Standardized Tests

Standardized Tests

It is quiet – too quiet.

Concentration, voiceless whispers

Pencils fill in ovals,

Looking up with a smile

Allergy sniffles

Pages turning

Smiles of success

Frowns of confusion

Heavy sighs

The automatic gestures of the wiggling of pencils

And slipping loose strands of hair behind ears

Light nervous tension

A nod, a smile, a furrowed brow.

Does a year’s worth of instruction

Rest on these few mornings

Of filling in bubbles

To outsmart the test makers

Who are trying to outsmart us?

Can they ever come close to capturing the essence

Of important conversations, the smirks, the “duh”s,

The stone silence of children as books are read aloud,

The dirty fingernails of plant experiments,

The crumpled pages of a well-used

Writer’s notebook?

Can they measure anything about 

The dog-eared pages of a much loved book,

The uproarious laughter,

The occasional tear,

The breathless excitement of discovery,

The friendship,

The coaching,

The research,

And reading,

And strategy sharing,

And sense of success,

At learning something,

Entirely new?

Can one objective test

Ever truly measure

Favorite authors,

Genres,

Favorite places to read,

Passions, questions,

Brilliance?

No.

Below I have reposted a piece I wrote exactly two years ago when my last class of third graders finished the high stakes tests at the end of our school year.  This week I felt the same.

Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted. - Albert Einstein


I couldn’t have been prouder of my students than I was this week. Tuesday through Thursday we took the final part of our high-stakes, standardized tests. If you have an elementary age child in SC you know that Tuesday was Reading, Wednesday was Math and today was Science and Social Studies. The tests take an hour and a half or so for these three days. We had already taken the writing part of the test back in March. My students did shine. I am blessed with a bright and curious class. I did not look at any of their answers. I just read the instructions like I was supposed to. But I could tell.

I think one reason they were successful is that we kept alive a tradition started by my teacher buddy Brent Petersen. We created an adversarial fictional character named Ed. Ed makes the tests and tries to outsmart us, tries to trick us, tries to get us to mark incorrect answers, to think illogically, to tire, give up – to bomb the test. The further along in the year, the wilder our Ed character became. Now we have this image of Ed-the-test-maker-scorer as being a greasy guy in a small windowless room, with a single bare bulb dangling from a wire. He is a smoker too. He sits around all day creating these crazy writing prompts and test questions, or reading kids’ responses trying to find fault with our answers. Ed is the enemy. We must defeat him.

No one really believes this scenario but we have fun with the image of Ed. Sometimes he is wearing an old fashioned fedora hat, sometimes a sleeveless t-shirt. At various times he is shiny bald or has big tattoos. We imagine him reading our responses to the writing prompt, or scoring the fill-in-the-dot answer sheets with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the bare lightbulb casting sharp shadows on the cement block walls.

I tell the students and their parents that these tests don’t sum up the year. Not for me. And hopefully, not for them. The way we teach and learn is not rote. It is not a matter of dispensing information that can be picked up like radiation with a Geiger counter at some point later on to see what residue is left.

When we read it is for more than comprehension. It is for captivation and learning about the world and understanding human nature and characters. We read to enjoy well-crafted words, to immerse ourselves in other places, other lives, other worlds. When we write it is to express ourselves clearly, to share who we are, what we know. When we were writing our farewell notes to one of our student teachers last November I asked the children to think of what Tammy taught us, what she means to us, what we’ll remember most. Daquan said, “Well, maybe we should also try and make her cry.” So, OK, we also write to make people cry… and laugh and think deeply.

There isn’t much room on the test for their “stories” to amaze us, or any opportunities to make a reader laugh or cry. Filling in dots to show what we know about science or math or social studies doesn’t even scratch the surface of what children know about how the world works. So no, these tests do not reflect the two school years we have spent together. Not even close.

But, when I sat with these children, my children, for all these hours over these three days (not to mention the four mornings spent in the computer lab with testing and the two mornings spent in March with the writing part of the test) they worked incredibly hard. They pondered every question, worked in silence, completely isolated – as if in a room full of others in solitary confinement. They didn’t talk at all (an amazing feat in itself), checked over their work, put up with me reading directions in my “Ed-the-Test-Administrator” voice. No one complained. Everyone took it seriously.

I watched them stretch and yawn and give themselves little mental breaks, raise their hands with dulled pencils, read and reread confusing questions, shake their heads, furrow their little brows, look up pensively and think, erase incorrect answers, wink at me to let me know they were doing fine… smile at me – SMILE at me.

I know it’s silly, but during this testing time, when kids were scratching their heads, biting their lips and smiling at me, I felt this overwhelming sense of pride. It was the wrong time in so many ways. Tests are so artificial. They DON’T give a complete picture of achievement or instruction. But these children, my children, gave it everything they had. They know exactly how I feel about the tests but however incomplete the information they yield, I told them this was important. They trusted me and took this seriously. They trust me. Me. 21 minds. 21 spirits and hearts. 21 totally unique individuals. They trust me. This takes my breath away. Maybe I’m making too much of it, but it is staggering that these 21 little friends have this kind of faith in me.

It is one more powerful reason why I will miss these children as they move on to 4th grade. And why I don’t take the job of teaching for granted. It is simply so important. They trust me, you know? And their parents trust me. I don’t know why, but that astonished me a little today.

When we finished the tests, there was no big hoorah. The kids gathered around to learn a new song, munch a few cookies, and have some fellowship. For the rest of the day I listened a little more closely and laughed a little harder (“Hey, Mr. O,” said Joe, examining his cafeteria sandwich, “is some of the chicken for the chicken sandwiches made from the chicken’s… you know… behind?”). Today, with these precious few days left in the school year, I learned again why I love this gig.
“Standardized testing has become the arbiter of social mobility, yet there is more regulation of the food we feed our pets that of the tests we give our kids”
- Robert Schaeffer

Ruck

I didn’t think I’d be any sadder on May 9^th than the other days since my mom passed away.  Ruthanne Hill O’Keefe Engdal Burns was born on May 9, 1926.  She’d have been 86 years old today.  I remember her saying to the Hospice worker in New Mexico where she spent her last few weeks, “I’m 85.  I’ve outlived three wonderful husbands.  I have seven children.  They’re all doing fine with beautiful families of their own.  I’m 86.  I am an old woman.  What, do you think I need to be 87?”

The Hospice worker cried.  I was so proud of my mom.  She seemed to look at death the same way she looked at life.  With her eyes wide open.  She lived and laughed and loved right up until the very end.  God, I miss her.

Last evening on our walk, Heidi said that she missed my mom a whole lot too, that she could talk to Ruck just like she talked to me.  With complete honesty.  We’re lucky if we have just a few people in our lives we can pour our hearts out to, who we can be completely ourselves with, with no pretense or inhibitions.  Ruck was one of those people.  She was like that to a lot of folks. 

My memories of her are already becoming less about the grief and much more about her wit and wisdom, her humor and grace and feistiness.  How absolutely blessed I am that I was born to that good woman.  

Be Careful Out There

I was listening to TV the other day.  Don’t really watch much TV.  Perhaps I will as I get older but for now it’s mostly news shows and Comedy Central.  I was washing the dishes when I heard this ad for a medication to help you stop smoking.  I was vaguely interested.  Smoking is bad.  Stopping is hard.  I understand how addictive nicotine is.  The MOST addictive substance, right?  More addictive than heroine, cocaine, morphine.  I heard that it is even more addictive than caffeine.  No laughing matter. 

Everyone in my family smoked at some time when I was a kid.  My parents and their friends smoked or were in the middle of quitting for a long time.  I remember plainly as a kid, my mom sending me to the drugstore with 35 or 40 cents.  “Honey, go buy me some Winston Lights.  The ones in the box, not the pack.  There is an extra nickel there so you can buy a candy bar.” 

Sure.  Good deal.  It was only a couple blocks away.  And a nickel candy bar back in the day was huge. 

The guy behind the counter never questioned that I was buying it for my mom.  He’d slip it into a little paper sack along with my big old Butterfinger and give me some change back.  Yessir.  Those were the days.

So I was listening with mild interest to this commercial for CHANTIX.  The actual advertisement for the product was brief.  You know, it is a prescription medicine that helps people 18 and older to stop smoking.  [Tim: Because no one under 18 wants to quit more than likely.  Because when you’re under 18 and you start to smoke you think you’re going to live forever.  When you are under 18 you defy death by starting to smoke in the first place.  You know it causes cancer.  But that doesn’t matter.  Because when you are under 18, and you might get cancer when you are in your 60’s or 70’s… that’s a lifetime away.  60’s and 70’s are only theoretical when you are under 18.  60’s and 70’s are old people.  And when you are that young, you are never gonna get that old.  But I digress…]

So you can take CHANTIX to help you stop, but of course the ad goes on to say that you would also benefit from a “quit-smoking program, and/or counseling during your quit attempt.”  I’m thinking the quit-smoking program and/or the counseling alone just might do the trick without CHANTIX.

That was about the gist of the ad part.  I thought that it might be a little difficult to get it since it is a prescription drug.  You’d have to lean on your doctor a bit probably to get him/her to prescribe it.  But the pharmaceutical companies must count on that a great deal, otherwise, why would they advertise it on primetime?  Those ads must be expensive.  You’d have to sell an awful lot of CHANTIX to pay for just one ad.  Many smokers-with-the-intentions-of-quitting would have to pester their doctors a lot to pay for that tiny little ad. 

And then came the precautions.  I thought about jotting them down but the guy with the voice spoke so quickly that there was absolutely no way.  Luckily I googled it and there they were.  I’ll reprint them here but as you read imagine a guy with a silky smooth voice, a guy who get paid for being this voice, reading this text all ultra fast.

Some people have had changes in behavior, hostility, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions while using CHANTIX to help them quit smoking. Some people had these symptoms when they began taking CHANTIX, and others developed them after several weeks of treatment or after stopping CHANTIX. If you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, hostility, depression, or changes in behavior, thinking, or mood that are not typical for you, or you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, anxiety, panic, aggression, anger, mania, abnormal sensations, hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion, stop taking CHANTIX and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before taking CHANTIX, as these symptoms may worsen while taking CHANTIX.

Whoa!  Some people have had suicidal thoughts and actions while taking this?  And I thought the effects of smoking were bad.   I have been around people quitting cigs before.  It’s bad.  I get it.  But… anxiety, panic, aggression, anger, mania, abnormal sensations, hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion?  Who would want to go through that?!  I mean it’s only a possibility, right?  But there are more precautions.  FAR more…

Do not take CHANTIX if you have had a serious allergic or skin reaction to CHANTIX. Some people can have serious skin reactions while taking CHANTIX, some of which can become life threatening. These can include rash, swelling, redness, and peeling of the skin. Some people can have allergic reactions to CHANTIX, some of which can be life threatening and include: swelling of the face, mouth, and throat that can cause trouble breathing. If you have these symptoms or have a rash with peeling skin or blisters in your mouth, stop taking CHANTIX and get medical attention right away.

That is a LOT of possible symptoms!  Look at that list!  Serious stuff too.  I mean I could deal with some redness.  But swelling of the face, mouth and throat?  Peeling skin or blisters in your mouth?  That seems like a nasty list of side-effects (possible side-effects).  You’d have to be some kind of desperate to chance all of that.  But there is so much more…

Tell your doctor if you have a history of heart or blood vessel problems before starting CHANTIX, or if you have a history of these problems and have any new or worse symptoms during treatment with CHANTIX. Get emergency medical help right away if you have any symptoms of a heart attack.

The most common side effects of CHANTIX include nausea (30%), sleep problems, constipation, gas and/or vomiting. If you have side effects that bother you or don't go away, tell your doctor. You may have trouble sleeping, vivid, unusual or strange dreams while taking CHANTIX. Use caution driving or operating machinery until you know how CHANTIX may affect you.

Who likes nausea?  People get nauseas when they quit on their own.  Can you imagine the nausea if you added another layer on top of the normal quit-smoking nausea?  And 30% of the folks who try this get sick to their stomachs.  That’s a lot.  Now vivid or unusual dreams might not be that bad.  I’m surprised with all of the other DANGERS they even threw that it.  I don’t remember my dreams all that often.  That might actually be a benefit.

Using caution while operating machinery or driving?  Heck, most people over 18 DO DRIVE, right?  What kind of caution are they talking about?  Just being aware that this medicine might mess you up a little bit, so exercise a bit more caution?  Or designated driver level of caution?

CHANTIX should not be taken with other quit-smoking products. You may need a lower dose of CHANTIX if you have kidney problems or get dialysis.

Before starting CHANTIX, tell your doctor if you are pregnant, plan to become pregnant, or if you take insulin, asthma medicines, or blood thinners. Medicines like these may work differently when you quit smoking.

One would have to really want to quit smoking and have next to no self-control to voluntarily take this drug.  The next time this ad comes on, I’m going to watch it, because the soundtrack alone was really spooky.  Probably the visuals are really great to offset the frightening list of possible side effects.  You know, paddling a canoe down a pristine river, holding hands with a loved one in the moonlight, accidentally bumping  into your honey while cooking.  Oh no.  That’s the little blue pill…m The most common side effects of VIAGRA are headache, facial flushing, and upset stomach. Less commonly, bluish vision, blurred vision, or sensitivity to light may briefly occur….

The Evolution of the Left and Right

What's Up?

“How ya doin’?”

“Fine.  You?”

“Fine.”

“Howzitgoin’?”

“It’s goin’.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’.”

I’m a little tired of the impersonal greetings most of us use when we see each other.  Often when we meet acquaintances and coworkers our casual greetings and inquiries seem disingenuous.   This evening I saw someone I knew only casually.  It was nice to see him, but he fired off, “Howzitgoin’?” and before I even had the chance to answer he said, “Oh, fine, fine, thanks.”  I don’t even think he realized I hadn’t asked yet. 

I’m guilty too, both on the giving as well as the receiving end of the exchange.  After my mom died, when I saw someone who didn’t know that I’d lost my best friend, the one who held me to the ground – even though I was as hollow a I had ever been- when someone asked, “How are you?” my reflex response was, “Fine, thanks.  You?”  It was like jerking my leg after the doc hit my sweet spot with the triangular rubber hammer. 

Sometimes I’d catch myself after the auto-pilot response and retrofit a sincere response.  “No, not really.  I’m hurting…  I miss my mom.”

This morning as I was considering writing a piece about how shallow our meet-and-greet responses are, a teacher bud walked into the work area.  “Howzitgoin’?”  “Fine, you?”  “Fine.”  Then I stopped myself from walking away from that meaningless exchange.  I saw that she was running off some really interesting math work for her kids.  I asked how her math instruction was coming.  We had two or three minutes to share ideas about math for the rest of the year.  It went from a rather bland ‘good morning’ to a fun and interesting few minutes for us to reconnect.  Simple but effective.

I thought of that old show CHEERS from years ago.  One of my favorites.  For a few years it came on right next to Sienfeld.  Great stuff.  Anyway, whenever big old Norm Peterson would come in for a beer, the crowd would say his name in unison – “NORM!”  That was usually followed by a bland – howzitgoin’- question from one of the barkeeps.  The one that came into my mind was this – Woody, innocent and gullible, country (well, Indiana country) and sincere, says, “Hi, Mr. Peterson.  What’s up?”

And Norm says something like, “My nipples.  It’s freezing outside.  Get me a beer, Woody.”  Wouldn’t it be great if we could come up with something besides, “finehowareyou?”

So I googled around and found some Normisms, some interesting responses to some mundane greetings.  I don’t laugh aloud all that often.  I did with these.  Enjoy this first installment!

1. "What's shaking Norm?"
    "All four cheeks and a couple of chins."

2. "What's new Normie?"
    "Terrorists, Sam. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

3. "What'd you like Normie?"
    "A reason to live. Give me another beer."

4. "What'll you have Normie?"
    "Well, I'm in a gambling mood Sammy. I'll take a glass of whatever comes out of that tap."
    "Looks like beer, Norm."
    "Call me Mister Lucky."

5. "Hey Norm, how's the world been treating you?"
    "Like a baby treats a diaper."

6. "What's the story Mr. Peterson?"
    "The Bobbsey twins go to the brewery. Let's cut to the happy ending."

7. "Hey Mr. Peterson, there's a cold one waiting for you."
    "I know, if she calls, I'm not here."

8. "Beer, Norm?"
    "Have I gotten that predictable? Good."

9. "What's going on Mr. Peterson?"
    "A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

10. "Whatcha up to Norm?"
      "My ideal weight if I were eleven feet tall."

11. "How's it going Mr. Peterson?"
      "Poor."
      "I'm sorry to hear that."
      "No, I mean pour."

12. "How's life treating you Norm?"
      "Like it caught me sleeping with its wife."

13. "Women. Can't live with 'em...... pass the beer nuts."

14. "What's going down, Normie?"
      "My butt cheeks on that bar stool."

15. "Pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?"
      "Alright, but stop me at one... make that one-thirty."

16. "How's it going Mr. Peterson?"
      "It's a dog eat dog world, Woody and I'm wearing Milk Bone underwear."

17. "What's the story Norm?"
      "Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer."

18. "Can I pour you a beer Mr. Peterson?"
      "A little early isn't it, Woody?"
      "For a beer?"
      "No, for stupid questions."

Touch

There are several kids in my class who still hold hands.  It seems like the most natural thing in the world.  Interlacing your fingers with another’s must be one of the oldest human gestures.  It says so much.  That singular gesture is invariably positive.  It demonstrates trust, compassion, comfort, and friendship.  It is a sign of love.

My finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my thumb – your thumb.  The webs between my fingers contacting yours.  The bones of my hand entwined with yours. 

When we are little we reach up for the hand of the people we love – sometimes just to be sure of them.  When we are big we reach down to show that we are there, that we care, that we must cross the street safely together, that we won’t get separated in a crowd.  We reach down to grasp a little hand almost as a reflex.  To express our love.  To show simply that we are within reach.

Babies are born with an intense need for touch.  Babies who spend a lot of time in hospitals and orphanages where they do not receive skin-to-skin contact fail to thrive.  I read about this interesting study where librarians were asked to alternately touch and not touch the hands of their students as they gave back their library cards.  Those whose hands had been touched by their librarian reported “far greater feelings about themselves, the library and the librarians than those who had not been touched.  This occurred even though the touch was fleeting and the students didn’t even remember it.”

In our classroom we touch pretty unselfconsciously.  Certain kids zoom in for a hug every morning.  Others opt for a fist bum or a hand slap.  Some will come in quietly without checking in with me.  I usually give them a noogie or a high five when we do catch up.  But we touch.

There are many girls who still hold hands in our classroom.  They grab hold when we walk to the public library, or to the recess field or to the cafeteria.  Some boys may still hold hands at the beginning of second grade, but by the end of third it is a rarity.  There are a couple of guys who are always sitting close enough so that their legs touch when they are on the floor.  And we do a lot of teaching and learning from the floor.  Our girls often touch, run their fingers through or smooth out each other’s hair.

This morning as my students took a big, high stakes test in our computer lab, the feeling in the room was one of intense concentration.  This was the kind of test that pushed every child to the wall.  I’ve written about this before.  It started out easy, but as they answered simple questions correctly, the subsequent questions were more and more challenging.  Glancing over their shoulders at the answer choices, I was amazed at how difficult this must have been for them.  And yet no one complained.  No one whined.  No one cracked under pressure.  I walked around the room every few minutes just checking in with a touch on the shoulder or a pat on the back.  To soothe, to connect, to praise them and to show my gratitude for their effort.   It was a gesture that words can’t quite explain. 

It’s sad to me that many of us become self-conscious about touch as we get older, especially guys.  At some undetermined age, and it is probably a little different for everyone, little ones (especially boys) stop holding hands with their friends, brothers and sisters and parents.  Girls are lucky in my opinion.  They can hold hands freely with their besties. 

I suppose holding hands for little boys is like crying when you hurt yourself.  At some point we stop crying for physical pain.  Comments like, “big boys don’t cry” probably help to extinguish it. 

When I was in Rwanda I saw men holding hands routinely.  My friend Brandon took a picture of two very rough looking soldiers in camouflage, each with a machine gun slung over his shoulders, holding hands walking down a busy street.  It was as natural as anything there. 

Adult guys can still hug briefly if there is a manly slap on the back at the end of the embrace.  Let’s not read anything too personal into this hug, right?  Shaking hands is the norm.  No weapons, right?

At the end of my mom’s life I was blessed to have been there for her final week.  We touched so often.  The first night I was there in New Mexico at my sister Ruthie’s I spent in the office guest room.  Then for the next several nights I slept with my mom.  I needed her touch.  And I think she needed mine.  I think she needed grounding.  I think she needed to be sure of me.  We slept with our legs touching or my hand on her shoulder, or holding hands.   And through the days and evenings when she was awake we sat close enough to touch.  During her final hours, when she had lost consciousness, Ruthie and I stroked her hair and rubbed her back.   We held her hand - just as she held ours when we were little, to protect us, to make sure we didn’t get lost or frightened, so we could be sure of her. 

I can smile when I remember her touch now.  But I miss that touch like nothing else.

I can think of my mom now and not cry every time at missing her.   I expect that I will cry for a long time when I remember her and miss her touch.  Even though big boys don’t cry.

Playlist

It’s interesting to look at someone’s bookshelf.  You can tell a lot about a person by knowing what they read, that you might not be able to see otherwise.   In our home we have three main sets of shelves with some nooks and crannies here and there with smallish stacks.  We also have baskets of books – mainly mine – that are on the “to read” list.  I have one basket that is just from my mom’s house, the last few books left around there since she gave away her books almost as fast as she read them.  There is the smallish stack on the nightstand (and under it).  There is a magazine rack next to the sofa. 

The same is true when you see folks’ music collections.  Do they like Sinatra, The Talking Heads, Taylor Swift?  Nine Inch Nails, The Doobie Brothers, The Doors?  The Beatles, Creed, Linkin Park?  Of course, these days a lot of people keep their music collections privately tucked away on their ipods.  No longer can you browse a record collection and even CDs are becoming a thing of ht past.

This morning I was cleaning out a file cabinet drawer (the detritus of many years that I couldn’t bring myself to toss).  I found some old writer’s notebooks with snatches of songs I wanted to write, short stories I wanted to complete, some original songs that did make it to their playable stage, outlines for letters I wanted to write (some I probably did).  And lists.  I used to play out a lot at this coffee house in southern Indiana.  Sometimes I played with my buds in a band called EMERALD.  Other times it was just a loose connection of friends who sat in with each other whenever we played and they would show up with their instruments.  A lot of times I just played by myself.  I played a mix of originals and cover tunes.

Before playing at The Daily Grind in Nashville, Indiana, I would create a list of possible songs to perform, songs I knew by heart.  I knew lots of songs back then but, of course, could only play about 25 or so in an evening.  I had the list there for comfort.  I didn’t want to draw a blank on what to play next.  So I kept this little notebook with me with my current playlist, tunes I wouldn’t screw up too bad if I had the notion to play them.

I think a person’s playlist says a lot about them – in the same way that their bookshelf does.  This particular one was dated May 3, 1986.  It was probably one of the last times I played at The Grind.  Depending on your age and stage, you may not recognize many of these.  There were only a few top 40 songs in the mix and those are old folky songs.  I don’t remember exactly what I played that night all those years ago, but more than likely – the set came from these.

Heart of Gold – Neil Young

Mercedez Benz – Janis Joplin

You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine – Kristofferson

Sugar Mountain – Neil Young

Fish and Whistle – John Prine

Needle and the Damage Done – Neil Young

Paradise – John Prine

A Love Song – Kenny Loggins

Till The Morning Comes – Neil Young

Cripple Creek Ferry – Neil Young

Moon Shadow – Cat Stevens

Father and Son - Cat Stevens

The Boxer – Paul Simon

April Come She Will – Paul Simon

House of the Rising Sun - Traditional

Summertime – George Gershwin

That’s The Way The World Goes ‘Round – John Prine

Illegal Smile – John Prine

Teach Your Children – Graham Nash

My Heroes Are Cowboys – Willie Nelson

Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison

I’m Not Saying – Gordon Lightfoot

Friend of the Devil – Jerry Garcia

The River – Dan Fogelberg

There’s a Place in the World for a Gambler – Dan Fogelberg

Lookin’ Out My Backdoor – John Fogerty

As the Raven Flies – Dan Fogelberg

Tequila Sunrise – The Eagles

Don’t Cry Blue – Jonathan Edwards

Sometimes – Jonathan Edwards

Desperado – The Eagles

Peaceful Easy Feeling – Jack Tempchin (Eagles)

Simple Twist of Fate – Bob Dylan

Colours – Donovan Leech

4 and 20 – Stephen Stills

Redneck Friend – Jackson Browne

Something Fine – Jackson Browne

Ready or Not – Jackson Browne

Rosie – Jackson Browne

The Captain and the Kid – Jimmy Buffett

He Went to Paris – Jimmy Buffett

Never Been To Spain – Hoyt Axton

Boney Fingers – Hoyt Axton

Inch by Inch – Dave Mallett

Carolina On My Mind – James Taylor

Hey Mister, That’s Me Upon the Jukebox – James Taylor

Right Between the Eyes – Graham Nash

Little Boxes – Malvina Reynolds

I Know You Rider – Traditional

Black Cat Blues – Bill Wilson

Flowers are Red – Harry Chapin

Carefully Taught – Rogers and Hammerstien

I can’t play a lot of these any more.  I’ve forgotten how some of them go and I’ve lost my chord sheets for others.  But just typing out the list brings back those smoky evenings in that wooden space with the sounds of cappuccino machine and clinking silverware and laughter and conversations.  And it brings back those old friends – most of whom I have lost touch with. 

I still play out at church and in the classroom with my young friends, I still jam every once in a while with my friends Dave and Chris.  I swap songs with my son Colin occasionally.  We have a few sing alongs ‘round the campfire every year.  But I miss those evenings playing for ten-bucks-and-tips and free coffee and the precious moments of having someone call out the name of an original song or when folks would sing along to an old familiar tune.