Postcards from the Funny Farm

It’s the 4th of July and as always: guests are coming over. Before I unloaded/loaded the dishwasher and shocked the pool, I picked up my weapon against the cleaning blues: My Martin triple-o.

Whatever situation I find myself in … the guitar saves me in relaxing the room. Example: kids in my class are out of sorts and chatting constantly. Unable to focus and get the situation under control, I pick up the guitar, which silences many, and start to count: one … two … three … you can hear a pin drop on carpet. A scene not even the best digital cameras can capture … you have to be there.

I then strum out Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land” and every kid sings along. That song really tells a powerful story. I tell you I have been teaching for 10 years and working with kids for at least 20. The guitar never fails. It’s like a semi-automatic weapon against chaos in tha classroom. But this morning I used it a different way.

Sauntering over with sleep still in my eyes, I sat on the kids’ toybox and started flecking the strings with my pick. Paul McCartney’s almost now obscure “My Love” came into my head, a song I taught myself years ago. “My love does it goooooood.” My 3 year old started twirling in front of me as I continued strumming and faking the lyrics. Reminiscent of another time undefined, another place.

I went on to place a few other Beatles songs and ended with the “Gidget” reminiscent “Wipeout” instrmental. Rippin’ it up still at 39. When I came out of the guitar zone, I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, fed the dog, and shocked the pool. I hear the pump outside filtering the water for our guests at 2pm. I smile to myself at an idea only I will probably “get.” Then I come here to blog it for the archive. Maybe somebody will get it out there, Chris or somebody. Happy 4th readers of mine. (afterthought: this post should serve to remind us players that only we can teach the youth of today to appreciate the guitar)

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This is a short anecdote. I told it to my mother-in-law and she suggested I blog it . . . so here goes, for Kathy’s sake:

The other day I had a migraine at work. I’m a 3rd grade public school teacher in California, and migraines are not 100% conducive to working with 30 kids. Nonetheless, I walked through my morning in the usual way being surprisingly effective, I primly thought, at getting my lessons across to my students despite the nagging headache. Then math time came . . .

Moving into the math lesson, I knew we had to be on page 50. I could also tell the group was a little boisterous that day and likely would not hear me the first time when I announced the page number. (It’s uncanny how they seem to get that way when and only when you are either feeling sick or have a headache, which luckily for me is not that often).

Anyway, to ensure that I wouldn’t have to repeat myself a second or even third time, because one hates to do that when ones head hurts, I wrote in RED PEN on the whiteboard: “TURN TO PAGE 50.” Then I said, “Class, let’s turn in our math books to page 50.” Then I heard the flurry of some students turning to page 50 getting ready for the lesson. It was at that point that one of my future astronauts (at least that’s what I keep telling myself) said to me in the most purely innocent way: “Teacher, what page?”

Working with kids, bottomless patience is a crucial tool of the trade sometimes.