Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
I dropped the kids off early and went and got a bite to eat before coming back this morning. I stopped by the office, clutching my little book, and was greatly ignored by the office staff as I tried to sign in and get my name badge and find out where I was supposed to go. So much for security--although it's not like I cut a very frightening presence. One hopes they at least glance up at the hook-armed, eye-patched, full-body tattoed guys carrying bloody plastic bags.
I went on back to the indoor amphitheater, where I was met by a group of kids and teachers stacking the seats full of boxes. Hmm. I asked the girl by the door if she was a teacher (seeing as how she didn't have on her visitor tag) but she said she was just a parent and didn't have any idea of what I was talking about. Imagine that.
I started to go see if I could remember where Boy's classroom was and met his class coming up the hall the other way. Whispered conversations between his teacher and the teacher who had commandeered the hall, annnnd--change of venue. We all marched back to the classroom. We got there and then Jonathan said he had to leave.
WHA!? Seems this was the time scheduled for his RLC class. "Buddy, you mean you won't get to stay and hear me?!" Little sad eyes. "But I have RLC, Daddy." Just then, his teacher came to the door and asked if I minded going first so he could stay and hear me, and that she had already cleared it with his other teacher. Whew. I thought Boy and I both were going to have an episode.
Since it's the last day before holiday break, the kids were going to have a little picnic at the amphitheater and listen to stories all morning, but they didn't seem to mind getting to have an in-room picnic. Miss Kim got them all squared away and settled, and then brought out The Story Chair, a tall director's chair with a genuine polyester leopard fur rug over it. Cool!
I plopped down and introduced myself, although most of them remembered me from Huntsville trip, and told them a little about the book and then got right into it.
Read, show pictures, make steam shovel noises, read, talk like Mrs. McGillicuddy, show pictures, and in just a little while, I had dug myself into the cellar with four straight walls and four straight corners. Had to stop for a minute for the intercom announcements and the pledge, and then we finished the town hall and sat with Mike as he smoked his pipe and told stories there beside good old Mary Anne.
Hard to believe the influence of this little book on us older folks--Miss Kim said when she was a little girl (which, judging by her looks, must have been way back around twelve years ago) and would go visit her grandpa, that HE had an original copy of it with black and white pictures, and she loved to read it every time she went.
She asked if any of the kids or their parents had ever named anything like Mike had named Mary Anne and, of course, Jonathan had to let them know that Daddy has a truck named Franklin. So they got a bonus story of How Franklin Got His Name.
I only had one little girl who asked a question about the book--"Mr. Oglesby, is Popperville a real place?"
"Well, sugar, I suppose it could be."
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