LANNY BALL, Literacy Specialist

Quietly, I snuck into the classroom.  The roomful of fifth graders sat attentively at their desks, listening to their teacher.  Holding the book in my hands, I surveyed the room.  Where was he?

Then I spotted him.  Blue shirt.  Close cropped hair.  Yep, that’s him.  He had just left my classroom, and now here he sat for the final period of the school day.  At least he’s toward the back, I thought to myself.  Working my hardest to emulate the silence of a bat, I swooped toward the boy.  Kneeling down, I laid the book on his desk.  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He looked at the book.

“You forgot this,” I whispered.  He had just finished the first beautiful book, The War That Saved My life, and I had made sure I had the sequel waiting for him, The War I Finally Won.  But in his haste to be on time to his last class, he’d left it on my table.

“Thank you,” he whispered back.  A small smile may have formed on this face.

“I wanted you to have it,” I said.  Those words could not have felt more true, as we all would head home from school, uncertain when we would be able to return.  Closed indefinitely.  Coronavirus now firmly in control.

Silently, I exited the room, thinking about the title of the book I just handed my student.  As we all do what we can to combat the spread of this virus, I look forward to the day we can feel that title resonate.

A slight crackle and the loudspeaker came to life.  It sliced through the calm in my classroom, interrupting my lesson.  Oh right, I thought, we knew about this.  Leaning back in my chair from which I had been conducting my reading lesson, I cast my eyes to the clock.  Exactly 2:10 p.m., just like she’d told us in her email.  Dark clouds rolled in outside.  I could see them through my window.

Suddenly, my principal’s voice through the P.A. system. “Good afternoon,” she began.  I glanced over at my student seated next to me.  He remained quiet, subdued.  Our principal commenced to explain what will happen over the next couple of days.  Her tone was direct, but calm.  Thursday will be a late start for students, allowing time for teachers to train on various necessary technology that might be used for distance learning, should that become a necessity.  Friday, already a scheduled early-release day for professional development, will now be used as planning and team time.

Our principal went on to provide as much reassuring information as possible: we are in contact with health officials; be sure to wash your hands; that sort of thing.

During times of disaster, uncertainty, or, in this case, pandemic, a question always arises: How much should we shield our children from darkness?  Today, I appreciated our principal.  Kids are smart.  They know something is going on. So in the role of educators, shouldn’t we act as steadfast voices of information?

I handed her the phone and recited the number.  My ten-year-old daughter, slightly unsteady with this foreign, cordless landline unit, dialed the digits.  As I stepped away, I watched as she gripped her yellow pencil, straightened the papers on her clipboard.  Outside, the sun had begun to set, but the sky had only become more radiant and beautiful as the day had grown older.

“Hi, Gram!” My daughter spoke clearly and audibly into the phone.  She’s already doing great, I thought to myself.  I had explained that if she wanted to interview my nearly 100-year-old grandmother, she would need to speak loudly.  Gram’s hearing isn’t what it used to be.

My daughter’s assignment was entitled, “Interview a Woman in Your Life,” in honor of Women’s History Month.  From across the room, I listened and watched as my daughter enthusiastically asked questions and jotted down responses.

Reading over my daughter’s paper later, after she had gone to sleep, I noticed some recurrent themes in Grammy’s answers: (1) Gram felt pride in her family.  She’d raised three daughters, all of whom later became successful career women. (2) School and education mattered to her. This notion shone through in answers to multiple questions.  School was important.  She had always preached this message, even when I was young.  And (3) She did not feel entirely comfortable with the vast changes in women’s roles over the last 100 years.  Fair enough, I thought. Fair enough.

As I read through the interview questions and answers, I thought about how fortunate we are, for this opportunity to connect across so many generations is rare. Probably quite rare.  Flipping to the last page, I read the final question my daughter had posed: “What advice would you give to young people?”  My gram’s response:

• Learn to love with all your heart
• Get a good education
• Love children

She felt nervous.  I could tell. “Mr. Ball, do you think the virus will get here…to our town?” she asked.  Her lips curled upward, just slightly, in what looked to be disgust.  Her eyes remained fixed on mine, exuding a deep, child-like fear. I could tell she was nervous.

The boy next to her chimed in.  “It’s already in Wilton,” he said. Wilton is a neighboring town. Although he delivered his words confidently, he likely felt nervous, too.

I placed the clipboard that held my conferring notes down on the table at which we sat.  I took a deep breath.  “I don’t know,” I said, looking sympathetically back at the eighth grade girl next to me.

Perhaps a better, more reassuring answer could have been provided.

But I’m nervous, too.

I noticed the small pile in the basement a few days ago.  On somewhat of a cleaning mission now, I kneeled down to take a closer look.  On top of the pile rested a CD. Right then I realized what this was.  Affixed to the CD was the smiling face of my late mom.  Picking it up, I held in my hand the disk she had lovingly entitled, “Tutu Sings” on which she had recorded around 18 children’s songs a capella.  She’d sung these songs and recorded them for my daughters many years ago.

Gently, I began to sift through the pile.  Beneath the disk lay a list of credit card logins, passwords – a list my wife had written down in an effort to help my dad sort through what was once a joint financial life but would now become his and his alone.  For on April 21st, 2017, my mom had passed away suddenly, the cancer finally winning out.

Other artifacts from that terrible time rested in the pile, as well.  A mournful collection.  My eyes clouded a bit as I looked through it all and remembered.  Mixed in were touching photos of Mom and a baby, now my ten-year-old daughter.  Wow, I thought, these pictures are now ten years old.  In each picture, my mom is smiling vibrantly.  Always so happy.  Always spreading joy to others.  That was the essence of my mother.  She lived her life as a bright light illuminating darkness.  Always helping others. Always love.  That was her.

I located a small box for the contents of the pile, and with a heavy heart I placed the items inside and closed the box.  But I know my heart will never be closed off from the wonderful woman I was privileged enough to call my mom.

Donna Rae Callaway Ball died April 17, 2017.  May she rest in peace.