I've been informed that the PTA is concerned about the state of our library. All I can say is, hooray! I've been concerned for a long time now. When I first started working in my present library, I told our principal it was the most stripped down collection I'd ever seen. And it was. I couldn't believe it!
I pleaded with the administration for more funding. And they did increase our funding, but only by $1,000. which brings us about even with the level of funding we received for books in 1992. Very sad.
Anyhow, the PTA wants to help and is going to donate about $1,600 for new books. I was under the impression that I'd have to purchase all the books from Scholastic but today they told me no, that I could order the books from a library book company (such as Follett or BTSB). So, now I'm really excited! Since my wish lists always far exceed my funding, I have plenty of ideas on how to spend this little windfall. Three cheers for the PTA!!!
Our annual pumpkin decorating contest is underway and this year's entries are the best ever! I'll post some pictures later this week, if I can figure out my new camera.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Barking Dog
A dog has been barking all afternoon, disturbing our normally quiet neighborhood. I put on some music and shut the windows, but I could still hear him. It made me think of this poem by Billy Collins.
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Friday, October 9, 2009
When the Music Died
For ten years or more my library was situated next door to the music room. When Barbara moved into the former science room, I have to admit, I was not happy. Having music as a next door neighbor seemed a bad marriage. A library was suppose to be a haven of quiet, a place where children could come to read and think and make connections with books. A music room, on the other hand, was a place where boisterous children burst into song accompanied by piano music, where kindergartners danced the freeze dance and the bunny hop, 5th and 6th graders rehearsed for chorus week after week, banged on drums and tambourines and belted out songs the whole day through.
At first it drove me batty. Sometimes I had to go next door and kindly ask Barbara to close her doors (which she always did) or to tone it down a notch or two. Sometimes, while I was reading to the kids, they'd sit on the floor doing hand gestures to the accompaniment of the songs. It was a major distraction. Eventually Barbara learned to close her doors and turn down the volume and I learned to love the music that drifted beneath the door and seeped through the walls of my little library.
I learned to like "The Cat Came Back" and "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" and the theme from "Beauty and the Beast", developed an appreciation for "The Monster Mash" and the bubble gum song (which I don't know the title of). Around the holidays, it was "The Jingle Bell Rock" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" and as spring burst into bloom and the rains came whipping across the parking lot, I learned to love "Button Up Your Overcoat" and the classic "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". Most of the songs were old, but some were new, gleaned from recent movies and hit lists. What swept beneath the door and through the walls with all these songs was a lovely poignancy, a kind of poetry that I learned to adore. Often the songs seemed to reflect the mood of the book I happened to be reading or to mirror my own personal feelings.
Four years ago I was yanked out of my library and plopped down into somebody else's. No music room next door. Instead, I'm now next door to the gym. The air is punctuated by the thud of basketballs, the occasionally screech of a whistle, the scream of children playing tag or some other fun game.
I never thought I'd be saying this, but I miss the music.
At first it drove me batty. Sometimes I had to go next door and kindly ask Barbara to close her doors (which she always did) or to tone it down a notch or two. Sometimes, while I was reading to the kids, they'd sit on the floor doing hand gestures to the accompaniment of the songs. It was a major distraction. Eventually Barbara learned to close her doors and turn down the volume and I learned to love the music that drifted beneath the door and seeped through the walls of my little library.
I learned to like "The Cat Came Back" and "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" and the theme from "Beauty and the Beast", developed an appreciation for "The Monster Mash" and the bubble gum song (which I don't know the title of). Around the holidays, it was "The Jingle Bell Rock" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" and as spring burst into bloom and the rains came whipping across the parking lot, I learned to love "Button Up Your Overcoat" and the classic "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". Most of the songs were old, but some were new, gleaned from recent movies and hit lists. What swept beneath the door and through the walls with all these songs was a lovely poignancy, a kind of poetry that I learned to adore. Often the songs seemed to reflect the mood of the book I happened to be reading or to mirror my own personal feelings.
Four years ago I was yanked out of my library and plopped down into somebody else's. No music room next door. Instead, I'm now next door to the gym. The air is punctuated by the thud of basketballs, the occasionally screech of a whistle, the scream of children playing tag or some other fun game.
I never thought I'd be saying this, but I miss the music.
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