Wittier Word Weavers

Writers' Club of Whittier


Back to School: A Recurring Dream

As I stumble into my octogenarian years, “Back to School,” is a recurring dream—and not a pleasant one. The nightmare often starts with me standing in front of my class, partially dressed. I’m usually wearing a shirt, tie, baseball hat, and flip-flops. The rest is missing. It goes downhill from there, with being late, forgetting my lesson plans, losing control of my class, and general chaos. My students ignore me, and I can’t find my school keys. The worst part is standing before the principal with her staring in disbelief and asking, “Where are your pants?” Waking from my dream to find I am still retired, is always a relief.

“Back to School” was one of my favorite phrases, second only to “Let’s Take a Vacation.” As a woodworking teacher, my job was much different than that of an “academic” teacher. Not only did I have to teach, but also had to master a set of skills that would send some educators into another occupation. As did other teachers, I taught a subject, evaluated student learning, managed a classroom, and administered discipline. That’s not all. I supervised the operation of a large shop full of tools and machines, established safety procedures, maintained the equipment, inventoried and restocked supplies, sold wood to students, and managed a budget. I ran a business. The good news? Unlike an English teacher, I didn’t have a bunch of papers to grade on the weekend.

Every day, as my students worked in the shop, I coached them through the process of turning raw materials into finished products. At the end of each period, led by a student foreman, busy as bees, the students stored projects, cleaned workbenches, dusted off machines, swept the facility, and inventoried the tools. It wasn’t unusual for me to stand there, arms folded, observing my students, and thinking, I love being a teacher.

So, what’s with the dream? Where does my nightmare with its exposure, classroom chaos, and hint of failure fit in? According to one source, it has to do with not living up to my moral standards and goals. Really? Should an octogenarian be struggling with those ethical issues? I think not. However, they do take me back in time

Each year, during my teaching career, when June and the end of the school year arrived, I was disappointed. I had not met my goal, to be the best I could be. It didn’t take long to get over it. After all, in three months, I would have another chance. That’s the beauty of teaching. The school year starts in September, a new beginning, a time for renewal. The thought of returning to school, the opportunity to improve, was exciting. “Back to School?” Nightmares aside, I loved those three words..


Summer Vacations: The Best Times of Our Lives

About fifty years ago, after five years of college and coming to the end of my first year of teaching, I wanted my children to spend time with my mother and father, their paternal grandparents. If I could make it happen, my kids would get to know their grandma and grandpa and benefit greatly from being showered with their love. They would also meet and spend time with their east-coast aunts, uncles, and cousins. We lived in coastal California—my parents lived in a small, rural village in southern New Jersey where the Delaware Bay and Atlantic Ocean converge, a popular vacation spot, 2,800 miles distant.

Along with being a teacher, I was also a journeyman mason, skilled at brick and block work and concrete placement and finishing, skills in high demand wherever construction was in progress. That year, in early June, my father told me there was lots of construction work in south Jersey. Although oceans apart, a plan for a summer-long visit with my folks was brewing. A working vacation for me, coupled with a summer-long visit to my east-coast family, was doable. My wife agreed, and plans were made. My kids would be spending the summer with grandma and grandpa. Hopefully, upon arrival at the Jersey Shore, I would find work.

On the last day of school, after signing out and turning in my keys, I headed home to finish packing the station wagon. At 10:00 PM, with the kids in sleeping bags and our luggage strapped on top, along with my surfboard and fishing rods, we headed east. To avoid the California desert heat and glare, I drove though the night while the family slept. They awoke in eastern Arizona and we later stopped for the evening in New Mexico

Although we drove long hours and through the nights, we made sure the kids had plenty of pool time at the motels. During the drive, I often lead the family in song. One favorite, while crossing the desert, was, Cool Water, by Roy Rogers and Sons of the Pioneers. Another was 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, great for long journeys because it had a repetitive format and took hours to finish. Although a long trip, we had fun. Coast to coast, the trip took four and a half days.

Upon arrival, I found work with a contractor I had worked for in the past. The first couple of weeks were difficult. Working as a mason, my body, soft from lack of physical work, was not ready for what was about to occur. The shock to my muscles resulted in two weeks of continuous pain. In addition, my coworkers, knowing I was a teacher, found my discomfort and inability to keep pace, a rich source of amusement. By the third week, I recovered. By the fourth week, I held my own. It wasn’t long before my fellow workers had a difficult time keeping up with me. By summers end, I had lost fifteen pounds and added muscle. I returned to teaching, tanned, lean, and fit.

My parents’ single-story, three-bedroom home was not large enough for a host of visitors. Several years prior, my mother said to my father. “You know our children will be visiting in the summers. We need more rooms to accommodate them and our grandchildren.” So, Dad built a second story, adding three more bedrooms and a bath. The upstairs became the sleeping area and in-house playground for my kids and their four cousins. In preparation for their grandkids, Mom and Dad stocked up on bicycles and beach toys.

It was a great summer for my children. Along with the constant barrage of hugs and kisses from their grandparents, they had lots of unstructured, unsupervised playtime in the small rural town, much like my own childhood. Part of my plan was for them to have that experience. It wasn’t unusual for my mother to pack them a lunch and send them off on their bicycles for a day’s adventure, admonishing them to be home for dinner. All of their daytrips included the beach. Upon their return, covered with sand, they required a rinse in the outdoor shower Dad had built for that purpose.

Weekends were my vacation time, with fishing or surfing on Saturdays and beach with the family on Sunday afternoons. Sunday morning was a time of devotion. Being a small town, there was no church. Every Sunday, fire engines were removed from the firehouse and an altar and chairs were set up. Voila! A place of worship! After services, there was a rush home to change into beach attire. A five-mile caravan to the beach followed, loaded with kids, buckets, shovels, blankets, towels, and beach chairs.

We enjoyed those summer vacations for years to come, with the dash across the desert and heartland of our country into the Mid Atlantic States and arriving at the family home. We did this for six years, until my body could no longer take the physical abuse of masonry work. Those were great working vacations. My parents loved my kids. My kids loved my parents. Ever since, both of my children have often said, “Those were the best times of our lives.” I agree.

To this day, even though my parents are long gone, I make the journey every year. The difference is, now I fly. My wife and I will make the trip in late September. My sisters will be there, as will some of their children and grandchildren. We will stay in the home that Mom and Dad built.