School Days

From the Farm

WHAT WYOMING SCHOOLS ARE LIKE

Published in the Casper Journal October 6, 2010

School has officially started again.  And, while I do prefer summertime to school time, I will never complain—even one iota—about Natrona County Schools.

            We recently moved to Casper from Nevada.  Try to imagine sending your children to school in downtown Las Vegas.  Let me illustrate, with no exaggerations.

            To start with, the city school was surrounded by a high fence, coupled with a cinderblock wall to divide it from the raging freeway right next to it.  There were no windows in the building except for a few, high, barred ones in the office.   Despite the exterior view, however, I took my oldest son there to start kindergarten.  I was optimistic.  After all, good people and good teachers live in Las Vegas.

            I joined my son often in his classroom, and quickly made an observation:  there was no recess!  I was sure I was mistaken.  No recess in school?  I called the secretary, and then the principal, and then the school district. 

            “No, ma’am,” the voice on the other line said.  “Recess was cut several years ago, after a new study showed it detracted from the school day.”  Detracted from learning?  Little children without a break?  ‘What disillusioned doctoral student did this research?’ I wondered.  He was certainly not a parent or a teacher.  No, I’m not exaggerating.

            After our first semester, I approached the principal about volunteering.  He informed me that the school had no PTO, but he invited me to a parent’s meeting the following week.  At the meeting, he addressed us. 

“My focus is on three groups of children this year:  those receiving free lunch, those who don’t speak English, and those from one-parent homes.”  After listening empathetically for most of the hour, I raised my hand and asked what the principal would do for children who didn’t fit in any of those three categories.

“Nothing,” he abruptly replied.  “I don’t have time to think about the others.”  I sat quietly through the rest of the meeting.  No, I’m not exaggerating.

            During a later school year, a teacher approached me and told me that my daughter had scored well above the math standards for the 2^nd grade. 

“Wonderful,” I replied.  “Will she be doing advanced math then?” 

“No,” the teacher said, apologetically.  Then, in a whisper, she explained that as a federally-funded school, she was not allowed to stray from her script or curriculum, and could literally do nothing for my daughter.  Her hands were tied at the expense of losing her job.   Once again, I’m not exaggerating.

Why do I love Natrona County Schools?  It hardly needs an explanation, but let me explain anyway…with no exaggerations. 

We arrived in Casper in January of 2009, and began searching for a school where all four of our elementary children could attend together.  We started our search at the school nearest our home.  As we entered, I was pleasantly shocked when the secretary, dressed in a nice skirt, rose from her seat, smiled, and asked if she could help me.  After catching my breath, I explained our situation.  Unfortunately, her school didn’t have four grade slots available. 

“Let me recommend you to the next nearest school,” she replied. Soon I was speaking to another friendly secretary at another school, and then another, and then another.  While none of these schools had room in all of the grades we needed, the secretaries were all incredibly helpful!  I returned to the car and my waiting husband each time, exclaiming, “You would not believe how kind everyone is!” 

When we finally found a school to meet our needs, the secretary, once again, was fantastic.  I will always be grateful to the secretaries at Verda James, Cottonwood, Manor Heights, Crest Hill, Sagewood and Fort Caspar Academy for their warm welcome to Wyoming.

            As my children left for school on their first day, I had no expectations of what Wyoming education would be like.  But when they arrived home that afternoon, they couldn’t stop chattering. 

“Everyone is so friendly!  The teachers all smile!  Everyone speaks English!  All the classrooms have windows! We have three recesses!  We have an indoor gymnasium!  We each have a computer!”  My jaw hit the ground.  When my husband arrived home that day, I couldn’t stop chattering either. 

“Look,” I said, showing him the contents of their backpacks.  “Newsletters from the teachers, quality literature, field trips and spelling words!”  I hadn’t seen a single spelling list or field trip in Las Vegas.  One son even had an assignment to memorize The Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

“They allow you to repeat that in school?” my stunned husband asked.  We were filled with gratitude.  I immediately called my friend.  “You would not believe what Wyoming schools are like!” I told her.  “You should move here immediately!”

This fall, we’re starting our second, full year of school here, and my wonder hasn’t diminished.  Last week I received a phone call from a school principal. She told me she had noticed my son’s high math score, and wanted permission to move him to an advanced math class. 

“Thank you,” I wanted to sing.  “Thank you for being aware, and for allowing my child to progress.”

And so, although the school days have started and I miss my children as they walk out the door each morning, I always watch them leave with a sense of gratitude.  Gratitude for the friendly bus driver who picks them up and knows them by name, gratitude for the teachers who love them, gratitude for the principals who are aware, gratitude for the high standards, clean buildings, and abundant resources of Wyoming schools, and gratitude that this type of education still exists.  No one in Las Vegas would believe it.

Nettie Francis is editor of The Wyoming Woman Magazine

Is Eight Enough?

IS EIGHT ENOUGH?

Published in the Casper Journal September 29, 2010

I have eight children.  When we all go to the grocery store, perfect strangers will often stop and ask, “Are those all your children?” (Why do they think I would bring extras along?)

“Wow!  You must be a very busy mom.” (Thanks for stating the obvious.)

And then the inevitable…

“Are you planning on having any more?”  (Is that any of their business?) 

Soon the jokes start.

“You know what they say… ‘Eight is enough.’”

Casper...Another Name for Crossroads

FROM THE FARM:

CROSSROADS OF THE WEST

Published in the Casper Journal August 18, 2010

I had never heard of Casper, Wyoming before my husband interviewed here.  Now, it’s on the travel itinerary of everyone I know—family, friends, even long-lost acquaintances.

In the early days, pioneers and the Pony Express blazed trails here. In fact, their paths run right past my house.  This summer has taught me that “trekking” through Casper hasn’t ended yet.

Living in Las Vegas was like living in the center of the universe.  It was convenient to fly to or through, and everyone seemed to stop there while traveling to Disneyland, the Grand Canyon, or any other southwest attraction.  I couldn’t imagine that living in Casper would be anything similar.  However, once summer started, we suddenly found ourselves on everyone’s vacation route. 

First, my sister came from Chicago.  She and her husband brought their five children on their way to Denver (are we on the way to Denver?) and loved their visit to Wyoming.  A few days later, my sister from Tucson drove through with her family.  They were traveling to Yellowstone, and of course, Casper was right on their way.  Less than a week later, my sister in Montana decided to stop by for a visit.  By this time, the neighbors were getting confused about how many sisters I had.  It did help that one sister was pregnant, but other than that, they all looked the same.  When I was out for my morning walk, I introduced my Montana sister. 

“She’s here with her seven children,” I smiled. 

“You sure seem to have a lot of family,” my neighbor said hesitantly. 

We thought we were at the end of our visitors, but received an email from our German friends.  They were in the United States for a few weeks and wanted to see our new home in Wyoming.  I was afraid that the amber rolling prairies would be a disappointment compared to the lush, green hills of Germany.  But when we ate our dinner outside and looked for miles at the country around us, they were thrilled. 

“You can see very far in America,” was their reply.  They even picked some sagebrush to press and take home with them.

Once our international visitors left, I was sure my summer hosting was over.  But then the phone rang. 

“Hi!”  It was my long lost high school friend.  She was driving through from Michigan with her husband and six children.  “We’d love to stop by,” she chattered.  It had been eight years since I’d seen her last, so what could I say?  They arrived in a family van and soon all of their children (the same ages as ours) were running across the lawn, having a water fight and chasing bunnies. 

By now the summer was more than half over.  But the visitors didn’t stop.  With just a day’s notice some old friends from Las Vegas “dropped by” on their way to Jackson.  And later, more family from Utah drove through at the end of their Midwest travels. 

“Wow,” my husband commented.  “I never knew Casper was so central.” 

We thought Wyoming was the end of the earth, but instead found that it was right on the highway of life.  That’s o.k.  Visitors are an incentive to clean my house, to weed my garden, and to make a delicious meal.  So, I suppose they’re ultimately a benefit to my family.  And, we’ve seen so much extended family and friends this summer that we’ll consider ourselves “visited” for a while. 

Still, I’m sure there are more to come.  In fact, my cousin is arriving tomorrow, and my in-laws just called and told us about a family reunion they are planning, just an hour away.  The pioneers and Pony Express started a tradition that hasn’t ended.  I think Casper is another word for crossroads, the Crossroads of the West. 

Nettie Francis is the editor of The Wyoming Woman Magazine.

Summer Swimming

From the Farm:

SUMMER SWIMMING

 Published in the Casper Journal July 28, 2010

 Summer swimming lessons are highly overrated—at least if your child is under four years old.  Our older children learned to swim by default in Las Vegas.  We simply lived in the pool during those hot months, and soon they sprouted fins and were at home in the water.  However, since our sixth child still can’t swim, I decided to sign everyone up for city swimming lessons this summer.  Much to my delight, I found a session where all six levels were taught at the same time. 

‘How easy!’ I thought.  Forty minutes, six children, one pool.  This will be a breeze…  Little did I know that my preschooler had other plans.

            The first morning of swimming lessons, everyone was eager to begin.  We ate an early breakfast, dressed in swim suits, and loaded a huge bag of towels into the back of the van.  The children were all bursting with excitement as we drove to the pool.  Glancing at the car temperature, I caught my breath…69 degrees!  I was horrified!  In Las Vegas we wouldn’t have set even a toenail near a swimming pool with such cool outside temperatures.  Remembering the Vegas heat, I recalled one time when the summer weather dropped down to 105 and my friend “turned up” the heat in her pool so our poor children wouldn’t be cold!

            “Please let the Casper city pools be heated,” I prayed silently, hoping my children wouldn’t notice the slight chill in the air.

            We arrived at the pool to find it crowded with other excited children and parents.  Finding a spot on the pool deck, my crew unloaded their towels, took off their sandals, and began lathering up with sun screen.  Putting sun screen on six children is not an easy task, and soon everyone had oily hands, white faces, and greasy arms.  I’m sure the people around us were duly entertained.

            “Time to start!” shouted a lifeguard.  After a short safety lesson, he divided the children into ability groups.  “Advanced swimmers over there, beginners here, preschoolers to the left,” he called.  The children scattered to meet their teachers.  Contentedly I sat back on a pool chair. 

‘Ahhhhh,’ I thought.  ‘Forty minutes with nothing to do but watch my children swim.’  Some parents around me were already reading books and talking on their cell phones. 

Just then I heard a terrific scream.  Looking over to the preschool group, I was surprised to see my youngest son standing rigid at the edge of the pool!  I couldn’t imagine what was wrong. 

“Just put your toes in,” coaxed a nice, lady teacher. 

“I don’t want to get in the water!” he wailed.  I watched, perplexed.  Finally I walked over to the class. 

“You love swimming!” I reminded him. 

“I don’t want to go swimming,” he screamed. 

“You’ll be fine,” I reassured him, and with all the love I could muster, picked him up, and set him in the water next to his teacher. 

He clung to the side of the pool, screaming louder.  By now I knew that every eye of every parent was on us.  What to do?  Even though he was child number six, I’d never had such an encounter.  The other preschoolers were splashing around happily, kicking their feet and blowing bubbles as their teacher directed.  Finally, I extended my hand to him, holding it until he calmed down. 

‘So much for my quiet time,’ I thought.  It was a long forty minutes.

The next day I was sure would be better.  Smiling, he lathered up with sunscreen and sat through the first aid lesson.  Then it was time for class. 

“I don’t like swimming lessons!” he suddenly wailed as his teacher set him in the water.  Single-handedly, he pulled himself out of the pool and ran, dripping wet, over to me. 

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I said.  But the next day wasn’t much better.  Nor the next, or the next.  On the last day of class, I finally convinced him to get into the water again. 

“Let’s take a trip to the middle of the pool!” said the teacher, gathering the preschoolers in a group and slowly swimming them into deeper water.  The further they went, the louder my son screamed.  Soon, all of the other classes stopped to watch my ballistic son.  Sitting on the deck, I tried to pretend I didn’t exist. 

“Did I actually pay money for this?”  I wondered.  When they finally came back to the edge of the pool, my son jumped out and came running to me. 

Wrapping him up in a warm towel, I held him on my lap. 

“You did it!” I smiled.  He stopped crying. 

“I went into the deep end!” His voice suddenly sounded victorious.  “I like swimming,” he smiled, and I breathed a sigh.  Maybe it was all worth it. Besides, there are more summers to come.  He held my hand as we left the pool.  “I want to take swimming lessons again!”

Summertime in Wyoming

From the Farm:

SUMMERTIME IN WYOMING

Published in the Casper Journal July 21, 2010

It’s summertime—and I remember again why I live in Wyoming.  After too many months of winter, snow, cold and wind—daylight and warmth are finally here.

In the morning, the sun shines through my window and wakes me up, just past 5am.  I quickly open all of the windows and doors; I don’t want to miss a minute of the glorious warmth.  The smell of sage, dampened by the night rain, is fresh and invigorating. 

Our wild pheasant, nicknamed “Phil,” screeches as I walk outside.  He flutters to a safe distance across our field, and watches as I say good morning to the chickens. They squawk and peck as they jump down from their coop and begin their morning, eating bugs.  Nearing the garden, a bunny scampers out of my path.  He didn’t eat much, and I don’t mind having him there.   The lettuce, potatoes, and corn are green and growing, making a perfect picture on the dark earth. 

Down our hill, the North Platte River flows by.  Canadian geese honk on its banks, and I see a herd of deer in the meadow.  This river has seen history—pioneers along its banks—and now it’s mine to enjoy.

Summer doesn’t just bring out the animals, it brings out the people.  “Good morning,” calls my neighbor from the road as she passes during her walk.  Another neighbor strolls by with his dog, going to get the mail.  They stop and chat, and soon we are caught up on all of the neighborhood news.

By mid-morning, my children are outside as well.  They love the summer days.  “Be back in a while,” they call, and run up the hill to where they are tending the animals for a neighbor on vacation. 

In the afternoon, we go down to the pond.  The children paddle around in their little rafts and try to catch fish.  The younger ones build castles and moats on the sandy beach. 

“Look!  We caught a frog!”  My boys come up with a green frog in their bucket.  “Can we keep him?”  Their shorts are dripping with pond water, and their faces are brown with the sun.  Is this a scene out of Huck Finn?  No.  Just a summer day in Wyoming.

One weekend we travel to Yellowstone.  The ground there is sacred; I can feel it the minute we pass through the gate into the park.  Towering mountains, billions of trees, and meadows with blue streams…an indescribable treasure.  The hallowed hills work their magic on my family, and after a few nights in the crisp air, my children’s eyes are bright and their faces shining with summer.

On July 3^rd, the neighborhood gathers for a “barn dance.”  Inside a large barn we eat a potluck dinner and sit on bales of hay, listening to a live band.  Flags flutter from the rafters and children and adults stamp and clap to the music. 

‘What could be better than a patriotic barn dance?’ I wonder.  Do communities like this really still exist? People from the big city would have to see it to believe it.

In the summer evenings we sit on our porch and chat with friends.  The sun stays up late, and so do my children.  They play capture the flag, hide and seek and tag until it’s too dark to see.  Even then, the air is warm, and it takes a while to herd them into the house.  When I finally climb into my bed it’s late.  With my window shade up, I can see thousands of stars.  Wow.  The only sound is the chirping crickets, the river, and a distant train. 

“We’re so lucky!” whispers my husband.  And I agree.  Yes, I’ll stay through another winter.  The long, cold days that eventually turn golden are worth it.  This is heaven.  Summertime in Wyoming.