Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (16 page)

The kids’ enthusiasm comes out at our annual school play. As soon as I assign parts, they will search their scripts and count
how many lines they have. When I say it’s time for play practice, they’ll start moving the furniture around the classroom
faster than the guys on
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.
When we start rehearsing, they will say their lines with their backs to the audience. On opening night, one child will search
the folding chairs for his mom until he finds her. Children will giggle on stage when they’re supposed to freeze, and fix
their hair when they’re supposed to be asleep. When they take their bows, their hats will fall off.

When I was a kid, I loved doing plays. I wrote shows for the neighborhood kids. We performed them in Jennifer King’s garage.
I directed and starred in them, too. All the neighbor ladies came and paid a quarter to get in — even Mrs. King. For scenery
I raided our garage. For props I raided my house.

“Where’s the rug?” my mom called out one day, walking into the entryway.

“In the show!” I replied. “You’ll get it back in a couple of days. We close Sunday.”

This year I have a bunch of budding thespians in my classroom. When Trevor didn’t like the game we were playing in PE, he
started limping. When he didn’t want to write, he tied his arm up in a sweatshirt and said he broke it. This week as I was
walking around the room helping kids with their math, I stopped at his desk. His eyes were shut.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“I can’t do my math.”

“Why?”

“I’m blind.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to miss the movie we’re watching after lunch.”

Trevor sat up straight. “We’re watching a movie?”

“We might.”

His eyes popped open. “I’m healed!”

Not long ago, I was walking across the playground and noticed a group of kids on the lawn. They were lined up in three rows
in a triangular formation. Another child stood about ten feet away with a red rubber ball. He rolled the ball toward the triangle.
When the ball hit the kids, they went diving and flying in all directions. After they fell on the grass, they all jumped up
and returned to their three lines.

I stopped. “What are you guys playing?”

“Bowling Alley!” John announced. “We’re pins!”

Another day we were out for free play and I spotted half my class lying frozen on the grass. Kevin was standing over them
with his hands outstretched. I walked on over.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“Shhh,” Kevin said.

I whispered, “What’s going on here?”

Kevin leaned in. “I hypnotized them.”

“Oh.”

All of a sudden the bell rang. No one moved.

“Okay, Kevin, time to
un
hypnotize them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I forgot the magic words.”

I looked out at the comatose children. Then I raised my arms slowly, circled them in the air, and spoke in a low, Harry Houdini
voice.

“Ooooone…”

No one moved.

“Twooooooo…”

Still hypnotized.

“TWO AND A HALF.”

The kids popped up and ran back to the classroom. I turned to Kevin and winked. “It’s all in the wrist.”

One rainy-day recess, my students were spread out all around the classroom. Dylan, Melanie, and Rebecca were in the corner
acting something out. They had moved some desks. On them lay stacks of papers and books. Dylan was wearing a pair of plastic
glasses and a tie from the costume box.

“Are you playing school?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Rebecca.

I looked at Dylan. “Who are you?”

A giant smile was plastered on his face. “I’m Mr. Done.”

I laughed, shook my head, and rubbed my forehead all at the same time. Then Dylan started madly searching through the stacks
on his desk and throwing papers on the floor. “Where are my keys?” he cried out loud. Suddenly the room grew quiet and everyone
stared at Dylan. Aware of his new audience, Dylan stood on his chair, squeezed his skull, and shouted, “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY
CAR KEYS?”

December

My first copies of
Treasure Island
and
Huckleberry Finn
still have some blue spruce needles scattered in the pages. They smell of Christmas still.

—
Charlton Heston

I
’m amazed at how many hotlines there are for stressed-out cooks at the holidays. Crisco has one. So do Campbell’s and Ocean
Spray. Libby’s, Hershey’s, and Betty Crocker all have them as well. At the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line, anyone can call up
twenty-four hours a day and get answers to their questions: “Do I roast the turkey with or without the plastic netting?” “Can
I pop popcorn in the turkey’s cavity during the roasting process?” “How do I thaw a fresh turkey?” “Where does the meat thermometer
go?” “I can’t find the turkey I buried in the snowbank. Can you help?”

Teachers could definitely use a hotline to get them through December, too. The week before winter break at any school feels
like blending a pitcher full of Margaritas and forgetting to put the lid on. This week I have already twisted dozens of red
pipe cleaners around candy canes to make reindeer antlers, spray-painted oodles of walnuts gold, rolled out miles of gingerbread
dough, and glued twenty Happy Meal Toys in the bottom of baby food jars to make snow globes for parents’ holiday gifts then
ended up wrapping them all myself. (Have you seen third-grade boys wrap?)

The Holiday Hotline for Teachers would offer harried educators — not recorded tips — but live assistance from veteran colleagues
on everything from what to bring to the White Elephant exchange to recipe suggestions for the staff Christmas party potluck.

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

T
EACHER
: Hi. Do I have to get my boss a Christmas present?

H
OTLINE
: Have you had your evaluation yet this year?

T
EACHER
: It’s next month.

H
OTLINE
: Buy him something expensive.

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

T
EACHER
: My first graders and I disagree on the echo part in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I say that after singing “They never
let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games,” you shout “Like Monopoly.” They insist that it’s “Like Poker.” Which one is
it?

H
OTLINE
: (
pause
) What grade did you say you teach again?

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

T
EACHER
: I’m calling from the staff lounge. I just burned a batch of gingerbread men.

H
OTLINE
: How old are your kids?

T
EACHER
: They’re kindergartners.

H
OTLINE
: Are any of your students with you right now?

T
EACHER
: Yes.

H
OTLINE
: Do not let them see the cookies.

T
EACHER
: Why?

H
OTLINE
: Last year we had a kindergarten teacher call. She burned a batch of gingerbread men just like you. When she pulled them
out, one of her kids picked up the phone and started dialing 911 to save them.

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

C
ALLER
: I’m sitting here naked and…

H
OTLINE
: Sorry. We’re not that kind of hotline.

*  *  *

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

T
EACHER
: Yes. I’m dying here. My kids are bonkers. They won’t work. They won’t sit still. Help!

H
OTLINE
: Have you shown the
Santa Claus Is Coming to Town
video?

T
EACHER
: Yes.

H
OTLINE
: Have you shown
How The Grinch Stole Christmas
?

T
EACHER
: Yes.

H
OTLINE
: Have you shown
Frosty the Snowman
?

T
EACHER
: Yes.

H
OTLINE
: What other videos do you have?

T
EACHER
: Only
Barney’s Valentine Adventure.

H
OTLINE
: Show it.

H
OTLINE
: Holiday Hotline. May I help you?

T
EACHER
: Are LEGOs toxic?

H
OTLINE
: Why do you ask?

T
EACHER
: Well, I was making cranberry bread for my Secret Santa. My son was playing with his LEGOs on the counter. When I had my
back turned he put the LEGOs in the batter.

H
OTLINE
: Did you bake the bread yet?

T
EACHER
: No.

H
OTLINE
: Good. Fish them out. You should be fine.

T
he December I was in third grade, my mom bought my grandmother a navy-blue coat with a fur collar at Macy’s. I was with her
when she purchased it. On Christmas morning when my family opened their presents, Mom handed my grandmother a box. The tag
said, “To: Grandma. From: Santa.” Grandma unwrapped her gift and pulled out the blue coat. She loved it. But I was very concerned
about that tag.
There must be a mixup,
I thought.
Now my grandmother will never know that Mom was the one who really bought the coat.

In third grade, there are three camps when it comes to Santa Claus: Those who believe. Those who don’t. And those who are
on the fence. When I was a kid, I was in the Believer Group. This made sense, of course. Heck, I thought the Jolly Green Giant
and Chef Boyardee were real. I believed that Betty Crocker looked just like the drawing on the front of her cookbook and that
Sara Lee made her own cheesecakes, too.

In every primary classroom — sometime in December — the question of Santa’s existence always comes up. And every year there
is always at least one student whose mission it is to convince his classmates that Santa Claus is not real. Whenever the Santa
Claus debate begins in class, teachers must act quickly to nip it in the bud. If there is one thing that children are passionate
about — it’s Santa.

One day I was helping a student at my desk when I heard the word
Santa
coming from the second row. My teacher antennae perked up.

“He isn’t real,” Danny insisted.

“Yes he is!” Laura protested.

Uh-oh. Trouble.

“Santa Claus is just your dad,” Danny ruled.

“No, he isn’t!” Laura countered.

I’d better intervene.

“Danny,” I said, stretching out his name, “are you working?”

The two stopped talking and looked down at their work. Seconds later, Laura continued.

“I
know
he’s real,” she snarled.

“How do you know?” Danny snapped back.

“Okay, you two,”
I said, raising my voice. “That’s enough.”

But Laura wasn’t finished yet. “Because Santa Claus drives a sleigh, and my dad doesn’t know how.”

You go, girl.

The week before winter break, my class makes its annual trip to the local senior center. It’s just down the street from our
school, so we walk over. The children sing “Frosty the Snowman,” “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and “Jingle Bells” for the
center’s holiday luncheon. After the concert, the hostesses give each child a candy cane. The children hand out Christmas
cards that they made at school. It’s a lovely morning.

This year after the children received their candy canes, they walked out into the audience to pass out their cards. John approached
a little old lady sitting in the front row. She was sitting in a wheelchair. The woman wore a red dress. A gold Christmas
tree brooch covered with colored glass stones was pinned to her collar. Her hair was the color of snow. It smelled like Aqua
Net.

John handed her his card.

“Oh, thank you,” said the woman. Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights.

I stood behind John as the woman examined the cover. John had colored Rudolph pulling Santa in his sleigh. Santa was shouting,
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Rudolph’s nose was as large as his body.

The woman looked up at John. “You got Santa’s beard just right. A lot of people don’t get his beard right, you know. It really
is longer than most people think.”

John’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “You know
Santa Claus
?”

She sat up, slapping both hands on her knees. “Of course I know him.”

John took a step back then turned to the students standing beside him. “Hey,” he announced, “she knows Santa Claus.”

Word spread like a game of Hot Potato that the old lady in the wheelchair knew Santa. Quickly she was wreathed by children.
All ears waited to hear what she had to say. Including Danny’s.