Emporia, Kansas

             Emporia Kansas has a memorial to fallen teachers on its campus. It is a replica of a one room schoolhouse set on a knoll, with a pair of black granite plinths carved with names. It is on the edge of town; the highway purrs in the distance beside the football fields on one side, on the other is an empty parking lot.  It was a still peaceful evening in late June when we visited. School was not in session. There are 113 names on the two slabs, 113 adults who died in school,  protecting their children they were hired to keep safe—and most of them have been added in the years since I began teaching.  We studied them—there was a clump of deaths in Texas back in the 1930s—but the rest of the names were familiar, even though we had forgotten—how can you forget?—a few. Springfield. Columbine.  Roseburg. Sandy Hook.         

  

I was a fairly new teacher when Kip Kinkel walked into a high school in Springfield Oregon, about fifty miles south of here.  The idea that a student would walk into a middle class suburban school and begin shooting was unfathomable. There had been shootings Near schools before, of course, but not At school. It was different. Not a pattern. After Columbine happened, one of my ninth grade girls, given to drama, was afraid to walk across the quad to the counseling office. “What if a shooter came in?” she asked. I assured her that she would be fine and sent her on her way. Schools began to search for patterns, to interview kids who wore trench coats and failed English class, who were not engaged. The biggest change, though, was that kids stopped wearing trench coats. No positive changes in the gun laws. No increase in mental health screenings.  Then the Two Towers came down and our attention shifted elsewhere.

  

              I have been teaching for twenty years now. I have distinct memories of at least two students who terrified me because there was nothing behind their eyes. They never did anything in my class to raise suspicions, but I watched them closely anyways.  We all know these kids, like we know the ones who shine so brightly in our classrooms.  And the unfathomable is now….commonplace. Another shooting? We say. Something has got to change. But nothing does.  This behavior is now normal. And my confidence that we will be fine, that we are safe at school—or in any big crowd of people-- has slipped away. I don’t think I would send a young girl worried about a shooter out into the building these days. I’d let her stay where she felt safe, at least for a little while.  Because I know, now, that it is just a matter of time. It could happen here.  And we would just be more names on the plinth.

Owl Calls

February is a lovely season. Once the pruning is done, there’s not a lot of garden work yet, so there is time for long winter walks. This afternoon, after the laundry was folded, groceries, purchased, house cleaned, and starts moved inside (it has been nippy at night, we went for a walk. The day was kind of grim—forty degrees and cloudy—but that’s what wool hats are for.  We headed up to Dimple Hill from Oak creek, a steady slow climb for about two and a half miles, with a view over the valley. This time of year, we stick to the old logging roads to avoid mud pits. As we climbed, we covered the local, nation, and international scene, decided that “working from what’s working” and “raising the lowest boat” were not in direct opposition to one another, and considered dinner. Our voices rang through the woods. It was cold to start with, but we shed layers as we climbed. The top of Dimple Hill was clear. We could see over the entire valley from our bench in the trees; we quickly put our layers back on in the light breeze. Spring Queen crowned the hills; small purple flowers that bloom early in sheltered spots. The peace enveloped us.

On the way down, we were silent. At first, there was only the sound of our feet, left, right, left right, on the gravel road. Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch. We turned the bend and into the valley. A barred owl called from one ridge. My ridge, my ridge, he claimed. Left foot, right foot. Crunch, crunch. A second owl, from the other side, responded. My ridge, my ridge. Soon, we had debating owls. Left ear, right ear. My ridge, my ridge. We dropped down further and picked up the sound of Oak creek. Stream on one side, rivulets on the other. Left ear—my ridge, rivulet, gravel underfoot. Right ear—my ridge, stream, gravel underfoot. The rhythm deepened. Then the sun came out and turned all of the trees, wearing moss like old wooly sweaters, a brilliant shade of green. The ferns perked up and glowed deeper. The usnea, hanging from the trees in long, spooky drifts, turned from grey to green.  The forest glowed and echoed with winter life. Owls, streams, feet on gravel.

Then, the sun descended behind the ridge. The temperature dropped.  The owls stopped their debate. The road widened. We could see the gate ahead, and, beyond it, the parking lot.  And we were left with the sound of our own feet, once again, on the gravel.

Slug Prevention

It is that time of year—one warm dry weekend and gardeners want to get out and Plant! At least some lettuce seed.  Start the garden….but then, there are the slugs. How to avoid having your entire crop munched down to nothing overnight?

 I’ve fought this battle for years. When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, I had never encountered hungry slugs. There would be one or two climbing around the garbage pails in New England, but nothing like the herd that slides through the garden every night here. My beans were munched down to stumps in two hours.  I went out with a flashlight and spotted them—tiny, slimy grey creatures with little horns seeking anything green. They lurked under the parsley during the day.  I stalked them with a fork and jar of soapy water, but that gave me nightmares. I tried beer traps, but that didn’t work. The slugs perched on the lid and looked down into the pool, but never dove. I sprinkled sluggo, which helped, but not enough. I still lost crops.

One year, I replanted a row of beans a few weeks later and they jumped out of the ground and put on a leaf a day, healthy and unmunched. What was different here? Timing. When I planted my seeds or seedlings when the ground was warm enough for them and there was enough light to support vigorous growth, they outgrew the slug munch. It was a revelation.

In retrospect, it seems obvious. Gardeners have been gardening for hundreds of years, planting seeds at the recommended times. If there was a way to push the season forward, it would already be discovered. Nineteenth century farmers were far more eager for the first green sprouts than I am; they did not have access to the grocery store. The collective knowledge is far greater than my own. I need to heed it. So, now, I let my garden be during those first, false warm days in late January. I repair the raised beds, maybe build a trellis, dream over the seed catalogs, or take a long walk in the woods. In early February, I will plant the first round of spring crops in six-packs and raise them under lights in my classroom.  But nothing goes in the ground until late March.  It’s not perfect, but I am no longer stalking slugs by a dim flashlight before bedtime.