Month: March 2020

“Daddy, can we please, please go outside? I wanna go sledding!” 

I popped the final bite of my tuna fish sandwich into my mouth and looked out the window.  Clear, bright sunshine reflected off the once-budding but now snow-covered ground.  Pulling my gaze back from the window, I met the hopeful face of my four-year-old daughter.  Lunch now finished, she was insistent.  “I’ve got to take a call,” I heard my wife say as she exited the room, reminding me that our work lives are now a constant balancing act.  My turn to watch the kids. Maybe we should go outside?

“Okay, let’s do this, girls!” Speaking loud enough from the dining room that my two eldest in the living room could hear, I resolved to embrace this moment.  “This may be our last chance to sled!”

*      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Outside, the air felt crisp.  All of us, now covered in January snow gear (did I mention it was late March?), turned toward the expansive sea of white that was now our backyard.  “You girls think you can still all fit on the sled?” I asked.  One by one, each of them arranged herself onto our purple plastic sled, proving to me that they could.  Looking down at the three of them, I felt myself suddenly gripped by nostalgia.  Would this be the final time I could pull them – all three of them – down the hill? I’ve realized it is true what people say: They grow up fast.  Indeed, they do.

I grabbed the yellow rope in my gloved hand and turned to face the snowy downgrade.  “Okay girls, here we go!”

Carefully, I dialed *67 on my iPhone, then the phone number.  I checked the time.  Eleven a.m. Earlier in the morning, I had sent an email, inviting a check-in with me.  Just to see how things were going.  Her mom had responded quickly, replying that her daughter would be happy to talk.  That she missed me.  Could we talk today? I wrote back- yes, today would work just fine.  How about eleven?

After dialing the number, I heard the ringing begin on the other end of the line.  Then an answer.  “Hi, Mr. Ball!” We chatted for a little while.  Yes, she has been reading.  Everyday.  Yes, her parents are trying to work from home.  Yes, she has already finished her assignment in science.

During this time, I have begun to realize all we have been taking for granted: A handshake or hug from a colleague or friend; a night out at a restaurant.  A ball game.

Or just a simple chat with a student.

Pandemic Journal - Day 12

Nervous.

How will this go?

How will I do?

What will they learn

when this is through?

The quiet chimes of the iPhone alarm bring me forth from sleep.  It is 4:30 a.m. Immediately, I realize I am awakening from a restless night. Dreams filled with Google classroom, distance learning thoughts, and anxiety. My room remains pitch black, as it did when I slipped into bed the night before.  The darkness, thick in its presence, seems to symbolize how I feel. Where I am. Where we all are now.

I am really not sure.  Of a lot of things.  Like the room in which I now lie, many things are present, I know they are there.  But I cannot see them.   What could those things be? I wonder in desperation.

Someone once told me, life is a bit like driving through a dark tunnel.  Headlamps only show us perhaps 200 feet ahead.  Now, I feel as though one headlamp has been smashed out, leaving only the other.  Which is covered in debris.

As silently as possible, I don warmer clothes, fumble for my glasses, and make my way downstairs. Time for day one.

 

“We want to read this book!”  I stood in my dining room, now alit with bright sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass door.  Taking the book gently from my oldest daughter’s hands, I read the title: Bed-knob & Broomstick, by Mary Norton.

I felt my eyebrows raise, just a bit.  “This is the book you want to read aloud?” I asked, placing great emphasis on the first word.  I had tasked my two oldest daughters to run upstairs and, among the hundreds of books we own, to choose a book Papa would read aloud to them while schools remain closed.  I expected the girls to select something . . . well, more modern, perhaps?  But I suppose this made sense since our previous read aloud (last summer) had been The Phantom Tollbooth, another older title.

Looking up from the cover, I saw two two hopeful faces. I could tell there would be no changing their minds.  I flipped quickly to the copyright date, and a new worry suddenly arose.  1957.  Hmm, yikes.  Now, I had heard of this book but had never read it.  What if it didn’t pass muster in regards to cultural sensitivity?  What about representation?  Or diversity of characters?  Now I could feel my eyebrows furrowing.  Back up to their faces.  “You’re sure?” 

“Yes!” 

Well, I thought.  These are my children.  I’ll navigate this with them.  Try to address whatever comes up.  The book is a bit of a ‘classic’, isn’t it?  

“Okay, girls,” I said.  “You want to start right now?”  They did.

Pandemic Journal, Day 10

I pulled the heavy metal door open and heard the familiar squeak.  With a sack full of bags, I entered my empty classroom.  The books, crowded together on the shelves, stared silently back at me.  Where have you been?  Where are the kids?  they asked. They didn’t know.  I felt their reproval.  On the white board, the date: March 12, 2020.  The last day I taught reading in this room.  The dark, green markered 3/12/20 now frozen in time.

Setting down my bags, I pulled out my checklist of things I needed to gather for distance learning.  Units of study, short story collections, post-its . . . this list was long.  Outside the wide windows, ominous and rolling clouds threatened rain.

I have been hearing, reading that states are beginning to issue shelter-in-place orders.  This may be my only chance to retrieve materials, I had thought to myself that morning.  Maybe not.  But better grab them while I still can.

Everywhere, signs of normalcy now felt abnormal: My daily schedule, safely inside the clear page protector, lay lonely on the round table.  My chart, “What Nonfiction Readers Do Not Do,” hung on the wall.  The bathroom sign-out sheet, now becoming dusty, rested near the door.  All normal, now not normal.

With a deep and silent breath, I commenced the gathering.