WordSisters

Tag: Writing

  • In Honor of Those Who Teach

    Marquette University’s development rep wanted to visit (aka ask for a donation). On a hot summer day Samantha Adler and I sat down with iced drinks to chat about education before the pitch. First, we circled topics searching for things we had in common beyond my alma mater and valuing education. We wandered into talking about growing up in small towns.

    She grew up in Monticello, Indiana, the same small town as my husband. She had attended Meadowlawn Elementary. I mentioned my mother-in-law spent decades there as a third-grade teacher.

    Samantha asked for her name. 

    “Mrs. Kraack.”

    Her eyes got wide. “Mrs. Kraack! She read to us after she retired.”

    “That would be her.”

    “She was amazing. She made me want to read.”

    There we sat, two strangers across a table, connected by the kind of educator who could make small children want to read.

    “I read Winnie the Pooh books to my children, and I do all the voices like Mrs. Kraack. I haven’t thought of her for so long. This is amazing.”

    We both had goosebumps while sharing Mrs. Kraack stories. I told her truthfully that this opportunity to talk about my mother-in-law was a wonderful gift. 

    Helen Kraack taught at least a thousand elementary school children during her career. She was on her third generation of students in some families. Teaching was not a job for her, but a mission. She worked hard to be sure every third grader leaving her classroom could read, manage their time, know how to be kind to others, and dream of their futures.

    How do you measure the success of teachers like Mrs. Kraack? Many tried when she received an Indiana Shining Star for Excellence in Teaching, when she retired, when she passed. Stories about kids who went to college, who became professionals, who held leadership positions, won awards. 

    Then there are untold stories about little girls like Samatha who learned to love reading while listening to Mrs. Kraack. A girl who would earn a full scholarship to St. Mary’s College and develop a career making college possible for other kids. A mother who reads Winnie-the-Pooh books to her children. 

    Many thanks to all who enter classrooms this school year or teach in other ways. Know that even on your most lackluster days, your influence may brighten a child’s day and well outlive you. There are people who have your backs and wish you all the best. 

    Emily Kraack Chad and Helen Kraack

    “Some people care too much. I think it’s called love.”
    ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

  • In Honor of a Compliant Computer

    Years of corporate living, reinforced by people who could shut down my technology, taught me to update operating systems and apps with a healthy degree of skepticism. I will eat a cookie from the first batch of a new recipe with little concern. I will not download a new operating system, office productivity program, or unsolicited app update until the pros prove that bugs won’t push me into a mess far beyond my problem-solving skills.

    AI, whether best friend or evil three-horned creature, now asks what I want to write when I open a blank screen, makes suggestions about words that might strengthen my writing, nitpicks commas. This is all more irritating when what I am writing is purely creative mutterings. Nothing like a computer to correct how leaves moving in a breeze look like when I am the one sitting in a garden chair staring at trees swaying. AI questioning if the language of a three-year-old character is authentic when I am quoting my granddaughter is as aggravating as having a younger literary agent say I don’t know what a man her father’s age is like. I’m lucky enough to be married to a man of that age.

    Now Apple, Google, Microsoft and all the big players have snuck their AI tools into the process of writing a friendly note to myself, a one-paragraph bio, a blog, a character sketch, a chapter. If I don’t remember to disinvite the AI crew, it is as welcome as having a client read rough copy over my shoulder or chairing the group writing of an executive overview. 

    With this blog complete, I’ll give AI an opportunity to do a quick edit and appreciate the results. The newest version of the “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” series could be “If you Give an AI Program a Few Keystrokes.” Please go speak amongst your AI creators until I call you to my table.

  • To Louis and Octavia

    An enthusiastic three-year-old ran craft materials to the kitchen table. She had a project in mind, a puzzle to build out of tongue depressors. 

    I was not enthusiastic about the project which, as many projects, would lead to painting which might lead to painting herself. In fact, I was tired and working hard to be gentle as she taped sticks together. When a washcloth became necessary, I got it damp at the sink, looking at her head bent over a row of painted wooden sticks. 

    The oak table where she worked on a protected area was made in 1902 when Louis Cravillion married Octavia Orde, my paternal great grandparents. How I miss my Grandma Tavy. My grandmother died following childbirth, so Octavia cared for her grandson. As a woman of the age, I am now, she cared for me. I sat on one of these chairs while she braided my hair, ate meals she cooked, or colored. My mother worked in town.

    After my great-grandfather died, we had moved in with her. My parents remodeled the kitchen and dining area storing this oak table for a new Formica and metal model. Eventually an apartment was finished upstairs so she would have her own place. The table returned. Eating breakfast in my designated chair, it was possible to watch everyone come to the new post office across Main Street. Patterns were cut to make clothes, cookie dough rolled out, homework completed.

    After her death, the table was refinished and set up as my parent’s game table. As they downsized, it came to be mine. Our children ate and did homework and projects on a glass surface that protected the oak. Today’s artist is one of their children. 

    Stories of six generations of my family have been exchanged here. Men have returned from wars to a first home meal, baptisms and weddings celebrated, hard decisions made, children loved. Great grandma’s quiet and calm presence participated in half of its history. I see her hands now show in mine; her brown eyes look back from our mirrors. I can only hope I carry some of her wisdom to those who sit at this table, her blood mixed in their veins. I am not so tired.