As I looked down at the signature on the postcard, I was pleasantly surprised, reminded of the moment 'Jason' had entered 'Mary's' special class that Wednesday, mid morning, decades ago. Postcards, 2 years apart, brought fond memories of the journey we had taken together.
I had been sorting through one of many boxes, recently, containing loving reminders of years past. Postcards, cards, notes from my late husband and others served to illustrate the many layers my life had taken. It was a life well lived and loved. 'Jason', you lit up my life then and now as I read your mail delivery.
You would see me soon, you wrote. It was August of 1997, days before school's return. How thoughtful. I was not your teacher just a parent volunteer enjoying myself being with you, your classmates and Mary. I was honoured by your thoughtfulness, time taken to buy the stamp and card, writing on it, then mailing it somewhere in the strange city you were visiting. The cards meant everything to me, 30 years later.
We met that mid weekday morning, late last century. I had asked you, to participate as you entered 'Mary's' classroom. At 6-7 years of age,you, respectfully, declined. After all, you knew nothing about what the class was doing. I understood. Those Wednesday mornings, beginning in September of 1994, became an important part of school I was told. Miracles were unfolding everywhere. I was learning, too. It was the impetus for higher order thinking and learning I knew. You felt it, too.
Writing had nothing to do with learning, not at the beginning of this journey. Nothing mattered more to your teacher and me than your words, those magical learning clues. A science activity rolled into a baking class. It was unlike anything I had ever attempted on this scale. Dough was a creative experiment using new words and new thinking. Simple conversation would take us to places never dreamed of. Language meant something. Actually, it meant everything to me. Your words told me a story that never stopped. The excitement was palpable
I had been a secondary school foods teacher for special teens long before becoming a parent of three boys. All born prematurely. For their development, learning had to be fun as it was for you and the class. And so it was. When I left teaching, decades ago, I began volunteering while my own sons were students in the system in which I 'worked'. I found my true calling. Soon, its power would be unleashed and you, the beneficiaries.We were all changing.those many years ago. At first I did not understand dough's impact on your learning. But then it became obvious. All of you showed me the way. And it grew.
Dough's touch was magical but more so when listening to you and your classmates. Questions were the foundation upon which everything we did those mornings were based. Sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell were the triggers in the brain. All abstract ideas, thoughts or comments were suddenly real, translated by dough's touch in the classroom. The words flowed as your thoughts tumbled out of your mouths. We were onto something incredible. (My older brother, a physicist, makes bread for his family.)
We discovered dough's implication and application to our life and learning. Together we felt its impact upon us. Words always took center stage. Questions were number one, always. I was the silent partner.That was imperative.Yeast dough was not just ablout baking, 'Jason'. You felt it and knew it. It was about higher order thinking and learning not just communication.
Your postcards, two years in a row and your unexpected parting gift to me, the cute handheld bagel book with its bagel slicer attachment has meant the world to me. Years later, your mom, in a twist of fate, in her place of business made clear dough's significance in your life to a third party. That feeling is mutual. Thank you, 'Jason' for being there for all of us, then and now. Have a great life.
