I am sory. I was rood to you. I apllageic.

Here I am speaking to Root Elementary first graders, dressed in my evening attire. Not. But this is one interpretation of how we looked yesterday. Oh, yesterday... let me tell you.

First I would like to say that I have excellent classroom management skills. I know I do, and they are hard-won, believe me. Deeply honed. Skillfully applied. And they meant squat yesterday morning as I faced a sea of first graders at Root Elementary School in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

I was stunned! This is me, the woman who single-handedly holds an auditorium of 300 sway at chapel -- and those 300 are sprinkled through with grades K through 5. This is me, the woman who brooks no interruptions (although welcomes nonsense at its appropriate time) while she is asking students to connect to her story, to write in their notebooks, to listen to her sing, to sing along with her, the woman who brings a room to pin-drop status while sharing FREEDOM SUMMER, after having her students sit at her feet on a cold hard floor for 45 minutes. This is....

I digress. Back to "I was stunned!"

The first and second grades at Root trooped into the library yesterday morning, full of bright, noisy cheer. The first grade sat at my feet, fairly bursting with that bright noisy cheer. And they cheered, clear through our time together. They practially did the splits with one another, oblivious to the fact that a human being stood in front of them, speaking. They guffawed at their inside jokes, they reveled in one another's good company, they shared secrets, they practically keeled over with joy at the chance to sit on the floor in the library and commune with their comrades.

They were precious and infuriating and impossible, and I was totally lost. Nothing I did -- all my well-practiced techniques -- nothing was effective for long enough to hold them.

I was flabbergasted, but their teachers weren't. "You did so well!" said one, and "Believe me, this was great!" said another. "We haven't known what to do with them, either!" said yet another. And one said, "We thought we'd have you start with this group, sort of like taking your medicine and getting it over with first thing!"

Are you kidding? And you didn't tell me? You let me waltz into that cacaphony without so much as a word of warning! I would have restructured, I would have thrown out, I would have... wait, I did do that. I just did it on my feet, as I raced along or stopped completely or punted once again... and I did hold them with me, I just did it in incrementally tiny moments, compared to how it usually goes, and they WERE engaged, they just kept becoming unengaged so easily, and... wow, what a learning experience.

At dinner last night, a first grade teacher from another school concurred with the Root teachers' observations: "I don't know what it is about first grade this year -- I take a Tylenol PM every night before bed!"

We laughed so hard at dinner, telling teaching stories and loving our kids... and you know, these Root first graders were loveable, too. One of their teachers came to me at lunchtime yesterday and said, "I am so embarrassed by my children's behavior" (she had been the one to finally call out to them during our assembly time -- something I have never had a teacher do but once, and that was when I first started working in schools).

She went on: "They have all written you notes of apology and they WILL be delivering them to you this afternoon."

Which they did. As I walked out of the library after spending time with the 3rd and 4th graders, there they sat, those livin'-large first-graders, criss-cross-applesauce, a perfectly straight, perfectly quiet row of bubbling energy, each with a note in his or her lap, each with a crooked neck, staring up with hope into my face.

"These are my students, Ms. Wiles," said their teacher, Mrs. Gorder. "They have something to say to you."

Immediately all hands shot up with their notes and I couldn't gather them fast enough as they chorused their apologies. "We drew pictures of you, too!" they said, and "I'm so sorry I talked!" and more. A cacaphony of hope.

"Thank you," I said, trying my best to be as genuine and sincere and real as they were being at that very moment, gathering their papers to me. "I appreciate your notes." Then we were at an impasse. What next? "May I have a hug?" I asked.

And then we were laughing. I struggled to keep my balance as I was surrounded on all sides by fierce hugs and scrunched notes and big relief and messy glory love. It was the best moment of the day, in a day full of wonderful moments at Root Elementary.

And look at their art! I especially love the interpretation of my hair in the picture above -- that is an accurate portrayal. I'm struck, too, by how much they were listening, even in the midst of their movement, although I'm fairly certain I did not ride into or out of the assembly on a horse. I didn't even mention a horse.

But I can tell they were paying attention in their way. Here is Genna's note:

Dear Mis. Wiles
I am sory. I was rood to you. I apllageic. I love your books! I promas all do better next time. I Love freedom. It the best book in the holintirwold. Its funny when you dres your broth in a bress. Sincerely.

I learned so much yesterday. I know you've had these moments as well -- yes? These "I can't believe this!" moments when the thing you do so well just isn't working, and punting doesn't work either, and you just have to stumble to the end of the football field, clutching your dignity, and sit down on the bench for a moment and catch your breath.

So. I've caught my breath. I'm having a good time, here in the land of the University of Arkansas Razorbacks and Sam Walton and Frank Lloyd Wright and heavy rains yesterday. Lots is swirling, and it is all good. Home tonight. I have the entire kindergarten at Root this afternoon. I am wearing my football helmet.

Spring and Sabbaticals

Here's Cleebo-in-Spring. Cleebo is on a perennial sabbatical.

I remember when I first heard the word sabbatical and wondered what it meant. It had the most inviting ring to it, with those double B's and all those A's. The word was caressed, like a lover, in academic circles, circles I longed to ring with my presence, as I had seen "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" as a teenager, and ever-after had drifted on a cloud of wanting to belong inside an ivy-covered university where I walked from my ivy-covered cottage on the tree-lined avenue near the ivy-covered building where I taught perfect students some perfect text in a perfect world and died beloved.

I didn't realize that "sabbatical" meant taking a break from all that. When I was 17, I couldn't imagine what one would do without the soul-filling rhythms of a classroom full of sunshine and students. Hahahahaha!

I know. I was weird. But, was I? I was such a romantic; a romantic who has grown into a pragmatist. I still love teaching, but I understand those rhythms better now; heck, I understand my own rhythms better, too, and I understand the meaning and value of sabbatical. I'm going to take one.

Oh, you won't be shed of me. I'm right here.

I'm going to be writing away and you're going to hear about it, as I have questions for you -- I've already got a list going. Here's one: Movies about the 1960s... what are your favorites? Since summer, I have been watching documentaries (reviews to come) and movies and reading book after book (what do you recommend?), and I have amassed a bookshelf of material I'm pulling from as I begin a focused year of writing, starting June 1.

But more on this later. I want to talk, too, at some point, about what sabbatical means in terms of what we let go. If I let go of my teaching for a year, will I go back to it? What will the year off bring me? And will I discover, as I have been lately suspecting, that I'm not really a teacher at all? More to come on all this.
In the meantime, here are some teachers, for sure. I wish I had that piece of paper with their neatly written names on it so I could mention them here by name, but I'm in Arkansas, about to spend two days in schools, and my list of names, all spelled properly, is at home in Atlanta, so let me introduce you, en masse, to some of the Polk County teachers extraordinaire, who came to hear me speak in Lakeland, Florida last week. We had us a little love fest last week, yes we did, and I felt lucky to be with those 200 or so teachers who had come out on a school night to be together and talk shop and listen to me talk about the power of story. They inspired me. They filled my heart with sunshine! I'll bet their classrooms are full of sunshine as well.

Here are Ruth, Kelly, and Priscilla, officers of the Polk County Reading Association. Years ago, Polk County had a reading association, and then they didn't, and now they do again, thanks to these folks' efforts, and thanks, too, to the enthusiastic support of teachers who know a good thing when they see one.

Thanks, too, to Harcourt Educational, who brought me to Polk County and who are lending their support to Polk County teachers.

We had FREEDOM SUMMER cake, and RUBY LAVENDER cake, and we didn't have rubber chicken.









I remember Cathy's name -- she used to live in D.C., too - we had similar stories to share about growing up in the Sixties during the Cuban Missile Crisis time and the dawning of the Great Society and the careening times of the Civil Rights Movement and more. All these moments are finding their way into the Sixties trilogy I am writing.




Marie took me by surprise. For a moment I thought I was seeing my mother, who died in 2003 -- my mother's name was Marie, too.

I am privileged, I know. I have the opportunity to travel and speak and meet people I would never otherwise meet, romantics and pragmatists alike, teachers who are doing good work in the world with children, who make a difference every day in the classroom.

I get to spend the next two days in schools working with some of those teachers and their students, singing ONE WIDE SKY with first and second graders, dancing with kindergarteners, writing with fourth graders, laughing with third graders, getting serious with fifth graders, asking questions, coaxing answers, being present, and learning more than I teach.

In the moment, I love this work. It has been the bulk of my living in the past seven years since I began publishing books for children. And it has given me so much that has nothing to do with making a living and everything to do with becoming a whole person. I have watched myself grow exponentially as a teacher and a human being.

I've watched myself grow older and heavier and wear out a bit, too, on the road. I'm longing for some concentrated time to pull myself back into myself for a while.

I have grown as a writer as well, in these past seven years. My writing is beginning to provide for me in ways that demand I pay attention. And I want to pay attention, for words are delicious -- words like sabbatical, pragmatic, romantic, the Sixties, Cleebo, publishing, time, family, warmth, love, spring.

Sometimes I wonder if I am really a teacher, or if I am just a pretender to that sun-shiny throne. But what I do know is that I am a writer. Stories are where I live. They are life-blood to me. And I have stories that are waiting on me now, waiting for me to be home for long days and long months, stories that are pragmatic in their demands.

I have pansies to plant and characters to develop and mayhem to create and danger to navigate and laughter to listen to and heartbreak to discover and secrets to unfold from their hidden places in my mind and heart. I have stories to write. As do you. This is my perennial theme, yes? We each have stories to tell, and they belong to us in the way that pansies belong to the earth.

Off to work I go. Time to tell my story. Time to listen to yours as well. I'm all ears.

Spring Fever

According to Wikipedia, the major league
baseball season begins in April and lasts until September. In my old stomping grounds, Washington, D.C., a glorious new baseball stadium, Nationals Park, is about to open (who remembers watching the Washington Senators play at Griffith/RFK Stadium in the Sixties? I do.). In 3 days, 23 hours, 27 minutes and 5 seconds, according to their website, the Atlanta Braves play their opening game (against the Nationals!).

But here, just up the road from Turner Field, we've got everybody beat. At my house, the Whiffle ball season has already begun. Here's Jim, standing in the batter's box, next to the blue chair (which is the strike zone and substitute catcher), doing his best Babe Ruth imitation, pointing to where he's about to hit that Whiffle ball.


And here's Jim watching that Whiffle ball float by. Sort of like Cleebo, in the clinch, in THE AURORA COUNTY ALL-STARS, eh?

We play serious Whiffle ball. No, we don't. But on Easter Sunday, spring fever smacked us silly. We rose to the challenge.




Some of us actually hit the ball. And all of us had a good time...







...even those who stole the ball after it was all over.






I found this old teak table at Kudzu in Decatur and brought it home. We ate Easter dinner on the back porch at this table; I gathered the Lenten roses and nandina from my gardens.

Spring is everywhere in Atlanta -- the Bradford pears are already done blooming and have leafed out. My dogwoods are about to pop. The forsythia is long gone to green. Soon the pine pollen will coat the world with a golden glow (or is that "goo") and the grass will be thick and feisty again. The riot of color that is Atlanta in springtime is about to careen at fever pitch through the month of April. I'm going to careen right along with it. I've got spring fever, myself.

I've been moving bricks and digging in the dirt and pulling weeds and organizing cabinets and throwing out stuff and watching my carport floor turn red and climbing Stone Mountain and eating my vegetables and listening to good friends play music and writing about all of it in my notebook, keeping list after list, plotting and planning and figuring and cataloguing and more -- it's my way of organizing my mind and my world in the midst of all this green, this spring, this possibility.

And, I'm writing. I'm in the midst of a challenge, actually, that I want to share with you after I've returned from Florida. Tomorrow I fly to Orlando, where I'll speak to teachers at the Polk County Reading Association -- it's their first conference and I am psyched to be their speaker. They are expecting 250 in attendance -- they are off to a great start -- yay, Polk County teachers! Good for you.

I'm back Friday, when we'll celebrate Hannah's 22nd birthday. Maybe we'll play Whiffle ball, if I can convince her to give us back the ball.

A couple of updates:
-- Comments are turned on.

-- WW: I have hit the dreaded plateau -- what do y'all do here? But hey -- I'm holding steady at -22 pounds.

-- Remember my next-door neighbors who hated my new house colors? They spent part of their Easter weekend planting trees on the property line between our houses. I made myself go out and wave. It's okay. They waved back. If I can express myself, so can they. So be it.

Happy Spring, everybody. Thanks for hanging out with me here.