Teacher of the Year

Teacher of the Year

It should come as no surprise that Celeste, wonderwoman that she is, was named her school's Teacher of the Year yesterday.  Such a title is an honor at any school, to be sure, but Henderson Collegiate is a school full of all-star teachers.

Translation: the competition is stiff.

Seriously, you won't find a more dedicated, hard-working group of teachers anywhere in the state of North Carolina, and you'd be hard pressed to find a better faculty in the country.  Being named Teacher of the Year at Henderson Collegiate, well, that's like being named the MVP of the San Antonio Spurs.

Move over, Kawhi Leonard.

Yesterday, the staff at Henderson Collegiate had it's end-of-year retreat/beginning-of-the-year planning meeting.  It was a special event for another reason, too.  I have officially submitted my resignation at Vance County Schools, and have signed on to become the Founding Principal at Henderson Collegiate High School.  This is exciting for many reasons, one of which is that Celeste and I are now working at the same school (although she'll continue to work at the middle school as I take on the high school).  Yesterday was my first day on the new job, and while it was great to be surrounded by people who are as passionate about closing the achievement gap as I am, and to begin my work on a high school that doesn't exist yet, it was even greater to sit in a room with my wife and see her in action, and to hear her current principal go on and on about how she has set the gold standard for science education.

Don't believe me?  Of course you do.  Still, here's a little proof in the pudding:

Proficiency Scores for 5th Grade Science

Year	North Carolina	Vance County	Celeste
2013-2014	TBD	TBD	94.2%
2012-2013*	45.4%	37.2%	73.1%
2011-2012	75.9%	69.9%	91.9%

*2012-13 was the first year of the Common Core implementation

She is truly remarkable, and is more than deserving of the honor of Teacher of the Year (and wife of the year, and expectant mother of the year, etc…)

Anyway, this news just had to be shared.  Celeste tries to keep a low profile about these things, but if she wanted to keep a low profile about these things, she should have married someone else.  I'm like that crazy uncle at a wedding that's had too much to drink.  I say it like it is.  And what it is, is…Celeste rocks.  So please, have the decency to congratulate her by sending her an e-mail, making a comment below, delivering her a fruit basket, or sending a blank check to 1630 Oakdale Circle.

Cheers!

The Wind Beneath My Wings

When I was a kid, the months of October-March meant shoveling snow.  This is the curse of living in Northern Utah surrounded by the Wasatch Range of the Rocky Mountains.  Shoveling snow was in our DNA.  It was usually done in the darkness of the early morning before my parents and siblings and I would gather around the dining table to read the scriptures together.  This was also a job that only the boys were employed to do, and one I would say that Clay and I grew to resent.  It meant waking up a half hour before everyone else and dressing ourselves in garb fit for the Arctic Circle.  That, perhaps, is an exaggeration, but the point I want to stress is that it was a cumbersome process just to get to the cumbersome project of removing an endless supply of falling snow from our sidewalks and driveway.

I have vague memories of my father’s silhouette against a lit hallway as he opened the door to my bedroom to beckon me to the work, then his silhouette disappeared in an explosion of blinding light from the ceiling fixture.  He’d say something soft but stern, letting me know that helping was not optional, and that our expeditious cold-weather assistance was expected, not requested.  I also remember one morning after he woke me up, I fell back asleep.  My bedroom light was still on, by my eyes had gone black.  I don’t know how long I was out.  Probably a few minutes, maybe longer.  But soon my absence was noticed and I heard the sound of my dad’s footsteps in my subconscious.  Before I had time to kick my own butt out of bed, I awoke to the angriest version of Herm charging at me from my bedroom door.  He did the butt-kicking for me.  I don’t remember to perfection, but it’s perfectly possible I had to change my underwear before I finally joined him and my brother outside in the winter wonderland.

Okay, let’s get back to mom.

Mom was always very aware of what we were going through on such mornings.  She was aware of the toiling that Clay and I, and of course my dad, would go through on almost a daily basis.  She was aware that the temperatures could drop below zero on certain mornings, and that each shovel’s load could be wet and heavy for my young back.  She was aware that the snow, when piled, was usually taller than I was.

I can’t remember if she did this every morning, or just most (I certainly remember it happening more than I remember it not happening), but when we finished our work, my mother would stand at the garage door as I put my shovel up and shed my winter gear, and she would sing.  She would sing, which she did with the voice of an angel.  And she wouldn’t just sing anything, and to my knowledge, she didn’t sing to just anyone.  The way it written in my memory, she would sing to me, and she would always sing the same song: Wind Beneath My Wings, by Bette Midler.  And she would always start it at the same place:

            Did you ever know that you’re my hero,

            And everything I would like to be?

            I can fly higher than an eagle,

            Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

I would try to mask my embarrassment when she would do that, but it always made me feel loved.  Unquestionably.  Unconditionally.  My mother loved me.  If it was not made plain by the singing, it was certainly made plain by the warm breakfast that she usually had waiting for my brother and I (dad had already eaten several bowls of mixed dry cereals by the time he woke us up).  One day is was French toast, another day it was scrambled eggs, another day hot bowls of Cream of Wheat, which we kids became adept at perfecting with several pounds of brown sugar.

Pancakes were her specialty, and when pancakes coincided with a holiday, you could expect them to evolve into some creative culinary creation.  Green shamrock pancakes on St. Patrick’s Day.  Pink heart pancakes on Valentine’s Day.  Orange pumpkin pancakes on Halloween.  That is the kind of mother I grew up with.  Special pancakes and special songs.

Other times in my life she would sing that song to me.  Sometimes she would just whisper it in my ear if it was appropriate for the occasion.  I think it made its way into many milestone moments of my younger life: graduations, piano recitals, high-stakes tennis matches, saying goodbye at the MTC, my wedding day.  It kind of became our song, and it is inexorably linked to the memory of the mother of my childhood.  My sweet mother.  The wind beneath my wings.

Spring Break: The Wilmington Edition

At the end of a long, unseasonably cold and cruel winter (by North Carolina standards, of course), Celeste and I decided it was time to head to the coast.

*Full disclaimer: "cold" and "cruel" simply mean that snow actually fell this year, and temperatures dipped below the seasonal averages of 40-50 degrees.  I hate to admit it, and by doing so simultaneously betray my winter-wonderland roots, but after living in the Carolinas for seven years, I am now officially a cold-weather wuss.  Give me the sun.

We were joined in our adventure by the lively company of my childhood friend, Gabe, who is as good-natured as he is mischievous.  Thankfully his wife, Ellen (who by all standards is clearly out of his league) accompanied him and kept him in line as much as she could.  Together, we made merry our Spring Break and ambled around historic Wilmington, North Carolina.

Henrietta III on the Wilmington Riverwalk

Aww...

Wilmington and the Cape Fear River

Our first night there we soaked in the Riverwalk while eating at The Basics, a classic down-home Southern restaurant with ribs so tender they fell off the bone, and baked macaroni that tasted like gold.  It was just one of several Southern meals we shared, and by the end of it, Gabe and Ellen could see why it was so hard for us Southerners to stay fit.

We awoke the second day and toured the USS North Carolina, a WWII battleship that was involved in virtually every major battle in the Pacific theater, including Iwo Jima.  The ship shot down dozens of Japanese planes (or "Zeroes" for all you history buffs out there), and even survived a torpedo attack that left it with a hole in the ship's hull 32 X 18-feet wide.

The USS North Carolina (BB-55)

Defending Old Glory

Top Gun

Home Alone

We then toured the Bellamy Mansion, one of the oldest homes in the city, complete with its gardens and slave quarters.  Seeing such refined historic architecture put us in the mood for some more, so we boarded a horse-drawn carriage and took a tour through the historic districts of downtown Wilmington, where many of the homes had stood since before Lincoln, and some before Washington, Adams, and Jefferson.

The 10,000-square foot Bellamy Mansion, built the same year the Civil War began.

When the Union troops captured the city of Wilmington, the Bellamy Mansion was used as officers quarters.  The tobacco stains on the original marble mantlepiece are from the spittin' lips of those damn Yankee invaders.

From L to R: Bob, Prince, Celeste, Baby Girl Olsen, Jackson, Gabe, Ellen.  And yes, Celeste is 6 months pregnant.

From L to R: Prince, Bob, and Ron the Tour Guide

The oldest home in all of Wilmington, the Mitchell-Anderson House was constructed in 1738.

Two elements of my dream house are here included: columns and a wraparound porch.  Very Southern.

On our final day in town, we decided to hit the beach.  With folding chairs, cornhole boards, and a cooler full of food in tow, we made it to nearby Carolina Beach where we played in the ocean waves and laughed at old men searching for treasure with metal detectors.  We played a good deal of cornhole, laid in the sun, and played a little frisbee.  Gabe, in his infinite wisdom, decided to suck at throwing the frisbee and struck a sunbathing female in the head on a bad throw, kicking sand into her face at the same time.  Of course, it was me who was the first responder seeing as I was the one he was supposed to be throwing it to…let's just say it was very uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Cornholing.

Carolina Beach

Be grateful I kept my upper body hidden underwater.  It is known to do retinal damage in direct sunlight.

The Bushes.

From L to R: Forever Frosh, Most School Spirit

Now we are back in the world of gradebooks and lessons and discipline.  Does this depress us?  Not really.  I mean, it's not easy to come back from vacation, regardless of what job you have.  And in our case, summer vacation is already rapping at the door.

Wilmington, anyone?

Baby Girl Olsen

A Daughter: The companion, the friend, and the confidant of her mother, and the object of a pleasure something like the love between the angels to her father.

                                                             ~ Richard Steele, 1710

Life is busy and as hectic as ever.  The school year always reaches a fever pitch around this time of year, and when you couple that with all our extra-curriculars, it's almost unbearable.  But all I want to do right now is talk about our baby girl.  Yes.  We are having a baby girl, and she is already the most wonderful, precious, adorable, and perfect thing God ever made (and yes, I’m including myself in that analysis).  Our daughter (whose name has not been decided, and probably won't be until the day she is born, so don't bother asking.  The one thing I can tell you is that Celeste Jr. is off the table, much to my disappointment) recently revealed her gender to us, and at the same ultrasound session, we discovered that she is developing perfectly.  Perfectly.  Two arms, two legs, a steady heartbeat and a fully developed brain.  Everything is looking perfect, which is fitting for our perfect little girl.  She is perfect.  Celeste and I are  all ooey-gooey about it.  I hope that never stops.

Her precious profile

Her adorable legs and feet

 

Hands by her face

 

We had a "Gender Reveal Party" last week with some friends.  Apparently this is a thing on the east coast, but I had never heard of it before moving here.  The basic idea is people come over to your house and eat cake.  The twist on the thing is that the cake is made with a special food coloring of pink or blue, and no one can see the inside of it until you either cut the cake or plunge into it face first.  To make this reveal party even more interesting, Celeste and I asked our nurse not to tell us the gender when we went to the doctor last week, and instead had her write it down and put it in an envelope.  The envelope was then delivered to a trusted friend and confidant, the very talented Laura Skinner, who then made cupcakes instead of cake.  When all our friends had gathered around, Celeste and I stood in front of them and took big bites into our specially made cupcakes.  I looked down and saw pink.  Pink.  Girl.  Perfect.

Pre-reveal - beautifully done, Laura!



 

Our pink surprise!

 

I am aware, of course, how difficult life is going to be once our little treasure comes into the world.  Being a school administrator is taxing enough, but adding to that a doctorate and a needy miniature human, and things could really get crazy over the next few years.  But I’m game.  I’ve always been game for the kind of life that doesn’t offer the luxury of 8 hours of sleep or professional doldrums.

 

 

Baby Girl Olsen, we anxiously await your arrival.  On or around August 9th, you will make the happiest couple in the world even happier, if such a thing is possible.

 

 

For those of you wanting a belly shot -

here is a rare selfie of Celeste, 23 weeks pregnant