It Breaks My Heart Headline in Education Week October 1, 2014: “Pentagon Program Provides Surplus Weapons to Districts.” Two weeks ago I returned to the small, rural elementary school where I held my first job as principal to attend a ribbon cutting for a wonderful new addition allowing the school to expand its offerings across the board. Over 30 years ago the only surplus we received was office supplies and occasional special programs of paperback books or colored markers. Security at the school was the evening custodians remembering to lock the three entrances. Threats came in the form of a local bull who’d wandered onto the playground one morning during recess. (His owner, an eighth grade girl named Ann, calmly put her finger through his nose ring and led him home, but not until after some apparently entertaining, misguided heroics on my part.) Back then the only uniforms on our campus were for sports teams and the occasional volunteers during Fire Prevention Week. Since those days, I spent another 15 years intermittently in different districts into the first decade of this century, so I know the changes. I vividly recall the first time my life was threatened by an angry teenager, the one time a parent arrived in my office with a pistol in his shoulder holster (it remained there), the time we had the full state police bomb squad investigating an unusual package discovered at the main entrance, the early and unusually warm spring morning I spent watching our baseball teams practice after I’d seen the reports from Columbine. I’ve seen the changes, and that headline breaks my heart.

Banned Books I was delighted to realize that on a lengthy list of commonly banned books I have read all but two, and taught two during my years as an English teacher. What is there about that sense of pride, I wonder. I’ve never been what anyone would consider a rebel. For instance, thanks to Facebook I was reminded that I wore a blue/gray suit with a navy tie in my fourth grade class picture. Perhaps that outlandish choice was in some inverted way a device for stepping outside the fashion norms for nine-year-olds of 1963. Regardless, no one ever called me James Dean. Suits and ties notwithstanding, one aspect of my early years did influence my interest in a wide range of literature. My mother had books all over the house. My father’s contribution was having made the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the living room. Mom’s Book-of-the-Month-Club membership brought a seemingly endless supply of new, hardcover treasures full of promising adventure, some years ahead of my own time, which I suppose made for even more adventure than the author’s might have imagined. Imagination, the intersection of the author’s and the reader’s, is the point of literature. Imagination can be frightening, whether or our own creation late at night reading to the accompaniment of a howling wind, or the deliberate manipulation of a writer deftly pushing largely untapped, little used buttons of deep-seated anxieties and fears commonly held and personally abraded. Maybe that’s it. Books are banned because of fear. Topics, beliefs, convictions that confront us, that rub us even further than the exposed nerve endings of personal experience can create fear. Too often fear of ideas can result in bonfires; just ask Guy Montag.

Raising a Strong Reader Ed Wilkens 3/5/14 Last night at our weekly dinner and chess rendezvous, my father handed me a scrap of yellowed vellum with the quote, Richer than I you can never be. I had a mother who read to me. ― Strickland Gillian, written in my great Aunt Josie’s hand. “Because you inherited Mom’s love of reading and have made it your life’s work,” he said. “First with your own girls and now with their children, books always have mattered so much.” I know “raising a strong reader” is much more than merely displaying and sharing a love of books, but I do believe that is how it begins. So, indulge me if you will, as I reflect on what that has meant to me. I’ll leave the technical and scientific accounts to those more knowledgeable and skilled than I, but I will claim both a love for reading and a mission to help others develop the same. I grew up in a house rich with print. Mom was the reader, though Dad made the bookshelves! I was exposed to a dizzying array of material both fiction and non- from an early age; perhaps in some case earlier than appropriate as I at least occasionally explored books beyond both my reading levels and social preparedness. As a young child I discovered libraries and roared through the entire Walter Farley “Black Stallion” series. As a young adult I took extra literature courses in high school and majored in English (literature) as an undergrad. My children grew up in a house rich with print. Both Jill and I are avid readers with, fortunately for the girls, very different appetites. We still have boxes of children’s books from the girls’ first days on this planet. My heart doesn’t require an album, scrapbook, or Snapfish to conjure cuddling with the girls to read and re-read those books. I made their bookshelves, and they helped fill them. On several of my birthdays part of the celebration was a family road trip to Barnes and Noble where each one of us bought a book. Many of those books are now with the girls for their own children; many are still with Jill and me, nesting in baskets scattered around the house for when the grandchildren arrive. Just last Saturday, Avery Ann, our first grandchild and only 15 months, toddled over to one basket, grabbed The Snowy Day, carried over to me and tried to maintain her grip on the book and her bunny while climbing into my lap. Her cousin, Roman, is only two weeks old but he has way more books than toys. “Raising a strong reader” begins with a house rich in print, is nurtured by Moms and Dads who read, and is promised by the love emerging from that combination. The science will come; start with a book and someone you love.

“Thank God for fish sticks!” I had coffee yesterday morning with Dr. Jack. He’d been my daughters’ pediatrician until they were nearly five and nearly two respectively. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly 30 years, and the primary purpose of our meeting was to discuss a book talk event that he had agreed to do as a fundraiser for the Stern Center. Jack’s book Life in a Jar is a compelling account of the work of Irena Sendler as she saved 2,500 Jewish children from the Warsaw ghetto during the Holocaust. He frames this with a secondary story of three teenage girls from a small high school in Kansas who created a play about Sendler for a history project and in the process have touched countless lives in Poland and around the globe. Our conversation focused largely on the book, his process in writing it, and planning for our event. But we also spoke of our children, my two whom he had known so long ago (I brought a photo of the three of them shortly before he left the little town we had shared) and his son. Among the memories was the fact that my older daughter and his son both went through an “eat only fish sticks” phase which Jack had encouraged us not to fret. Yesterday we celebrated how sophisticated our children’s palates have become! Perhaps it was the decades allowing Jack and me the special perspective of time, perhaps it was the power and profundity of his book, or perhaps it was merely the comfort of great coffee in a warm place on a cold day, but our hour together was rich, validating, and companionable. I had arrived looking to firm up logistics for an event and learn more about his book, and I left feeling like my life was better for the conversation.

Depending on family dynamics you might become aware of any academic difficulties your child is experiencing over family dinner, while driving to soccer practice, or in those quiet conversations just before bed. Or, you might be totally surprised to learn from your child’s teacher or through a formal written progress report that things are not going as well as you had assumed. Regardless of how you discover the challenges what you do next is crucial and it’s all about communication and relationships. The essential players include you, your child, and the teacher or teachers relevant to the challenge. Potential additional partners might include a counselor, coach, or administrator depending on the specifics of the challenges. Suggestions • Hold positive assumptions o Your child wants to do well. o Your child’s teachers care that he does well o Your child’s teachers have the skills to meet her needs. o When parents and teachers work together, anything is possible. • Talk with your child to try to understand his perspective and definition of the problem. • Convey caring, confidence, and commitment to make things better. • Do not wait for the school’s official system to kick into gear; contact your child’s teacher o Try to identify a primary contact person; often schools are organized as teams, or there might be a “teacher advisory” system of some sort o Request an initial conversation with that primary contact (best to avoid your having to sit down facing a group of personnel) and explain your concerns, simply but clearly and as specifically as possible o Include your child, depending her age and developmental readiness to participate • Prepare for the conversation by outlining your concerns, consider bringing a brief, clear written outline o Carry your positive assumptions into the conversation; avoid blame o If the teacher is the sole relevant professional begin working on possible action steps, keeping those clear, explicit and simple o If a group would better help achieve success, then request a meeting with that team (or a sufficient representation of the team; again, unless you are sure to be comfortable try to avoid sitting “across from” all seven of your child’s teachers. That can intimidate anyone.) o Take notes, and share those marked “copy” with the contact person. • Once a comfortable, focused, simple, clear set of strategies is identified, it should be committed to writing so there is a record of the plan. (Note: this kind of plan might well be formalized in the school’s “Education Support Team” structure, or even more so with what is known as a “504 Plan” and could, in the face of significant concerns, lead to your or their consideration of “Special Education evaluation.” For any such formal approaches you will want to inform yourself about how those work; such information is easily had online and from various parent advocacy groups.) o Be sure it includes efforts by parents as well as school personnel so there is deliberate mutual support; remember “all things are possible.” o Be clear about how you all will “measure” progress and success o Be sure to include a realistic mechanism for simple, regular communications about progress o If your child has not been an active participant in this planning, determine how you and school personnel will explain what everyone (including the child) is going to do so that together things will improve. Notes • If at any point you do not experience receptivity to your concerns, do not hesitate to turn to other school personnel including other teachers, counselors, principal, nurse, etc. the goal is to have a sense of welcome and readiness to work together • Keep notes at meetings and of other relevant conversations including email exchanges just to have access to key points, decisions, actions planned. We all need reminders occasionally. • It nearly goes without saying, but continue to use your “parent radar” to stay tuned in to how well your child is doing academically but also socially and emotionally. • Don’t wait long if your instinct suggests elements of the plan are backfiring or simply not working as intended. Return to the drawing board. • Do give folks, including your child, reasonable time to implement and respond to the plan. • Change what does not work, but celebrate what does. • Thank everyone playing a role in progress and success.

The only roles I’ve played for thirty years are son, husband, and father. The first was by great good fortune, the second two by wonderful choice. My career path, on the other hand, has been circuitous with no single sustained stops. Though always related to education, the specific roles have wandered in and out of local, regional and national settings. So as I currently find myself invested in the Stern Center for Language and Learning where we are celebrating our 30th Anniversary of helping all learners reach their full potential, I’m struck by Blanche Podhajski’s vision, tenacity, and grit. Or maybe that’s not quite the right list. I wonder about parallels to my three 30-year roles and Blanche’s 30 years at the helm of the Stern Center. What does it take for such things to “take?” I risk those who will suggest I’m teetering on the cloying, but I think it is about the heart of it. Love is perhaps not often considered in the leadership manuals, but passion certainly is. “Follow your bliss” and all that. However, we know from studies that passion is simply not enduring, rekindlable perhaps, but not sustainable. Love on the other hand is deeper, richer, able to endure occasional hardships without sacrificing its essence. Love lasts when we realize what it takes and are willing to nurture and invest accordingly. That’s how I can claim my decades of son, husband, and father. And that’s how Blanche can claim her thirty years as founder and president of the Stern Center; she loves her life’s work. Happy Anniversary, Blanche!

Sunday morning a guest minister opened his sermon with references to the beginning of a new school year and all that means to children and youth, to teachers and principals, to parents. He elicited knowing giggles and groans from throughout the church as students and parents (and grandparents no doubt) projected themselves into the rhythms of school bus rides, homework, recess, tests, and friendships. Despite recent experiments with school calendars most of us in this country and for the most part globally still feel those traditional patterns of school/no school/school. For me, now eight years out from having worked to ensure that facilities and faculties were fully ready for the opening bell, I still hear and feel the comfortable buzz of a new year in late August. Two experiences suggest in part why those rituals still cling to my sense of time. One is a blessing, and one a tragedy, though both are each. Recently, while checking out of a local hardware store, the clerk greeted me by name. We chatted; he asked how long I’d lived in the area; back and forth for a few minutes as he recorded our transaction. Clearly he knew me, but the best I could do was allow him to think I recognized him since one part of my brain was engaged (and he wore a first-name nametag, “Chris”) while another was in search mode. He talked about when I was his principal, how much had changed in those 30+ years, his family, and his job. I was uplifted by his strong, positive recollections from his childhood, thanked him for recognizing me and speaking up, and left the store. Hours later I finally got it; he’d been in second grade at the first school where I was principal. A great little kid, full of curiosity, possessing a blend of innocence and experience not uncommon in very rural Vermont. During his second grade year his mother and a sibling were killed in a car accident; life as he’d known it was shredded, and eventually the remaining family moved away. Today, he is married and providing for a family of his own. When we reconnected at the hardware counter after three decades, we didn’t talk about tragedy, we talked instead about blessings common to us; homes, jobs, family. Recently, my younger daughter’s first grade teacher died after an arduous battle with multiple cancers. Sue was Lindsay’s teacher more than twenty years ago, and we still remember her fondly as just the sort of person parents want as the teacher for their six-year-old. She was energetically there for the kids, a loving advocate, effective teacher, and nearly perfect in loco parentis. We’d hear from Sue when we’d see each other at the market; she’d have a smile and story ready at the breakfast cafe on Saturday mornings; and in the ensuing years she always asked about Lindsay’s life. That was it, actually, Sue was the sort of teacher who became part of the children’s lives. Sue retired a decade ago and fully enjoyed what that allowed her until stricken with voracious cancer, a tragedy preventing her full celebration and reward. However, when we speak today of Sue we don’t hover over tragedy; we talk more about the blessings common to us; shared careers, family, children. The cycle of a new school year conjures the scent of unbroken Crayolas, the shiver of frost in the morning, and the chorus of animated voices in the hallways. It also speaks to the lives such as Chris, Sue, and me touched and blended forever. It is a familiar, enriching rhythm.

“But Ed, nothing’s perfect in life.” Matthew’s response when I was fretting that we’d glued one leg shorter than the other three on a wooden wolf we’d added to our growing pack. Matthew’s ten; we’re reading buddies at the Boys and Girls Club. We meet for an hour each Thursday and spend about 40 minutes reading and 20 minutes doing something else. A couple of months ago he discovered that I do small wood projects and asked about our making “a bunch of animals, like wolves and bears and deer.” So we negotiated that into our reading incentive contract, and we’re now up to four wolves, one bear and one deer all of which I bring in parts ready to sand, glue, and paint. Along the way Matthew’s reading is improving, our menagerie is growing, we know each other better, and his world view continues to impress as wise beyond his years. I know it sounds like a cliché when it comes to mentoring, but I often leave our times together wondering which one of us gets more out of it. Nothing’s perfect, but our Thursday’s are pretty good.

Essay-Grading Software Offers Professors a Break EdX, a nonprofit enterprise founded by Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, will release automated software that uses artificial intelligence to grade student essays and short written answers. By JOHN MARKOFF, Published: April 4, 2013, NYT OK, so some of my fondest memories of my early career are reading and responding to high school student’s essays. As a young English teacher in rural Vermont I was idealistic, eager to truly know the students, and optimistic that I could help develop solid thinkers, thoughtful debaters, and passionate poets all through writing and our conversations about it. Maybe that’s why I cringed at this new software application and its claims. Granted, my efforts at reflection, compassion, and constructive even friendly feedback would often take me as many as two days to provide a class of twenty-two 17 year olds, so the software is much faster. But still; it’s called humanities for a reason, right? More than a few of those young writers from the ‘70’s remain locked in my memory of what it meant for me to “teach,” and it was about connecting with lives, understanding their dreams and challenges, being part of showing them how language matters, how writing is thinking twice, and how the ways we communicate change lives, our own and others. Can software do that?

In our cellar storage area we have kept a cradle made by my fishing buddy before our first child arrived, the disassembled crib that our girls both used decades ago, and boxes of children’s books…all of this waiting for the day when grandchildren would bless us. In the past four months we’ve moved the cradle to one of the guest rooms, the books to the main floor, and realized that the cradle might need some work! Avery is four months old and already loves books as a primary attraction. Granted some of that is because the heavy board pages taste so good, but also she loves the visuals, the cadence of our reading to her, and her own recognition that she can turn the pages whenever she wishes regardless of the narrative flow. We’re fortunate that we can visit on alternate weekends, and each such celebration inevitably includes at least one story. Perhaps just another excuse to cuddle, but isn’t that part of how we pass on the love…of books…of each other?

I’m not often one short of language, but I’ve neglected this blog for months waiting for the right, best words to express my wonder at what a grandchild brings. Still no best words, odd for one others might even call glib. Nevertheless, and, with apologies for my narrative inadequacies in this case, it’s time to try. Avery Anne was born on Veterans’ Day just over three months ago, and I’ve been totally smitten since. Lindsay, my daughter, has been transformed into “Avery’s mother.” Joe, my son-in-law, has been demoted as he put it this weekend to “Avery’s transportation manager.” It’s not that we love Lindsay and Joe any less, it’s simply that we’ve discovered a love so new, so compelling, so full of unlimited promise and unfettered joy, that all else steps back to allow this glow. So now, we have a cradle in one of the guest bedrooms, a growing array of toys, and a soon to be overflowing basket of Good Night, Moon and its family of children’s books. I’m called back to when the cradle was for Marissa and Lindsay, when we built towers of blocks, and when we snuggled with them to read and “find the mouse” on each page. And I’m drawn forward to when Avery will read the books to us, work with me to build the puzzles, and bait her own hook!

Full disclosure: I’m writing this while sipping my second cup of coffee, having been up for several hours this morning. Education Week carries a provocative front page article today ‘Smart Pills’ Promising, Problematic: Brain-enhancing Drugs Stir Safety, Ethics Debates. The article spotlights what it calls an “explosion” in the availability and use of such drugs as Ritalin and commercial drinks like NeuroFuel (called nootropics, and which includes the aforementioned caffeine) and raises predictable questions attendant to such practices. For several years I’ve read occasionally about the potential and actual effects of such drugs to improve concentration, focus, and organizational sense. When I was a school principal (total of 19 years across grades preK-12; four different school systems) I was directly involved with students and families for whom such drugs were a part of their lives helping children cope with the challenges of ADHD, ADD and the like. In many cases parents, educators and the children themselves felt that such drugs were essential to learning and success in school and life. Occasionally I’d find myself engaged in dialogues where either the family or we educators, but not both at the same time, wanted to explore the possible positive effects of such drugs in efforts to “make learning possible.” However, as I read today’s article I cringed a bit. Perhaps it’s that I’m anticipating my first grandchild within the next couple of weeks, or perhaps it’s that my second cup of coffee has become so socialized (in fact, creates social opportunities), or perhaps it’s my sad acceptance that Lance Armstrong used performance enhancing drugs with such utter disregard for “what is right.” So, in briefly trying to unpack my own reactions, a few high points emerged. In a culture where it is increasingly common for parents to “red-shirt” their children from traditional kindergarten entry age in order to ensure little Bobby is actually a little bigger Bobby relative to his school peers, it’s probably not much of a leap for little Bobby to soon be seen needing one of these nootropics, particularly once a critical mass of his peers have also been red-shirted. Even if research convinces us that there are no ill effects (unlikely to be sure, since even my Starbucks will cause tremors and speed-talking if I have a third cup soon), wouldn’t access to such drugs simply expand the existing gap between the haves and the have-nots in terms of educational success and ultimate employability? If we already bemoan that the rich get richer, shouldn’t we be concerned about practices that help the rich get smarter as well if that were to deepen existing gulfs of hope and achievement? No more caffeine for me this morning, though I will have another cup around 3:00. I’ll close hoping that parents, educators, and doctors all will give nootropics for learning enhancement the same wide berth we too slowly deemed appropriate for steroids and athletics.

"Count your blessings." An admonition across generations to the point of cliche. It began simply enough; "Excuse me, sir; I think there's an envelope there with my name on it.". She spoke her name as I turned to help. I turned back, envelope in hand, a split second for memory to spin and stop. I introduced myself and started to ask the, "Are you...?" question when she interrupted with her version. This woman had been an eighth grader when I became the principal of her school---her final year there, my first. Thirty-two years ago. As we spoke past the platitudes, I found the thirteen-year-old in her eyes. She told me in some detail of the layered struggles she has battled on behalf of her son and his myriad physical and cognitive challenges. She conveyed no sadness, no anger; rather a focused acceptance and determination to provide for her son. We nodded and smiled at the perhaps not so random reunion, wished each other well, and I returned to my office counting my blessings.

AMEX or library? I think it’s telling that in my wallet the card in front is my local library ID card, not my American Express, VISA, or MasterCard. Not to suggest that I’m against spending plastic, but I think if I had to surrender those cards, the last to go would be the cardstock library card with rounded corners and my personal bar code. I suspect that my addiction to print began before I was in elementary school, growing up in a house surrounded by books, bookcases, and magazines. My earliest memories of books bring me back to Dick, Jane, and Spot, but that was not yet a hobby much less a lifestyle. By 5th grade or so, I was stalking the school library reading every one of Walter Farley’s Black Stallion novels, consuming the Hardy Boys series, and devouring even encyclopedias and other nonfiction books about explorers, scientists, soldiers, and dinosaurs. In high school I sought extra English classes where The Bible as Literature offered as much as did Shakespeare and Hemingway. No surprise then that I was a lit major in college and eventually became an English teacher, if only for 5 quick years. Now in my late 50’s and working at the Stern Center for Language and Learning (having been a teacher or principal for most of my career to date,) I stalk the local library for intriguing novels, two at a time, every three weeks yielding to my little bar coded membership card. Reading as both hobby and lifestyle. Priceless!

What is there about the alchemy of sports that can so easily change men into boys? Two weeks ago I was told at work that “The Red Sox have called” and assumed immediately that my brother-in-law was playing a joke of some sort. In one of Life’s magical moments, it turned out that the Red Sox did indeed call…to inform us that they had selected the Stern Center to receive $2,500 as one of their 100 Acts of Kindness celebrating the 100th anniversary of Fenway Park…and, that we would receive 4 tickets to a Friday night game..AND that they would present the check to me on the field between home plate and the pitcher’s mound in a pre-game ceremony. Seriously, does it get any better than that? Maybe meeting the players, or sharing a few minutes with Gerry and Don in the NESN booth, but this was really cool even without those extras! Lots of “Personnel Only” access as we were greeted and toured by a series of marketing staff getting ready for the on-field access time. Chatting with the VP for marketing I asked if I could take some souvenir grass. Tongue only slightly in cheek, he told me I’d probably be tackled by security, but that the infield clay was another matter, so I scooped up Fenway clay into my ticket envelope. Once announced we went out toward the pitcher’s mound (I consciously tried to act like I’d done this before but some of the photos reveal the inner 10-year old’s grin of disbelief as we were displayed on the huge centerfield screen, and the announcer described the Stern Center and introduced me to receive the check. Boston lost to Toronto that night, but for about 30 minutes before the first pitch, I was a kid again, win or lose.

Two funerals in five days. Two lives richly lived, touching others in ways at once whispers of intimacy and splashes of joy. Two funerals that truly were more celebrations than sack cloth. Friends and family felt that warm, inviting embrace of lives so full of love that we blinked in wonder, held the hands closest to us, and committed ourselves to live more like Gracie and Bob had. Gracie was seventeen when she died after a ten-year battle with cancer. Bob was seventy-eight when he died in his sleep after five years of health challenges. I knew them both really only through other members of their families, and it was those connections that brought me to both funerals. Two funerals in five days. We sang hymns and, as Gracie’s father described it, a “goofy” rendition of family memories to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas. We offered comfort to family and to each other. We chuckled and even laughed occasionally through our tears. And in the end, we all stepped outside to brilliant sun and breathtakingly beautiful blue skies where we felt both Gracie and Bob in the gentle summer breeze.

Two wonderful events. One personal, one professional. A year’s planning for each. Guest list content and chemistry important. Invitations elegant, expressive, artful. Celebration, family, friends, joy. Umbrellas for everyone. My older daughter, Marissa, was married 3 weeks ago on the only rainy Saturday out of the last 7. Not just rain, but 36 hours of incessant rain, wind, mist, fog. For what was to have been an outside wedding with grand views of Vermont hillsides, mountains, and a lake. Instead, we had romantic vistas with swirling mist and fog gathering in soft chignons around the valley, slipping and curling along the lakeshore, and whispering at the feet of the wedding party in photo poses. Black umbrellas and white umbrellas (Marissa and Jackson shared a black and white one, of course) dotted the lawn against the pearl gray of the fog. Despite the rains, we enjoyed a spectacular festival of family, friends, and love. The party stretched over 3 days with a crescendo on Saturday and gentle rising and falling on either side. Marissa and Jackson are perfect for each other and perfect for the rest of us who know and love them; being around them for the weekend, everyone felt the magic of romance and commitment. Even the weather could not contain our collective and personal joy. Last week Tuesday, on the only rainy day in the last 7 we at the Stern Center held our Building Dedication ceremony for the Cynthia K. Hoehl Building, our new Williston facility. Not just rain, but nearly horizontal downpours and wind gusts at nearly 30 mph. The tent had been set up the day before in brilliant sun under azure skies, the quintessential Vermont summer day. But the next day, by one hour before the ceremony began in the tent, we’d been following the Weather Channel for 15 minute updates hoping to avoid electrical storms. We did that, but I sat with Rube Goldberg bungee cords strapped to my hands holding down the north wall, and we turned up the PA system so it could compete successfully with the drumming of the tent fabric. The speakers were brief but personal, touching, and inspirational. We rearranged pedestrian traffic to make the shortest trip under umbrella runners back to the building for tours and refreshments. It was a successful event, celebrating the past, present, and future of the Stern Center. Even the weather could not contain our collective spirit. So, while several people who realized my two major weather challenges wondered aloud if I should step aside from helping plan any major special events the rest of the summer, we all were reminded that it’s not the weather or the venue, or even the food or music that makes events special; it’s the people. “Come rain or come shine!”

Having spent most of my adult life in public schools (in that time, 19 years as a principal), I’ve always appreciated the line from Marian Wright Edelman’s book The Measure of Our Success where she writes in part, “…Remember….that many fruits of your labor won’t become manifest for many, many years.” This past year I’ve seen yet another example of that important perspective. I first met Teddy Kusiak when he was a junior in high school having spent the previous year investing many hours of hard work and discipline to get himself back on track academically, emotionally, and athletically. Ted was one of those student/athletes who’d succeeded initially by his charm and achievements only to hit the academic wall as a high school freshman. Those struggles hamstrung him first in the classroom and then in terms of sports eligibility. That year all but dashed his and his parents’ dreams of athletic scholarship supporting a college career. Upon advice of his school counselor, they sought the Stern Center, and Ted reclaimed his dreams over the next year. I have continued to connect with Ted and his father since that year, and was not surprised therefore to read the lead article in a recent Sunday issue of the Burlington Free Press highlighting Ted’s impressive achievements as an NCAA Division 1 track star at the University of Rhode Island. As startling as his track performances continued to be (with the National NCAA’s in the near future), his academic accomplishments are more so. Since drawing himself up out of the ashes of failure and discouragement, Ted gained honor roll status for the balance of high school and went on to his current status as a Dean’s List Senior at URI. For Ted, the “many fruits of his labor” continue to manifest, and we are proud to call him a Stern Center alum.

At half-time I couldn’t wait to stand up, stretch my back and relieve my knees. Seconds after I stood I realized I was still watching fifteen athletes who couldn’t leave their wheel chairs half-time or not. No standing, no stretching, no relief. And yet they were all smiling and laughing while I grimaced to the left and then to the right. I sat back down. My cousin Scott, his teammates and his opponents are all Power Soccer players participating in a rapidly growing international competitive sport. During the game I was struck by how similar it is to the NCAA basketball tournaments which that day were in the semi-final round. In both cases there were startling offensive plays, brilliant passes, occasional defensive genius, and periodic lapses in the game plans. There were also differences. Wheelchairs don’t move as fast or as instinctively as basketball players. When one or more of your hands is not available you choose to “chair bump” instead of “chest bump” after a great play. The New Orleans Superdome holds 70,000+ and only the Neilsons know how many watched on TV, while approximately 120 friends and family gathered without the glare of klieg lights to watch power soccer. As I remained seated and watched the game unfold, I wondered how long it will be before Scott has an agent, a chair contract, sports drink endorsements, and air time on ESPN.

“Hey, Ed; how old are you, anyway?” Soon after we were introduced as Reading Buddies in the Boys and Girls Club’s new mentoring program through Mobius, Richard asked me that question. At least that day at the Club I was clearly an outlier demographic, and I didn’t need Richard’s reminder! Especially after he pointed out that I’m “two of my friend Tom’s mentor.” Generations aside, we’ve dug in to Charlotte’s Web after he informed me that I was “looking at a boy who’s been to a farm and really likes animals.” Richard is 10, attends the local Integrated Arts Academy Elementary School, and prefers to take notes by drawing creative and expressive sketches rather than writing words. He struggles a bit with reading, but is an enthusiastic and engaged listener with an impressive auditory memory, able to recount nearly every detail of what we read last week. We’ve had only two sessions, but this is clearly fun for both of us. So far the pattern is read, play a game or draw together, read. He enjoys taking me around the Club as he greets the staff and others with a first name familiarity that left me asking him, “Are you the mayor here?” We’re working out the details of our buddy system, but I can see why people have encouraged me to be a mentor.