Rediscovering Oz

Up until this school year, I had forgotten about the magic of The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz was my school's spring musical. My principal likes to say that the school programs get better and better year after year. But I'm not sure I'll be able to top this one next year. I mean, how can you go wrong with The Wizard of Oz? The material is just . . . there.

When I originally watched the movie and adapted the script, I was reminded as to how good it was, and I found myself weeping as I typed up the last page, sending Dorothy away from her friends in Oz and back home to Kansas.

Okay, but I'm a sentimental music teacher. Did the kids get it? Maybe. Here are a few of the things that transpired the day after the production.

1. The kindergartners could not stop talking about the show. They came into my room chattering about the play.

One student said, "I want to be the robot when I'm a sixth grader." (I believe he was referring to the Tin Man.)

I also had the students watch part of the movie so that they could compare the film to the live version. When Toto escaped from Miss Gulch and bounded through Dorothy's bedroom window, the little kindergartners erupted in applause.

2. I was walking down the hall and came upon a fifth grade boy plucking out "Over the Rainbow" on his violin. I also heard spontaneous choruses of "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead" throughout the school building.

3. This year, the students all received theater shirts with a Wizard of Oz logo due to the generosity of a special parent and my school. Several of the students proudly wore the shirts the next day, and the shirts were so popular, we are giving away the extras in a drawing every Friday.

4. Best of all, the sixth grade teacher came rushing into my room the afternoon following the program and said, "We're showing the movie to the students, and they are singing along with every song!"

This may not seem that remarkable, but anyone who has ever tried to get a group of sixth graders to sing anything will understand the miraculous nature of the statement above.

So, I think the kids got it. I think they grasped the magic of The Wizard Oz. And maybe someday when they are adults, they will have a chance to rediscover that magic . . . like I did.

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Girl Scout Cookie Season Has Arrived (RE-POST FROM 1/28/12)

 I thought this would be a fun re-post, considering I just received several boxes of Girl Scout Cookies a few weeks ago. Enjoy! 

It's Girl Scout Cookie season. Like every supportive teacher with a sweet tooth, I plan my dessert menu according to my students' fundraisers. Candy bars in the fall, Butter Braid in the winter, and Girl Scout Cookies in the spring.

I was a Girl Scout, but I dropped out when the troop planned its first camping trip. All I remember about my stint as a Girl Scout was a song, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold," and a puppet show with a grandmother who kept repeating, "Babes are a bane and burden." I liked the puppet show, but I don't think I understood the definition of "bane" or "burden." And I probably didn't consider myself a "babe" at the wise old age of six.

Of course, I also remember Girl Scout Cookie season. Since we Girl Scouts were the ones selling the cookies, our leaders allowed us to sample the products in order to share our expertise with potential customers. It was one of my favorite Girl Scout activities.

As a teacher, I was delighted when little girls started knocking on my classroom door, cookie order forms in their hands. I was probably my kiddos' best customer, ordering a box of everything (except the sugar-free kind). After I married Dan, I ordered a box of everything and a couple of extra Samoas and Thin Mints.

Sadly, the past couple of years, not one Girl Scout has darkened my doorstep, an unusual turn of events since about 650 kids darken my doorstep every week. I would think these are pretty decent odds. One of those lovely children must be a cookie-selling Girl Scout.

Last year, Dan and I had to buy all of our Girl Scout Cookies from the hyper girls that plant themselves in front of the local supermarket. We made several trips. One evening toward the end of cookie season, Dan returned home, dejected.

"They didn't have any Samoas left, so I bought another box of Thin Mints," he said with a sigh.

Last spring, I announced in all of my classes, "I expect all Girl Scouts to sell me cookies next year. Don't forget! You have all made my husband and me very sad."

They all remembered.

When the first little girl handed me her order form, I marked one of each flavor, fearing - in light of my Girl Scout Cookie dry spell the last few years - that this would be my only chance.

The next day, the girl's mother e-mailed me, thanking me for supporting her daughter and essentially asking me, "Are you sure you want to order all these cookies?"

Of course I did! Didn't she know that I had a growing husband-boy at home, and this was the only Girl Scout Cookie request I had received in - like - four decades?

Then another wide-eyed, smiling face showed up at my door later that week.

I ordered more Samoas, Thin Mints, and Savannah Smiles, a new cookie issued in honor of the Girl Scouts' 100th anniversary. (I was probably about Brownie age when the cookie's namesake, the movie Savannah Smiles, was released.)

At the end of the week, one more little girl brought me her form.

"I want to sell a thousand boxes this year," she exclaimed.

I ordered more Trefoils, Tagalongs, and . . . Samoas. (If you haven't guessed already, Dan's mantra is, "You can never have too many Samoas." By the way, Samoas are still made with hydrogenated oils, but no one seems to care at my house.)

The little girl tried to make me pay on the spot, but I am a Girl Scout Cookie pro. I know from many years of experience that I am supposed to hand the kids their money when they show up in the spring with a plastic grocery bag filled with several pounds of sugary goodness. I gently delineated the entire cookie-selling procedure. She went away penniless - for the time being.

I was afraid she might lose the check before I got my one hundred sixty-four boxes of Samoas.

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Dan Goes to Choir Festival (RE-POST FROM 3/9/13)

I just finished my final district music festival yesterday. In honor of festival season (and because I am lacking time and creativity this week), I am rerunning a blog post from last year. Quick update: This year, Dan helped out at my choir festival once again. The next day, a sixth grade student said to me, "Your husband is really nice." I answered, "Yeah, I kind of like him. I think I'll keep him."

 

The other night, my husband, Dan, did his favorite thing in the whole world. He spent the evening with 200 elementary school kids.

Tuesday night was our district's elementary choir festival. As director of my school's choir, I was required to be there. Dan, an introverted software engineer, was not. But instead of playing video games at home all night, he opted to brave curly-haired girls and handsome boys in their newly-pressed white button-down shirts.

I put him in charge of handing out the kids' choir vests and videotaping the concert. Pretty soon, he was elected to run the houselights for the concert. He also sat next to my choir, on the opposite end. He was supposed to be a foreboding presence, intimidating the kids I couldn't reach quickly.

He called me, "Mrs. Duggan" in front of the kids. I, in turn, called him,"Mr. Duggan."

The kids looked at us like we were weirdos.

"We already know your first name, Mrs. Duggan."

"Do you really call each other Mr. and Mrs. Duggan?"

One student even asked Dan, "What is your first name?"

"Mister . . . " Dan responded.

At the end of the concert, Dan taught the kids how to hand in their vests neatly. In fact, he refused to take them unless they turned in the vests properly.

"You would make a good teacher," I observed.

After the performance, while I was chatting with other directors, Dan sat patiently on the other side of the auditorium, playing with the video camera.

I have noticed that most music teachers don't have spouses who work alongside them during their programs. I have forgotten what it was like to do all of this on my own. (There were a few years during the beginning of my teaching career when I was "Miss Turner" rather than "Mrs. Duggan.)

Maybe Dan and I are still in the honeymoon phase of our marriage (after nine years?). Perhaps I am just lucky. Regardless of the reason, I am happy for the help, especially at festival time.

Not too long ago, I heard that one of my out-of-town music teacher colleagues was getting a divorce. She felt her husband wasn't supportive enough. He felt she wasn't home enough.

"It's hard for our spouses to come to everything, especially when we're gone nights and weekends at performances, conferences, you know . . ." another music teacher colleague said in a separate conversation.

That night, I told Dan, "If you get burnt out helping me with my job, you have to tell me before it gets to that point."

"Okay," he said, in a way that led me to believe that he kind of liked herding 200 elementary-age kids around an auditorium.

In another week, Dan will be helping with my spring musical. I wonder what kinds of tasks I'll have for him on my honey-do list. He will probably be on a ladder, hanging decorations, due to my fear of heights.

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Duggan Tech Support

Don't get jealous, but I have my own tech guy. You've probably figured out by now, it's my software engineer husband, Dan.

In this high-tech world, it's pretty fabulous to have your own tech guy. It beats waiting for someone to answer your help ticket or watching in horror as someone unplugs and re-plugs cables into strange orifices just to "see if this will work."

A couple of years ago, all of our work computers came down with a terrible virus (cough, cough). Turned out, someone forgot to load security software during the annual re-imaging. But my computer was just fine because I had my own tech guy. He had already loaded antivirus software on my system as soon as he saw my unprotected system.

This year, we received new computers, and I had to hook up my own surround sound equipment because the people who plugged in the new computers left a mess of speaker cables on my desk. (I get it. Plugging in stuff is tiring.) But it was fine. I had my own tech guy.

Not only does my personal tech guy have to put up with my nonstop cries for help, but he has to solve my tech problems over the phone, while I am having an anxiety attack: "What do I do? What do I do? The kids come in any minute. I'm running out of time!"

Or he has to talk me down from throwing my device against the wall: "What if I just kick it really hard? Will that work?"

Or he has to put up with being blamed for every computer ill in the entire world: "What did you do to my computer?"

The other day, I spent much of the morning on the phone with my husband, attempting to figure out some strangely-behaving software. He solved my problem by my fourth class. That evening, we were discussing, yet again, his miraculous save.

"I should start answering my phone at work, 'Duggan Tech Support,'" Dan said.

"But how would you know it's me?"

"I do have caller ID, you know."

Of course he does. He works in technology. Oh wait! I have caller ID too. I guess it is not that unusual nowadays.

"But how will you know for sure it's me? What if you answer the phone, 'Duggan Tech Support,'" I lifted my hand to my ear like a telephone, "and the school says, 'Uh . . . your wife just had a stroke. We're sending her to the emergency room?'"

"I'd say, 'Did you try rebooting her?'"

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