Every kid in my generation and before knew all the words to all the verses of most ‘standard American songs.’  We had songs for every holiday, every season, every celebration known to mankind, yes, even the minority ones. We knew dozens of patriotic songs. Funny songs. Indiana songs.

Even more importantly, we knew the major themes from hundreds of classical selections, because they were taught to us beginning in kindergarten, with age-appropriate lyrics. To this day, my generation can hum great classical music.

I think my generation, and the half-generation after me, were the last to benefit from this fantastic program. Shortly afterwards, it was deemed a waste of valuable class time, and it was done away with.

In my grandparents’ generation and before, music was so important in the schools that if the orchestra lacked a particular instrument or chair, a professional was hired to fill it. If you read “A Girl of the Limberlost,” you will see examples of such things. (you really should read that book, but before you do, you have to read “Freckles.” It comes first. Both are by Gene Stratton Porter, and are absolutely wonderful. WONDERFUL.)

I still have my music textbooks from grade school. They are full of sweet little songs, most of which use the melodies of famous classical compositions. As children we didn’t know that, of course, but as we got older and found out what we actually KNEW, we were astounded and felt so cool. The love of those melodies had been instilled in us, and it would never leave us. And it made us seek out the actual compositions themselves, that we might hear it all.

And in the back of each of those books is the synopsis of an entire opera.

What do kids learn in music class nowadays? People like my sister do a fantastic job, considering the limitations put upon them, and the ridiculous even-larger-than-regular-classes student population thrust upon them all at once, but many schools have done away with music altogether, because they need the time for ISTEP review. In most schools, the students wouldn’t recognize a treble clef if it hit them on the head. And Beethoven is a big dog.  In far too many cases, music class is the opportunity to dump all the kids at once so the REAL teachers can have a break.

I used to quiz my middle school students about songs. Few knew many that weren’t on MTV. Why don’t kids these days know anything about real music? Because they aren’t taught anything about it. And since the schools dropped the ball, others picked it up and ran with it, and our seven-year-olds are wearing thongs and crop tops and running around the playground singing about sex. It’s sadder than we can even comprehend.

Oh, I don’t knock their music. I like a lot of it. It’s just sad that they have nothing in addition to it. They have no firm musical foundation, so they really can’t say “this is good because. . . . ” or “this is terrible because. . . . .”

And when they hear a song, they don’t associate it with a person, or a place, or an occurence, or where they were or what they were doing. They associate it with a video. Their musical memories revolve around seeing a celebrity lip-synch.

Kids who are never without earbuds are losing out, too.  Music – or anything else – that never ends, isn’t appreciated because hey, it never ends!  Adults on the job with earbuds buzzing while customers try to talk with them are helping bring us all down, too.  Music for most of these people is defined as “singing/playing done by somebody else, not me.”  Is it good music?  They’ll never know.

No wonder so many things just plain ‘suck.’ They suck, because they’re bad and there’s no background or knowledge about why they suck.

Personally, I believe that messing with music programs in schools sucks, and I think it affects people’s lives forever, and I CAN tell you why. And I just did.

Mamacita says:  I’m guessing that many most bloggers will be posting tributes this weekend, and telling the blogosphere ‘where we were’ when the planes hit the World Trade Center. Here is mine. This is actually the second third fourth fifth sixth seventh time I’ve posted this on 9/11, so if it seems familiar, you’re not crazy. Well, not on this issue, anyway.

==

The morning began like any other; we stood for the Pledge of Allegiance, and sat back down to watch Channel One News, which had been taped at 3:00 that morning in the school library, thanks to the timer. But Channel One News didn’t come on.

Instead, the secretary’s voice, over the intercom, told the teachers to “please check your email immediately.” We did. And we found out what had happened.

I scrolled down the monitor and read the end of the message. The superintendent had ordered all teachers to be absolutely mum all day about the tragedy. We were not to answer any questions from students, and we were especially not to offer any information to them.

The day went by in a blur. Many parents drove to the school, took their kids out, and brought them home. Between classes, frightened groups of students gathered in front of their lockers and whispered, gossiped, and cried, and begged us for information. By that time, the superintendent’s order had been seconded by the principals, and we were unable to give these terrified kids any information. In the computer labs, the MSN screens told the 8th graders the truth, but they, too, were instructed NOT to talk about it to the other students. Right, like THAT happened. The story was being repeated by 8th graders, and it was being told bloody-killing-deathtrap-you’re next-video-game-style.

At noon, many of the students were picked up by parents and taken home or out for lunch. Those few who returned had a big tale to tell. The problem was, the tale was being told by children, and few if any of the facts were straight. The tale was being told scary-style, and the atmosphere in the building got more and more strained. We are only a few miles away from an immensely large Navy base, where ammunition and bombs are made, and we’ve always known it was a prime target, which means, of course, that we are, too. Many of my children’s parents worked there. The base was locked down and those parents did not come home that night.

Reasonable questions were answered with silence, or the statement: “You’ll find out when you get home.”

This, added to all the rumors and gossip spread by children, turned my little sixth graders into terrified toddlers.

As teachers, we were furious and disgusted with the superintendent’s edict. We wanted to call all the students into the gym and calmly tell them the truth in words and ways that would be age-appropriate. We wanted to hug them and assure them that it was far away and they were safe. We asked for permission to do this, and it was denied. Our orders were ‘silence.’ We hadn’t been allowed to hug them for years, of course, but there are times and places when hugs ARE appropriate. No matter, the superintendent stood firm: no information whatsoever.

The day went by, more slowly than ever a day before. The students grew more and more pale and frightened. We asked again, and again he stood firm that no information whatsoever was to be given out.

By the end of the day, the children were as brittle as Jolly Rancher Watermelon Sticks.

A few minutes before the bell rang to send them home, a little girl raised her hand and in a trembling voice that I will never forget, asked me a question. “Please, is it true that our parents are dead and our houses are burned down?”

That was it. I gathered my students close and in a calm voice explained to them exactly what had happened. I told them their parents were alive and safe, and that they all still had homes to go to.

The relief was incredible. I could feel it cascading all through the room.

I was, of course, written up for insubordination the next day, but I didn’t care. My phone had rung off the hook that night with parents thanking me for being honest with their children. That was far more important than a piece of paper that said I’d defied a stupid inappropriate order meted out by a man who belonged in the office of a used car lot, not in a position of power over children’s lives.

The next day at school, in my room, we listened to some of the music that had been ‘specially made about the tragedy. I still have those cd’s and I’ve shared them with many people over the past few years.  It is true that kids cried again, but it was good to cry. It was an appropriate time to cry. We didn’t do spelling or grammar that day. There are times when the “business as usual” mindset simply is not appropriate.

I wish administrators would realize that kids are a lot tougher than we might think. Kids are also a lot more sensitive that we might realize. It’s an odd combination, and we as educators must try our best to bring the two ends of the emotional spectrum together and help these kids learn to deal with horrible happenings and still manage to get through the day as well as possible.

Ignoring an issue will not help. Morbidly focusing on an issue will not help. Our children are not stupid, and to treat them as such is not something that builds trust. Our children deserve answers to their questions.

How can we expect our children to learn to find a happy medium if we don’t show them ourselves, when opportunities arise?

September 11, 2001 – September 11, 2011. God bless us, every one.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

=====

Mamacita says:  I remember the day I discovered this poem.  The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?”  I was actually angry!

Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier.  It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.

I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .

Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry?  To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know.  And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.

You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney.   In other words, stupid people.

Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect?  The truth often is.

Now let us all point and laugh at such.  We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years.  Nobody misses them.  Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.

This poem is about a song, about a melody.  This poem is itself a song.  This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs.  Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!

Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got?  The lyrics.  And what are lyrics?  Poems.

Administrators have forgotten that ultimately, our culture will be judged on the arts; that’s how we learn about ancient cultures. We did not find any remnants of standardized test scores or sports stats in Pompeii; we found art and day-to-day ordinary living; loaves of bread, and graffiti, and clay pots for sale, and poems.   Yes, the ancients liked sports; part of the Coliseum is still standing, but it wasn’t the hub and whole of their existence. They valued music, and sculpture, and dance, and poetry, and creativity of all kinds. Astronomy was considered an art by the ancient Greeks, and, indeed, who can properly study the stars without also studying the fabulous stories that gave the night sky’s formations their names? It is not possible to do so. If your child’s teacher is “teaching” astronomy and not mentioning the myths, your child has a poor teacher.

Cultures that valued the arts live on, even when they and their structures are gone.

What do Americans value? Gossip and scandal and immoral politicians? Drug-addicted sports figures and out-of-wedlock pregnancies? Prostitutes Athletes with bloated egos and high-priced pimps managers?  Lindsay and Britney and Brangelina and TomKat and celeb sightings and scores, all kinds of scores: sexual and standardized and steroid-filled scores.   Adultery made to look golden. Talentless hacks and wealthy nobodies with good agents. CoughcoughcoughKardashianscoughcough.  I hate thinking what we’ve come down to as a culture.

There was a time when a high school principal would hire a professional musician to fill an empty seat in the school orchestra; it was that important.  Now, if there is an empty seat, the class is canceled and the music teacher is either “downsized” or given a lot of before-school and after-school and cafeteria duty, and a couple of study halls for the non-participatory segment of our younger society which is growing larger every day.  I mean, why do a lot of unnecessary work when you get the same rewards for not doing it?

What will archaeologists find a thousand years from now when they dig up what remains of America?  A lot of crumbling gymnasiums and enough rock-hard fossilized breast and lip-shaped collagen to sink a ship?

We should be nurturing our young artists and musicians and scientists, not relegating them to the back of the room so we can look good on paper in the subjects that are easy to measure for a bunch of withered humorless twits with no balls and no guts and no gumption.  I believe in testing, yes, definitely.  But not to the exclusion of the arts, and I will say this again:  Cramming a lot of facts in our kids’ heads and then asking them to bubble them right back is not the same thing as educating them.

I’ll say this again, too:  The most important things our children should be learning can’t be tested.

One more thing:  Why can’t we let our children be children?  Almost every minute of their adult lives will be regulated and scheduled and over-scheduled; why can’t they have their summers and their weekends and their after-school time, to be kids?  Because you know as well as I do, that the moment a bunch of anal boring adults steps in to “take charge” of the ball game or the bicycle ride or the hike or the impromptu soccer match in the back lot, all of the fun is going to be drained completely out, everybody will have to buy a uniform and a helmet, and adults will start showing up to keep score and yell at the little kid who stooped to look at the cool anthill and let the ball fly right over his head.

Remember when high school kids could participate in several sports, because the year was divided into “seasons?”  Now, most kids are required to choose one sport and only one, because what was once a “season” has grown into a year-long practice session.  We don’t want a losing team, now do we?

I once had a student who was a starter on the varsity football team AND a member of the marching band.  At half-time, he didn’t go take a pee and grab a soda with the rest of the team; he grabbed his trumpet and joined the formation and marched in his helmet and uniform.  It was mind-blowingly inspiring.  This kid is now a professional musician and a successful one, I might add.  I’m proud of you, Jeremy!

He wouldn’t be allowed to do that, now.  Oh, heavens, no.

Now, a kid has to choose between music and sports, because the coaches just won’t allow any of the team members to do something weird like that.  Absolutely forbidden.

I hate this.

Oh, and that chick in Georgia  who maintains that science and social studies are not important? NOT IMPORTANT?  She had to have fallen down the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.*

Yes, it’s very late.  Yes, I definitely need a sandwich.  But if I make one,  it might make me even more surly.  Are you sure you want to risk that?

*Yes, I know it’s really the “ugly tree,”** but I changed it to fit the context.  So bite me.

**  Politically incorrect?  Like I care.

===

Parts of this post were published in August of 2009.  My opinions haven’t changed, and may have become even more surly.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
and went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

====

Mamacita says:  Oh, such rhyme scheme perfection – such pristine and perfect ABAB, CDCD, etc.

Pay attention to that part if you wish; I appreciate a good rhyme scheme myself, but the technical part isn’t the only part of a poem.

Poor Richard Cory.  Filthy rich, expensive yet tasteful clothing, lovely manners, handsome, slim. . . . .  Anybody would be happy with all that.  He didn’t even have to work.  He could do anything he wanted, any time he wanted.  Compared to everybody else in town, Richard Cory had it made, and was the happiest man there.

Um, no.

Money isn’t everything, even if one has some, and Richard Cory, while he obviously had everything money could buy, apparently wanted something his money couldn’t buy, and that something money couldn’t buy was so much more important than wealth or looks or clothing or manners or education that Richard Cory, not having it, felt that life, even with everything else, wasn’t worth living so he stopped.

I first encountered this poem in junior high and it blew me away.  I’m not back yet, in fact.  It affected me greatly, and I’m still reeling from the effect.

Simon and Garfunkle liked this poem, too.  They liked it enough to turn it into a song, in fact.

Mamacita says:  Glee makes me want to sing. Glee even has the power to make me think I CAN sing. But that’s beside the point.

When I watch Glee, I switch back and forth with my point of view.  Sometimes, I’m one of the students, and then I absorb the wonder of having a safe place in which to express my talent with other students who feel the same way.  I curl up in my chair, totally digging the dancing, the belting, the counterpoint, the Broadway songs my family listens to as a matter of course but that others don’t always know, the interaction among the students – very diverse in the midst of their shared talents.  I watch the artsy kids rally behind any of their number who have problems – pregnancy, bullying, slushies in the face, football – and I relish the proof that kids can be athletes AND musicians, and do both well.

Sometimes, in my head, I’m dancing with them.  I, so graceless that I trip over nothing, am part of this choreography of camaraderie and talent, walking and chewing gum in perfect time to the music.

But the main reason I love Glee is this, and I dare say it’s politically incorrect to the max.  Might I add that being politically correct has never been important to me?  I love Glee because it’s so refreshingly wonderfully awesome to see classes taught in school by instructors who know how to do what they’re teaching, and do it well.

My career has been lush with English teachers who didn’t know how to spell or write a complete sentence, and whose vocabulary was woefully small.  I’ve had to work with PE teachers who were flabby and overweight, and who sat on the bleachers and WATCHED their students run laps, etc.  I’ve dealt with math teachers who knew nothing beyond algebra, social studies teachers who gave out handouts and slept in class, and coaches who didn’t even know the rules of the game, let alone how to help a student learn them, and insisted the “no pass, no play” rules did not apply to their starters.   Even Sue, whose technique is blistering and hardly a good example, knows exactly what she’s doing and what her cheerleaders need to be doing out on the field.  She’s a mean one, but she absolutely would not put up with bullying in the building.  An exception might be Emma, the counselor, but even though her quirks and obsessions are many, her heart is in the right place, and I can’t imagine her ever pointing to the door and telling a student, “Sorry, I don’t deal with anything to do with sex or personal problems.”

It’s so refreshing to see teachers who are experts in what they are teaching.  I love to see Will singing and dancing; his students know for a fact that their teacher KNOWS what they want to know.  I love to see Bieste – my favorite character right now – teaching by example all kinds of things besides football, and it’s obvious that she knows her football.

By example.  That might be what I’m trying to say here.  A teacher who doesn’t know his/her subject thoroughly, and who doesn’t know how to use it in AND out of the classroom, and who expects/requires students to “do as I say, not as I do,” is not a good example, and has no business in our classrooms.

The world of GLEE is by no means a perfect world, and all the bad, negative things that exist in every school exist here, as well, but somehow, the adults in this school seem to know what to do.  At least, they try.

Their school board, however, is made up of cowardly gits who allowed a dangerous bully to return to school in spite of the fact that he gave a death threat to another student.  This is morally wrong, but sadly, quite typical.

I am also looking forward to what will happen when a teacher witnesses a slushie toss.

GLEE rocks.  I watch it online every Wednesday.

P.S.  The addition of Dot Jones, as Coach Bieste, was a masterstroke of genius.  Dot is a fantastic addition to an already fantastic cast.

Halloween has been and gone but it’s still THAT SEASON, which means many things, one of which is that I have a giant bowl half-filled with Tootsie Roll Pops and Hershey bars on my coffee table, and another of which is that I am once again compelled to obsess over my favorite cult film, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.”

Please remember that I am a sedate and typical possibly not-as-young-as-you-are woman, and the following information may or may not be true. Probably it’s not, because sedate and typical women, particularly mothers of innocent children, never do such things, and are in fact appalled at the very notion.

“Hot patootie, bless my soul! I really love that rock n’ roll!”

It may come as a bit of a surprise to some of you, or maybe not, that when I was a lot younger, My boyfriend and I might have gone to the midnight showing of this film at least once a month, and that rumor has it that he went as Riff Raff and I went as Magenta, the Domestic. It’s possible that I went with a deck of cards, a newspaper, a water gun, a baggie of rice, a party hat, a garter, and a noisemaker. Perhaps I even owned fishnet stockings. I still know every song by heart. I used to do the Time Warp. Maybe. In another time, and another space. Not to mention in a smaller body.

I may have used the decks of cards as frisbees; I really can’t remember that far back.

It might also be true that, long ago, I used to teach my study hall students to do the Time Warp, but then again, unless you were there, you’ll never know.

“Don’t dream it; be it.”

Speaking of sexy men (Oh, were we? Well, we are now.) I have this to say: Tim Curry. Then and now, but especially then. I know you all want desperately to see a picture of Tim Curry in drag. Well, I do, anyway. Like many of us, he used to be really hot. (Don’t look if you’re all prudey and pruney; fair warning.) (Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’ve already seen it on the movie poster!)

It’s a dreadful movie, really. Silly, soft-pornish, ridiculous, terrible acting, stilted dancing, camp at its best worst. . . . And yet, for some reason, it’s endeared itself to many people in spite of it all. I still love it.

“It’s not easy having a good time! Even smiling makes my face ache!”

These days, what I remember most is that my outfit was a size 5. In short, the domestic’s costume no longer fits, in more ways than one.

Memorize the entire movie? My goodness, that would be ridiculous for a woman my age! Why, I’m almost hyperventilating at the very thought!

“Your new playmate is loose and somewhere in the castle grounds.”

Rumors that I have a membership card in my wallet may or may not be true. I’m officially grown up now; why would I do that, now really? And why would I own one of the few copies of the soundtrack from the sequel? Shock Treatment? Or a Richard O’Brien cd?

And for you Star Trek fans out there, I’ve included a second video, proving that you can’t escape from the Time Warp, even in outer space. I might add, one would probably be even more apt to encounter a time warp in outer space. Well, it seems logical to me.
Enjoy.

“They” say that Peter Hinwood, who played Rocky, is so mortified by his participation in this movie that he can’t even talk about it.

I hope everybody noticed Barry Bostwick’s appearance in the Rocky Horror Glee episode. . . .You won’t see him in the Glee video, but believe me, he was there.

I’m a big Bostwick fan. I even remember that he was the original Danny in Grease.

“If only we were amongst friends… or sane persons!”

In context, the whole Rocky Horror thing is so absurd it’s, well, absurd. Taken out of context, some of the music is really good. This song, most of which was deleted from both the American and the British versions of the film, still has the power to make me pensive.

I’ve done a lot, God knows I’ve tried
To find the truth, I’ve even lied
But all I know is down inside
I’m bleeding.
And Super Heroes come to feast
To taste the flesh not yet deceased
And all I know is still the beast
is feeding.
And crawling on the planet’s face
Some insects called the human race
Lost in time, and lost in space
And meaning.

And, I’m really glad that whoever-was-responsible-for-such-things finally wised up and put “Superheroes” back in the movie. I love that song. I couldn’t find the actual video of it, but this is singing by the cast, even if it’s not the movie itself.

This is not a movie for children; perish the thought. But it’s a fun romp for adults. Learn to participate; it’s fun. Don’t forget the party hats.

Of course, if you don’t have time to watch an entire movie, you can always check out the bunnies.

There is such potential in every classroom, such stories to be told, such wondrous talent and creativity and sensitivity and music concealed behind the t-shirts and the grubby jeans and exposed underwear and defiant raising of the eyebrows and the punky hair and the chips-on-the-shoulders and the trendy slang and the stubborn glares. . . . there is poetry behind the obscenities, and magnificent scientific discoveries behind the unwillingness to conform.

It’s too bad teachers are no longer allowed to cultivate it.

Why can’t we be allowed to step back and bask in the glow of unbridled enthusiasm, and throw ourselves into helping students learn and discover and grow, grow, grow, both physically and mentally and socially and culturally and scientifically. . . . .

Mamacita says:  Back in the day, all middle school/junior high students had to take shop and home ec. They entered high school, and life, knowing how to use a hammer and nails, how to put together a simple meal, how to sew a straight seam, how to take a few simple tools and create something new or improved with them. These are life skills, not frills.

There are all kinds of creation, and an essay or mathematical equation or scientific proof are only some of them, and not necessarily the most important ones, either.

Back in the day, all elementary students were taught about basic musical and artistic base-line skills. Students were taught to read music, and to mix colors together to make new colors. Students were taught the lyrics to hundreds of songs, and how to sing harmony, and they were also taught how to recognize different artists by their personal styles and quirky signatures.

Schools used to require the students to memorize poems, and stories, and to write original ones, too.

Students entered high school knowing the rules for games, and about sportsmanship.

Cheaters were the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth.

They still are, but public opinion has changed quite a lot, and sometimes cheaters are exalted. This must cease. (insert smirk here, for who is going to stop it? Those with the power to do so are the same ones who often exalt it. Those with the power are sometimes the cheaters.) (Principal who insisted that plagiarists retain valedictory position, for example.) (Superintendents with no internet knowledge who make judgment calls based on. . . well, nothing.)

Cheaters are the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth. They may have achieved a victory now, but the wheel of life keeps turning, and the fly on the top will be the fly on the bottom eventually. And vice versa.

Ahem.

Doing away with woodshop and home ec and music and art, to make room for more and more practice sessions of ISTEP and review sessions for those subject areas that are covered in the mandated standardized tests, has done nothing but remove a few areas wherein some students found success, and replaced them with more areas wherein these students will certainly fail.

Not everybody is a rocket scientist or a writer or a mathematician. Some people are musicians and artists and craftsmen and carpenters and chefs.

And what is a rocket scientist’s or a writer’s or a mathematician’s life without music and art and furniture and food?

I firmly believe that every student should be exposed to as much and as many diverse areas of curriculum as is humanly possible according to the limiting laws of physics. Every person should know how to cook, and sew, and use simple tools, and recognize good music from bad, and look at a piece of art and see beyond the lines and borders.

Why are our schools casting the artistic and hands-on students aside in full favor of the academic students? Yes, schools ARE academic, but schools are also the institution that is supposed to prepare our students for the future, and the future depends on people who can read, write, do the math, understand basic scientific functions. . . . and feed themselves and others, and create beautiful objects for practical and impractical use, and nourish the soul and heart as well as the brain.

Only the finite can be ‘tested;’ therefore, only the finite is stressed and even allowed in our schools, these sad, sad days.

Maybe this is why so many of our young people drop out; the schools are offering nothing for them, only for those whose talents lie within the very limited boundaries of the ISTEP test.

Maybe this is why so many of our young people vandalize; they were taught nothing about what real art is, or even respect for it.

Maybe this is why so many of our young people listen to music that isn’t really music; they’ve never heard real music. It’s a fact that when the schools dropped music as a required subject, the recording industry took up the slack, and which of these has our kids’ loyalty now, hmmm?

Maybe this is why so many of our young people associate a song with a video; they’ve never experienced the joy and wonder of learning a song within a group and having it branded on the memory like a wonderful dream, and associating it with an experience rather than a television program..

Maybe this is why so many of our young people disrespect those who make their living with their hands; the school wherein they sat for years and years never emphasized it or showed them the importance of it. On Honor Day, the prizes for those who did well in ‘those’ kinds of classes were smaller and less shiny than the big trophies for “Most Improved Math Student,” or the many “Way To Show Up, Kid” self-esteem awards.

Maybe this is why so many of our young people are anorexic and bulemic and obese and existing on lard and salt and cholesterol; they were never taught the essentials of human nutrition and how to create it themselves.

Maybe I’m being too judgmental; it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe I’m being too simplistic; well, of course I am. But even in a judgmental and overly simplistic mindset, I still think maybe I’m on to something here.

My dulcimer was created for me by a student named Rusty, who was pretty much nothing but a big illiterate hood, by academic and behavioral standards. He failed everything but woodshop, but in the woodshop he shone like a star. Put a pencil in his hand and he could do nothing but break it in two and throw the pieces at someone. Put a piece of paper in front of him and he would probably wad it up and spit it across the room. Ask him to spell a word and he would stare helplessly. But put him in a room full of hammers and nails and glue and pliers and saws and complicated directions, and he became a genius, a maestro wielding a screwdriver, and making beauty out of a piece of raw wood.

Our shop kids used to make dulcimers; it was their big project. Beautiful musical instruments, fashioned by the hoody crud of the student body. The kids were then taught to play them, and taken around to nursing homes and business clubs to perform.

No more, of course. The woodshop has been closed and locked for many years now. There just isn’t time for it any more, what with computer tech and ISTEP prep. Besides, all field trips have been done away with. (Except for athletics, of course. You really don’t want to get me started on THAT one. . . .)

Students like Rusty, who shone at nothing but hands-on, now shine at nothing. This isn’t right.

In our schools, we have fantastic musicians and artists. Back in the day, we cherished and nurtured these incredible talents. Now, we brush them aside and pull these kids from the studios and make them study only academics, because the arts aren’t tested. And if a subject isn’t on the test, it won’t be offered; at the very least, it won’t be taken seriously.

There are six or seven periods in the school day. Three or four subjects are ‘tested.’ The State has mandated “Advisor/Advisee” time, daily; that means our kids will get some serious counseling by some seriously untrained non-counselors. Some students will have as many as three study halls every day. This is inexcusable.

Of course, to do it all up properly would require the hiring of a few more teachers. We can’t DO that; those athletic buses and the athletic director’s five full-time assistants and the superintendent’s company car and $100,000+ salary take a lot of money.

And in many schools, the ‘special’ teachers (art, music, etc) are shared by several buildings. Ask my Tumorless Sister about her schedule back when she taught at the elementary level, why don’tcha. It’s a moral disgrace. As parents, and as citizens, we should make our outrage at this misuse of talent known, with our voices and our votes.

Our children are more than a piece of paper with a few numbers on it.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I hate it when the grass gets high.  I feel as if I’m drowning.  There are places in the low parts of the lawn that are mashed down sideways flat, where the ponds and creeks have overflowed.  We usually see a big snapper or two in weather like this, but so far even the animals have had sense enough not to try to come out in the rain.  Even the deer are huddling under the trees.

1. A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in. — Frederick The Great

2. A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning. — James Dickey

3. I do pity unlearned people on a rainy day. — Lucius C. Falkland

4. I love to walk in the rain, because nobody can see my tears. –Charlie Chaplin

5. It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles, against prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent. — Dave Barry

6. We will never be an advanced civilization as long as rain showers can delay the launching of a space rocket. — George Carlin

7. Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man’s growth without destroying his roots. — Frank A Clark

8. There’s always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down. — Don Delillo

9. Do not, on a rainy day, ask your child what he feels like doing, because I assure you that what he feels like doing, you won’t feel like watching. — Fran Lebowitz

10. Don’t pray when it rains if you don’t pray when the sun shines.– Satchel Paige

11. Some people walk in the rain; others just get wet. — Roger Miller

12. Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. — John Ruskin

13. The drop of rain maketh a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling. — Hugh Latimer

14. The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

15. I’m singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin’
I’m happy again
I’m laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun’s in my heart
And I’m ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I’ve a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin’,
Singin’ in the rain

“>One of the best movies of all time.