands.

  Third graders are also sound effects experts. In fact, I have yet to meet a child who wasn’t able to re-create the following sounds on command: frog, motorcycle, bird, ghost, witch, phone, cat, doorbell, chicken, thunderstorm, siren, breeze, dog, snore, creaky stairs, and the jingle from Jeopardy!

  The kids’ enthusiasm comes out at our annual school play. As soon as I assign parts, they will search their scripts and count how many lines they have. When I say it’s time for play practice, they’ll start moving the furniture around the classroom faster than the guys on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. When we start rehearsing, they will say their lines with their backs to the audience. On opening night, one child will search the folding chairs for his mom until he finds her. Children will giggle on stage when they’re supposed to freeze, and fix their hair when they’re supposed to be asleep. When they take their bows, their hats will fall off.

  When I was a kid, I loved doing plays. I wrote shows for the neighborhood kids. We performed them in Jennifer King’s garage. I directed and starred in them, too. All the neighbor ladies came and paid a quarter to get in — even Mrs. King. For scenery I raided our garage. For props I raided my house.

  “Where’s the rug?” my mom called out one day, walking into the entryway.

  “In the show!” I replied. “You’ll get it back in a couple of days. We close Sunday.”

  This year I have a bunch of budding thespians in my classroom. When Trevor didn’t like the game we were playing in PE, he started limping. When he didn’t want to write, he tied his arm up in a sweatshirt and said he broke it. This week as I was walking around the room helping kids with their math, I stopped at his desk. His eyes were shut.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “I can’t do my math.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m blind.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to miss the movie we’re watching after lunch.”

  Trevor sat up straight. “We’re watching a movie?”

  “We might.”

  His eyes popped open. “I’m healed!”

  Not long ago, I was walking across the playground and noticed a group of kids on the lawn. They were lined up in three rows in a triangular formation. Another child stood about ten feet away with a red rubber ball. He rolled the ball toward the triangle. When the ball hit the kids, they went diving and flying in all directions. After they fell on the grass, they all jumped up and returned to their three lines.

  I stopped. “What are you guys playing?”

  “Bowling Alley!” John announced. “We’re pins!”

  Another day we were out for free play and I spotted half my class lying frozen on the grass. Kevin was standing over them with his hands outstretched. I walked on over.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” Kevin said.

  I whispered, “What’s going on here?”

  Kevin leaned in. “I hypnotized them.”

  “Oh.”

  All of a sudden the bell rang. No one moved.

  “Okay, Kevin, time to unhypnotize them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I forgot the magic words.”

  I looked out at the comatose children. Then I raised my arms slowly, circled them in the air, and spoke in a low, Harry Houdini voice.

  “Ooooone…”

  No one moved.

  “Twooooooo…”

  Still hypnotized.

  “TWO AND A HALF.”

  The kids popped up and ran back to the classroom. I t
urned to Kevin and winked. “It’s all in the wrist.”

  One rainy-day recess, my students were spread out all around the classroom. Dylan, Melanie, and Rebecca were in the corner acting something out. They had moved some desks. On them lay stacks of papers and books. Dylan was wearing a pair of plastic glasses and a tie from the costume box.

  “Are you playing school?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Rebecca.

  I looked at Dylan. “Who are you?”

  A giant smile was plastered on his face. “I’m Mr. Done.”

  I laughed, shook my head, and rubbed my forehead all at the same time. Then Dylan started madly searching through the stacks on his desk and throwing papers on the floor. “Where are my keys?” he cried out loud. Suddenly the room grew quiet and everyone stared at Dylan. Aware of his new audience, Dylan stood on his chair, squeezed his skull, and shouted, “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CAR KEYS?”

  December

  My first copies of Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn still have some blue spruce needles scattered in the pages. They smell of Christmas still.

  — Charlton Heston

  HOLIDAY HOTLINE

  I’m amazed at how many hotlines there are for stressed-out cooks at the holidays. Crisco has one. So do Campbell’s and Ocean Spray. Libby’s, Hershey’s, and Betty Crocker all have them as well. At the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line, anyone can call up twenty-four hours a day and get answers to their questions: “Do I roast the turkey with or without the plastic netting?” “Can I pop popcorn in the turkey’s cavity during the roasting process?” “How do I thaw a fresh turkey?” “Where does the meat thermometer go?” “I can’t find the turkey I buried in the snowbank. Can you help?”

  Teachers could definitely use a hotline to get them through December, too. The week before winter break at any school feels like blending a pitcher full of Margaritas and forgetting to put the lid on. This week I have already twisted dozens of red pipe cleaners around candy canes to make reindeer antlers, spray-painted oodles of walnuts gold, rolled out miles of gingerbread dough, and glued twenty Happy Meal Toys in the bottom of baby food jars to make snow globes for parents’ holiday gifts then ended up wrapping them all myself. (Have you seen third-grade boys wrap?)

  The Holiday Hotline for Teachers would offer harried educators — not recorded tips — but live assistance from veteran colleagues on everything from what to bring to the White Elephant exchange to recipe suggestions for the staff Christmas party potluck.

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  TEACHER: Hi. Do I have to get my boss a Christmas present?

  HOTLINE: Have you had your evaluation yet this year?

  TEACHER: It’s next month.

  HOTLINE: Buy him something expensive.

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  TEACHER: My first graders and I disagree on the echo part in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I say that after singing “They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games,” you shout “Like Monopoly.” They insist that it’s “Like Poker.” Which one is it?

  HOTLINE: (pause) What grade did you say you teach again?

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  TEACHER: I’m calling from the staff lounge. I just burned a batch of gingerbread men.

  HOTLINE: How old are your kids?

  TEACHER: They’re kindergartners.

  HOTLINE: Are any of your students with you right now?

  TEACHER: Yes.

  HOTLINE: Do not let them see the cookies.

  TEACHER: Why?

  HOTLINE: Last year we had a kindergarten teacher call. She burned a batch of gingerbread men just like you. When she pulled them out, one of her kids picked up the phone and started dialing 911 to save them.

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  CALLER: I’m sitting here naked and…

  HOTLINE: Sorry. We’re not that kind of hotline.

  * * *

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  TEACHER: Yes. I’m dying here. My kids are bonkers. They won’t work. They won’t sit still. Help!

  HOTLINE: Have you shown the Santa Claus Is Coming to Town video?

  TEACHER: Yes.

  HOTLINE: Have you shown How The Grinch Stole Christmas?

  TEACHER: Yes.

  HOTLINE: Have you shown Frosty the Snowman?

  TEACHER: Yes.

  HOTLINE: What other videos do you have?

  TEACHER: Only Barney’s Valentine Adventure.

  HOTLINE: Show it.

  HOTLINE: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

  TEACHER: Are LEGOs toxic?

  HOTLINE: Why do you ask?

  TEACHER: Well, I was making cranberry bread for my Secret Santa. My son was playing with his LEGOs on the counter. When I had my back turned he put the LEGOs in the batter.

  HOTLINE: Did you bake the bread yet?

  TEACHER: No.

  HOTLINE: Good. Fish them out. You should be fine.

  ESTHER

  The December I was in third grade, my mom bought my grandmother a navy-blue coat with a fur collar at Macy’s. I was with her when she purchased it. On Christmas morning when my family opened their presents, Mom handed my grandmother a box. The tag said, “To: Grandma. From: Santa.” Grandma unwrapped her gift and pulled out the blue coat. She loved it. But I was very concerned about that tag. There must be a mixup, I thought. Now my grandmother will never know that Mom was the one who really bought the coat.

  In third grade, there are three camps when it comes to Santa Claus: Those who believe. Those who don’t. And those who are on the fence. When I was a kid, I was in the Believer Group. This made sense, of course. Heck, I thought the Jolly Green Giant and Chef Boyardee were real. I believed that Betty Crocker looked just like the drawing on the front of her cookbook and that Sara Lee made her own cheesecakes, too.

  In every primary classroom — sometime in December — the question of Santa’s existence always comes up. And every year there is always at least one student whose mission it is to convince his classmates that Santa Claus is not real. Whenever the Santa Claus debate begins in class, teachers must act quickly to nip it in the bud. If there is one thing that children are passionate about — it’s Santa.

  One day I was helping a student at my desk when I heard the word Santa coming from the second row. My teacher antennae perked up.

  “He isn’t real,” Danny insisted.

  “Yes he is!” Laura protested.

  Uh-oh. Trouble.

  “Santa Claus is just your dad,” Danny ruled.

  “No, he isn’t!” Laura countered.

  I’d better intervene.

  “Danny,” I said, stretching out his name, “are you working?”

  The two stopped talking and looked down at their work. Seconds later, Laura continued.

  “I know he’s real,” she snarled.

  “How do you know?” Danny snapped back.

  “Okay, you two,” I said, raising my voice. “That’s enough.”

  But Laura wasn’t finished yet. “Because Santa Claus drives a sleigh, and my dad doesn’t know how.”

  You go, girl.

  The week before winter break, my class makes its annual trip to the local senior center. It’s just down the street from our school, so we walk over. The children sing “Frosty the Snowman,” “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and “Jingle Bells” for the center’s holiday luncheon. After the concert, the hostesses give each child a candy cane. The children hand out Christmas cards that they made at school. It’s a lovely morning.

  This year after the children received their candy canes, they walked out into the audience to pass out their cards. John approached a little old lady sitting in the front row. She was sitting in a wheelchair. The woman wore a red dress. A gold Christmas tree brooch covered with colored glass stones was pinned to her collar. Her hair was the color of snow. It smelled like Aqua Net.

  John handed her his card.

  �
�Oh, thank you,” said the woman. Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights.

  I stood behind John as the woman examined the cover. John had colored Rudolph pulling Santa in his sleigh. Santa was shouting, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Rudolph’s nose was as large as his body.

  The woman looked up at John. “You got Santa’s beard just right. A lot of people don’t get his beard right, you know. It really is longer than most people think.”

  John’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “You know Santa Claus?”

  She sat up, slapping both hands on her knees. “Of course I know him.”

  John took a step back then turned to the students standing beside him. “Hey,” he announced, “she knows Santa Claus.”

  Word spread like a game of Hot Potato that the old lady in the wheelchair knew Santa. Quickly she was wreathed by children. All ears waited to hear what she had to say. Including Danny’s.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asked John.

  He answered.

  “Nice to meet you, John. I’m Esther.”

  John regarded her steadily. “How do you know Santa Claus?”

  Esther laughed. “Oh, I’ve known him for years.”

  “Honest?” Laura asked, moving in closer.

  Esther turned to her. “Honest. Of course, I haven’t seen him in quite some time, but I talk with him every year.”

  Melanie leaned on Esther’s knee. “You do?”

  “Oh yes,” Esther replied. “He used to call me on the telephone every December to ask me if my children had been good. Then after my kids grew up, he’d call and ask if my grandchildren had been good.”

  “Does he still call you?” Chloe chimed in, eagerly.

  Esther looked at Chloe. “Yes. But my grandchildren are all grown up now, too. So he asks me about all the other children I know.” She turned back to John with a warm smile. “Or have met recently.”

  “Has he called you yet this year?” Kevin piped in.

  “Not yet,” Esther answered. “But I suppose he’ll be calling me any day now.” Then Esther leaned into John and looked straight into his eyes. She held them with her own. “Have you been good?”