Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind

by Phillip Done

  Whenever I am in the bookstore, I make sure to visit Mary. Mary is a retired teacher. She taught first grade for forty years. Her skin is crinkled like crepe paper, the lines by her mouth deep from smiling, her earlobes droopy from years of wearing holiday jewelry.

  Mary often asks about my students.

  “How’s Trevor?”

  “Still Trevor.”

  “And Christopher?”

  “Never absent.”

  “And Brian?”

  “Still digging to Alcatraz.”

  Over the years, Mary has helped hundreds of teachers, parents, and grandparents at the bookstore. But her favorite customers are children. When a child walks up to her and says he needs help finding a book, Mary flashes a smile, claps her hands, and holds them together as though she has just received the loveliest bit of news. Then she leans over and asks the child what kinds of things he is interested in and likes to read. After she has a general idea, she says, “Follow me!” and darts off like Dolly Levi on her way to a parade. The child must hurry to keep up.

  Mary works her way through the maze of shelves until she reaches her destination. There she runs her finger along the spines of the books like a stick along a picket fence. The child crouches down beside her — excited to be a part of this hunt. Of course Mary does not need to look hard for the book. She knows exactly where it is. But she also knows that discovering something after a bit of a search makes it all the more delicious.

  Soon Mary announces, “Here it is!” and pulls the book off the shelf. But she does not hand the book over right away. She makes him wait. She holds it close to her chest while she tells the child a bit about it. Sometimes she’ll even open the book up, put on her glasses, then read the first page or two. Not too much — just enough to whet his reading whistle. Then slowly, as though she is presenting him with a golden treasure on a pillow of red velvet, she hands over the book with both hands and a wink. Magic.

  FAIRY TALES

  Gail, my kindergarten buddy, reads fairy tales to her students every year. She’s always doing something clever — like throwing a party after Sleeping Beauty wakes up or holding a knighting ceremony for the Seven Dwarfs because they rid the kingdom of the evil queen. Once Gail had her kids build the Three Little Pigs’ houses, decorated her hair dryer like the wolf, and tried blowing them down.

  This month, Gail’s class put on a wedding reception for Cinderella. Her students invited mine. Gail made a cake and served sparkling apple juice in plastic champagne glasses. The cage of white mice and the pumpkin carriage were there as well. (Gail cut out little doors and pinned on four cardboard wheels.) My students brought a class gift. After much debate, we finally decided to give Cinderella a shoe box padded with cotton balls. We figured she’d need it for those glass slippers.

  We study fairy tales in my class, too. The kids and I read lots of stories, analyze different versions, look at parodies, and perform little plays. One year we had a mock trial: The State v. Hansel and Gretel. Puss in Boots, Chicken Little, and even the Emperor (he wore clothes) acted as witnesses in the case. Another year, after acting out Rapunzel, I asked, “So, who can tell me the moral of the story?” Amy said, “Not to have long hair.”

  During our fairy-tale unit, my class compares and contrasts several tales. When discussing their similarities, the children mention the existence of magic, witches, castles, elves, spells, curses, royalty, good versus evil, and so forth. But they always leave out one very important commonality — food. Have you ever noticed how hungry those fairy-tale characters are? They’re starving! The Wolf gobbles up Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. Goldilocks breaks in and eats three bowls of porridge. The Bremen Town musicians perform for their supper. A mean old giant swallows Tom Thumb down like a pill. And all the Troll wants to do is devour one of those billy goats.

  I think I’ve figured out why I like teaching fairy tales so much. I relate to the characters. So many of them act just like teachers. Take Snow White, for instance. She cleans all day and sits in furniture that is too small for her. People bring her apples. And what about that witch in “Hansel and Gretel”? She bribes kids with candy and wants to lock the boy up in a cage. The Pied Piper leads kids in line. The elves at the Shoemaker’s place are up all night working. The Little Mermaid loses her voice. The princess with a pea under her mattress has trouble sleeping. And every year when my students beg me to tell them my middle name, I feel like Rumpelstiltskin. In fact, the only fairy-tale character I can think of who doesn’t act like a teacher is that poor, unlucky giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” He has lots of gold and can eat children.

  STRESS

  My local community center is offering a stress management class. I decided to sign up for it — figured I could use it. This morning when I greeted my students at the door, Robbie was licking the railing. After we walked inside, Dylan started playing Pass the Teacher’s Mug. While on yard duty, five second-grade girls decided Jump on the Teacher’s Shadow was more fun than jumping rope. In class, I burned Emily’s treasure map while trying to singe the edges to make it look authentic, found a handful of Q-tips lodged in my giant ear model, and unwound a rubber band that was cutting off all the circulation in Brian’s purple finger. At the end of the day, Stacy had a nervous breakdown when I carried our dying betta fish out of the room and returned with an empty net. And after school when I sat down at my desk to grade papers, I ate half the Hershey’s Kisses from my goody jar instead. A typical day.

  Actually, I’ve heard that out of the ten most stressful jobs, teaching is number one. I wouldn’t doubt that. It beat out police officers, stockbrokers, and air traffic controllers. I’m sure we beat out Evel Knievel, too.

  When I walked into the stress management class, the room was full. I spotted two other teachers in the audience immediately. They were correcting papers and had tote bags covered with kids’ handprints.

  Our instructor’s name was Connie. One of the first things Connie asked us to do was list all the stressors in our lives. That was easy. I wrote five words — all boys’ names under the age of ten.

  “It’s important,” Connie explained, “to remove your stressors whenever possible.” I laughed to myself. If I removed my stressors, most of my students would be sitting out on the blacktop.

  Next, Connie taught us deep-breathing exercises. Everyone lay on the floor and closed their eyes as Connie walked around the room guiding us through the steps.

  “Picture a balloon under your belly button,” she announced. “As you draw in air, imagine that balloon expanding. Then very slowly let the air out.”

  All I could visualize was a great big giant balloon floating in the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. The balloon looked just like me. My students were holding the strings.

  Throughout the day, Connie shared lots of ideas for relieving stress. She talked about the calming effects of music, power naps, and aromatherapy. Peppermint and ginger, she informed us, are relaxing scents. She explained that certain colors like pink are soothing, how caring for animals reduces blood pressure, and that smiling can actually ease tension. When we smile, she said, nerve impulses from our facial muscles transmit to our limbic system, and we experience peace. Connie also recommended sitting under soft lighting and advised eating lunch outside whenever possible. When she said this, I leaned over to the woman next to me. “If I eat my lunch outdoors, I’d be surrounded by five hundred children who need their thermoses opened.”

  I decided to give a couple of Connie’s suggestions a try at school. What did I have to lose? Maybe her ideas would calm some of my students down, too. So after the class, I drove to Target and bought a relaxation CD of wind and rain, a scented air freshener, and even a lamp and some soft bulbs.

  The next day, I set my lamp up on the back table and plugged in the air freshener. When the kids walked in, the wind-and-rain CD was playing.

  “What’s that smell?” Christopher asked, his nose crinkled. He had a Washington apple sticker on his forehead.


  “It’s air freshener,” I answered. “You like it?”

  “It smells like marker breath.”

  I decided to not ask why. “It’s peppermint.”

  In the morning, the children practiced their math on pink paper. While they were working, I petted our class bunny to reduce my blood pressure. Unfortunately, I had to turn off the relaxation CD. The sound of rain made me want to use the bathroom.

  During the first recess, I decided to take a quick power nap. After excusing the kids, I lowered the blinds and turned off the lights. I sat in my chair, leaned back, and closed my eyes. I could hear the children playing outside. I pictured the balloon under my belly button and inhaled slowly. I exhaled completely like Connie taught me. Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “Mr. Done!” someone hollered.

  I pretended not to hear it. Exhaaaaale.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “Mr. Done, are you in there?”

  Inhaaaaale.

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “MR. DONE!”

  “Go away!” I shouted back. My eyes were still closed.

  BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

  I got up, grumbled on my way to the door, and pushed it open. It was Christopher.

  “Why was the door locked?” he asked.

  “Because I am taking a rest. What do you want?”

  “A ball.”

  I waved him in and watched him squeeze all the balls to find the one with the most air.

  “They’re all flat,” he said.

  “Christopher, hurry up.”

  He looked up. “Why is it dark in here?”

  “I am trying to relax.”

  “Why?”

  I grinned broadly. But I did not sense any nerve impulses from my facial muscles transmitting to my limbic system. “Out!”

  Christopher grabbed a ball and left. I walked back to the chair and sat back down. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. I held my breath then began the exhalation.

  BAM!

  The wall shook and I bolted upright. “What the — ”

  WHAM!

  The wall shook again.

  I’m going to strangle that kid.

  I jumped up, yanked open the door, and marched to the side of the building. Christopher was standing on the lawn with David.

  “How many times have I told you boys not to kick balls against the side of the classroom?” I raised my hand and pointed to the field. “GO!”

  They bolted.

  Pretty soon the bell rang, and all the children ran back into the room. I wrote their new spelling words on the board, and the class began practicing in their notebooks. After a couple of minutes I heard a loud SNAP!

  I turned around and looked out at the kids. “What was that?”

  No one answered.

  I waited a second then continued writing on the board.

  SNAP!

  I whipped back around. “What’s that noise?”

  Gina looked over at Christopher.

  Aha! I walked over to him. He was holding a sheet of bubble wrap. “Where did you get that?” He pointed to a box on the floor. I held out my hand. “Hand it over.” He surrendered it.

  Just then I spotted my new lamp on the back table. I looked at Christopher, then back at the lamp, then at Christopher again. I pointed to the back table. “Go sit by the lamp.”

  “Why?” he asked, surprised.

  “Because soft lighting is calming.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I pointed. “Move.”

  Christopher grabbed his stuff and moved to the lamp.

  I turned to the class. “Okay, everyone, back to work.”

  The kids returned to their spelling. I walked to the front of the room. Soft music and smiling and aromatherapy, my foot. I plopped down in my chair and stared at the bubble wrap in my hands. Slowly a smile spread across my face. I glanced out at the children. I looked down at the bubble wrap. Then I squeezed one bubble.

  SNAP!

  Twenty surprised faces looked up at me.

  “Mr. Done!” they shouted.

  I smiled. This is fun.

  SNAP!

  “MR. DONE!”

  SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

  “Mr. Done, stop that!”

  SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

  Way better than peppermint.

  February

  Most of the people who will walk after me will be children, so make the beat keep time with short steps.

  — Hans Christian Andersen

  100TH DAY

  To celebrate the hundredth day of school, young children all over the country sing songs, shout cheers, read books, count numbers, chant poems, make murals, and string Froot Loops necklaces. When I was a kid, no one celebrated 100th Day. Now it’s huge. Our kindergartners measure stacks of 100 pennies, do 100 jumping jacks, lick lollipops 100 times, and try to stand still for 100 seconds. (Most don’t make it.) The first graders blow out candles on 100 cupcakes, pop 100 balloons, and discuss what they’d do if they had $100. (It’s amazing how far their money goes. One kid bought a Ferrari.)

  The second graders write what they’ll be like in 100 years and draw pictures of how they will look (some just draw tombstones). Kim brought some of her kids’ papers into the staff room to share:

  “When I’m 100 years old, I will wear pink lipstick, blue eye shadow, and a pearl necklace.”

  “When I’m 100 years old, I will watch TV with my dog.”

  “When I’m 100 years old, I will have glasses and dye my white hair black.”

  “When I’m 100 years old, I will have false teeth and play golf.”

  “When I’m 100 years old, I will plant peppers in my garden and spend money on taxis.”

  All our first and second graders bring in bags of 100 things. You name it, the kids haul it in: LEGOs, pretzels, sugar packets, leaves, bottle caps, Skittles, Ritz Crackers, rocks, stickers, hair bows, Cheerios, cotton balls, jelly beans. Last year one child brought in 100 bars of soap. Most from the Marriott. Dad travels a lot.

  Even our staff gets into 100th Day. Gail wears a hat covered with 100 pins. (One says, “I Survived 100th Day!”) Kim sewed 100 buttons on her jean jacket. (The kids count her all day.) Lisa blacks out her teeth and dresses like a 100-year-old woman. Bob parades into each classroom wearing a Zero the Hero hat and says he has ninety-nine brothers and sisters. And Ellen hands out certificates at the assembly to the students who walk into the office and take the 100th ice pack, open the 100th Band-Aid, and have the 100th stomachache.

  I wonder who the teacher was who started 100th Day. Did she have any inkling that her cute little idea would turn into a national event? Could she have ever imagined that her little brainstorm would cause Froot Loops’ stock to soar on Wall Street every February?

  I must admit, I’m not really into the 100th day of school — though once I tried having my students not talk for 100 minutes. (It doesn’t work.) Fortunately for me, by third grade most kids have pretty much outgrown it. Every couple of years, however, I get a class that absolutely does not want to let go of it. This year is one of those groups.

  “What are we doing for 100th Day?” Brian asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  “We’re not?” he said, shocked.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Joshua looked worried. “Can we bring things in if we want to?”

  “Aren’t you getting a little old for that?” I said, lowering my chin.

  “NO!” several shouted.

  “Please can we bring stuff in!” Melanie begged.

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug, “if you really want to. But only small things.”

  The next morning, Christopher brought in 100 poker chips. Trevor pulled out 100 plastic green army men. Kevin carried in 100 marbles. Chloe rolled in a huge black suitcase that was almost as big as she was.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  “A hundred stuff
ed animals,” she answered, proudly.

  “I told you to keep it small.”

  “I did. I brought my Beanie Babies.”

  I vowed to myself at that moment that if I ever celebrated 100th Day again (which was highly unlikely), all collections would have to fit inside a Ziploc bag. Sandwich size.

  A couple of minutes later as I was taking the roll, the door swished open and in waddled Trevor. He was twice his size and looked like the Michelin Man.

  “Trevor, what happened to you?” I spluttered.

  His smile went from one ear to the other. “I’m wearing 100 things!”

  Melanie giggled. Several stood up for a better view.

  I fixed him with a look. “Trevor, that’s impossible.”

  “Really!” he defended.

  Then right there in the middle of the room he started stripping. The class began counting out loud.

  “One! Two! Three! Four!”

  I responded with a Frozen Teacher.

  “Five! Six! Seven! Eight!”

  Trevor was having the time of his life.

  “Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve!”

  Waves of laughter surged with each new number.

  “Thirteen! Fourteen! Fifteen! Sixteen!”

  After removing one down vest, two gloves, five scarves, a pair of earmuffs, two shoes, four socks, six wristbands, and three ski caps, Trevor started unbuckling his belt.

  “Okayyyyyy,” I said, walking over to him. “That’s enough now.”

  “No!” several retorted.

  “I’m only on twenty-four,” Trevor whined. “I’m not done.”

  I picked up one of the ski caps and pulled it over his head. “Oh yes, you are.”

  WRITING