Approaching the Bridge

The following is NOT my original piece of writing. All glory goes to my father, who delivered this nearly nine years ago on his retirement from Grace Church.

I heard him preach a homily for a dear friend last Saturday, and it reminded me of the gifts of word and spirit God has bestowed on my dad.

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Grace Church, Jefferson City

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost -- Proper 13-A

July 31, 2005

+In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Many years ago I drove an elderly parishioner to the St. Louis airport. I suspect that she was an industrial strength talker, even before she came to live alone as a widow. On the way in she talked while I looked from side mirror to rear view mirror and negotiated the heavy I-70 traffic. Obviously there could be little eye contact, but I thought I was inserting the socially-required minimum of “um-hmms” and “you don’t mean its.” But as we approached the Missouri River Bridge at St. Charles, she said, “Now Father, I have just one more thing that I need to tell you, but this time I want you to listen to me.”

Folks, we are approaching the bridge here, and I have just one more thing that I need to tell you, but this time I want you to listen to me. Seriously, I deeply appreciate the fact that you have always listened to my sermons and have responded in a highly specific manner. You have not always followed my suggestions, but then neither have I.

Very few times over the years have I deviated from the church’s lectionary, that orderly three-year cycle of Biblical readings that prevent preachers from just harping on their favorite themes. Today, however, I would like to deviate from the lectionary and give what I think is a summary of my preaching. Last week I carried home four file crates containing thirty-nine loose-leaf notebooks of sermons. I must confess that I have repeated a few of them over the years, particularly this past year, but not many times over the long haul

First of all, I have always tried to be orthodox. If the Microsoft Corporation were to publish a “Heresy Check” program, I would buy it. I may wake up in the middle of the night with a revelation that God actually exists in four persons, not three, that God in fact is a Holy Quadrinity. That revelation may be an exciting moment for me, but I doubt that it would be helpful to you in your desire to know and love God more deeply. Far more helpful is the Orthodox faith that is the sum total of the search of the entire community over the course of two thousand years. My job has been to try to interpret it for us in accordance with the times in which we live.

I have preached a great deal about the Kingdom of God, since that was the primary message of Jesus. I have talked about the Kingdom as event, rather than place. I have talked about eternal life as a quality of life that must begin now, even though it continues after we die. It is offered to all of us, but we must accept it. And the hard part is to allow ourselves to be transformed to the point that we truly want it.

I have preached about values, encouraging us to place our trust in the things that are not seen, the things that are eternal. I have preached about values because of my own internal struggle with values. You thought I was just trying to be humorous when I told you how excited I become when I smell the Styrofoam that encases new electronic equipment. That was an honest, not very pretty confession of my real values.

I have preached a great deal about healing, again because there are so many healing stories in our lectionary, but also because I have dealt pastorally with so many hundreds of people who were ill. I remind us that God’s will for all of us is health. It is difficult for me to imagine that God would engage in biological warfare against his own creation, smiting us with dreaded viruses and bacteria. I remind us that every illness has three dimensions--physical, emotional, and spiritual. Healing can take place in any or all of those areas. Sometimes death is the healing agent. The disease wins the battle only if we come to identify ourselves with the disease, if we actually become the disease. My theories about sickness and health are long held, but those theories were borne out to me in my own experience the past year and a half.

I have preached a great deal about the Eucharist. This weekly event is a reminder that we are to live our lives with thankful hearts. I believe this sacrament to be as well a prelude to the heavenly banquet in the Kingdom of God. I believe in Christ’s real presence in the sacrament. I treat the consecrated elements themselves with deep reverence and respect; although, I believe the Sacrament is as much about the transformation of you and me into the Body of Christ, in order that we might be Christ’s presence in a broken and fallen world. 

I have preached a great deal about living in community. So many of the readings from Paul’s letters have dealt with the issues of the religious community, and for two thousand years every Christian community has struggled for unity and peace. I have encouraged us to be honest with one another, but to continue to look for Christ in one another. And we have succeeded.

I have preached about being concerned for the needs of the world around us. We must honor Christ’s Presence in the Sacrament of the Altar in our willingness to reach out to the poor and to all who are on the margins of polite society. I have encouraged all of us to find places in the community where we can provide hands-on service, whether it is a church program or a non church program. 

I have preached the seasonal themes of hope and expectation during Advent, the Incarnation during the twelve days of Christmas, the showing forth of Christ to the Gentile world during Epiphany. I have preached repentance during Lent and sacrificial death and atonement in Holy Week. On Easter Day, as well as every other Sunday I have tried to preach resurrection. Without resurrection there is no Christianity. God will raise us up when we die, but will also raise us up many times during this mortal life. I have preached the Pentecost message of the Holy Spirit, reminding us that the only life we have is from God, and the only hope for the continued existence of the church is the indwelling of that Holy Spirit of God.

Finally, I have preached a great deal about love, especially at weddings and at the Maundy Thursday Eucharist when we reflect on Christ’s New Commandment of love. I have preached love as act, rather than a feeling. I have preached love as commitment. I have preached love as the willingness to stand by another person, regardless of any feeling that we might have at any given moment. That is the way I have loved you. At a few times we have had our differences, but I have always considered it my job to love you no matter what. For years I thought it was my job as a priest to love you. In more recent years I have come to see it as my job as a baptized person to love you.

These are my last words as we cross the bridge. I have loved you, because in your faces I have seen the face of Christ. And for the very same reason, you must continue to love one another. Now this time listen to me.

(The Rev.) Harvel R. Sanders

101 Words: Poems to Remember my Grandmother

101 Words for 101 Years: 

Poetry in honor of Melvine Brown, 1912-2014

I had a thought this cold January morning, the day before the Browns gather to celebrate the amazing life of my grandmother. If I had to express memories of my grandmother in 101 words, how would I do it? I could write a book about my grandmother's remarkable life and legacy, but I am choosing poetry.

Prologue

Love, faith and wisdom you imparted without abandon -

from Clover Leaf Farm you loved the land and your family.

You fed us with spiritual gifts, as well as your delicious cinnamon cake -

Gram Cake was its endearing moniker, warm from the oven in your cozy kitchen

on a cold winter's day or a lazy summer morning.

Nights around a card table, rolling your eyes at Bob Brown's reckless

abandon at overbidding and loving every minute of it.

Sumptuous feasts at your table, gathering your family; memories endure forever.

All because of a woman we called Grammy Brown. God's treasure.

Cards

Four at a table: you and Granddad, me and Rob.

I was never very good, but Rob was truly his grandfather's namesake.

Passion, daring, and a lot of moxie.

Seven no trump. “Bob Brown, you're gonna put us out.”

“Oh garsh, Melvine! Trust me on this.”

“Mmmph,” you replied with a roll of your eyes. You knew he was

just actin' “simple.” You knew him well in fifty plus years together.

Last card played and Rob cleans the table. Our grandfather catches a steely glance

and smiles, knowing he has irked you.

“Deal another hand, Robbie.”

Gram's Kitchen

Bacon in the pan, eggs on the way, Gram Cake in the oven.

Bob Brown pulls cereal and an empty Cool Whip tub from the cabinet.

He goes for his “fine china.”

“Bob Brown, put that up. We have eggs on the way.”

Full strength coffee, never decaf.

Not “that stuff Judy drinks.”

Rob and I giggle.

You pour him milk in the Hamburglar glass from McDonald's in Bel Air

back in 1977.

Yes, Rob still remembers it.

“Stay out of that sweet tea, Jon. It has to last for dinner.”

“Yes, Gram.” I smile.

Tennis

Sunk below Fawn Grove Road,

the tennis court is now a memory.

But it lives on in our thoughts.

Many times, my brother was stubborn

and didn't want to run off in my farm adventures.

But offer a game of tennis and Rob was on.

“Gram, we're going up to hit a few.”

She knew what we meant.

Wooden rackets on a clay court.

Two little boys. Hours to spend.

Then Gram would come up the hill.

“Okay boys, Grandma's gonna bop around for a while.”

Later, at 70, you would still play with us.

Loving it as always.

Family Dinners

Gathering the family was her greatest joy.

Every meal she wrote an index card,

and detailed what she served.

Celebrating Sarah's baptism in 1974 – she wrote what she served.

Pot roast, sea foam salad, Johnny Beakes' favorite mashed potatoes.

Homemade rolls, diabetic coma-inducing sweet tea, a mound of sweet corn ears.

You tolerated Sarah's vegetarianism, even though you said “mmph, that's not right. How can you not eat meat?!”

“Gram, you need any help?”

“No, no, no. I got it.”

She was queen of her domain and to watch her work

was a work of artistry.

Dinner Out

We arrive in Stewartstown at Taylor Haus.

Jodie gets the door, and in her sweet voice

says “Here Gram, let me help you.”

I am such a lucky guy. My two favorite gals out for dinner.

Doesn't get much better than this.

Gram walks in with her “buddy,” the four-pronged cane

that she uses instead of a walker. Even at 95, Gram keeps it real.

She pushes on to the back dining room, ignoring the “section closed” sign.

Jodie smiles and whispers: “When you get to be Gram's age, you sit where you want!”

Amen, sister. Amen.

Epilogue

It is almost surreal that Gram is gone.

When you live for 101 years, it sometimes seems that you WILL live forever.

I know she is with God. She has to be. God wouldn't bless her with that long life

if he didn't have a special love for her.

Gram, a year ago, we celebrated your 100^th, and I fulfilled a promise

that I would pour a glass of single malt and toast your memory

and offer up tears of joy.

No reason for sadness on this day. How many families were lucky enough

to have you for so long? Amen.

My Grandfather's Grateful Life

The coldness of the house lingers with me still. For a place that was jokingly referred to as “Herbie's Little Hell,” my grandfather's house on that December night one year ago was bone-chilling cold. The central heat had been supplemented for years by a propane insert in the fireplace. My grandfather kept it cranking because of his nonagenarian circulatory issues, and it seemed at long last the only source of heat in the house was that heating unit. It did nothing to help the back of the house, where Trixie and I had settled in for what would be my first night in many years at the house with no number on the door.

Yes, the house had no number. Years ago, the City of Ava, Missouri created the strangest convolution of numbered avenues and terraces branching off the main thoroughfares emanating from the town square. Washington and Jefferson Streets are the main roads, but my grandfather's house was on what was known as NW 13^th Avenue Terrace. Even my Aunt Suzanne, who had spent over fifty years as daughter-in-law to Herb Sanders, did not know the exact physical address of the little house. No one in Ava really did. They just knew it as Herb's House. It was only a year ago, and a call placed to the city deed office, that 1313 NW 13^th Avenue Terrace was revealed as the official address of the place my grandfather resided since 1966. It never even had a mailbox. If one wanted to get a piece of mail to my grandparents, my cousin, Mark, or anyone else in my family, it was addressed to the post office box used by the family ready-mix business.

Normally, I would have stayed at my cousin's place, but with my four-legged traveling companion along for the trip, I was bunking at my grandfather's for the night. As I shivered under the thin covers, clutching Trixie for whatever warmth a twenty-six pound dog could provide, I sadly realized this was probably the last night I would ever spend in this house. It would also be the last night I would spend in Ava with my grandfather still on this earth.

My father had been in town the previous week to visit and move my grandfather to the nursing home. Herb had been declining for months, losing weight and losing stamina until one Sunday morning, he found himself unable to get out of his chair and get ready for church. Dad immediately came down and discussed options, and my grandfather stoically decided to check himself into the nursing home where my grandmother had spent her last months five years before. My grandfather had made peace with the decision, but still spoke optimistically about returning home in a few weeks. At the age of 97, my grandfather sadly lamented that he was the “last remaining sonofabitch in Douglas County.” He had outlived his friends. Doc Curry was long gone. Ray Parsley had passed away. My grandmother, Stella, preceded him and the greatest blow was losing my uncle, Herb's firstborn and business partner, two years before. In his mind, Herb Sanders was ready to go, but he sure wasn't going to admit that to anybody, even my dad.

The two of us shared a wonderful visit at the nursing home. This enfeebled man lying there in a hospital bed was a shadow of the man I enjoyed visiting so often for the past forty-plus years. He lay there with a blanket over him, too weak to move much, but taking comfort in having photos of my grandmother looking over him. He knew he would see her soon in heaven. We shared stories I had heard thousands of times before, but gladly took them in again. He spoke of his kind and gentle father, who even though had only a third grade education, made a good living raising cattle on the family property off Cowskin Creek. We laughed about his cantankerous mother, who was the complete opposite of his dad. I was reminded of the time Granddad Aud came close to letting Granny Tracy wear a pan of cream he was preparing on the cream separator but she had the common sense to walk out of the milk house before she said one negative comment too many. Herb recalled how his father loved to brew beer, and would add a potato peeling to the mix to add just a little bit more kick. This home brew was so strong that one time it shattered the bottles in the attic of their house and led to a seeping mess through the ceiling plaster. We avoided talking about Uncle Weldon, for I knew my grandfather's broken heart would not be soothed by talking about losing his son and best friend. He told me how proud he was of my dad, and asked how “Miss Jodie” was doing. He asked if Jodie's dad was “still digging basements.” We talked a little Civil War history. My grandfather's body was physically deteriorating, but his mind was still sharp as ever. That was comforting.

The week before Christmas 2012, my dad returned to Ava and holed up at the Super 8. Having spent four decades as an Episcopal priest and dealing with the end of days for so many parishioners, my dad knew that his father's time was measured in days, not weeks. In the early morning hours of December 20, he received a phone call. My grandfather had died peacefully in his sleep. For my grandfather, the pain had come to an end.

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Approaching 43, I am very blessed to have known my grandparents as well as I did. My mom's father died in 1989 when I was a senior in high school, and Grammy Brown still rolls on at the amazing age of 101. When I moved back to Missouri from the east coast in 1993, I had the chance to spend more time with my paternal grandparents. I sometimes wonder how life would have been different if I was able to find a job back east twenty years ago and not had to make the decision to venture west. I would have missed out on so much time to enjoy my grandparents as an adult. Before I met Jodie, I would decide on a whim to call my grandmother up and just announce I was coming down from Columbia or Kansas City. She would have a massive sandwich prepared and an open invitation to spend the night, knowing I would invariably spend the night at Mark's. My grandfather would be at the gravel plant, holding court in the garage and watching the dust kick up. Weldon would likely be out delivering a load of concrete and Herb would be there to answer the phone and visit with his friends.

“C'mon, Jon!” he would say. “Let's go to Senior Citizens.”

The three of us would go to the senior center for lunch, and he would proudly tell them I was his bodyguard. As far as culinary repasts go, the senior center lunch was on par with some bad school lunches I have had over the years, but the wonderful company made up for it. He would pay full price for my lunch AND his, even though he was eligible for a reduced rate. My granddad always felt someone needed a subsidized meal a lot worse than he did. He never made a big production out of it. I just knew that was how he rolled.

After he died, my father remarked how his dad embodied this ideal of living with simple means in mind. My grandfather founded a business that for many men could have been run unscrupulously and returned wealth and prosperity. For many in the ready-mix business, fortunes could have been made and passed on to families but my grandfather and uncle were content to support their families and not worry about building empires. He lived in a modest house, put money in savings, drove the same truck for years, and dressed plainly in his uniform of Dickies work shirt and pants. My grandfather was very comfortable in his own little corner of the world, and he was grateful to work hard, fish, hunt arrowheads, and live his simple life. That model is a lesson worth following.

My grandfather lived a grateful life. I am glad he had 97 years on this planet to show the rest of us that valuable example.

The Lost Notebook of an Inveterate Writer

Last Sunday, my wife and I had the pleasure to travel from Hartford to the lovely Southeastern Connecticut shore to spend a day with an old college friend and his family. We shared a wonderful dinner, filled with hours of storytelling and conversation, and returned to the hotel before midnight only to realize our rental car had been compromised. My two iPads, truck keys, Jodie's laptop, and other things were gone. My planned trip to Vermont took a detour as I drove back to the New London area to file a police report and begin the first step in getting my digital life back in order.

There was one item which, now gone, has struck me as delivering the greatest blow. That is my journal.

Months of writing has vanished. The occasionally profound, at times mundane but altogether important, musings of an inveterate writer. The waiting for the police report and the completed filing of insurance paperwork is drawing every ounce of patience, but the missing writing is my greatest struggle.

When I was six, my parents took Rob and I on our annual pilgrimage east and made a stop in Charlottesville, where I made my first visit to Monticello. I was so inspired by my visit with Thomas Jefferson's home that I wrote my first journal of sorts. It was a simple little homemade folio that Mom put together for me. I remember writing things such as “Thomas Jefferson was a good man. I like him.” and “Jesus was born in a manger. He was a babe.” The undulating handwriting clearly showed the mark of a kid who was not ready for unlined pages. I am sure my mother still has that first tome somewhere in her collection of my childhood memories. It was my first foray into the life of a writer.

For the last twenty years, I have faithfully kept a journal, detailing my daily thoughts and reflections on teaching and life. I am very particular about the type of notebook I keep. Earlier volumes tend to be a larger 8 ½ by 11 inch bound journal, covered in various stickers from my travels. Most of my notebooks are book-sized, black, hardcover notebooks with acid free pages. I prefer unlined pages. For many years, I began a new journal with an inscription and a continuation of page numbers from the previous volume. The new edition was a continuation of thoughts past.

Getting to the final pages of a filled notebook was an occasion. The cover was often scuffed, faded, and ready for the shelf. The book felt heavier, for I know a great deal of ink had been spilled (some literal and others figurative) over those pages. Those pages had travelled with me everywhere – on airplanes, in coffee shops, in classrooms and libraries. As the last page was completed, I capped my pen and thumbed through the completed tome, re-reading entries I had not revisited in many months. Examining the ink (never pencil) I could tell what pen was used. Was it a handy ballpoint or one of my several fountain pens? Each page told a story within a story. The shape of my handwriting was an indication of where I was. I can tell if I was writing on a table or desk, curled up in a chair, or even nestled up against a tree. There was a great sense of finality, and a feeling of pride that I had continued a wonderful habit over many years.

As a school librarian, I always tell people that I am the furthest thing from the Type A librarian. Life is too short to worry about shelving books. I bristle when people say the library is supposed to be a silent place. A library is a gathering place.

I am picky, however, about what I write in. People have given me bound journals because they know I am a writer, and they remain unused or given away. My journal must have a certain feel, be unruled, and well-built to take years of punishment. My notebook should not be “cute.” It needs to be simple, well-bound, and black. Give me my Moleskine and nothing else.

Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote the Little House books in pencil on Big Chief tablets. Some writers can write on any scrap of paper and piece it all together. On the rare occasion when I do not have my notebook and wish to write, I have tried to write down thoughts on paper and copy them to my notebook later. This practice never works for me. I have to have my notebook close at hand to jot down thoughts. There is a fine motor connection between the mind and hands that can not be duplicated on a computer or tablet screen.

During my teaching career, I have noticed that many students get turned off to writing because it is inorganic and forced upon them. Writing from personal experience is often pushed aside to writing for specificity, particularly as short responses to teacher-directed prompts. Kids will ask if they have written enough, and I tell them to let go and just write. I am of the opinion that writing is like carving art from a block of stone, rather than building brick by brick. Writing is a process, and for me, it is a process of shaping a raw mass into a polished piece.

How does one become a better writer? Easy. Write a lot. Read others' writing. Write some more. Getting children to see this process is difficult, but nurturing that creative fire will yield lifetime results.

When children tell me they “hate writing” I tell them they don't hate writing, they hate the fact they have not acquired the tools of writing. A good writer has multiple tools in their toolbox: rich vocabulary, strong verbs, exposition, and dialogue. Once those tools are developed, writing will take you anywhere. My writer's notebook is a continual attempt at refining those tools.

Enough of this blog post. I have a notebook to break in.

My Incredulity Knows No Boundaries

With thirteen school days remaining on my sixteenth year of teaching, I have to reflect on a conversation with a parent today. Once again, apples do not fall far from the parental tree.

My students are completely taken with Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Whenever kids ask where on the shelf the Wimpy Kid books are, I tell them to look in the section titled "Wishful Thinking." Some get the joke. Most do not. These books never make it to the shelf. Some of them are pretty dog-eared and scuffed. In truth, I would rather see a book beat up and well-read than pristine and never leaving the shelf. One was returned today with the back cover ripped off. Since all copies of that title are currently checked out, I am sure to recover the cost from the kid who fails to turn in their copy.

The latest edition in the series, Cabin Fever, is so popular that I ordered six copies in a library binding. At 22 bucks a pop, these are much more expensive than the trade hardcover from Target. There is a waiting list of 150 kids to get these six copies. Many kids decided to buy their own copy. One, however, thought she could obtain a stolen copy from my library, write her name in it, and call it her own. Yes, crime does not pay and the book was found with her name on the inside cover and on the page side. One endpaper with the school stamp was ripped out, but the back cover was stamped, the barcode was still attached, and the spine label was intact.  Due to this young lady's latest attempt at trying to gin my system, she now owes $76 in lost and damaged books.

This didn't deter her mother from trying to argue that her daughter should not pay for it.

Mom's argument was that her daughter did not steal the book. She received it from another third grader who told her he "won it in a drawing." Since it was another kid who stole the book in the first place, he should be the  responsible party. I told her that the boy in question would never, in a million years, admit to stealing the book. I have absolutely no evidence - other than her daughter's story - that the boy stole the book. The evidence I DO have is HER name in it.

"Couldn't you just erase her name and take the book back?"

No, she has defaced the book and was in possession of stolen property.

"Twenty-two dollars seems like an awfully high price for a library book."

Considering it is a sewn and glued binding, with processing added at the distributor, that is about the running price.

"Could I just buy another copy at the store and give it to the library?"

No, the reason the book cost 22 bucks is because of the special binding and processing.

"She didn't know it was a library book. What if it came from the county library sale table?"

The girl KNEW it was a library book. It was identical to the one she asked to read IN the library and was told she could not check out because of the wait list. Secondly, it is a brand new book. It would not be in the discarded section of the public library. If it was, it would be stamped "No longer the property of St. Louis County Library.

"She's 8! How would she know what that means?"

"Ma'am," I said. "My niece is six and in kindergarten. She knows that a library book is not HER property to write in. Considering your daughter was in possession of the book with a library binding, a stamp on the back page, and TWO stickers which suggest it was a school library book, I find it hard to believe she 'didn't know' this was a library book."

"Well, I don't think she should pay for it because she didn't steal it."

I told her the saying "Possession is 9/10 of the law." The kid she allegedly received the book from is not exactly the most reputable child in school, and even if he wasn't, a basic amount of common sense would lead one to believe this was stolen property. If someone is pulled over and the cop says the car is stolen, does this preclude the driver from being arrested for possession of stolen property?

By now, she was running out of room to argue and admitted her daughter told her a complete fabrication. She was so grateful that I was able to give her "clarification."

The kid was already on the hook for 38 bucks in lost books from last year. I had been letting her check out one book at a time as an encouragement for her to read. If anything, I had been extraordinarily generous. I had even offered the child a chance to settle the past due account for 50 cents on the dollar. I kept hearing "Oh, my mama said she will get it to you." Now the deal is off the table.

My brother and I make quite a few jokes at our mother's expense. She is quirky and has questionable tastes in liquor. However, the woman IS ethical. I can not imagine Rob and I getting into trouble with school or the law and having Mom defend a lie or even lie on our behalf. Growing up in Vermont, we knew she had a morning meeting at 7:30 and if we missed the bus we were on our own to get to school. We also knew she would not give us a ride or call and excuse us. We were given a great deal of freedom but that freedom came with the caveat of not doing anything regretfully stupid.

Leaving the conversation, I did offer up a positive comment. I genuinely like the kid, and appreciate the fact that she loves coming the library. She drives me bananas at times but I realize that most kids can do that.

Very few children, I believe, are "bad seeds." Some are just mean, cruel people and there is no way around that. This kid is not a bad seed. She exhibits behaviors she learns at home. Manipulate, obfuscate, deny and wear people down until you get your way or until the other party gives in out of frustration. When I was younger, I might break something and Dad would ask "Jon, did you break this?" "No," I responded. "It broke."

Dad would ask me again, and I would eventually admit to breaking it. To my father, my admitting and taking ownership was more important than whatever cost the object held. Students have come to me ASKING to pay for a book that was destroyed by a baby sister or a dog and I have invariably reduced the price as a reward for being faithful and honest. I want them to learn that ethical behavior does have rewards. I like to think this is my father's teachings lived through my actions.

Once again, the lesson learned is that an ethical parent is a child's first and best teacher.

My new Reader's Theatre play

Having spent much of February teaching about different aspects of Black History Month, I was shocked to discover that by third grade some students still had this idea that Martin Luther King was married to Rosa Parks. Some even thought he freed the slaves.

I quit shaking my head and decided to spend this culminating week learning more about Rosa Parks and giving the kids a bit of participatory fun.

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Go Ahead and Call Them: A Reader’s Theater Play About Rosa Parks

Jonathan Sanders, Jury Elementary School, Hazelwood School District

Scene: Montgomery Fair Department Store, Montgomery, Alabama

Manager:  Rosa, thank you for putting in extra time today. So many folks want clothes pressed and altered for the Christmas season.  Is it possible for you to come in early tomorrow? I think we are going to be as busy as today.

Rosa: Thank you, sir. I will come in early. I could use the hours.

Narrator: Rosa Parks walks to the bus stop near the Montgomery Fair Department Store. She is tired. Her back and legs hurt from many hours pressing clothes and handling alterations. Rosa takes her seat in the middle of the bus.

Two black men sit in the two seats next to her. She shares a seat with another black man. Several stops later, a white man gets on the bus and the driver looks in the rear view mirror.

Rosa clutches her purse and thinks to herself.

Rosa: [aside]: I want nothing more than to go home, see Raymond, and put my feet up. It has been a long, long day.

Bus Driver: “I’m gonna need you folks in the middle seats to head back to the colored section. I need to offer this gentleman a seat.”

Narrator: The three black men move to the “colored” section of the bus. Rosa Parks sits there. She refuses to move.

Bus Driver: “Ma’am, you need to move to the back of the bus. The law is the law.”

Rosa : “I know what the law says. I am not going to move.”

Bus Driver: “Ma’am, if you don’t move I am going to have to call the police.”

Rosa: “Go ahead and call them. Do what you must.”

Narrator: Passengers begin to murmur as the driver exits the bus and crosses the street to a pay phone. They show different emotions.

White male passenger: [aside] “Why isn’t this colored woman moving to the back of the bus? It’s not like she doesn’t know what the law is! The law is the law and we all have to follow it. I’m tired! I want to get home!”

White female passenger: [aside] “Now why does she have to be like this? Just go to the back of the bus and let us all get where we need to go!”

Black male child: “Mama, why isn’t that lady moving to the back of the bus? Are the police gonna make all of us get off the bus?”

Black mother:  “Child, hush yourself! You know nothing good is gonna come from this.”

Black male passenger:  [aside] “We all know what the law says, we’ve been trying for years to get this law changed. I want to get home, too!”

Narrator: Several Montgomery police cars pull up, lights spinning.  The driver and two white officers board the bus.

Officer One: “Ma’am, you know you can be arrested for this.”

Officer Two: [to the driver] “We can have her removed from the bus and given a warning or you can swear out a warrant and we can arrest her.”

Bus Driver: “I will swear out a warrant. Go ahead and arrest her so I can get this bus moving and finish the route.”

Narrator: The Police take Rosa into custody. She is taken to the police station, booked, and fingerprinted. She gets one phone call and she uses it to call E.D. Nixon, a prominent member of the Montgomery Chapter of the NAACP, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.

The day after the arrest, Jo Ann Robinson and the members of the Women’s Political Council (WPC) printed a leaflet that called for a one day boycott.

This is what it read:

Reader 1:  Another Negro woman has been arrested and thrown in jail because she refused to get up out of her seat on the bus for a white person to sit down.

Reader 2: It is the second time since the Claudette Colbert case that a Negro woman has been arrested for the same thing. This has to be stopped.

Reader 3: Negroes have rights, too, for if Negroes did not ride the bus they could not operate. Three-fourths of the riders are Negroes, yet we are arrested, or have to stand over empty seats. If we do not do something to stop these arrests they will continue. The next time it may be you, or your daughter, or mother.

Reader 1: This woman’s case will come up on Monday. We are, therefore, asking every Negro to stay off the busses Monday in protest of the arrest and trial. Don’t ride the bus to work, to town, to school, or anywhere on Monday.

Reader 2: You can afford to stay out of school for one day if you have no other way to go except by bus.

Reader 3: You can also afford to stay out of town for one day. If you work, take a cab, or walk. But please, children and grown-ups don’t ride the bus at all on Monday. Please stay off all buses.

Narrator: Jo Ann Robinson was a professor of English at Alabama State University in Montgomery. Like Dr. King, she played a major part in getting the word out.

Professor Robinson: “Rosa Parks was not the only African-American who had to suffer the indignity of standing on a bus with empty seats. The year before she was arrested, three black women were arrested for doing the same thing she did. As soon as I found out about her arrest, I gathered several of my senior students and contacted a colleague in the college’s printing office. We worked through the night running copies on the old mimeograph machine. We put three messages to a page and by 4 a.m. we had tens of thousands of copies ready to distribute. With help from other members of the WPC, we made sure every black man, woman, and child in Montgomery would read one of our leaflets. We had planned months before for a boycott. Now our planning had paid off.”

Narrator: Nearly every African-American in Montgomery refused to ride the bus on Monday. A meeting that night was attended by over a thousand people. The boycott continued for 381 days – over a year – until the city changed its local law.

Rosa Parks: You might be wondering what happened to me in court. Well, I was found guilty of violating city ordinance and fined $14. My lawyer and I appealed and in November 1956, almost a year after my arrest, the Supreme Court ruled that segregation on buses was unconstitutional. The law was changed the following month.

Narrator: Rosa Parks and her family moved to Detroit in 1957 but she continued to speak out for civil rights. She died in 2005 at the age of 92. She and other brave people like Martin Luther King, Ralph Abernathy, Jo Ann Robinson, and tens of thousands of other people took a stand for civil rights.

The Never Ending Sunday Night

The first indications appear in mid-July. School supply displays begin to pop up at the Target or Wal Mart. I walk by, blow it off, and try not to think about what is ahead. Around the 24th, the mail gifts the first piece of school correspondence in nearly two months. The district logo is in the corner. I sigh and begrudgingly open it. There is usually some silly slogan that is meant to capture the goals of the new school year. For some of us, there is an invitation to a formal convocational gathering in a stuffy high school gymnasium where we sit grouped by school and watch a Power Point presentation involving terms like NCLB and AYP that are nomenclature to educators and no one else. Clouds of dread begin to form on the horizon. Where has summer gone? I just finished summer school! I need to get to the pool! 


Then August 1 sneaks up like a stealthy bandit, robbing the last ounce of summer. What was once a date on the horizon is now staring me down like an angry bull. An old high school friend and fellow educator summed it up best: August is a "never ending Sunday night."


For educators like myself, our "winter of discontent" comes in August. Skeptics may argue that teachers have the best job because they work only nine months of the year. They have never stepped foot in front of a classroom. This job, when done well, wears the hell out of you.


The academic year in America developed for two reasons. One was the agricultural cycle, where children were simply needed at home during the summer months to work on the farm. For many kids, school was something sparsely attended after the fall harvest and before the spring planting. Another reason was in the days before air conditioning it was impracticable to hold school between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Until recently, Missouri schools could be penalized for starting school more than 10 days before Labor Day. This was in part due to lobbying efforts by the farming and tourism interests. Growing up in Jefferson City in the 1970s and 80s, I remember being out before Memorial Day and not returning until late August, usually after the 26th. Those were the good old days.


This marks my fifteenth year as a certified educator. I like to think my longevity is a bit longer because I DID teach in private school and sub before getting certified in 1996. Every year without fail the minute August appears on the calendar, the "back to school" anxiety ensues. I return to school for the first time in nearly eight weeks. The library carpet is freshly shampooed. Chairs are stacked. Tables are on their sides. All of the displays I took down in early June are waiting to be resurrected. My faculty mailbox overflows with magazines and catalogs. Bulletin boards wait like blank slates. Finality is staring me in the face.


One would think that these back to school jitters would be the stuff of rookie teachers. Glen Hall, the famed NHL goalie the last time the St. Louis Blues were in a Stanley Cup final (yes children, there was a time...) would throw up before a game and then toss back an orange juice. Bill Russell, in his championship days with the Celtics, would routinely upchuck before a game. If he DIDN'T then Red Auerbach knew something was wrong.


Floating in the pool today with my wife, I asked Jodie why I continue to get so uptight about the start of school. As a librarian, I have arguably the best job in the school. I would not say the "easiest" because anyone who works with kids knows there is no "easy job" anywhere in education, particularly in elementary school. 


Her response was salient. "We care deeply about what we do. That is why you feel this way." 


Now a librarian, my wife spent sixteen years as a classroom teacher. Whereas some faculty members would walk out of the building immediately after school with nothing but a purse on their arm, Jodie would stay late and then bring work home. A Sunday afternoon for her was often spent holed up at Panera Bread or Barnes and Noble reading stacks of student writing. Every year her students made huge gains, and she often received the most challenging kids because she was a master teacher. For me, teaching summer school was an easy diversion; for Jodie, she needed time to "be a vegetable."


Figuratively speaking, I am having my Bill Russell moment in the locker room before a big game against the Knicks. Once I step out on the parquet floor and begin the pregame warmups, I will hit my stride. That time will come.


For now, though, I am stuck in the never-ending Sunday night.