Sunday, February 1, 2015
This is Episode 30, and the last installment, in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
Having described the bust of July 23, 1985, in “It Came Out of the Sky,” I now ask, “What does this event have to do with Bell Springs Education Collective? This event took place two full years before we even joined the collective, in 1987, and it has everything to do with Bell Springs Collective. I was new in the neighborhood, having been on the mountain for less than three years. I had owned my property for ten years, but had only moved up in May of 1982.
When the helicopter “camped” on us, we were on our own, in the sense that it was my name on the deed to my land and the federal government had seized it, but we were not made to feel unsupported. Our friends and neighbors were outraged. Will wrote a lengthy letter to the Laytonville Ledger, run by John Weed, in which he described observing the federal thugs invading my parcel, and hearing “sounds of multiple items being smashed.”
Our community’s outrage was reflected in the simple fact, that if it could happen to Annie and me, then it could happen to anyone. It was even one thing to raid property for cannabis plants, it was quite another to toss women and children into the street. One interesting component is that I never spoke to an authoritarian figure and I was never charged with a criminal offense. I did get returned the nine hundred clams they stole from me, that I had received from Michael for carpentry services, but I was left holding the other rather expensive bag, to the tune of $17, 500 for lawyer’s fees. Kind of funny how it turned out to be such a nice, round figure. None of this $17,486.27 business.
Friends and neighbors expressed their sense of outrage, by donating hard, cold cash to our defense fund. At first we were so flummoxed, we accepted the help without question. Eventually, I developed a very keen sense of communal responsibility, when it came to finding a way to demonstrably make reparations. Simply repaying money, which was donated to make a statement of support, was not feasible, nor expected.
However, when Karen made the decision to sever connections with the school district, as a result of Misha’s lack of academic growth and the potential legal ramifications, the little collective was left without that district liaison. I have indicated earlier, that the collective was not interested in the money, per se, that came from this position, so much as the curriculum which allowed our kids up on the mountain, to remain aligned with the kids attending school down in town.
The goal was to be able to transition kids from the mountain to the school, without having this transfer be academically any more difficult than necessary. By maintaining the district liaison, we hoped to be able to render this relocation of the kids’ academic setting as painless as possible.
So I could not right the scales of community support, with money, but I could with my education. I had earned my degree already in Humanities, from San Jose State University, so I applied at Dominican College, at their off-campus facility in Ukiah and was accepted. Of course, that act of applying at Dominican unleashed the fury inCorrine Rose Chintz and she wrote the famous letter, described in “Two Can Play the Same Game,” the ninth episode of Bell Springs Collective.
By the time the fallout from all of the legal maneuvering finally settled down, the collective was dissolved, the kids were down in town and I was employed by the district, as one of the language arts teachers on staff. At least then, I was the first to teach some of those students, making the jump from the mountain to town.
That sums up the events and turmoil that comprised the fall of the Bell Springs Education Collective. Out of chaos comes order. Corrine Chintz created her share of chaos, whether in a misguided attempt at attaining equality for her daughter, or a sense of wounded pride at being ousted from the collective, something that will never be determined.
What we did determine, is that communication and unity combined to create the battering ram we needed to burst through the legal wall that Chintz created, and that having done so, we provided for our kids the best possible combination of one-room school charm and fervor, with the pragmatic availability of education in town.
Well-played, one and all.
Friday, January 30, 2015
This is Episode 29 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
It Came out of the Sky!
A boom-box booms. and a skill saw shrieks. An ice-jammed blender happily clamors for your attention but a helicopter swooping in over your home, is ear-splitting, cacophonous pandemonium. It thunders out over the landscape, intimidating and terrorizing every living creature, including pregnant Annie and toddlers Casey and Benny.
The date was July 23, 1985, and by the time this attacking barbarian had retreated, one of the goons who had debarked from this invasive intruder, and come surging up the slope to use the heel of his steel-toed boot to desecrate the bejeweled gates of my homestead, had left a document behind. Upon this mangled portal, the trooper had posted a message mandating that my home and the accompanying twenty-acre parcel of land, were now the property of the United States Federal Government. We had been “camped” on.
There were thirty-three cannabis plants confiscated, and though I can provide for you the salient details, they did not belong to me. My number in the draft lottery, held in 1971 for men born in 1952, was lucky number thirty-three. If I were looking for a fifth number to complete my lottery numbers, and 33 were the only number left, I would pass on it. It has never proven lucky for me.
Who did they belong to? They belonged to my 63-year-old father, who had moved up on the mountain in 1977, as conservative of an individual as far as cannabis is concerned that you will ever meet. A neighbor showed him the ropes early on about the way he could supplement the income he earned doing carpentry and masonry in the area, by growing a few cannabis plants.
Having spent the previous twenty-five years working in a steel factory, welding, Papa was only too happy to shift his attention to the outdoors. He grew them in the middle of the manzanita and I did the hard labor of digging and hauling materials.
Papa had begun in 1979 and they had been grown on my twenty acres for the obvious reason that no one lived on that parcel. When Annie and I did move up onto the property in May of 1982, there were already plants being grown on my land and there really nothing that I wanted to do about it. With all of the commercial grows in operation in the area, who was going to care enough about thirty-three plants grown in the manzanita?
The steel-bladed mammoth mosquito had put down in the field below and to the south-west of our home. Therefore, an abjectly terrified Annie gathered up two small children and herded them the opposite direction up our driveway, coincidentally aimed in a north-easterly direction. When she got three-fourths of the way up the driveway, she cut across the top of three parcels, parallel to Bell Springs Road, and labored across treacherous expanses to reach my parents’ home. Situated above the action, overlooking in the distance the field where the invaders had touched down, it provided a balcony and from this vantage point, she and my folks were able to observe the carnage. Lito was born four months later, almost to the day.
Where was the man of the house? I was straddling the rafters of the home we were building for Jeff and Carol, installing the blocks below the eaves when the call came in.
“Mark, a helicopter just landed in the field the next parcel over!” Annie sounded agitated.
“Did you ask them what they wanted?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“NO, I DID NOT ASK THEM WHAT THEY WANTED! I was running too hard and I’m worried about Ben. He’s struggling.”
Quick snort. “Casey thinks it’s pretty fun. He asked if he could go for a ride in the helicopter.” Casey was two years, ten months old, to the day. This was the same time period when I was standing in line at the checkout counter at Geiger’s, Casey leaning to the left over my shoulder, a foreshadowing of his left-handedness, when the following dialogue took place.
“Hey there, little guy. Are you helping your dad?” As always, the clerk at Geiger’s was friendly and upbeat.
“Hmmmm...” Casey was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Do you like riding in Daddy’s backpack?”
Latching on to a deli item, he picked it up and said, “Can you say liverwurst?” He waited expectantly, beaming.
That got midget Casey’s attention.
Smiling radiantly, he burst out with, “Braunschweiger!” The head-beams on the clerk’s face dimmed momentarily, but quickly returned. True story, as with this entire narrative.
There were six of the rogues dressed in military apparel, physically conditioned, and obviously passionate about their industry; they seemed to derive great pleasure from their work. With machine-like precision, they were seen going about their destructive mission, producing green blurs of obvious goodness, cut down in the prime of life. Sigh. It was hard as my family watched from their back deck, resting their forearms on the railing, the snapdragons and petunias creating the false impression that the setting was light and breezy. Unfortunately, the members of this gallery were not having that much fun.
Now it was all over. We were back inside the demolished front gate, reading the posted edict stating that our home and property had been seized by the federal government, for the reprehensible crime of growing thirty-three cannabis plants. “You! Take this man out-and have heem shot!”
In addition to the destroyed front gate, the trespassers annihilated Annie’s hope-chest. Exactly what did they think they were going to find in my Apple Blossom’s hope chest, that would irrefutably link me to an illegal cannabis grow, of fabulous potential, in terms of lucrative reverberations?
Let’s face it; the perpetrators of this dastardly deed, growing cannabis, were obviously clutching greed’s throat, determined to be able to include a vacation in Acapulco with the ill-gotten gains of this latest caper. Thirty-three plants. I don’t even know whether they were Indica or Sativa, the only two designations for cannabis, in the pre Train-Wreck/OG Kush/Blackberry Kush days.
The trespassers stole nine hundred dollars of mine, that I had been paid by Michael for carpentry work that was not even rendered yet. I had to work ninety hours after the bust to break even, before I could start registering hours/dollars in the black. There were no job security issues. I had been working with Michael for a while now building an addition, refurbishing a redwood deck constructed back in the thirties, and building a deck to encompass the new addition.
The trespassers violated the sanctity of my home and that of Annie and my sons. And there wasn’t anything I could do about it, except hire a lawyer. We paid an introductory visit to the law offices of Ron Sinnoway, and he lent us his attention, having come into the office on an off-day, cradling a toddler within his slender arms. He gently rotated his chair so that the child would be content to listen to her daddy use big words, in a comforting tone, while Annie and I emptied out our pockets.
I am not dissing on the revered Mr. Sinnoway; he accomplished the task I hired him to tackle and I paid him the 17,500 dollars he asked for with a brilliant smile. It was money well-spent. $17,500 in 1985, does not represent the same hit on your wallet, as it would today. Just think of it as one thousand seven hundred fifty hours of construction, at ten dollars an hour. It’s easy to do the math, when zeros are involved. Even this retired language arts teacher knows that.
We were on that blistering seat for nine months exactly. I was at Corrine Rose Chintz’s home working on the oak paneling inside her kitchen, when Annie called and Corrine fetched me to the phone.
A bubbling Annie exclaimed, “It’s over! They’ve given up trying to pin it on us. There’s not enough evidence, and there are several connections being made, between the grow site and a neighbor’s home, on an adjacent parcel.”
I never had to speak with any law enforcement personnel, I never had any connection with anyone but my lawyer and there were never any charges filed. Papa’s name never surfaced and the matter simply faded away. One comment that I made the night of the whole sordid affair has stuck with me all of this time: “Hey Annie, it all seems pretty bleak right now, but in ten years we’ll look back and laugh.”
And all this turmoil for what? Thirty-three plants.
This is Episode 28 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
Double or Nothing
Heck, there were only thirty-one of those seventh graders in that two-period block of student-teaching, and I didn’t even have to handle them for the first two weeks. All I had to do was sit in the back of the room, watch and listen. Ironically, there was a pleasant young man sitting at a table behind everyone else, a smaller version of the tables at which the other kids were sitting. There was a chair for a second student beside him, but the chair was empty, and I had made that my base of operations.
I was student-teaching for Marianne and she had told me that I could sit anywhere, and maneuver my way around the class, in any way that I felt comfortable doing. She said I should feel free to interact with students in any way I wished, and that there were two weeks to get acclimated, before I would begin delivering particular lessons, or directing the reading of the literature.
As I sat next to this nice kid, he filled me in on the basics, including the fact that he was the “new kid” Woodrow, and had only moved to Laytonville a couple of months earlier. There were the maximum thirty-one kids in this class, with the addition of this kid, which seemed like a lot. He told me that the kids were pretty cool, and that his grades were OK. His hair was fashionably long, and he had an earring. There was nothing in his demeanor to indicate, that he would take his place amongst the eighth grade, in a most unforeseeable manner.
Meanwhile, I got the opportunity to cruise around in the back of the classroom, and check out who the trouble-makers were, and what their technique was. I don’t know if I gained a lot during this time, but a couple of interesting things took place, that were to come back to visit me, especially when this same group, dropped by my classroom the following year for fourth period, just before lunch time.
I was pretty invisible, rarely making my presence known, and therefore, the kids tended to forget I was around. So when that nice “Hildegard” sent a note over to her friend, she forgot to send up her periscope first, to check that the coast was clear. I was standing behind and to one side, and she extended her arm off in my direction, without looking to see who would take the note, so I simply accepted it. Not until her friend looked over and gasped, did Hildegard realize her error.
I had slipped the note into my back trousers pocket, without looking at it, and was staring, transfixed at Marianne, as though her words meant everything in the world to me. When Hildegard attempted to get my attention, I casually sidled around to where there were a couple of kids with their heads bent over something that was not visible from my position in the room. They quickly stashed it, as I approached, and I walked past them and into Marianne’s office behind the classroom, and moved out of view of the glass window, so that I could examine what I had snagged from Hildegard.
The paper indicated that the girls had been making good-if not appropriate-use of their language class. It was covered with messages in two distinct sets of handwriting. The messages covered a wide range of middle school girl topics, but the series of comments that I zeroed in on, were the ones referring to cannabis. These girls were discussing some fairly sophisticated adult activities, with a casualness that belied their age.
I was well aware that the school district grappled with the complexities of an underground culture, that made its collective living by growing things above the ground, things that proved a safety net for many of the impoverished inhabitants of the region. Many’s the denizen of our hallowed hallways, who was accompanied each morning to classes by unwanted baggage. There was no way to determine for sure, who the players were, and to what extent they were impacted.
I thought fast as to what to do about the note and more importantly, its contents. If I turned it over to Marianne, thus garnering an “Attaboy,” the girls were simply dead meat. Sirens would go off; they would take their respective places on the hot seats of life. I could ignore the note, leaving them in limbo, or I could address the subject matter with them.
I took the time to reread the note, as the last few minutes dissolved and the bell rang for lunch. Clearly Hildegard was the frequent flyer, no pun intended, and the other girl, an interested party. The note was infused with questions from the one, and responses from Hildegard. She seemed pretty familiar with the topic.
As the bell rang and the kids were gyrating their way out of the classroom, I caught Hildegard’s eye, which was not hard to do, because she was obviously stressed, and simply motioned with my head for her to join me. The chaos within the classroom contrasted with her silence, as her caught-in-the-headlights countenance betrayed her thoughts.
“Am I in trouble?” was what she asked.
“Oh, I think only you can answer that,” I responded. “There’s a lot going on in this note.” The class was now empty, except for Marianne, sitting at her desk, copying the results form an assignment into her grade book. She looked inquiringly at me for a second, but I waved dismissively at her and she returned to her grades.
Obviously not what she expected to hear, Hildegard asked, “What is that supposed to mean? You’re the one who writes referrals.”
“I mean that there are different types of “trouble” that you might get into, and some are more important than others. If I write a referral and your parents are informed, then that’s one type of trouble. However, you are probably thirteen years old, and you are messing around with something that can cause problems in the big picture, and I see that as a different sort of trouble.”
“Yeah, but one will get me thrown off the basketball team and the other one won’t.”
“Are you sure about that second part? All I am saying, is that you need to make wise choices and by becoming too dependent on something like this, you do not give your own personality an opportunity to develop. As an adult, you are in a better position to decide whether or not to partake.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to write me up?” I had been twirling this question around in my head but had not formed a final decision.
“Technically, writing a note is not worth a referral and the content of the note, whereas it is serious, is not an infraction since you didn’t bring any with you.” That may or may not have been true.
“So, no referral?” I saw the advantages of having this knowledge without divulging it to the staff. I was well aware of Hildegard’s family situation, and Hildegard’s knowledge in this area would come as no surprise. If I were going to survive this student-teaching experience, I was going to need some allies.
“I think I am going to play double or nothing with you. That means if I never hear your name in connection with cannabis again, then end of discussion. However, if you bring it to school or are connected in any way with it, then I produce this note, and it gets tossed into the mix for you to explain. Does that sound reasonable?”
I did net that ally. In fact, the following year, when I was to teach this same class as eighth graders, the two kids I mentioned in this excerpt ended up as two of my five anarchists. We did well together during that eighth grade year, the seeds of communication and trust, having been sewn in this, my inaugural experience with them. I have always felt that Hildegard reaped more gain from this decision, than she ever would have, if I had written the referral.
It allowed me to know that open and honest communication could be a two-way street, and that as we approached intersections, there was a better possibility of avoiding collisions, if I could continue to foster this sense of trust.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
This is Episode 27 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
The Big Bucks
I served as the contract teacher the last year that Bell Springs Collective existed, meeting weekly with the three groups of students, first at the little school until it was red-tagged, late in the year, and then at the different residences in which the three sections of the school took place.
I was attending Dominican full time that year, taking classes that met on Tuesday and Friday nights and all day Saturday. By concentrating efforts for what amounted to twelve hours per weekend, I was able to complete the process in one calendar year. The student-teaching part of the school year took place beginning the last couple of days of January, and extended fifteen weeks into the second half of the school year, ending in the middle of May.
Like most applicants interested in obtaining a clear California Credential, I had to perform my student teaching at two different levels of education, in my case, the kindergarten and the middle school. I walked into the kindergarten, the day after the Niners had just won Super Bowl, on January 29, 1991. I was exuberant, though nervous as I made my way around the classroom, interacting with the little munchkins in a reasonably comfortable mode.
Little kids are easy to engage. I read stories to them, got them to read stories to me; I helped them get organized with this little game, or that set of crayons with paper to boot. I listened to their comments and guaranteed that I was well on the way to garnering my first kid-related cold, by keeping the box of Kleenix handy for wiping their noses. I learned how to monitor their progress out on the playground, recognizing how critically important it was to keep an eye on every one of the little dudes, so as not to misplace them.
I was standing on the playground one early March morning, as the wind swirled around me, bundled up in my olive-drab green overcoat retained from my military experience, and donned as a protection against that wind. Our principal Mr. Matlock came ambling toward me, stepping carefully along so as to not appear fazed by the wind. As he approached me, those expressive eyebrows, dancing merrily, his smile radiated across the blacktop, warming the cockles of my soul, if not necessarily the rest of me. As he stepped up beside me, he put his hand gently on my shoulder, those eyebrows tap-dancing wildly while he stated eloquently, “This is what we pay you the big bucks for around here.”
I swear the man was giggling like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning, as he went on his way, leaving me to wonder at the irony in his message. I don’t know whether he was laughing because even if I were a full-time teacher, I was still not getting enough to make it worth while, or the fact that, as a student teacher, I wasn’t paid at all. I just know that he was enjoying his little joke immensely. (My first year teaching had a base annual salary of $18,312.00)
I was more than happy to smile radiantly back at him, as if to say, “Who needs to get paid, when you are having so much fun?” As I used to say to my students every year I ever taught, “If you think I am in this racket for the money, I got news for you. There a bridge for sale in San Francisco, and it’s made of gold. I’ll sell it to you for a song. I know you’re interested, because anyone who believes teaching is a money-making proposition, is also likely to believe that the Golden Gate Bridge is for sale.”
The reality was, I was beginning to make the connection that if the Bell Springs Collective was going to dissolve, then I would be interested in applying to the District for an available position in the fall. It was to my advantage to cultivate a working relationship with a person who was undoubtedly going to be on the hiring committee for any position that was being filled at either the elementary or middle school level. I had been hearing reverberations of an unhappy situation at the middle school level, involving one of the five homeroom teachers who anchored the middle school staff.
It seems as though the class which she had as her core class, which meant she had them for at least two classes daily and probably three, had been seriously rocking her world. They were doing the kind of stunts that clearly announced to the world that the element of basic respect was missing from her homeroom class. This resulted in spillover to the other areas of the school, which tends to happen when they are allowed to run amuck for a couple periods a day. The teacher ended up quitting in early spring, and a long-term substitute teacher was hired to complete the year. This is one of the classes I would be student-teaching reading and language for two periods a day. Knowing in advance what was in store for me was good and bad.
It was good because I hate surprises; it was bad because, knowing what was in store for me, I stressed out over it. Fortunately, I spent seven weeks with Susan Bradley before I had to face the middle school. Though the little kiddies went home at 2:30, I was there every day until five-thirty or six, sweeping, talking, cutting, sorting, learning, listening, and gaining a foundation for what it was like to be a full-time teacher.
What I learned from Susan kept me afloat through more turbulent waters to come, and there were several times when I went back for an infusion of her enthusiasm. There was no shortage of support from Susan; there was just a shortage of time. Whereas I probably would have been content to stay in the kindergarten forever, that all changed when I did finally go to the middle school, where I found to my delight, that the little monsters intrigued me. Thus began a sixteen year sojourn in the grade levels that best describe me. How appropriate.
Before that could happen, however, I had to survive my student teaching, and that meant facing that class that had driven their regular teacher right off the premises. Oh boy for me.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
This is Episode 26 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
On November 14, 1989, the County of Mendocino issued the paperwork declaring the little Bell Springs school red-tagged, and the Laytonville Unified School District Board of Trustees voted to place the stipulation on the Bell Springs Collective that it could no longer meet at the school. That meant that we had to relocate the school elsewhere.
Such a simple thing to declare, and yet so convoluted to carry out. Where were we supposed to hold classes? For years we had been meeting in the same school rooms where all of our supplies were stored, and all of the sudden we had to move the whole kit and caboodle-where?As much as everyone wanted to make it happen, no one had a place in mind that could physically handle the demands of 12-15 kids, at multiple levels, requiring space enough to allow for forward educational progress to proceed.
The compromise between what we had been enjoying, and nothing at least for the conclusion of school year 1989-1990, was to split the school up into three sections: a kindergarten, a primary age section, and a pre-middle school group. I can’t say positively where the older two groups met, but I can tell you the kindergarten was taught right here at my house, by Annie. Benjamin was in kindergarten in 1989, being five years old, and there were five other kids in that group.
Casey was in a group which included four other boys, all in the second grade that year, and I must have been responsible for transporting him where he needed to be, since Annie had her hands filled with the kindergartners. My best guess would be Marguerite’s house, because I know she taught Casey and her son Matt was in the class, so it makes sense.
And so it went through the end of that year. I remember a meeting of the entire collective at our house where we tried to brainstorm options. We could rebuild the school on a different site; we could obtain the necessary permits to make the existing school legal, while continuing to defer to Imika’s demands; or we could continue with the school existing on more than one site.
The first was simply not economically feasible, especially since the children of the original school founders were now growing older, and would be going down to the middle school in town within the foreseeable future. Besides, this time around there would be no county paperwork bypass, so that would add to the cost.
The second was unpalatable, for the simple reason that we were tired of the ongoing vitriol streaming from Imika, any time there was an encounter between her and members of the collective. The thought of continuing to have to walk the path, whether for school, or for community activities, was unthinkable.
The third did not appeal to us either, even though it was a stopgap measure to keep the school afloat, until the end of the current school year. Besides the practical side of having to divide everything up, so as to keep three different classrooms going, there was the peer tutoring aspect of our school which was forever impacted, both in the classroom, and out on the playground.
The multi-aged levels worked to our advantage in a variety of ways. The bigger kids could work with the younger kids, both one on one, and as a group. It is very empowering to a second grader, to be able to read to a small group of kindergartners. It was equally effective to have the little kids be able to remind the bigger kids of just how far the bigger kids had progressed. As far as the old saying about never learning something thoroughly, until you have to teach someone else, we saw it in action every day as the older kids had the opportunity to work with the younger kids on concepts that they themselves still needed to hone. Long division comes to mind.
Many people disagree with the policy of not allowing kids to take the STAR test with the use of calculators. They feel it is an unrealistic scenario, because in real life, no one wants a person to do calculations involving money, with anything other than a cash register, or a calculator. The image of some poor kid, trying desperately to compute his figures on paper, is ludicrous. So why not allow the kids to do the think work with their brains, but the computations with their fingers?
I even think everyone agrees that this is OK, so long as students are able to perform the calculations on paper. I was not a math teacher by design, so much as by necessity, when Paul and I were team-teaching those ten years, so I hesitate to take a stand for fear of being sucked down into the shaky ground upon which I stand.
In a small school teachers must don many hats, which for me included math. Generally speaking though, I stick to language etiquette, such as the proper use of quotation marks (always outside the punctuation) or a rousing debate on whether one should or should not employ the Oxford comma.
I see it as being a little like the debate between writing in cursive or using the word processor; in either case, the student must place words in a proper order to make sense. In long division it is more important for a student to be able to determine that division is the key to solving a word problem, than it is for the student to be able to do the calculations on paper.
With mixed feelings we closed the book on Bell Springs Education Collective, and agreed to pursue individual courses of action, dependent on each family’s needs. Though a difficult decision to reach emotionally, the physical reality of having lost our school, made it inevitable.
My own story continues, however, as this closing year of the collective corresponded with my one-year push to complete 33 units of credential work in time to fulfill my commitment of getting my credential in one calendar year. It was just too bad that I no longer had any reason to possess it.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
This is Episode 25 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
As a collective, we were marking time, waiting for the next assault. Approaching the Fall of 1989, we had already seen Karen relinquish her position as Misha’s contract teacher, the Collective vote to remove Misha from the little school, and the assignment of Lynn as Misha’s new contract teacher. We were walking the path from Joe’s house to the school, with only one emergency vehicle being driven in to the school. That was Rosemary’s car because she was physically incapable of walking, either on the path or on the road.
We may have proceeded indefinitely along this course, except that Imika made one more phone call, this one to our good friends down at the county building department, informing them of our failure to have garnered the necessary documentation that affirmed our school was child-safe. The structure itself was built according to code, and the materials met the appropriate standards; the carpenters had simply neglected to let Mendocino County in on their plans.
The debate about how much regulation the municipality should have over rural parts of the state, has been droning on since the powers that be figured out that there was gold in them thar hills, in more ways than what could be grown in the ground. Fortunately for the brave souls, who were independent enough to be able to flourish in areas remote enough to daunt the hardiest of pioneers, the county was simply unable to defray the cost of the necessary agents, needed to scour the countryside for the miscreants who refused to kowtow to what they felt were unreasonable intrusions on the tranquility of their pastoral setting.
Indeed, just maneuvering one’s way back to the little school involved some sophisticated driving, and the faint of heart need not attempt to traverse this road, because it would take more than just heart to survive: it would take skill and daring. The road itself is not that bad-it just seems that way. Much of the opening half-mile or so is relegated to one-way status, which is not an issue most of the time, because the road is not that frequented.
However, if a person is already nervous about driving gnarly, backwoods, dirt roads, and a situation arises that requires backing up because you encounter an approaching vehicle, it is enough to make a person think more than twice before even attempting it in the first place.
Barf Hill is a single-lane, steep portion of the road that climbs precipitously as you drive toward the school.
Certainly one of my most terrifying moments cropped up when I attempted to drive my two-wheel-drive Chevy pickup up this road, during a storm. It had begun drizzling as I left my house, but turned to snow, as I climbed in elevation, while making my way around the back side of Cow Mountain to the two-room school.
On this particular occasion, I was talking animatedly to the boys as we drove conservatively up the hill toward the school. The higher we ascended, the more the road began to announce that traction was an immediate and dire concern for a pickup truck with no four-wheel-drive. What do you do when you are escalating rapidly, and you find that your rear wheels are spinning on the icy road and you have absolutely no control over your sliding vehicle?The only direction is down.
When we finally came to a halt, after what seemed the length of Christmas morning mass, maybe one hundred feet back down Barf Hill, we were in the ditch, which was exactly where I wanted to be. The alternative was to have exited that part of the road which did not feature the luxury of a ditch, to prevent the vehicle from tumbling to the base of the mountain.
I was no longer talking animatedly. I was clutching the steering wheel, white-knuckled, my knees fluttering like two moths, as stable for walking on as those of a newborn horse, trying to take its first halting steps. I don’t know what the boys were thinking. They are a funny breed, small boys. There are times when the phrase “No Fear” applies as never before. Specific incidents on the highway that frightened me speechless, did nothing more than exhilarate them.
As the boys and I exited the now-defunct truck, we had only one practical directional option, and that was up, to see if the nearest neighbor, Carl, was home. At that time, his site was back along this road that led to the school. The same amount of traffic that went by Imika’s house, went by his house. I asked him once if he felt his privacy had been violated the same as Imika’s. Unfortunately I asked him when he was taking a swig of beer, and he had hard times for a moment there as he tried to regain his breath, he was laughing that hard.
Had Carl not been home, back in these pre-cell phone days, we would have had a long walk in store for us, but we were saved from worrying about that as we approached the house. The kids Bobby and Jenny were out playing in the rapidly disappearing white stuff, perfectly happy that it should be snowing, and Carl was getting ready to do some chain-sawing. He had this green monster, four-wheel-drive pickup, that he could drive anywhere. He demonstrated it on the spot, by jumping in, with the kids clambering into the bed of the truck.
Any fear I had that the kids might be in danger from treacherous road conditions, was tempered by the fact that the rain shower had moved on, the snow on the dirt road was already dissipating, and Carl’s truck was a tank. We proceeded to the top of Barf Hill, where the kids spilled out of the back of the truck, to get a front row seat on the action, without compromising their safety.
Carl expertly maneuvered his truck so that he could attach a tow chain to the front of my truck chassis, so as to winch my pickup back onto the road. He was then able to tow me to the top of the hill, so that I could determine whether I wanted to go forward to the school, or turn around and head home, while the heading was good.
And you think a building department employee, with a county-issued vehicle, was going to try and navigate to the back side of Cow Mountain, on the off-chance that there might be a little school that they could go after? We didn’t think so, either, until the official form had been filled out, after the complaint by Imika had been lodged with the building department. At that point we arrived one Tuesday morning, following a Monday, during which nobody had been at the school, to find said document.
The first person to arrive, was greeted by the notice that our school had been red-tagged, and that we needed to contact Mendocino County, to apply for the necessary permits. Meanwhile, the building was declared officially off-limits, and the Laytonville Unified School District lawyers, declared that the District could no longer allow the Bell Springs Collective to be affiliated with the District, if it were going to continue to meet at this site.
It was the proverbial line in the sand. Put up or shut down. It was time to make a final decision.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
This is Episode 24 in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
Direction and Affection
As Karen was making her difficult decision, I was trying to do everything I could to make it clear that I was a team player, when it came to supporting the Collective. I was just as enamored with the concept of Bell Springs as those who had been in on it from the beginning, and I felt a need to compensate for the fact that I was just coming on board.
It was not about disliking the commute to town, because it took a half-hour to drive in to Laytonville, whereas it took longer to get to Bell Springs. That was because by the time we got to the point where we were walking the path from Joe’s house to the school, it added enough time to make it a longer venture than if we drove to town.
My interest in Bell Springs came from knowing that if we sent the boys to Laytonville, there would be classrooms of 25 or more kids, there would be the five-day-a-week grind, and there would be the inevitable challenges that accompany kids when they emerge from the hills to mingle with the townspeople.
Having begun working for Imika in September of 1987, I was quite familiar with her distorted view of how the community was supposed to have been antagonizing her, by driving past her house and causing dust to appear. She never seemed to recognize that in terms of the big picture, no one who ever came to the school felt that there was an inordinate number of vehicles or people involved to make the complaints that Imika did.
There were never more than fifteen students on any given day, so maybe seven or eight cars might travel to the school. There was the occasional gathering at the school for the purpose of doing fund-raisers. Bell Springs members used to present “Casino Night,” which featured a series of different forms of card-play or similar game of chance.
I used to head for the poker table where you bought into the game, paying an entrance fee, and then donated ten percent of each winning pot to the school. It was just as enjoyable as any of the classic poker games we had up on the mountain, and there was a strong sense of community spirit. A large pot would inevitably induce the winner to be especially generous to the cause, which was easy to do if the pot was brimming over with dinero. The ten percent rule was more likely to become a ten dollar bill, which would be considerably more than ten percent, but was still only a small part of the winning pot.
Imika was just as likely to attend these fund raisers as any of the collective members, and yet, down the line, she used these community events as grist for the mill, regardless of the contradiction which involved her presence. However, it is important to note that vision in hindsight, is considerably more accurate that that of conventional wisdom.
We had no reason to think that Imika would turn out to be so demanding and unreasonable. I figured at the time, that I was late on the scene, and had not been around when the community had had to lend support when Misha was small. Therefore, I had plenty of reserve capacity for extending that communal support, all in the interests of maintaining the harmony of the existing environment.
The more I saw Casey, interacting in the comfortable setting of a class of five students, the more enamored I became. I had worried that the extroverted Casey would be too overwhelming for the small setting, but the fact that there were so few students, and the fact that the parent teachers were so comfortable with the setting, it turned out to be just as ideal as I had thought it would be.
Now it was time for me to put my money where my mouth was. Being on the Administrative Committee, I was aware of Karen’s dilemma with Misha, and I was aware that this was a big deal, because of the proximity of Imika’s house to the school, so I read that memo from Misha’s teachers carefully and tried to implement a plan. The thing I was focused on was the part of the memo that discussed the need for Imika to find a tutor for Misha, and a liaison to meet with school personnel to discuss Misha’s development.
“Misha is not ready for first grade now, but we feel that she could be with extra tutoring and emotional and physical consistency at home. Without this extra support and help, Msha will not be able to go the the second grade next year.”
In a letter written a year later, my mother, Pauline, explained how I had tried to address the situation. The letter went like this:
“One day in the Fall of 1988, I had a conversation with my son, Mark O’Neill. We were discussing the situation at Bell Springs Education Collective; he was describing some of the ongoing problems. He told me there was some discomfort between Corrine Chintz and the contract teacher for Misha, and that the arrangement was being terminated. He said that the staff at Bell Springs was considering the possibility of having another person tutor Misha, but that there was a problem finding someone willing to do that. He asked me if I would consider taking on that undertaking. I told him that I was not a teacher and therefore could not contract to teach anyone.
He told me they weren’t looking for a teacher, since this would not be a formal sort of arrangement fall under the direction of the school system, nor would there be financial remuneration. Rather, he wanted someone willing to spend some time in companionship with Misha, who showed many signs of needing direction and affection. He suggested that I might read to her, or simply talk with her, or play simple games.
He further said he would not expect me to contribute my time; that in order to repay me for the time I spent with Misha, he would come to my house himself and do whatever sort of work I needed to have done, in an even exchange, hour for hour, to repay me for my time. I agreed to this arrangement, and was prepared to spend time two days a week with Misha.
However, before this plan cold be carried out, something occurred which dissolved the whole arrangement. I make this statement at this time to show that Mark O’Neill was very much concerned for the welfare and well-being of Misha, to the extent that he was willing to donate his own time, to promote her emotional health. He would never have done her harm, either intentionally or unintentionally.
August 11, 1989
Pauline M. O’Neill
She had obviously written the letter on my behalf, when Imika filed to restraining order against me, but I present it as evidence, that even up to the point where Karen had to make her decision, Bell Springs Collective was still trying to examine strategies to make the situation work. Bell Springs was too centralized in our lives, to set it aside without a battle.