One door away from heaven, we live each day and hour. One door away from heaven, but it lies beyond our power to open the door to heaven and enter when we choose. One door away from heaven, and the key is ours to lose. One door away from heaven, but oh, the entry dues.
-The Book of Countered Sorrows

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HEAVEN IS WHERE YOU PAINT YOUR OWN STARS
by Sheridan Brown

Four years of undergraduate training and now the test! After all, I had signed the big contract for $8,000 a year and one day of sick leave a month - a veritable fortune... and a future. In 1969 I'd entered college as a music minor and the hopes of having a starring Broadway role upon graduation. My parents insisted I have a major in education, "Just in case you ever need it to fall back on," they urged. In reflection the thirty years in public education have been good ones, but never as sweet as the beginnings...

Nothing could be better. Butterflies, jitters, and excitement sparkled the day! The sun peeked awake as I arrived, as always too early, to greet my fourth graders. The fish were fed, plants watered, chalk ready, papers mimeographed, and new dress ironed. Modern textbooks were stacked neatly on freshly painted shelves while sharpened pencils and unused readers were lined up as anxiously as I for my first class of students. The rural Virginia school, aged by past high school students' feet, glimmered before soon-to-be scuffed floors. Kemptown Elementary is one of those rare old buildings left with a personality composed of radiator heaters, wooden floors, six feet high windows, and a boiler furnace.

I gazed out the windows as the buses arrived. New tennis shoes squealed onto polished floors, giggles and shouts intruded the 1974 August morning - SCHOOL BEGINS!

As I recall, the first day went smoothly. (The catatonic newness of the profession has helped glaze my fears over the years.) My twenty students mingled and associated like friends who have just met. Soon our day settled into the routines of readin', writin', and rithmetic'. Being the new grad on the hall led me to receive much advice from colleagues. Working before and after school with fellow teachers quickly taught me all the extras I'd never learned in four years of college. "How could Edna Mae live in a home with no plumbing? How could George only have gravy for breakfast? Was it fair that Charles had three winter coats and David none? Should I try to teach Nancy multiplication when she still had not mastered counting to one-hundred? "What do you mean I have three reading groups and reading is to be taught from 9:00-10:00 every morning?" But time shadows those questions as the inevitable 180 days tick along.

Creativity oozed as I tried to implement a respected degree of my knowledge into the classroom. A chalkboard table top helped Andy learn cursive writing. A class made room divider from six-pack plastic rings tied with colored yarn added charm. Hand hammered mosaic tile pictures became Mother's Day gifts. Virginia history was learned through singing and writing Negro spirituals and through gravestone rubbings in the community graveyards. Local college professors trekked to Kemptown to share their enthusiasm for local and state history.

Winter snow days set in, one day in school, one day out, as the weather dictated our presence. I began a unit on Greek mythology and attempted to weave my love for the subject into fourth grade vocabulary. Zeus and Icarus became our friends as we tried to relate ancient cultures to our own. All was going smoothly, until the day I received the letter from Ralph's father. Assuming, in all my fresh new bliss, that parents would love my teaching as much as I was soon short lived. Eyes downcast, Ralph related he'd been given a note from his father to deliver to the principal. (Ummm, thanks for the advance warning, Ralph.) Not ten minutes later Gary was at the door. Gary had been a true supporter to this first year teacher. I had substitute taught for him before he offered me a full-time job. Up to this minute we had shared similar pedagogies and interests. "Well, Sherry, let's discuss this letter."

And letter it was! A four page epistle about the blasphemies of including Zeus and goddesses in the American classroom. After all, Ralph's dad was a farmer and he did not pray to those who ate nectar and ambrosia for his corn to grow. In a country founded on religious freedoms he abhorred the idea of his son learning any dieties other than the real God. In this county, release time was given weekly to an outside instructor for Bible classes. This allowed planning time for the teacher and was a much supported program in the community at the time. His complaints were a true awakening to this first year teacher. Now I had learned that when parents give their children and their tax dollars to schools, their curriculum say-so is important.

Other than a broken finger batting too vigorously as I participated in and taught physical education, a mercury coated wedding ring during a science demonstration, and continued purple fingers from ditto masters for worksheets, my first year at Kemptown was heaven. I was settling in, learning to stomach cafeteria starches while eating with my students, and treasured learning from my fellow teachers.

Then spring came. Jimmy's mom died. Now Jimmy was no heaven sent pupil. He was too loud, too brash, and too uncooperative. But he was a charmer, our best batter, and quick to learn. That all changed one morning when Gary informed me Jimmy was absent due to his mother's death in the middle of the previous night. Would I possibly visit the home and see how I could help Jimmy? "You may leave early." (Always hallowed words from an administrator to a teacher.)

I was twenty-three years old, a new wife, a new mom, and a new teacher. I'd never faced death. In Kemptown it was expected that I pay my condolences in person. For security I took Joyce, my fourth grade cohort. Jimmy was on the front porch when we arrived. The house was abuzz with the garish hum of friends and family. But here sat my little charmer in a daze on the front steps. I'd rehearsed thirty speeches for this moment, but none seemed appropriate now. Jimmy and I just sat holding hands and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Jim. Wanna talk about it?" Jimmy nodded no and we sat some more. It wasn't too long before dusk and I still wasn't sure I was being very helpful.

Jimmy said, "She missed my baseball game and my uniform wasn't ready."

"It wasn't because she meant it to not be ready, champ."

"Do you think she'll feel bad about that, Mrs. Hume?"

"Oh yes, Jim, she'll always be sorry she missed your game."

"Me, too."

"But, Jim, she'll see them all from now on," I added.

As was custom, I visited the open casket at the local funeral home the next day. This was my first experience of this sort and a scary one for years to come.

Being last hired, I was the first to go when Kemptown's enrollment dropped the next school year. Would I accept a job across the county at Land Elementary? It's a fifth-sixth grade combination class with thirty-three pupils. (Gulp. I was leaving heaven with eighteen pupils and Ralph's father even liked me now.)

"Sure," I replied, "Heaven is where you paint your own stars."

Here comes year number two! Land Elementary was another old country classic ex-high school, rural setting, cows in the backyard, and oiled wooden floors. I'd learn to juggle three reading groups and two math groups, why should six and four of each seem any different? For the first time in my life I contracted laryngitis and faced each day of 1976 (our country's bicentennial) with patriotic challenge. In addition I was given the school's newspaper to edit, a spring musical to produce, and a student teacher whose major was French to supervise. (Ought to come in handy with the Guernseys out back.) Year number two was hectic, a further drive from home, but fun. Really liking what I did continued to guide me. These older children were more verbal and opinionated, even developing a sense of humor. In 1976 there was no duty free lunch time for teachers. For six hours a day, 180 days a year, or 1,080 hours of eleven and twelve year old conversations, I continued.

Between my four year old's vocabulary at home and learning the student lingo consisting of "neat" and "gross" I was really in demand on the cocktail party circuit! Sixth graders are sharp, no matter where they grow up. Television watching is a universal affliction and these kids knew more at twelve than I did at eighteen!

I remember teaching a unit on animal classifications. Wise Jerry wanted to know how hens could lay eggs with no roosters around. To avoid the discussion I could see coming, I said they couldn't. I'd dug myself into this one and gracefully I had to offer apologies and explanations the next day. Three-fourths of my students' parents raised farm animals and the dinner topic the night before had been the city -girl- teacher's ignorance!

Our bicentennial spring production was centered on colonial beginnings. The highlight of our props was life-sized chickenwire tissue paper cow to add to the authenticity of the barn scene. Fellow teacher April and I stuffed, molded, and prodded that form until even the kids agreed it looked like the real animal. Opening night tremors, 1776 decor, and choral readings about Paul Revere began the show. As the barn scene was lit with "Bessie" and young George Washington, our eagerness mounted. Much to my amusement and embarrassment, my students had rigged "Bessie" to give milk and squirt it!! After my own initial shock and a delirious audience, the show continued. Afterward the school superintendent expressed his glee at the whole event and praised me for the clever idea...he won't know until now, I was totally innocent of that contrivance.

While combination classrooms are not the perfect educational answer for too few pupils to fill two whole classes, a certain camaraderie develops out of necessity for success among the participants. Trying to teach fifth graders American history and sixth graders world history was a daily challenge. The students enjoyed learning by eavesdropping on each others lessons. Our culminating activity included a meal of American corn bread and Chinese egg rolls. Charles, my principal that year, offered encouragement and a sense of humor to my crowded classroom conditions. He realized, along with me, that the sensitivities necessary for balancing this task required lots of support and laughter.

This bicentenntial period was also the year that the school administrators felt all teachers should make home visits to each students' residence. Much to the chagrin of parents and the gasoline at my own expense, traveling back country roads was an experience. I got an afternoon snack during each visit and real insight into how a home life can make or break a student.

Other than losing a fingernail as I rushed to close a window against a sudden rainstorm and losing one student to another class because I insisted on structured discipline, and his parents did not, I finished my second year of teaching and hadn't missed a day yet! Alas, being the last hired again, I was asked to relocate for my third probationary year before being offered a continuing contract. I must be doing something right, "they" kept finding a place for me to go.

This time I was located even further from home north in the county to Treeville Elementary. Would I take a team leader position in an open-space school with a third grade class and edit the yearbook? (Gulp.) "Sure." I replied. (See why teachers need summers for preparing for challenges that grow year to year?) While I was working on my masters degree in administration and supervision, I was learning a lot about the new environment in which I was about to spend my next three professional years.

Treeville with Larry and Johnny at the helm was a once in a lifetime experience. The school sits sprawled across twenty-five acres on an old corn field, a two storied hexagonal shaped building. Built with federal funds as an open space school using the British primary philosophy, Treeville allowed change in the traditional approaches to instruction from most schools in the country. If you can imagine living in your dream home surrounded by luxuries and people you love, you would fit right into Treeville.

While my first two experiences dealt with the classic educational self-contained settings, Treeville was unique. The needs there centered on the affective domain (areas of love, belonging, self-esteem, and self-actualization.) This philosophy insists that by teaching and learning in such an environment an increase in cognition occurs. In our pod of learning, where I served as team leader, were four other teachers and family groups of children at third, fourth, and fifth grade levels. These varied ages resulted in excellent role modeling, peer tutoring, and one hundred fifty students all enjoying joint activities, films, guest speakers, sing-a-longs, and family dessert nights.

Treeville prided itself on creativity. Year after year we topped ourselves beyond our own expectations. Jeremy's and Chuck's scholastic weaknesses were everyone's concern. The pod put their heads together to organize activities for silent Ashley, how to restructure Timothy's environment, or coach Patty's stuttering. Open space schools draw much criticism for their free spirit and on first appearance non-structure. But for three brief shining moments of my life this educational center offered the highest learning I'd experienced. One of the greatest joys as a teacher would be the interaction and fraternity among the teachers in the pod. The pupils would also feel this rapport and enjoyed our banter and sharing as we were only separated by a bookshelf or table. Adult tempers and manners were in close control as well as the feeling of performance among our own peers.

Many personalities pop into mind from my three years here. Linda, who finally learned there are ten tens in one hundred and Ricky and Andy who finally grasped which day the Sunday paper was delivered by the end of the year.

The excuses one gathers from helpful parents is always humorous. Mrs. Warren wrote:

Dear Ms. Hume,

If you saw a white object sail over your house Wednesday evening, it was Jay's project. He worked on that rocket for a week. The test firing was successful, we haven't found it yet!

Or Billy's mom warning me she had given him an extra dose of cough medicine. He might fall asleep, she wrote, just kick him.

One day during a William Glasser inspired class meeting, Davy kept jumping up and down interrupting the discussion, much against our pre-set rules. In exasperation, I finally said, "Davy, there's a question on the floor!" Befuddled Davy looked down and began searching for that question. At least he was temporarily quiet.

For the first two years of my teaching career I'd driven alone to and from work. Treeville was further away from our city's county seat, where most teachers lived, so we carpooled. If the problems of the world and the educational philosophical questions of educational systems were not discussed there, then they never will be. What lovely, inspired griping we did. We were supportive of each other over the three years both professionally and personally. We counseled each other through in-laws, money, sex, and divorce matters, including mine.

I left the hills and valleys to teach and thus become an administrator in a large urban city in the same state. But those years leave new chapters to write and angles to practice. It's very flattering to be remembered by students whose lives I've touched. But facial hair, voice changes, and body developments play tricks on the eyes as little ones mature. There is never a compliment sweeter than an unexpected Christmas card, a return visit, or a loose parent comment about the year you "made" their child's life!

As all things change, thus so is education as it continues to reflect the desires and challenges of society or implement the latest educational fad or fancy. The technological electronic society, the valueless society, the non-English speaking communities, the gifted, the handicapped, single parent families, the difficulty in finding school volunteers because everyone's at work, the speed, the physical and mental child abuse, television influences, and the gap between the"haves" and "have nots" concern me now in the administrative positions I hold.