Bladder by the Bell


In the late 1980s my Illinois Writing Project training changed my approach to teaching writing forever. A writing workshop approach with portfolio grading displaced my traditional rote lessons, and I wrote and shared alongside my students.

Midway through the 1989-1990 school year, my frustration over a life led by bells produced the following poem.



Once again my writing revealed truth I had ignored. I hated the rigid structure of school and its command of my life. One semester my lunch period might start at 10:30 am, a plausible enough fit with a 5:30 am breakfast. Another semester, though, might make me sit until after 1 pm, forcing me to sneak a snack in during passing time. And come the end of school in late June, I often forgot to take bathroom breaks until urgency commanded them, so accustomed was I to my dependence on bells.


I see the humor in all this; I even saw it then. But one of the great joys of retirement is liberation from this tyranny. The first few years I refused even to wear a watch. Our system of scheduling learning in the public schools serves the masters of efficiency and uniformity, but it can be “cruel and unusual punishment” for those forced to partake in it.

Publishing: Disappointment and Redemption

In 1991 a publisher’s rep approached me about writing a book. Dreams of seeing my work in print danced before my eyes. I barely invested in negotiating a deal, so eager was I to write. Soon the process of writing consumed my Sundays. For the better part of a year I did all my grading and lesson planning at night and on Saturdays. Without fail I’d rise in time to be at my Macintosh Classic, a mug of coffee by my side. From 8 am to 8 pm, with time out for lunch and dinner, I labored over my draft. I had to snail mail sections to my editor and discuss revisions with her on labored, expensive long-distance phone calls. Already away at college, my sons didn’t suffer my regular Sunday abandonment. My sweet husband remained unfailingly patient.

My textbook for high school writing classes focused on the relatively new use of computers to teach writing, incorporating unfamiliar skills where they fit in the writing process. Using floppy disks, saving work, understanding simple features such as word wrap – skills we take for granted now [some of them outdated] challenged the computer novice then. Each chapter taught specific computer skills and then required their use for specific writing tasks. Cutting and pasting, for example, starts the chapter on revising. I included the components of a comprehensive writing program, including essays, journal entries, letters, creative writing, grammar, and sentence variety.

One day my editor said, “We really have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” Incensed, I missed her point – that we would struggle to meet the company’s deadline. I thought she was putting down my writing. She was, of course, correct about the pressure of the deadline, but I was too busy ranting about her attitude to register her point until much later in the call. I still managed to finish a piece that made me proud, and I kept my grumbling to myself when called upon to develop a floppy disk of accompanying exercises.

When the book came out, its cover a true work of art in my eyes, I floated for weeks.

And I didn’t learn. When Microsoft Works came out, the company tasked me with creating a second version tailored to that program. My euphoria began to evaporate when my meager royalty checks failed to cover my investment in software, paper, ink, and postage. Unfortunately publishers who targeted high school English departments failed to see the market opportunity, so I’d gone with a secondary school business publisher. Despite their best efforts, English departments remained unaware, and boxes of both books sat on the shelves of warehouses. They turned down my suggestion that they donate the books to schools in underprivileged communities, taking a tax write-off and sending me no royalty for donations. When a bigger publisher bought mine and a few more unfruitful years went by, the warehouse books were destroyed.

Heartbroken, I pondered why I’d sacrificed so much for so little return. Sure, I’d hoped for some royalties to help cover college costs. Mostly, though, I’d reveled in seeing my work in book form, a significant step up from all the professional writing I’d done in journals. Was it enough?

In time I realized that the process of writing these books forced me to clarify my own beliefs about the teaching of writing. Finally I had my own overview of what worked and what mattered. As computers offered more and more innovations, I embraced them and added what I was learning to that framework. I had gained more than vanity here.

And now I’m at it again. For years I’ve wanted to write my teaching memoir, to tell the stories I’ve told to trapped guests at dinner parties! My title would be My Mother Professor Never Told Me There’d Be Days Like This. I began again. Initially I tried a chronological approach. No detail was too small to entrap my readers. Fortunately my writing group pushed me to clarify my purpose and audience. Did I just want to leave a complete – too complete – record for family who would probably never plow through it? Or was there a point to these stories, a bigger reason to share them?

Indeed, I realized that my favorite stories had one factor in common: as the teacher I had often been the one to learn an important lesson from a student, or a group of students, or a colleague, or a parent. My lessons learned became my focus. That alone would make this endeavor worth the time and effort. To my surprise, however, I gained another bonus. Reaching out to former students and colleagues has renewed relationships.

I’m growing old, and I no longer have the patience to fight to get a publisher again. I’m not willing to risk the time wasted or that the chance of another poor fit. But I am blessed with this brave new world of self-publishing. When I finish my manuscript, that’s my path. I already have a title and a vision for the cover. At that point I hope that at least some of those former students and colleagues read some of it. I plan to give it to my children and grandchildren and to voice my wish that they read at least some of it.

But none of that matters as much as I used to believe. For the real reason for me to write this book is to know myself, to understand the decades I spent in the classroom and how they changed me, and to celebrate those decades with a kind of closure that’s meaningful to me. So now that’s why I’m writing this book. I can’t wait to finish, to see it in print, to get some feedback from those readers listed above. But the more I write, the more I think of that I want to include, so publication keeps moving further and further forward! That’s okay with me – right now it’s the process that counts most.

The Bogeyman of Boredom


Boredom baffles me. My mind churns full throttle with ideas and plans, avoiding the idle stage even at bedtime, when it would serve me well. When I’m stuck at a train crossing because the railroad once again is violating the time limit for freights, I start designing the next garment or glass sculpture in my head. When time creeps too slowly as I sit in a doctor or dentist’s waiting room, I find myself people-watching, developing verbal sketches of those around me. On line at the grocery store, I work through my next piece of writing in my head. I can’t imagine being bored.


One prominent banner in my classroom announced, “Boring is in the eye of the beholder.” My students loved to challenge that premise, and whenever I passed a classroom filled with teacher talk, compassion filled me. I remember all too well my high school American History teacher’s stultifying speech as he recounted endless lists of seemingly disconnected dates without apparent purpose. His soporific Southern drawl provided an effective cure for my insomnia, though sleeping through class did not endear me to the teacher or help my grade. Even in the most boring classes, though, I managed to occupy my mind with doodles and notes to friends. Sketched flowers wallpapered my notebooks, and I kept my mind engaged.


Of course, I preferred that my students busy their minds with the task at hand. When they complained that Shakespeare was irrelevant, I urged them to see Romeo and Juliet as two kids so “hot to trot” that they’d sneak around behind their parents’ backs. When Dickens felt too dated, I challenged them to remember times when they felt powerless and manipulated like poor young Pip in Great Expectations. And when I had the opportunity to bring in more current literature, like Fahreheit 451, my co-teacher and I got their library books “banned” so they’d connect to the experience.


I wanted to believe that the inherent stimulation of my classroom banished boredom, but my students, too often truth-tellers, demolished that fantasy. In the Spring of 1991 I ran a poetry writing workshop in my sophomore remedial English class. We drew literal interpretations of figures of speech – imagine the visual for you’re “driving me up a wall.” We all wrote our own poems using a series of prompts. Surely this was more fun than reading the classics?


Foolishly, I said as much. One of the girls looked at me in disdain. “Mrs. Ljung, you know you ain’t fooling no one.”


Wisely I chose not to correct her grammar and syntax. Instead I challenged her to write a poem about boredom. Her classmates clamored to help, and our first collaborative poem was born. Their ownership did more to banish boredom than I’d ever accomplished. They worked and reworked the piece until they finally agreed on a final product.



I urged them to submit it to our Fine Arts magazine, where it was published, and to “Page to Stage,” our annual performance of student writing.


“Oh, no, no way I’m gonna get up there in front of all those people,” exclaimed my original complainant.


“She’s right – that’s crazy,” another chimed in.


“What are ya’ thinking anyway, Mrs. Ljung?” queried a third.


I’d learn a bit about reverse psychology from my own mother, who’d used it to get me to take over cooking for our household when she’d questioned my ability to do so.


I smiled. “Okay, if you want someone else to read your work, you know we can arrange that. If you don’t think you can do it justice, I’ll just assign it to some theater students. Of course, they won’t feel it the way you do, but if you aren’t ready…”


Their subsequent huddle proved successful when a spokesperson told me they weren’t giving it away to “just anybody.”


Once the poem juried in to the performance, we allocated pieces of it to solo voices and made other lines choral. We practiced every day. On the day of the performance, their journey to the stage resembled a death march. As they read, though, they stood taller and spoke louder, all of us discovering just how much more potential they had than they or I had known.


The next day disappeared to a debriefing full of justifiable pride. Boredom didn’t disappear in that class, but their sense of ownership and ability to articulate their boredom did steal its power.


Dorothy Parker wrote, “The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” Effective teachers need to nurture curiosity, allowing students to replace boredom with meaningful exploration. The focus of schools on finding the right answers curtails that sense of possibility and turns classroom work into acts of duty. Creating opportunities for students to own their learning helps to banish boredom. Finding that poem from twenty-six years ago reminds me of that lesson.

Shakespearean Hip-hop

The night before last we saw the Chicago production of the musical Hamilton. At the appointed hour, when the first round of tickets went on sale, my husband and I sat side by side, furiously working our keyboards. I felt triumphant when I scored a pair of tickets – decent seats – only to have them disappear while I was trying to pay.

Furious, I swore off Hamilton forever. My resolve faltered, however, when another block of tickets opened up months later. This time Ticketmaster eagerly took my money, and we spent the six-month interval between purchase and event doing our homework. I’d struggled to follow Miranda’s previous show, In the Heights, and vowed to do better this time. We listened to the CDs on all of our longer car trips, sometimes following along with Miranda’s book, Hamilton: the Revolution, which clarified which characters were singing. Not only does Miranda provide the complete libretto, but the side notes and articles enlighten the reader further. And I read some of the Chernow biography, though I have yet to finish it. So I thought I was ready…

Nothing could have prepared me for this particular performance, especially at this particular time in our nation. The sweeping nature of this show, the evocative use of staging, the sense of both timelessness and immediate relevance, the energy and caliber of the cast, the interaction between the cast and audience – all this made for a memorable evening.

That night we talked all through the hour-drive home, gratefully grappling with the concept that resistance and the fight against injustice are part of the American DNA. I found myself returning again and again to the great Shakespearean plays. Not only does Miranda directly reference Macbeth [without actually naming the play!], but his telling a historical tale of great import in verse mirrors Shakespeare’s histories. So does the staging, which suggests, leaving the audience to create the details. Like Shakespeare, he uses this tale to wrestle with many important issues for humanity: the struggle between right and wrong; battles for freedom from oppression; concerns about honor and loyalty; and the attributes of a good man, a good leader, and a good citizen.  And his pacing is Shakespearean, complete with well-placed episodes of comic relief in the wonderfully pompous personage of King George.

This connection is neither new nor original.

The American Shakespeare Center blog offers this:

It’s not just that Manuel is a linguistic genius. It’s that he’s a linguistic genius in many of the same ways that Shakespeare was, and the one I’m going to focus on in this post is the use of rhetoric to create character.

One of the reasons Shakespeare stands above his contemporaries is that he had such a great ear. His characters have individual voices. They don’t all speak in the same patterns, but rather, he defines each speaker by particular quirks and habits — just as we speak in everyday life. Miranda does the same thing.[i]

Oskar Eustis, The Artistic Director at New York City’s Public Theater where Hamilton was workshopped, says that Miranda, like Shakespeare, elevated the language of the people.

“In Shakespeare’s case he elevated it to iambic pentameter. In Lin-Manuels’ case he elevated it to hip-hop and rap, and he ennobled it by turning it into verse and putting it at the center of the stage. That’s exactly what Shakespeare was doing.”[ii]

And Ross Williams of the New York Shakespeare Exchange says of Shakespeare’s history plays like Henry V, “Their histories became pop culture – after all, Shakespeare was the king of pop culture of the period – just like Alexander Hamilton’s story has for us.” [iii]

For most of my childhood we saw three Shakespeare plays each summer in Stratford, CT. I’ll never forget Katherine Hepburn as Portia, or the mischief of Puck, or the pain of King Lear. Hamilton takes me back to the power of theater for me then, and it reminds me of why I loved teaching literature. We can only begin to understand ourselves as we tell and hear our stories. Great story-tellers like Shakespeare and Lin-Manuel Miranda offer entertainment and enlightenment. I am so very grateful.




[iii] Ibid.

BBI and Teacher Hiring


In my work as a consultant, I’ve been learning about Behavior-Based Interviewing [BBI]. “Based on the premise that past behavior is the best predictor of future performance, this interview style uses specific questions based on candidates’ skills, background, and experience to determine if they can do the job” (Deems, 1994). Interviewers ask candidates to tell them about a time when they dealt with a particular situation, what actions they took, and what the results were.


I was never interviewed this way. For new teachers starting out, even with a supportive interviewer who’s good at offering prompts, it must be hard to generate specific stories of accomplishment. Once I’d had some classroom experience beyond my meager six weeks of student teaching, though, I think I would have done okay.


Because I moved several times for my husband’s career, I actually endured the interview process six different times! I got the first four jobs with a single interview, but the last two times involved multiple schools and weeks of nail-biting waiting. Most of those interviews began with the predictable “Tell me about yourself…” approach. Few invited me to show anything significant about myself as a teacher. Surely a BBI approach would have been more meaningful.


My last interview  led me to Glenbard West High School, where I spent most of my career. It was by far the most memorable. After I met with the department chair and the Assistant Principal for Curriculum, I was passed on to the Principal, Dr. Robert D. Elliott. His questions kept surprising me. At one point he asked me what I’d do if I had $500 [a princely sum in 1980] and a weekend in Chicago. I responded that I had young children, so some would go to a sitter and we probably couldn’t stay overnight, but then I listed theater and museums and the lakefront. He smiled as though my response had been informative. He quizzed me about my years in Madison, gently mocking me for being a hippie [which I barely sort of was…]. We seemed to connect until he asked, “Do you always have a lesson plan that you absolutely must follow?”


“No,” I replied, “because…”


Before I could finish, he stood up, slammed his hands on the desk in front of him, and scowled at me. “You had me till then,” he muttered.


“But… please may I explain? I always have a lesson plan to follow… it’s just that sometimes students need something different. Then I have to adjust and figure out what that is… but I get back to the plan and make it happen eventually…” My voice quaked.


“Ah,” he said quietly, sitting back down. We finished with a handshake, and three days later he offered me the job. I believed I’d found paradise.


In hindsight, I wish he’d asked me more about what I’d done as a teacher, that he’d used a more BBI approach. I could have given him an example of assessing student needs and how I’d adjusted a particular lesson plan. Then he might have been as impressed as he was during his first formal evaluation visit when – sure enough – a student’s need disrupted my carefully designed plan and he watched me analyze and adjust it in real time. I’ve come to see BBI as an asset to both interviewer and candidate, a great way to pick the right fit.






This quote by Robert Browning adorned the wall of my classroom for many years. Recently I posted that I’d started this blog on Facebook. I asked former students and colleagues to send me stories and memories they were willing to share. One of my students wrote about Browning’s quote: “I used that quotation just the other day, thought of you, and smiled. It’s not often you wax poetic while at work, but I think our client appreciated it…” Another responded, “I still quote this, too!”


Why does this quotation have such staying power? The expectations that others have of us so often shape our own. I wasn’t an indifferent student in public school, but the subjects that did not come naturally to me often took second place to my social life. Two teachers challenged that attitude – both of them became role models for me in my own teaching.


In seventh grade science Nat Sloan required us to borrow a book from his collection, read it, and report on it to the class. I chose Patterns of Culture by Ruth Benedict. This book shattered my naïve sense that the culture in which I lived was the norm. She studied three different societies and the unique cultural traits in each, arguing that “recognition of cultural relativity will create an appreciation for ‘the coexisting and equally valid patterns of life which mankind has created for itself from the raw materials of existence.'”[1]  Learning that the ID bracelets and letter jackets of our dating world held no more validity than rites from other cultures rocked my world. Reading such a demanding and empowering text taught me that I could do more, learn more. I didn’t learn until later that my own mother had studied under Ruth Benedict at Columbia. I did get to see Nat again at my 50th reunion, and he continues to inspire me.


Garnet Almes also demanded more of me, and she always got it. Stern and unrelenting, she expected our best in Algebra. She challenged my dependence on my natural talent for math, urging me to tackle harder work and to challenge myself. A force of nature, she, too, shaped my views about teaching. When she retired from my hometown’s public schools at 65, she moved to Virginia and taught several more years at a private school. Then she moved to Florida and met her husband, marrying late in life. We visited her there in the early 80s, and – along with Nat Sloan – she had been an honored guest at our wedding.


Goethe wrote, “Treat people as if they were what they ought to be and you help them become what they are capable of becoming.”  The banner in my classroom signaled my commitment to that philosophy. That students remember it and value it affirms its worth.


[1] from the new foreword by Louise Lamphere, past president of the American Anthrolopological Association



In 1988 I fell for a middle-aged, weather-beaten, loud, impassioned hero in a movie. In Stand and Deliver Edward James Olmos portrayed Jaime Escalante as the savior of students that I strove to be. Convinced that anyone with ganas, a Spanish term for drive and desire, could overcome barriers and learn, Escalante taught math at Garfield High to disadvantaged students with limited math backgrounds. The barrios of East Los Angeles provided an unlikely setting for success, but Escalante led these students to succeed on the demanding AP calculus test year after year. Their results seemed so impossible that Escalante and his students were accused of cheating, but they triumphed by passing the test a second time under strict supervision.


I, too, believe that all students can learn. The first time a student from one of my remedial English classes returned from a successful semester in college affirmed that philosophy. Escalante said, “Ask ‘How will they learn best?’ not ‘Can they learn?’ “


Teachers who have a passion for learning, who believe in their students, break down learning opportunities into manageable increments, provide support and encouragement, give honest feedback, and create opportunities for success after early failures. So often I’d look a student directly in the eye and say, “There’s nothing here that you can’t do.” And then I’d try to figure out what they needed that I could provide to help them succeed.


Too often we provide a one-size-fits all to a given class, no matter how diverse. Good teachers explore the methods that best work for their learners. Although I’m a very visual person, I learn best by doing, and I need a reason and a context. The American History lectures I endured in high school depended entirely on my auditory learning skills, my weakest modality, and I never found a reason to memorize the dates. In college I discovered political science classes that focused on the who and the why – suddenly the when became meaningful. Good teachers intuit their students’ strongest learning styles and teach to them. They provide context, the scaffolding needed for making meaning.


I had some teachers like that when I was a student. Like Jaime Escalante, they believed in me and made me believe in myself. Don’t all learners deserve that?



“If I ran a school, I’d give the average grade to the ones who gave me all the right answers, for being good parrots. I’d give the top grades to those who made a lot of mistakes and told me about them, and then told me what they learned from them.”

– Buckminster Fuller


The whole system of secondary education – at least as I’ve known it – focuses on finding the right answer and rewarding that answer. The emphasis on the answer downplays the value and importance of the journey to find that answer.

I used to tell my students, “If you’re not making any mistakes, you’re not taking enough risks.” Amazing considering what a risk-averse student I’d been myself! But just as my best math teachers graded my work for process as well as product, we teachers need to promote process as what matters. To create lifelong learners who can seek and make meaning, we need to make room for “mistakes” and meandering along the way. We should reward good process at least as much as good results.

This value should apply to the English classroom. We have more wiggle room, for who can rightfully claim that they know the subtext of a dramatic speech, or that they can explicate a poem with complete clarity about the author’s intent? We can identify problems with style and syntax, but they may be purposeful and strategic.

Some answers are inherently ambiguous and allow for that kind of exploration. Was Hamlet a hero for avenging his father? What about his responsibility for all those deaths? Why didn’t Steinbeck give Curley’s wife a name in Of Mice and Men? Other issues seem to have more clear-cut answers. With Howard Roark in The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand makes a clear case for the need for individuals to stay true to themselves. An essay that promotes a different vision may be flawed, but the writer of that essay deserves an assessment of his/her argument, not just a knee-jerk response that the argument doesn’t hold up.

In the late 1980s my district had the privilege of using Writer’s Workbench, an early text analysis program that AT&T originally developed for its in-house writers. I loved its ability to quantify and analyze components of writing, turning over decision-making to the writers, giving them responsibility and ownership. Yet neither Faulkner’s novels nor The Declaration of Independence would have scored well on sentence variety or percentage of “to be” verbs, even though respect for those writings feels universal.

I required my student authors to print the analysis at both the draft and final stages. If some of the counts failed to pass the program’s thresholds, they simply needed to explain why their choices were justified. If we disagreed, that simply prompted more conversation, not punishment.

Albert Einstein offered a great corollary: “Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” I tried to encourage more fearlessness in my students. In my problem-solving class, the students who struggled most with the freedom – since there was never one “right answer” to the complex problems that they worked– tended to be Honors students used to the Pavlovian response of A’s for “right answers.”  Those who’d never fully bought into that system tended to thrive, transforming into articulate leaders.

Schools should foster courage, exploration, risk-taking, and innovation in their learners. Punishing mistakes fails to do that. Instead we need to show learners where they may have gone wrong and then give them another chance.

Kayaking and Teaching

Kayaking on the Fox River in my original kayak

A week ago I had reason to revisit my passion for kayaking and its connection to the joy of teaching. Over fifty years ago I picked a life partner whose risk-taking nature and love of adventure contrasted my innate sense of caution and the residue of having been physically limited as a child by my pseudo-club foot. His slender body lacked the buoyancy and insulation needed to spend the hours in the water that I loved. My acrophobia and difficulty with high altitudes guaranteed that I wouldn’t climb mountains with him.

We found common ground in paddling, a skill he already possessed, starting with simple forays into rowing and canoeing. My competence and comfort level grew. By 1981 we had progressed to whitewater rafting all over the U.S. as well as canoe racing. We paddled a heavy green plastic monster in the Mid-American Canoe Race, then a 1000-canoe, 23-mile Illinois paddle from South Elgin to North Aurora, including five portages. Eventually we purchased a Kevlar racing canoe and trained for the event, coming in third in mixed doubles one year. My ebullience could not be contained!

After nine years of racing, I wearied of the isolation caused by the natural instability of the oddly-shaped racing canoe. In 1995 we chose single kayaks so we could paddle side by side. The Fox River runs through our home town, and we could be on the river in twelve minutes. Soon we were transporting our boats to other paddling sites, including a bird sanctuary near Sandwich, IL; the West Branch of the Des Plaines River; the sea caves in northern Wisconsin; and Lake Michigan. And we were traveling to paddle. Childhood fears and limitations faded as we paddled Ten Thousand Islands in Florida, Icy Bay and Prince William Sound in Alaska, the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Soon we were traveling abroad to kayak: Baja in Mexico, Belize, Italy’s Amalfi Coast, British Columbia’s Queen Charlotte Islands, Portugal’s Douro River, Cinque Terre and Sardinia, Lake Tanganyika in Tanzania, and Halong Bay in Vietnam. I had become a confident and skillful paddler, and that fearful child existed in me no longer.

What does this have to do with teaching? Leaving my comfort zone one baby step at a time made the challenges I chose to embrace less daunting. My husband Don’s support and encouragement propelled me through each successive new challenge. This incremental growth allowed me to see myself and my potential differently. And the joy of success at each stage thrust me toward the next. Isn’t that what a good teacher does? Good teachers create incremental learning opportunities, providing the support to ensure success. They help learners manage setbacks without feeling defeated; they share the joy of discoveries and the triumphs.

Eighteen months ago my dysfunctional knee made getting out of my kayak at the end of a paddle so challenging that I began to dread our outings. When a total knee replacement still didn’t provide enough flexion, I thought my paddling days were behind me. I signed up for a kayaking trip in the Lake District of Italy only after the guide and my husband assured me the tandem’s cockpit was big enough to allow an easier exit. And I worried about how I would train if I wasn’t taking my boat out much any more.

Another teacher came to my rescue. Rutabaga, the store in Madison, Wisconsin, where we purchased our original boats, hosts a major event every March. Canoecopia fills the city coliseum with vendors of everything connected to paddling and with nearly 200 sessions with speakers. Darren Bush, owner and “Chief Paddling Evangelist” has become a friend, so I emailed him about my predicament before the show. Unable to envision a kayak as light and beautiful as mine that could be workable, I held out little hope. Darren gave me his cell, said he’d meet me there, and – on that magical day – led me directly to the perfect craft. She’s every bit as sleek and stunning as mine, and nearly as lightweight, yet I popped in and out like a pro. Weeping with joy, I realized how important paddling had become to me, how unwilling I was to give it up.

I insisted on trying another boat – how could I make such a big financial investment without at least some comparison shopping? Darren took me to the next best choice. A functional boat, it didn’t make my heart sing. Before the weekend ended, we had bought the same boat for Don for its better back support and splurged on a hydraulic-assisted rack that drops the boats down on each side of the car. Now I can put my kayak on and take it off without a step stool. We also signed up for the annual Great River Rumble this summer. We’ll be paddling about 92 total miles, down the Root River and the Mississippi River, with 250 other people.

Darren’s ability to diagnose my needs and figure out how to meet them re-opened doors for me. That, too, is what good teachers do. And my joy and excitement about their being re-opened – isn’t that the biggest reward of teaching?



At Last!

Twenty-seven months ago I finally took pen to paper – well,  fingertips to keyboard – and began writing the teaching memoir that had been lying in wait for years. Originally titled My Mother [crossed out] Professor Never Told Me There’d Be Days Like This, it would regale readers with the endlessly entertaining story of my career: a step-by-step replay, from my first childhood inklings that I wanted to teach.

My younger son always warns listeners: “Ellen Ljung, telling a story, making it long.” Determined to leave nothing out, I drafted my memoir in excruciating detail, step by step.

My amazing writers’ group, Night Writers at the Geneva Public Library, challenged me at every session:

“Who is your audience?” they’d ask.

“If this is for your family, a legacy for you grandchildren, fine,” they’d say.

“But if you want to draw people in, just tell your stories,” they’d advise me.

And they were right. So I began to list the stories I remembered, to draft each one for the next monthly session.

Stories emerged, some partially written before I even sat down at the keyboard. But they all had one important trait: the stories that mattered were stories in which I had learned. My students taught me, my colleagues taught me, and sometimes parents taught me.

John Cotton Dana wrote: “Who dares to teach must never cease to learn.”

I retired a very different teacher from the youngster entering her first classroom in 1970. This blog and my teaching memoir [to be published someday] offer my eternal gratitude to those from whom I learned.