When I began my career as a first-grade teacher, writing in the first grade meant handwriting. But change was in the air. Led by Donald Graves, education professor from the University of New Hampshire, and many others, composition was beginning earlier, moving to the primary grades.
I loved it. Growing up in a small town with nothing much to do, writing gave my imagination wings, and I wanted my students to share that joy. I developed a writing system for teaching composition to first graders. It had good results, with all my six-year-old students able to share their thoughts on paper.
I named my system FIRSTWRITE and wrote a book for teachers with a step-by-step procedure that they could follow in their classrooms. My idea was to sell the book, but to my surprise, more than wanting to buy a book, teachers wanted the ideas explained. They wanted a class on the subject, presumably taught by a live speaker, presumably me, since I was the only one at this point who knew what I was talking about.
The back story here is that I did not relish speaking in front of a group. Even a small group. I never spoke up at faculty meetings. I joked that in three years on a church committee, the only word I ever said was Aye, as in “All in favor, say Aye.” Actually, that was not a joke.
Yet, I believed in my writing system. So, with more trepidation than I’d had at the birth of my first child, I signed up to teach an in-service class.
This in-service class for teachers in my school district took place in my very own classroom, my own familiar environment. Why would replacing the 30 children with 30 adults make any difference in my level of relaxation? I don’t know, but it was the difference between Heaven and Hell.
One thing I knew for certain—I had to prepare. Like a Boy Scout working on his Eagle badge, by the time the fateful day arrived, I had PREPARED. I had charts, graphs, writing samples, books, overheads for the overhead projector which flashed the words from the hot plastics on to a screen. (Power Point had not been invented yet.) In fact, I had three large boxes of “stuff” to teach the two-hour session.
I remembered noticing that many public speakers paused from time to time to take a sip of water during their presentations. The ubiquitous water bottle was not in vogue yet, but I found a large blue plastic glass which I tossed into one of the boxes before loading them into my car for the next day’s ordeal.
By 3:30 the next afternoon, the custodian had graciously moved all the children’s desks to the sides of the room and set up the gray folding chairs facing the front where I would stand behind a table spread with my materials.
Maybe those sipping speakers I had observed knew something I didn’t know yet—adrenaline, the fight or flight hormone, makes your throat dry. No doubt the phrase “scared spitless” is based on reality. I didn’t know any of the science behind it, but my mouth felt extremely dry, and I began sipping while the weary teachers arrived and took their seats.
One of my colleagues, the other first-grade teacher, sat in the front row, but she was not attending out of choice. My principal, impressed with the results of my writing method, told her she had to be there.
This class began at 4 PM, after everyone had taught all day, and my colleague, Mary, would rather have been anywhere else, preferably home. Add to this the fact that she was an active, hyper type of individual who found it hard to sit still for any length of time, and it explains why she took it upon herself to focus her attention on my water glass.
I had been talking and sipping, flipping the overhead plastics, and sipping, sipping some more, emptying the water glass. Mary grabbed it, went to the back of the room, filled it up at the little primary-room sink and returned it. This gave her a chance to get out of her seat and move about. As for me, well, there rested the water glass, full again and evidently my favorite prop, so I continued my now established routine. Before long, Mary had a chance to get up and gallop to the sink again. And so it went.
The class lasted two hours. The teachers’ in-service credit was determined by the number of hours they attended. That is, it didn’t matter what they learned or if they learned anything, but they had to BE THERE. Or as the Marines express it: AIS- (Ass in seat.)
Finally, the ending time of 6 PM approached, and as the class came to a close, an aura of awe crept over the room. Not the thrill of an educational breakthrough, but more an attitude of amazement at just how much water the speaker could hold. She wasn’t very tall. Where was she putting it?
Ostensibly, the reality revealed a person lecturing on teaching writing with those in attendance listening and taking notes. But simultaneously, unintended and unrehearsed, a magical sideshow unfolded, as Mary dashed up with yet another sloshing glass of water, and I again made it disappear.
My reputation was sealed after that class. Someone would ask, “What can you tell me about Lucy Bell?” The second person would answer, “Well, she teaches at Madison, she’s short with red hair, and. . . she has a HUGE bladder.” “Oh, yes!“ the inquirer would respond. “I’ve heard of her.”
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Lucy Bell’s 35-year teaching career included over twenty years as a writing consultant. Her latest book, Coming Up, A Boy’s Adventures in 1940s Colorado Springs, combines narrative non-fiction with the history of the black community of Colorado Springs. It features rare historical photographs and the watercolor illustrations of Linda Martin. Release date: October 14, 2018. Her children’s novel, Molly and the Cat Who Stole Her Tongue, published in 2016, is available at Poor Richard’s Bookstore, Colorado Springs and Amazon.
