Previously published in the Coastal Illustrated October 5, 2011
I love a good book.
As one of my all-time favorite writers, Mark Twain, told a young audience in 1882, “There are many sorts of books. But the good ones are the sort for the young to read. Remember that. They are a great, an inestimable, an unspeakable means for improvement. Therefore be careful in your selection, my young friends. Be very careful.”
This could be why one of my favorite activities, besides reading, is helping the Frederica Academy first grade teachers with literature every Friday morning. You may be asking right about now why would any sane person surround themselves by a group of sneezing, coughing, fidgety six year olds on a Friday without getting paid or at the very least, offered a medical and dental plan. You might even ask why in the world would you teach these little ones literature in the first place since they are, after all, only six…. and well… fidgety and sneezy. But see, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.
Not only are the best books (think Tom Sawyer, Little Women, Treasure Island) perfect “for the young to read” when they’re the most receptive, but they’re also instrumental in teaching them the writing skills used to create these very masterpieces. A child is never too young to be exposed to the beauty of a simile, the rhythmic sound of alliteration, or the punch of a “red hot” verb, as Mrs. Floyd calls them. These children are taught not just to read, but to think like little writers.
How great is that?
So that is where I found myself last Friday, in Mrs. McCollum’s first grade class, teaching nine first grade boys the importance of using descriptive “red hot” verbs.
“Can anyone remember a great action word from the sea turtle story Mrs. Floyd just read to us,” I asked a small group of three boys at the back table, my dry eraser pen in one hand and a small white board in the other. “The more descriptive the verb, the better.”
One of them thrusts his left arm up while supporting it with his right hand as if it weighed as much as a two ton truck loaded down with three hundred gallons of gasoline.
“Puke,” he hollered, still waving and holding up his arm. “My baby brother puked all over the kitchen table last night.”
“That is a great action word, you’re right,” I told him as I inched back in my seat. I had already bathed myself with a bottle of hand sanitizer and swallowed eight vitamin C tablets before sitting down, but still, one can never be too careful. “But can we think of one from the story….like the sea turtle “scooped” the sand with his fin.”
“Oh I know, I know, I know,” another boy screamed, jumping up and down in his seat. “Flush! Yeah, like I just flushed my pee down the urinal.”
“That’s a good one too,” I responded. “But how about let’s pick one from the story….like the shark “cruised” through the water.”
“What’s a urinal,” the third one asked.
“It’s that white thing you pee into in the boys’ bathroom that swishes and squirts when you flush it,” he proudly told the group before turning to me, a bright smile slowly spreads across his cute, freckled face. “How about those red hot verbs, Ms. Laura?”
“Can I go to the bathroom,” the second one begged, his leg suddenly spasms underneath the table, knocking off a few pencils, the dry erase board, and a jar of hamster food. “All this talk about verbs is making me have to go tinkle.”
“Me, too!” said the third.
“Can I go to the nurse,” whispered the first, looking a little green all of a sudden. “I don’t feel so good.”
Now, you will have to agree with me that potty obsession aside, these boys really know their verbs. That being said, we can’t really blame them for this universal fixation on all things bathroom related. It appears we have not heeded Mr. Twain’s advice and made them that way.
Since our children could walk and somewhat talk, we have read them books titled My Potty and I, Where’s the Poop?, and The Magic Bowl over and over again, even hosting Q and A sessions at the end with a cupcake party option for “just sitting on the thing for goodness sakes.” We have invested in fancy, designer “big girl or boy” underwear if they’ll trade up from their Elmo trainers and swim pants. We have bought enough stickers to decorate the Sydney Lanier bridge let alone their potty “throne” that plays CCR’s “Have You Ever Heard the Rain” when they go.
Remember the cheers, the high fives, the dollar bills, the promised trips to Disney when they finally made it to the bathroom in time. Is it their fault they can’t seem to think of anything else?
Sadly, as adults, it seems some of us still dwell close to the border of the bathroom obsessed as well. This is evident in more than a few public restrooms off I-95.
“Mommy, who is Sandy,” my daughter asks me from the next stall.
“How should I know,” I answer. I was a little distracted trying to not touch anything and juggle my sunglasses, keys, and phone all under one arm. “Why?”
“It says to call her for a good time.”
And these little ditties aren’t just relegated to roadside truck stops.
My 34 year old best friend has not one, but two, fart apps on her iPhone and, just last year, a friend gave me a book titled What’s Your Poo Telling You? for my 39th birthday along with a bottle of Poo-Pourri Royal Flush toilet spray.
All kidding aside, I guess I’ll go ahead and admit I’m not so above it all either. Just the other night, my girls and I slipped a whoopee cushion under their father’s chair. I don’t think I’ve laugh so hard in awhile. In fact, as the saying goes, I laughed so hard tears almost came down my legs.
So my apologies Mr. Clemens, I guess I should be more careful in the future about what I read…oh, and write. But wasn’t it you who said “I haven’t a particle of confidence in a man who as no redeeming petty vices whatever.” Vices, it seems, I may have in spades. My salvation, however, is at least I resisted writing any of this on the side of a bathroom wall……
Because………………..
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