I step into the living room and the kitchen and laughter assaults my ears. It is an unmistakable sound of pure joy. Although she scolds him and chases him from her kitchen, Mamaw laughs as my papaw manages to snatch a bite of ham before dinner. She makes a funny sight, waving her wooden serving spoon in the air. Gut-busting jokes and hilarious short stories are swapped back and forth endlessly. Laughter fills the three-bedroom house with keeping the chill air at bay outside.

            The second best thing about Christmas is the wonderful aromas of a home-made feast. Wafting through the irrepressible din of laughter, smells of ham and sweet potatoes float in the air. All of the delicious aromas originate from the heart of the household: my mamaw’s kitchen. Everyone has a favorite dish. My dad loves sweet potatoes; my brother and little cousin have soft spot for sweet desserts. My papaw is not picky as long as there is plenty of it. Everyone eats with a hurried anticipation because presents come next.

            Last but not least, the best thing about Christmas is that my family gathers in one place. We have a break from school and the adults finally have a day off work. When we migrate to the living room for gifts, there are not enough seats for everyone. My papaw dives beneath the rotating tree every year to pass out shiny gifts. A huge pile accumulates in front of each individual. The one present that matters most is that we are all together to witness one another’s smiles.

            In conclusion, Christmas is the one day of the year when the world seems perfect. Problems fade away with the wind. Laughter erases all worries foremost in our minds. A home-made feast brings the family together at the same table. How could Christmas possibly be any better?

There ain’t nothing like country roads

Neighbors sittin’ on their porches waitin’ for a friend to top in and sit a while.

Have a cup of thick black coffee.

Don’t go puttin’ no Wilson’s cream or Domino sugar in it. Dulls the taste.

There ain’t nothing like country roads

Little white churches sittin’ under tall oaks with gnarled arms swingin’ in the breeze. Praisin’ God.

Steeples reachin’ high into Heaven. Longin’ for a peak of the Promised Land for anyone else gets a chance.

There ain’t nothing like country roads

They take you home to Mom and Dad and Family and all the holler gossip that’s been heapin’ up since the dirt road helped you escape then allowed you to make a legal U-Turn to take you back to your roots.

There ain’t nothing like country roads

Wild flowers and blossoms brighten the ride causin’ a calm and peaceful feeling to wash over the viewers and remember days from long ago when small fists clutched bouquets to decorate Momma’s window sill.

There ain’t nothing like country roads

Young lovers walk hand-in-hand

Noddin’ a friendly howdy to passers-by.

Cool breezes lift clean white sheets hangin’ on clothesline and keep ‘em flappin’ while an ole coon dog barks at a moon remembered from past nights.

her essence remains

on walls

with pictures

and posters

of movie stars

hung carefully

by innocent fingers.

a slender body

with limp shirt tail draped

about long, slender legs

back against wall

for mother’s pencil

to apply

growth marks.

her essence

hid in an upstairs room

behind heavy war curtains

until a lone survivor

finds a journal

which recorded

coming of age

and

facing death

while yet alive.

her essence remains

on the wall

behind a bookcase

in the hallowed

hall of time.

her essence seared my mind

moved me

stole my voice

stung my eyes

left me limp

yet

her essence remains.

It was my second year of teaching. My classroom was a small annex room behind the junior high school. My class was housed in Annex 2. I was the youngest teacher on staff and glad to have a job. I wanted to teach; the location was not important. The seventh grade students were of the utmost importance to me.

During the summer break, my colleague and mentor, Jane Long, had invited me to attend a writing workshop with her. The facilitator was one of the co-directors of Marshall University’s Writing Project. She led us through a number of formula writings. One that I particularly liked was the Biopoem. I guided the students through the writing process, and we followed it by sharing the poems orally before the class.

When students write and write truthfully, surprises are bound to pour out of their pencils. The Biopoem is an enlightening activity that would enable a deep bound between my heart and Jon’s. As Jon read his poem, I was shocked to learn about the obstacles that he was facing.

Jo, his mother and older sister were making their home with his maternal grandmother. His parents were divorced; his father lived in Michigan and had little contact with his children. Jon’s mother was terminally ill with cancer and had been hospitalized for several weeks in Charleston, WV. I had never known a cancer patient so I had no way of knowing how traumatic the disease could be.

After the students read their poems, they turned them in. That evening as I read through the poems, I wrote comments on each one. I wrote that I would pray for his mother and family. I also asked him to keep me posted and updated on his mother’s progress.

A few Monday’s later, Jon entered the classroom and I could instantly tell that his heart was heavy. Jon told me that he had to talk to me between classes. As the last student left, I asked him to close the door so that Jon could tell me what had him so troubled. Once the door closed, tears swelled in his dark green eyes. He said, “Mrs. Hawkins, I need a hug.”

For two years the principal had continually warned all of the teachers, “Never touch a child. You are never to touch a student.”

Jon’s tears, heartache, and mental well being overrode the principal’s warnings. At that time, the Mommy part of me rose to the surface, pushing teacher into the background.

I opened my arms and allowed Jon to take comfort from them. As his tears flowed, he related the horrific weekend he had experienced. As Jon was dressing to go to the hospital with his sister to visit his mother, she left without him. He didn’t get to visit his dying mother. His grandmother had not given him the comfort that he needed, so he turned to a sympathetic teacher.

By the time he came to my class, he desperately needed a shoulder where he could cry and an ear to listen to his story. My heart broke for Jon. I had no comforting words of wisdom. All I could do for him was to hold his head and let him take comfort from someone else’s mother’s arms. There was no way I could refuse Jon’s plea. Sometimes a student needs more than a teacher. I was Jon’s English teacher but he din’t need an English teacher on that particular Monday. He needed comfort from a mother. I wasn’t his mother but a mother I was, and that was enough to get Jon through the week.

A few weeks later Jon’s mother died. Immediately following the funeral, Jon packed up his belongings and returned to Michigan with his father to begin making his home and new life there. For many years, Jon and I stayed in contact through letters. Eventually, he no longer needed the security I had freely given him. We lost contact and went our separate ways.

I appreciate the advice given to me by my principal. Do I regret going against those warnings? No! I do not regret being something other than an English teacher that Monday morning. Jon needed a mother. I became a substitute for a few brief minutes. I am a mother at times before I am a teacher. Have I been there for all of my students? No! Do I always know what’s best for a particular person? No! Does writing help me know my students? Yes! It does. Writing fulfills many standards but the standards are often the ones that are unwritten.

(This was written in response to one parent dies by Penny Kittle.)

Dr. Shirley Lumpkin taught the class; I took one day of spring break to go to Huntington, so I could try to get some arrangements to solve my problem. Upon entering Shirley’s office, I commenced by telling her about “my problem.” Not only was I furthering my education by taking classes designed to fulfill requirements for a Master’s Degree, but I was also taking courses to upgrade my English/language arts degree from grades 5-8 to grades 5-12. I was tired of being RIF’ed every year. By having the certification to include grades 5-12, I would have more leverage next spring when teachers would be notified that their services were no longer needed.

When I entered Shirley’s office, I told her, “I have a problem. I know it’s my problem, but I need your help. I need your class which is taught only during the day when I was at work.” Living and working in Logan County presented a scheduling conflict. I nervously rambled on until Dr. Lumpkin started interviewing me.

“How long have you been teaching?” She asked.

I replied, “Five years.”

“What grade level do you teach?”

I told her that I taught seventh grade English.

As the discussion continued, she inquired about classroom practices and the types of writing in which my students were involved. She stood up and said, “Come with me.”

She whisked me upstairs to the English Department and introduced me to Dr. Dolores Johnson, Director of Marshall University Writing Project. Shirley related my story to Dolores. The two ladies said they had an offer for me. These ladies were responsible for the Writing Project at the university. I had tried several to arrange my summer schedule so I could become a participant. Summer time was always spent taking graduate classes; therefore, I had not been able to do Writing Project.

Earlier that morning, brochures for the 1994 Summer Institute had arrived and Dolores was pleased to share them. Shirley proceeded to make me the offer of a lifetime. If I would take the six hour professional development, they would ask the dean to allow the substitution of Writing Project for Senior Seminar. Looking back to that spring day, I now realize how miraculous it was to go on campus without an appointment with any of the college professors and came face-to-face with all of the professors who would be responsible for changing my life in such a dramatic way.

When I left campus that day, I was so thrilled. The dean of the English Department agreed to the substitution of the classes. The College of Education agreed to the course changes. The letters from the dean in the English Department and one from Shirley became inhabitants in my file in the College of Education Department. I will never forget the assistance and kindness that Shirley Lumpkin and Dolores Johnson extended to me that day.

Nor only was I invited to participate, but I was given three additional applications to bring back to Logan to recruit three more teachers. The summer of 1994 was awesome. For four weeks we wrote. We laughed. We cried. We broke bread together. I grew as a professional educator that summer; I was energized and anxious to take the new ideas back to my classroom.

After attending the Summer Institute for two years, I was asked to co-direct a creative writing camp for students in Logan County with Tracy Baisden. It turned out to be the “golden egg” the goose laid. Working with students using the model of the National Writing Project was appreciated by the students, other teachers, the local school board, and Dolores Johnson. In 1998, I was invited to co-direct Logan County’s first Summer Institute. The work that began as a small wish turned into a partnership between MUWP and Logan County Schools. Each year the work grew, and the first satellite was born. Our work- creative writing camps, weekend round-up, summer institute, in-service programs for teachers-was desperately needed. Many of the teachers in our area have small children and traveling to campus was not an option for them. Bringing the programs to Logan County introduced teachers to quality programs modeled after NWP. The Satellite has grown into Coalfield Writers. We continue to grow and bring services to local teachers and students.

Staying involved with National Writing Project has been the easiest hard work that I have ever participated in. Writing Project is ever changing but continues to provides me with more opportunities to participate in programs on the school level, the county level, state level, nationally and internationally. I am from the head of a holler in an extremely rural area in Logan County. A poor kid, such as I was, could never have imagined or dreamed big enough for opportunities that Writing Project has provided.

I am a veteran teacher, and as such, I am in a position where I can pick and choose the programs that I want to be involved with. I stay involved with Writing Project because it is always brand new. The learning community extends beyond the four walls of my classroom; it validates and confirms that I am a better teacher because of Writing Project.

Each year, I become a stronger teacher of writing. Anything that I learn circles around and fuels my excitement of teaching writing. Since beginning my career, I have seen many programs come and just as many go. But, Writing Project is different; it has been actively involved in training teachers to teach other teachers how to utilize writing for over thirty years.

I appreciate all the opportunities that Marshall University Writing Project has provided in the past and look forward to remaining actively involved. Shirley Lumpkin and Dolores Johnson continue to encourage me to participate in programs that will enhance the education of my students and other teachers in the coalfields of southern West Virginia.

One of my passions is mentoring beginning teachers; I was asked to participate in the New Teacher Initiative. Through that program, I was able to work with beginning teachers to help them learn how to design and deliver writing instruction in their particular disciplines. NTI allowed me to work on a national level, state level, and locally. Later, I was a participant in a professional writing retreat in Seattle, Washington, and I wrote about my experiences as a mentor.

Currently I am working with the Holocaust Educators Network based in New York City.

Spit in fear’s face

Held my hand

Gently nudged me to

Go forth-

You can do this

Her warmth blanketed

My anxiety

Foreign, unfamiliar

Faces rush forth to be reacquainted

Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews

A family estranged

Separated by

miles

          ethics

                         time

                                               and

                               values

Each story

A different truth

Few bouquets

commemorate

Seventy-seven years of

sisterhood

motherhood

wife

grandmother

Lies, hypocrisy

Spew forth

From the

             Hell

To our parents

doorstep

How can HE deliver

The final sermon

For one of ours?

Mommy invited my grade school friends and the kids from our hollow to the party. Very few kids up here ever have a party with friends invited. Mommy baked a huge cake. Chocolate! Yummy; that’s my favorite. Two thick layers. I caught a glimpse of her leaving the kitchen with it. Tiny peaks of fluffy, egg white icing browned lightly to highlight the peaks and valleys. On top were nine pink candles resting inside crunchy little candy bases.

Unnoticed, I slipped from the kitchen and wandered through the house, out the front door, and watched as orders were barked to my siblings. From behind the porch railings crouched on my knees, I watched them hustle from one place to another getting everything for the festivities.

“Floyd, pull that saw horse back toward the hill. Straighten it up. It’s not in line with Ike’s.”

“Why don’t you ever yell at Ike and make him line his up with mine?” Floyd grumbled. “It’s always me; why can’t it be someone else who needs to fix something?”

“The best thing you can do little boy is keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Now, boys, go to Daddy’s garage and get that plywood that he had left over from the pantry.”

The boys disappeared and sauntered around the side of the house toward Daddy’s workshop. I could hear Floyd grumble and complain because Mommy had yelled at him.

The party table was being assembled in the front yard from two well-worn, rough, wooden saw horses with scars and cuts across the tops of each that testified of all the home fix it jobs that Daddy had undertaken in years past. The boys returned with the 4 x 8 sheet of plywood and placed it on top of the saw horses to complete the table. Mommy was ready to work her magic.

“Ike go to the lower end and catch the end of the sheet.” Mommy commanded. “We’ll use this yellow sheet as a table cloth.”

One quick flip, the sheet snapped, and flew into Ike’s waiting hands. Once the tablecloth was positioned just, Mommy repeated the procedure again with white lace as an overlay. No one would ever know that it wasn’t a real table. Mommy could make anything look good. She constantly amazed me. Balloons in yellow, pink, white, and blue became table decorations. As I watched, a slight breeze escaped and rushed down the hill leaving the ridge far behind it. It swam around the back of the house, lightly kissed my left cheek, and left a mild lilac perfume in its place.

Excitement and pride blossomed and bloomed inside me. The expectation was almost to much to bear. I eased from my crouched position and slipped down to the third step from the bottom to get a cleared focus of the action on the lawn. I carefully smoothed out my dress so no wrinkles would show on my skirt tail. Mommy had traded feed sacks with Mr. Sauders to get enough material to make my party dress. The blue and yellow background flowers seemed to correspond with everything else on my special day.

As I fixed my skirt around my legs, I intertwined my slender fingers and looped them in front of my drawn up knobby knees. I must remember, “It isn’t lady-like for a girl to show her knees.” Mommy and Granny Kennedy were always firm and strict about stuff like that. After all, it was the biggest day of my young life. Once again I smoothed my skirt with hot, sweaty, June hands and laced my fingers together. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Mommy placed a huge vase filled with multiple shades of flowers from her prized flower garden near the back of the table. She included huge yellowish colored mums, large white flowering snowballs from Daddy’s favorite bush plus other kinds that I didn’t know much about.

From out of nowhere, presents mysteriously appeared. Kids from up in the head of our hollow and from down the dirt road began to appear. Each one carried a package or a birthday card. My friends were actually at my house, and we were having a party.

The summer of 1961 was the best. I usually was glad to be out of school so I could go barefoot. I rarely wore shoes, but I received five pairs of flip-flops. I was so proud of all those shoes. I enjoyed running and walking up and down the dusty hollow in my new flip flops. Sometimes the smallest things leave the greatest impact upon on us when you’re young.

emerge from yesterdays.

The sun’s tears

sing

against white stones.

I stop

The sun goes

     D

          O

               W

                    N!

On purple,

sun-shot evenings

silence begins.

Dew drops

on the grass

Sparkle

like Grandma’s

diamonds.

Twinkling stars

sent by King David

light the sky

they dance

through the open crevices

of the barracks.

At the end of the first assignment during student teaching, our family was presented with two unexpected tragedies. A beloved brother-in-law in Virginia had a massive heart attack as he played with his young grandsons and died. The news came to us late on Friday evening, and we needed to leave on Saturday morning.

I frantically tried to contact the student teaching supervisor but to no avail. Not only did I still have a couple days of student teaching to complete in Logan; I was to go to Wayne County within the coming week. I had no clue as to who or how to get in touch with anyone except the principal at Central Jr. High, Mrs. Wilma Zigmond. I explained the situation to her and told her that I would gladly make up the days at he school once I completed the requirements at buffalo Middle School.

Mrs. Zigmond assured me everything would be fine and it was nothing but right that I accompany my family to Virginia to attend the services. She also was going to inform both of supervisors-the one in Logan and the one in Huntington-about the death of my brother-in-law.

When we pulled out of the driveway on Saturday morning, my husband’s grandfather was standing on the porch to wave goodbye. With left Sarah Ann with hearts so heavy that even the bright sunny April sky couldn’t penetrate. Upon arriving in Virginia, we were told to call home. That call told of the second tragedy; after Hawk’s grandfather waved to us, he went back in the house, sat down on the sofa, and quietly had a fatal heart attack. Two deaths in the middle of student teaching. It couldn’t get any worse. Right? Wrong!

We decided to wait until after the visitation in Virginia to return to Logan. During the night Mother Nature changed her sunny happy face into a sad, freezing one. In Virginia, snow and ice was beginning to blanket the highway while torrential rain was falling in Logan. As we slowly made our way home, cars, trucks, and big rigs littered I-66. It took us twice as long to get home.

Two days and two funerals late, I reported to my assigned school in Wayne County for the middle school student teaching. A big surprise was waiting inside for me. It had been reported that I was not coming. Somehow the correspondences between Logan and Huntington and Wayne County were misinterpreted. My student teaching assignment had been dropped.

Thanks to an understanding principal, Mrs. Ray, and quite a lot of phone calls, my assignment was reestablished. Mid-morning, Mrs. Ray called me into her office to give me the good news. Since my excuses were legitimate, Marshall University’s Department of Education agreed to let me stay. Mrs. Ray paged Mrs. York, my classroom supervisor, and sent me to class with her.

Once inside the classroom, I began the first day of observation. And what I observed was yet another surprise. Boys, boys, and more boys. I had never encountered so many boys in one place at the same time. Were there no girls in this school? In nice neat rows. Rows, rows, and rows of boys. They took turns reading one paragraph at a time with a ten-question quiz the following day.

Why is this particular observation important? For these rows and rows of boys and a ten-question quiz, I learned that the quiz was really a test on reading comprehension. I later learned that it was also a Poke N Puke technique. I also learned to never do that. I learned to allow my students to be active participants in reading. I teach my students to question the text in order to learn what they don’t know.

Since then I have also learned to use alternative assessment. Write a poem about a character, draw a picture of a favorite scene, write a letter to the author or a character, or construct a plot diagram. Even better, study several pieces of literature and / or poetry, then, provide students with a list of projects for alternative assessment from which they choose how they want to demonstrate learning.

I realize that this is coming from a nineteen-year veteran as opposed to the green student teacher od years ago. But, a lesson or a parallel can be seen in this saga. A beginning teacher takes baby steps. We watch our supervisors then model what he / she does. Students in our classrooms learn the same way-one baby step at a time. 

The years have also taught me to believe tragic stories delivered via the mouth of students that don’t have an assignment. Sometimes! Just sometimes, their stories of drama at home are true. What would have happened to me had no one believed me when two family members had heart attacks on two consecutive days?

According to Ralph Fletcher in What a Writer Needs, a significant element of story telling is the recurrent experience. So, with that said, I will end this story. Begin with stress. End with stress. Not mine but the stress that kids carry. It’s unseen and usually unknown to teachers but never the less, it is there.