The Fifty States, iMacs, Reese's Cups, and a Crush on Tyler at Branch Elementary
BY JEN STEVENSON
Toward the far south end of Branch Elementary School, in room 14, Mrs. Leslie Ogden calmly watches as her 20 pupils pour in. Passing under a long electric-pink poster above the door that reads, "Never Settle For Less Than Your Best," the third-graders stampede toward their chairs, squealing, and chattering.
The carpeted floor rumbles and shakes as 40 little sneaker-, sandal-, and boot-clad feet trample throughout the room, headed for Lilliputian desks and chairs. Lunchboxes slam onto desktops, backpacks are carefully looped onto the backs of chairs, binders spill forth wrinkled papers.
The class is colorfully decorated, with practically every square inch covered in creative writing assignments, posters, drawings, and paintings. Shelves of books grace the right wall of the room, complete with a set of 1986 World Book Encyclopedias, and a new 19-inch television and VCR hang from the left-hand corner of the room. Half of the room’s back wall is covered by a bulletin board filled with Native American-style chalk drawings, framed on either side by construction-paper totem poles.
At the front of the room, Mrs. Ogden stands serenely. Wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, and a brown velour overshirt, she is calm and kindly, with a softly graying head full of curls and spectacles that tend to slide down her nose.
The school day begins with a notebook exercise. Battered bound notebooks appear from the depths of cluttered desks, and Wendy Gilpin, a student teacher working in Mrs. Ogden’s class as she earns her teaching credential, puts the class’s task–a series of four mathematical problems–up on the overhead projector.
The classroom takes on the tenor of the quiz shows that have taken over network television in recent months. The stakes may not be as high monetarily, but a third-grade psyche is a fragile thing and the pressure is palpable. Regis, I mean Mrs. Ogden, starts with a few softball questions to give the room some confidence.
The third problem throws a few students for a loop. "Jan earned 5 nickels on Friday, and 7 dimes on Monday. How much money does she have?"
These kids don’t have any lifelines to call on. No one wants to make a mistake. Finally, a little hand creeps up into the air.
"Does she collect nickels every Friday?" clarifies Tiana Goldsmith.
"I think she collected them on one Friday," answers Gilpin patiently.
Earnest little heads bow over their notebooks, painstakingly scratching answers in smudged pencil marks.
When it comes time to dispense answers, scores of hands shoot up.
"OK, so how much money does Jan have?" Gilpin asks.
"Ooooo, oooo, oooo, oh!" they all hoot, jumping around in their seats like heated popcorn kernels.
One small girl with a pink bandanna wrapped around her straight brown hair is offered the privilege of revealing her answer.
"Twelve," she says confidently.
"No!" gasps half the class in a horrified tone, secretly exhilarated that the game will go on. The hands shoot up again, waving wildly.
Another child is called on.
"Eighty-five," she calls out loudly.
"No!" bellow her classmates.
At this point, the stakes are high. In their desperation to be called upon, some children resort to pulling on one arm with the other to stretch it even higher in an attempt to enhance their visibility, little behinds leave their seats, and hands flutter madly like birds’ wings.
Gilpin decides to just calmly lead the group step by step through the process, and then they are on to the last question, guessing the order of a sequence of shapes.
Gilpin calls on another fortunate contestant for the answer.
"The white circle, and the, the, uh, dark, black, pointy thing," she struggles.
"Arrow!" shout a cacophony of helpful little voices.
"If you agree with that answer, give me a thumbs up," Gilpin says. Immediately the room looks a hitchhikers convention.
Then, it’s time for their morning dose of patriotism. First, all rise for the flag salute, then the tape deck comes to life and out blares a lively ditty about the United States.
"Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, and Idaho," the class sings cheerfully to a rousing tune, "Kaaaaansas!"
They run through all 50 states, heads bobbing up and down approvingly, and feet stomp on the floor as they finish up the song.
"The United States, I love my country the United States. YEAH!"
Gilpin takes the floor once more, announcing the next activity: "Read My Mind."
"Yeah!" sings the class happily.
* * *
Only six minutes remain before recess, the perfect time, Mrs. Ogden says, to practice the class song for the school’s March pageant.
This announcement is met, predictably, with gusto.
While Mrs. Ogden talks, Mike, a mischievous little guy with spiky blond hair and rosy cheeks, reaches slowly into a brown paper bag sitting innocently on his desk. With a bland expression on his face, he pulls two Valentine’s Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from the bag and spirits them into his lap, all the while intently watching Mrs. Ogden.
He neglects to check on the whereabouts of Gilpin, however, who happens to be sitting right behind him. His neighbor, Stephanie Peterson, who has been watching the situation with a look of relative envy, adopts a sly, knowing smile as she watches Gilpin close in.
After a brief whispered conversation, Mike reluctantly returns his Reese’s to the bag. Stephanie grins with glee, showing even rows of small white teeth in her cherubic face.
Meanwhile, it's time to sing again.
"Shouldn’t we stand?" Sheridan Tolst asks, already on her feet.
"Yes, I think that would be a good idea," Mrs. Ogden agrees.
"You should stand when you sing," Sheridan informs everyone. "It opens your diaphragm and stretches you out."
She twirls both arms like an out-of-control windmill as she stretches and bobs up and down on her tiptoes.
"I’m in a choir for church so I know."
As everyone waits for Mrs. Ogden to cue up the cassette player, Ray Halldin and Jake Gentry stand in back, seeing how fast they can kick their hand with their foot.
The tape player squawks, and the song begins.
"Land, water, and air," everyone sings loudly. "The earth is made of these three things, land, water and air."
Hand movements accompany the tune, and the class approaches them with various stages of coordination. Michael McBirnie punctuates the beat of the song by banging his knees vigorously against his chair.
"Help keep our water clean and safe for us to drink," everyone croons merrily, laughing uproariously when someone fumbles on a word.
"We have to keep our air clean and safe for us to breathe," they trill.
"I said ‘drink’ again," chortles Sheridan to Tiana.
* * *
The kids head pell-mell for the playground, tripping over untied shoelaces in their quest to beat each other there.
The boys head straight for the post-storm rain puddles under the swings, while the girls stand with their hands on their hips, watching disapprovingly.
"They are not supposed to be in the puddles," says one little girl distastefully.
Gilpin arrives. "Guys, please don’t play in the puddles," she calls out.
A wave of denials are issued. "We’re not in the puddles," the boys answer indignantly. "We are digging a river."
While some girls head off to play basketball, several sit on a dry table and chat for a while. Despite their young ages–which range from eight, to eight-and-a-quarter, to eight-and-a-half, to nine–they are remarkably astute and don’t mind getting personal.
Brooke Shepard, an Arroyo Grande resident, is positive that it is her destiny to be a veterinarian. Or maybe a teacher. Her dad is a teacher at Arroyo Grande High. Or maybe she wants to be a nurse. Her mom is a nurse. She can’t remember the name of the hospital her mom works at, but she knows it is in peril.
"My mom works at a hospital in San Luis Obispo," she says. "She’s been there a long time. But they might have to close it down."
She believes that, yes, it could be General Hospital where her mom works.
"She’s sad [that the hospital may close] but happy, because it’s old and might fall down. Then they might turn it into something else," Brooke explains, with both the innocence and understanding of a child.
Jamie George, who's holding a basketball, lives in the Huasna Valley with her horses, her parents, and her two older brothers.
"I didn’t know that you had two brothers," Sheridan says.
"Duh, I’ve told you that since kindergarten, you doo-doo," Jamie says disbelievingly, and the girls dissolve into howls of laughter.
These girls are no wallflowers. Besides their separate extracurricular activities, they play for the Red Hots, Branch’s basketball team.
"We’re called the Red Hots, because we’re red, and we’re hot, and we really really rock!" chants Jamie. "Wow, I just made up a new slogan for us!" she giggles, then runs off to chase her basketball after someone smacks it from her hands.
"Nice undies!" Jaimee McGuire, another classmate, calls after her.
The fascination with dispensing all sorts of useful information about themselves and each other continues as the kids line up after recess, waiting for the P.E. teacher to fetch them.
They continue to talk about their families–and everyone else's. Even at a young age, they are aware that there are differences between them, and sometimes these observations are painfully blunt.
"She’s poor, her family is poor," Sheridan blurts out, pointing to a classmate, who ignores her completely.
Mrs. Wilson arrives, wearing a Raggedy Ann vest that says "I love you," black leggings, and dark sunglasses. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, and heart-shaped earrings dangle from her ears. A whistle hangs from a lanyard around her neck.
"OK, we’re going to do a nice, slow jog around the courtyard," she tells the kids.
An all-out stampede ensues, and like little hamsters on a treadmill, the kids race around the small area. For a round or two they run like aspiring track stars, then start huffing and puffing and eventually slow to a crawl.
"Just so you know, P.E. sucks," Jamie says, breathing hard.
At the prodding of Mrs. Wilson, they all assemble to stretch.
"I think I hear too many voices talking, Roger," Mrs. Wilson says.
The kids bunch up in groups of three to jump rope, linking arms and digging in a bucket of tangled ropes.
The girls immediately congeal into a large group, then deftly reorganize into smaller coalitions to ensure maximum jumping time without a long wait in line. They locate and untangle ropes of appropriate lengths and in no time are seamlessly jumping in tune with the rotation of the rope.
Meanwhile, the boys have abandoned all sense of order. They are chaos and unbridled joy all in one, and they are fascinating. Even at age 8, they are filled with testosterone tendencies, and nothing is worth anything if it can’t be used as a weapon. Shrieking and howling, they shake, slap, kick, and punch at each other good-naturedly, and those who do manage to secure jump ropes use them to smack each other.
Across the small courtyard, the girls are chanting sophisticated little jumping rhymes, and some are even jumping in pairs with relative grace and concentration.
The male rope turners discover that by pulling as hard as they can on either side, tug-of-war style, someone will have to let go and someone else will get hit by the wildly careening rope. One boy gets knocked on the head and falls to the ground in mock pain.
"Let’s just do this, guys!" pleads Jeffrey Kaiserling, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.
When they do pull it together, the boys prove to be able jumpers. One little towhead named Brad jumps nearly to the end of the alphabet before he skips a step.
"Good job, Brad, good job!" his peers call out enthusiastically, thumping him on the back as he walks to the end of the line.
These kids seem almost like family, and while the normal rivalry and strife that permeates adolescent life is present, it is no match for the sense of camaraderie and friendship that bind the children together.
In the second portion of P.E., Molly Wilson and Brooke sit on the sidelines, unable to find a group for basketball. Caitlin Edgerton runs up with a concerned look on her face.
"What’s wrong?" she asks worriedly. "Do you want to be on our team?"
Ray sits on the sidelines, looking pained. He doesn’t feel good, he explains curtly, then warms up when talking about his horse, three cats, one dog, and five former chickens.
He wants to be a pilot and talks about his extensive collection of plane and pilot books.
He has flown before, to Mexico and the Caymans, he says. This conversation has attracted several classmates, who also share their travel destinations.
These kids are already world travelers, naming such exotic locales as China and the Caribbean in their repertoires. Ireland, New York, Hawaii, Florida, Mexico, Canada...their little faces light up when they tell of their exploits. At 8 years of age, many of them are perfectly aware of what a great, big world it is and have not a clue as to their good fortune.
Besides world travel, they discuss such sophisticated topics as love.
Jamie has a romantic interest, but her lips are sealed.
"I’m sure not telling who it is in front of him," she says accusatorially, pointing at Mitchell Erickson, a grinning elf in a red 49ers shirt. "Last time I told him, he told literally everyone in the class."
Mitchell’s cheery little face beams mischievously, and he dances down the hall.
"I know who it is," he shouts. "It’s Tyler!"
Jamie grabs him. "If you tell anyone, anyone, your head’s going to go bye," she threatens, making a few very descriptive gestures.
Mitchell takes off running. "Tyler?!" he yells. "Why do you like him?"
Jamie lights after him, screaming for him to be quiet.
When Jamie is far enough away, Emily Carlson, a tiny nymph wearing a blue skirt with butterflies embroidered on it, tiptoes up.
"She likes Tyler, and her last name is George, Jamie George," she whispers through cupped hands. Then she grins delightedly from ear to ear, showing her two little front teeth.
Oh, how fickle is the 8-year-old heart.
* * *
It’s 11 a.m. and back in class everyone settles down into their seats. In the transitional melee, Mike finally sneaks his Reese's cups, cramming them into his mouth whole.
Mrs. Ogden takes over, and the class recites their times tables in multiples of 3s, 4s, and 5s. They stumble a little on the 6s, and Mrs. Ogden asks them if they are sure they want to try the 7s.
"Yes, yes, yes!" they say breathlessly.
They are so excited to learn, so willing to absorb knowledge, filled with promise and bursting with energy.
Their hopes and dreams fill a bulletin board by the door. In honor of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the children wrote up their own dreams, mimicking the introduction of King’s famous speech. Some are slightly more altruistic than others, but all come from the heart.
"I have a dream today that people will share their love with other people in the world," reads Jaimee’s contribution. "That people would be more rich so they could have a nice warm world."
The simple paragraphs point out the worries these kids hold in today’s world, and while their writing style is still developing, their messages are clear.
"I wish that there was no more violence," wrote Brooke. "Because if one person brought a gun to school then other kids would think that was cool. Then other kids would want to bring weapons to school, play with them, and possibly hurt someone."
Many express environmental concerns.
"I have a dream today that people will enjoy picking up trash in nature.... They shouldn’t mind helping save trees," wrote Sheridan.
"I have a dream that all the animals that are almost extinct won’t be extinct," wrote Tyler.
Mitchell has a special dream for mankind.
"I had a dream that kids could fly jets. It would make the world better. And it would make kids not sit in front of the TV," reads his paper.
And then there is Chris, with an interesting blend of self-interest and environmental benevolence.
"I have a dream that Pokémon cards will be free or a few cents. Game Boy colors will be 5 dollars. But my biggest dream is no animals will be extinct."
It’s lunchtime shortly, and they all grab their lunchbags and run to the cafeteria. The girls sit at one table, the boys at the other.
The kids eating school lunch have the choice of either a main meal, or they can choose from a salad bar filled with goodies like chef’s salad, hard-boiled eggs, and chips.
Tiana has assembled an interesting lunch–two hard-boiled eggs, tortilla chips, croutons, and chocolate milk. She picks at it, while the other kids complain about their lunches.
Everyone is busy talking when disaster strikes.
"Stephanie, Stephanie, someone threw something on you, someone threw something on you," Brooke says, agitatedly.
Stephanie pays no attention, as another girl to her right repeats Brooke’s revelation with equal emotion.
Stephanie isn’t too concerned until the dreaded words come from Brooke’s mouth, "Stephanie! YOUR HAIR IS IN IT!"
Now there is a problem. Everyone stops eating and peers at Stephanie’s shirt. A big gooey, gummy red blob is stuck to the back of it.
Fingers point in all directions, and the culprit is located quickly.
"It...was...Cory!" screams Molly. "He’s holding a fork under the table!–I can see it!"
"It was Cory, I see the fork," shriek a few more little voices.
"This is a new shirt," says a devastated Stephanie, craning her neck to see her back. "Oh, I hate him!"
"We have got to tell!" cries Sonya Dobbs, the picture of a woman determined to see justice.
"Yes, we are telling," shout a lot of little voices, and hands fly high into the air.
Principal Harvey White–who is on lunch duty–comes right over, and somehow discerns the story by piecing together shrill first-person accounts and guilty looks. The despicable Cory is sentenced to a lunchtime of picking up garbage, and the girls relax, assured that justice has been served.
"Are you writing that down? There’s a good story for you," Brooke says emphatically, wagging her finger. "You can say a guy named Cory flung something at Stephanie and now he has to pick up garbage."
Bygones are bygones a minute later when everyone’s attention is drawn to Principal White, who asks all to join in singing "Happy Birthday" to Sara. After a rather dissonant version of "Happy Birthday," everyone departs for the playground.
* * *
Out on the playground, with tetherball chains clanking in the background, talk turns serious again. Several children reveal that they want to be veterinarians someday, while Jaimee says she would like to be an inventor. She’s stumped on what to invent, however, and has to meditate on it for a while.
"Something to get peanut butter out of the jar quicker," offers Michelle Beck, a tiny, freckled redhead with a winsome little doll’s face.
Meanwhile, Jamie is discussing why she’s fallen so hard for the elusive Tyler.
"I’ve always thought there was something special about him," she says reflectively, thinking back through the long three years she’s known him, back to kindergarten. "It’s because he’s tall and fast."
"I know, I know, tall and fast," mimics Sheridan, rolling her eyes.
A little boy in thick glasses runs up, nearly in tears, disrupting the conversation.
"Are you the yard duty because Chelsea just screamed in my ear she went like this ‘Aaaahhhhh!’" he says in one breathless sentence, ending with a long, blood-curdling scream. Disappointed that he will not find the long arm of the law at this source, he runs off to find a genuine yard duty.
The secrets and gossip continue to flow like wine until the lunch bell rings and everyone heads back to class.
* * *
Back inside the classroom, they all manage to locate their seats and sit quietly fairly quickly, maybe because it’s story time. Mrs. Ogden stands up at the front of the room and opens a children’s novel, "Shiloh" by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. The story centers around an economically disadvantaged young boy, Marty, living in a small town in West Virginia, who rescues an abused beagle named Shiloh and cares for it secretly, lest its cruel owner–a man named Judd–find it.
Mrs. Ogden reads the story in a variety of backwoods twangs and drawls, bringing the poignant tale to life for the enraptured class. They listen unwaveringly, and as themes of poverty and abuse are woven through the tale, they respond to Mrs. Ogden’s careful questions with childish innocence and yet also with an amazing grasp of such heavy issues.
Mrs. Ogden reads a line in Judd’s low voice, revealing that he was hit when he was a child and he sees nothing wrong with treating a dog in a similar manner.
"When Shiloh do something I don’t like," she growls in "Judd’s" voice, "I kick that dog right to China."
The kids laugh loudly at this concept, and Mrs. Ogden halts the story.
"Well, that’s funny to hear, but when you think about what that expression means, is it really very funny?" she asks seriously.
The kids sober immediately. When asked about why they think Judd acts the way he does, hands go up immediately.
"He does the same things to Shiloh that his parents did to him," says Sonya.
"When somebody does something to you that you don’t like, maybe you’re kind of mean because of it," Emily answers.
"His parents were mean to him, so when he grows up he acts that way, too," offers Jaimee.
The story winds on, and the kids offer up their wisdom on poverty and the definition of envy. Then as quickly as it began, today’s installment of "Shiloh" is over, and it's time for "centers."
The kids easily divide into their appropriate groups. Half trot over to a large table sitting at the right of the classroom; the others settle in various spots around the room, filling out worksheets, researching presidential facts out of books and Time Magazine for Kids, and listening to educational tapes.
At the large table, Gilpin has meticulously fashioned a timeline out of different colored yarn, with three sections that each represent a significant time period in Native American history. The kids are fascinated with the yarn and in no time have picked at it with little fingers until each piece has left its Scotch tape restraints and is curled up on the table like a skinny little snake.
Circling the table with her Native American textbook open, Gilpin makes sure everyone is on the same page, and then points out the different segments of the timeline. Following a long orange piece is a tiny blue piece, which Gilpin reveals represents a period of great change.
"Now what happened to change the lives of the Native Americans in this period?" she asks, pointing at the blue piece of yarn.
Everyone thinks for a moment, then a little voice pipes up.
"Did they invent cars?"
If Gilpin sighed, it wasn’t audible.
"That’s a good guess, but it was something else," she said patiently.
"They were chasing buffalo for like two weeks?" ventures Jaimee, misreading the time increment of the blue yarn.
Gilpin asks for a third opinion.
"They discovered horses," said Jeffrey, and a light bulb turns on above each little head.
"Aaahh, yes," they breathe appreciatively.
Having traversed that educational hurdle, Gilpin moves on. She discusses the nomadic lifestyle of the early Native Americans and how they carried all their worldly possessions with them from camp to camp.
"Now, if you had to carry all your possessions with you at all times," she poses the question, "you probably wouldn’t be taking your television or your Pokémon cards, would you?"
The groups muses over this tricky question.
"Well, if it had an adapter for batteries," piped up a voice, "I would take my television."
This honesty provokes a torrent of disclosures.
"I would bring my Pokémon cards," Michael said, unabashed, prompting a laugh from Jeffrey, who obviously agrees.
Tiana’s hand waves high above the group.
"I know, I understand that you aren’t supposed to bring a lot of extra things," she says knowingly. Looking gratified, Gilpin invites Tiana to share what possessions she would carry.
"I would bring one pair of socks, and one pair of shoes, and only three outfits, and a blanket on the top and on the bottom of everything." She pauses as Gilpin smiles, encouraged by such sacrifice. "And my Barbies."
"Barbies!" shouts Michael scornfully, obviously imagining how many packs of Pokémon cards could take the place of a Barbie.
Gilpin quiets everyone down and calls on Emily Mitchell, a quiet, thoughtful little girl.
"I understand what Ms. Gilpin is saying, how you don’t want to carry a lot of excess stuff," she says. "And even though Michael said Pokémon cards and they don’t weigh much they are still excess."
Everyone with the exception of perhaps Michael and Jeffrey looks convinced, and on that note, table time is up and the students return to their seats to separately tackle a question about Native Americans.
At a nearby table, Jaimee is perusing a Time Magazine for Kids. She laughs suddenly, then shares the object of her mirth.
"These are the guys that are running for president," she says, pointing at the cover of the magazine, a colorful caricature of the leading presidential candidates racing each other. "They made a cartoon of them."
She opens the inside of the magazine and, from a row of photographs, deftly points out Bush, McCain, Bradley, and Gore.
"That’s one, that’s one, that’s one, and there’s one," she says automatically, conceding that she isn’t quite sure who she would vote for yet.
Across the room, Mrs. Ogden surveys her brood and speaks with pride about the generosity and parent involvement that her school enjoys. Mitchell’s mom has arrived to help for the afternoon, and Mrs. Ogden says that she has a parent helper coming in almost every day.
Besides the time donated by parent volunteers that come help in classrooms, she says, the class is also boosted by the material donations the parents make.
"We have a really supportive parent teacher organization; they provide a lot of extras," Ogden said. "The parents themselves have even provided teaching materials."
Every October, she says, the organization holds a large auction for some very nice prizes. The ensuing revenue pays for two computer lab technicians, which the district cannot pay for. These technicians staff a lab filled with 33 computers, 22 of which are brand new iMac computers donated by parent Robin Ventura, a baseball player with the New York Mets.
"We don’t get Title I funds, so we make it up that way," Mrs. Ogden said.
* * *
Branch doesn’t get Title I funds because of the school’s high socioeconomic status. For example, only 16 percent of the student body gets a free lunch ticket.
The ethnic breakdown of the school is 85.8 percent white, 7.7 percent Hispanic, 2.8 percent Pacific Islander, 1.4 percent each Filipino and Asian, and 0.7 percent black.
"It’s very diverse," Principal White says jokingly.
The clock creeps toward afternoon recess, and the class is ready. They rush out into the fresh air screaming, while Mrs. Ogden and Gilpin take advantage of their 15-minute reprieve.
When the kids return, it is 2:30 and they are in the home stretch. The toil of yet another busy day has taken its toll, and as they sit and listen to Mrs. Ogden explain their next assignment–working on their insect reports–eyes are considerably droopier, hair is mussed, and clothes are rumpled.
Chris walks in late, with two wet pant legs identically plastered in sand.
"I fell in the dirt," he says simply. "More than once."
Mrs. Ogden puts on the overhead projector and discusses the particulars of the insect reports, including the title page, table of contents, writing skills, illustrations, and bibliography.
"This is worth 100 points and you should try to get as many points as possible," Mrs. Ogden says seriously.
"I’m going to get 100," says Roger, a pint-sized joker with an infectious grin.
"To maintain consistency," Mrs. Ogden continues, "you can all use my binder paper for this; you don’t have to use your own."
"All-righty, then," intones Emily Mitchell, Ace Ventura style. The class giggles. "All-righty, then," repeats Mitchell.
Sonya raises her hand.
"For illustrations, do we include pictures we got off the Internet?" she asks. A pile of glossy little pictures of butterflies sits on her desk.
As Mrs. Ogden addresses this high-tech inquiry, a glance around the room reveals that many students sport color pictures printed off the Web. A survey reveals that, in fact, 18 of these kids have computers at home, and many have more than one. Of the two that don’t have a computer, one is "getting one soon."
The majority of these students also believe they will attend college in the future, but some have pretty stringent criteria.
"I don’t want to go to Cal Poly," Tiana says, wrinkling her nose. "A lot of people smoke there."
When the final bell rings the room empties at lightning speed. Kids bolt in all directions, hopping on the big yellow buses that await them or running toward parents waiting in minivans and sport utility vehicles.
Michael’s mother comes into the classroom to pick him up, bearing a gift bag with a present for Gilpin, who finishes her student teaching the next day. Inside are some brightly colored flowers, and Michael beams as Gilpin raves about them.
She appears almost ready to cry at the thought of leaving and explains that to work at Branch Elementary would be a dream come true.
"I would love to work here," she says. "Branch is a wonderful school." Æ