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Dear Teacher | I’m Sorry



Dear Teacher,

Sometimes I wonder if the words “I’m sorry” are what people want you to say.  By people, I mean the ardent critics complaining that tax-payers should stop wasting money or–my favorite expression–throwing money at problems in the classroom, and instead ask educators to live within the means of a shrunken state budget. The ones who suggest that you’re not working hard enough, that you need to prove your worth as teachers before you earn more money. Meanwhile, it’s just you, the thirty-four kids assigned to your classroom every block, and an email from your principal reminding you that at the rate it’s going, your school will be devoid of copy paper within five weeks.

I’m writing you today to ask you to never apologize.

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Fall Meditation



Here comes the cold, crisp fall:
Bare feet retreat to woollen socks,
and darkness falls on younger clocks
as August sees her summer leaves
awake in orange glow.


It seems every end of summer begins a season of anticipation–four, blissful months of anticipation. September starts the school year new; October is a house full of goblins counting down to one big haunting; November the turkey season beckons, and then, December’s darkness bookends the days towards solstice, and Advent leans towards Christmas.

But summer! Oh how the summer burns down into embers, and how the first cold mornings awaken something inside from a deep, forgotten slumber. Fall is the best time for good beer. Bring the spice. Soon it will be okay to turn the oven on and bake–it won’t warm the house too much like it does in July. I cannot wait for a day cool enough for chopping wood.

I cannot wait for football–not that the sport itself means much to me–but the games themselves, the communities of people together, the time for wearing college sweatshirts again.

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