Author Archives: sara holbrook

About sara holbrook

Poet/Author/Educator

Educational TV


“Kids just don’t know how to work,” I hear my friends complain. They have no desire to learn nor do many of them have the desire to do much of anything beyond staring at some kind of screen, complain the teachers.

The first teacher professional book I ever read was The Disappearance of Childhood by Neal Postman where the author points out that prior to television, adults were the storehouses of knowledge and (hopefully) at least a little wisdom. Responsible adults would pass this learning along to children at the appropriate time and childhood was one long apprenticeship to adulthood. How to use a chain saw, fire a weapon, cook a goose, lessons were given on a need to know basis, complete with new words and real reasons to learn. Life and death issues taught as they came up.

Such was the way of learning throughout the ages, Postman pointed out, right up to the advent of the television. Some might argue that it really started with the Little Rascals, but I suspect those shows were not created just to entertain kids, and were certainly not developed to be a vehicle for selling products to kids. That came later.

Of course words, reading, and books factored into the learning process. But this type of learning was also scaffolded in accordance with the maturity of the kid, the difficulty of the text precluding most second graders from mastery of quantum physics at the corner library even IF (big if) the librarian let would allow the kid into the adult section.

So, along came television, effectively changing the direction of the knowledge stream. And within a couple of generations of sitcoms, Roseanne, Archie Bunker, and Maude came along to replace I Love Lucy and Father Knows Best as broadcast parents who dispensed knowledge with no deference to the viewer’s age or need to know. While parents were working somewhere out of the sights of their kids, kids took to learning on their own from fake parents first, and then simply from each other.

At some point, Madison Avenue went from being in the business of selling during breaks in the television shows to driving the programming for children. Can’t you just see the lightbulb going on over the pink power tie of some ad exec after a focus group for Sugar Pops.

PING! Kids don’t like parents around. Let’s take the parents out of these programs – kids will like the shows more and we can sell more cereal.

Bingo. The advent of the Disney channel, one of the most successful sales vehicles to traverse our screens. In shows such as The Suite Life and Hannah Montana, knowledge is imparted by peers. The vocabulary is limited, the topics narrow. Work is never modeled and viewers are never asked to stretch beyond what they already know.

Responsible parents restrict their children to this kind of programming thinking they are doing a good thing by not letting kids learn how to party hearty with a beer bong on MTV or commit a sex crime ala CSI.

But is it a good thing? Really? When the only adult role models students see in their fictional TV literature are ineffectual, plainly idiotic, or absent entirely, why are we surprised when our real life kids give us no respect? From three to six hours per day, PER DAY, kids are being schooled that adults are dumb and it is their peers who have all the smarts. The days and plots of their lives revolve around avoiding any interaction with adults.

I have this discussion with my daughters all the time. I know they think I’m annoying (and I probably am) complaining about the Disney channel, but there is something about my grandkids watching this programming that makes my teeth itch. The way they depict young women? The shallow values? The insular lives that rarely venture outdoors? This type of learning can never replace what adults can impart to kids.

It can be argued that television has replaced teachers and parents as the greatest educator, but even with the shows featuring murders and Springerized paternity tests blocked, what is most children’s programming really teaching kids except that adults are simply the straight guys and the joke is always on them?

Oh, I know the response – what the heck. That’s just the way it is. Yeah, it is. But up until about the last 30-50 years, guess what? That wasn’t the way it was. Kids actually learned from adults.

Am I getting old and cranky or what?

Olympic Obsession

I love the Olympics. Particularly the summer games. I hear that music and it is like a trumpet call to make popcorn, sit down and go “WOW.” The training. The years. The hours. The sports I never heard of. A handful of contenders in their forties! One might think it would be a call to go out and get it in gear to soar to great heights at record-breaking speeds on my own.

One might.

Nah.

As the athletes discipline themselves, so do I. My discipline involves not letting myself watch during the daytime hours. So far, I’m reaching for the gold in that category. I’ve actually been focused on a revision of a novel, maybe not with the intensity of Phelps in the butterfly, but pretty intense.

Marge Piercy says to become a writer, you have to like it more than being loved. I have never had the desire to push it that far, but I suspect the Olympic athletes face similar choices. Such is the intensity of their commitment. I don’t think I made anyone not love me this week, but I might have been teetering on the edge. So, Wednesday we took off to take Scottie to the county fair where he was very impressed by the chickens and corn dogs and not so impressed by the smell of manure.

After the fair, we made a bee line to Michael’s parent’s pool to wash off the ambiance of pigs in pens, where Scottie and his step-cousin Edison practiced synchronized diving. Even without seeing their faces, any spectator can see they are loving it. So, how many more dives before they get this down?



Five Hours

Three days in Albany at a Writing Conference for teachers — a wonderful opportunity to share ideas for ten whole hours with third and fourth grade teachers. A luxury of time. Enjoyed every minute. Even arriving at the airport early was a welcome event — new book by Anna Quindlen, Rise and Shine, time for dinner. Uh oh. Delay. Oh well, what’s another hour? And then that hour turns into three, four, more hours. The only travelers left at the gate are those who are headed home — the missed connectors are all rebooked for tomorrow. The holiday travelers went back home for the night. The rest of us know the score. How long has the plane been on the tarmac? Can’t go over 3 hours or they have to turn back. How long has the crew be on duty? What time will they max out? We are all weary, one deranged woman is screaming at the desk clerk while the rest of us roll our eyes. We don’t care about the food vouchers or if they want to charge us for blankets, we just want to get home.
Many of us wired to outlets, eyes too tired to read, minds to spent to think. We are now a community. We collectively groan as each delay is announced and the warning is made every 10 minutes to not leave our bags unattended and then we watch each other’s stuff as we take turns leaving our bags unattended.
Finally, it is announced that the plane has left Newark and will arrive in 25 minutes. The community cheers. But wait . . . could it be? Yes! Storms in Cleveland. Any minute we will board the plane not knowing if we will face the same fate as the last passengers, stranded on a tarmac until the weather clears. What we do know is that the crew will max out at 1:00AM and it is a 1.25 hour flight west.
At the conference we talked about the importance of leisure time to foster writing — but what good is leisure time when eyes are tired and dry and brains are mush?

Image compliments of explodingdog.com. Go there and buy this guy’s stuff — he is more than a little twisted and totally amazing.

Update: Mechanical difficulties. This is a phrase you never want to hear after being seated on an airplane. And they didn’t mean the overhead light above my seat that didn’t work either. They meant the de-icer on the left wing. So the airline had to bring a maintenance crew in at 10PM and fix it — we didn’t take off until 12:30 AM arriving at CLE at 2:00AM. I don’t know why I am even recording this story — it is so common. A five hour delay. Ho hum.

What’s five hours? We get almost 5 of those segments everyday. I can wait for a plane for five hours, but I couldn’t bike for five hours. It’s a short time to sleep, a long time to stand. Five hours would be a short work shift, but a very long time to not work during that shift. Five hours is a time period that has been on my mind lately.

I was seated in the same seat, 3A, that I was seated in as I flew back from Atlanta after receiving the call 3 months ago that Stephie was beyond critical and in crisis. Three months ago today. The window of the airplane was like a movie screen to me last night — a series of tragic images reflected in the cloudy night sky.

What happened to July?

Kelly snapped this picture of Sara Kelly this week and it perfectly captures my image of July 2008 — peeking out. I can’t believe it has been a month since I’ve posted a blog. The month went to biking, triathalons (Michael competes, I stand on the sidelines and say “go michael”), beach walks, Walloon teacher camp, gardening and occasional walks. A LOT of private time, occasionally peeking out.

I was all set this past week to really get down to some serious (or not so serious) writing, but on Sunday we all decided it was time for Kelly and the boys to come so we could fill up each other’s tanks with love and support. It was just time. So that’s what we did and I’m soooo glad that we did.

Walloon was the greatest. It is a summer camp run by Harvey (Smokey) Daniels & Co. where teachers go to recharge, review and learn anew. Serious talk, new data, new ideas all mixed together with (frankly) corny songs and a rockin’ sock hop. Here I am rockin’ out with Steph Harvey.

Here is Michael, still smiling, heading into the final segment of the Fairport Harbor Triathalon, the 5K run.

July 2008.

Everything you ever needed to know about relationships you can learn from picking raspberries

Everything you ever needed to know about relationships you can learn from picking raspberries.

Don’t be fooled by all that greenery, there is more there than meets the eye. But, be gentle lifting the branches to see what’s underneath. The good ones may fall or something might get broken, spoiling future growth. While the lifting can reveal amazing clusters of sweet surprise, watch out for the thorns. Be careful, but don’t let those little things send you running.

Those showy sprouts? Not productive. Cut them down to size.

If you have to pull too hard, they are not ready. Berries are best savored one at time, right off the vine. Flavor is lost with the addition of refrigeration and other mechanical devices. Without a human touch, some will mold on the vine. Pile them up in a bucket and many will lose their integrity and become mushy.

Always leave some behind. Those are for the birds.

Death of a Loved One: Day 46

“Keep the machine running.” This is a quote given to me from Michael and to him from a veteran machinist. When Michael asked the older man (back in his machine shop days) what the secret was to his reputation for high production, he advised, “just keep the machine running.”

This has become a joke around the house, the perfect answer to substantial progress against a frightening blob of laundry, clutter, yard work, or phone calls that need to be returned — one of us has really bent to the task and kept the machine running.

At first, when death doesn’t knock politely, but kicks through the door as it did with Stephie, everything stops. Details to be taken care of: necessary arrangements, who needs to be called, who needs shoes for the funeral, what do we do with all these flowers? The machine just runs, by what power, who knows. But it does run.

The sputtering starts weeks later. Brain sputters trying to answer email. Heart hesitations. Knee weakness in the grocery. For my part, I haven’t been able to write at all except for a few blog entries. Poetry demands feeling, and I can’t risk it (see above re: knee weakness). And I spend a lot of time wrestling with the what-ifs and I worry about what is: About Katie. About Doug. About Kelly. A lot about little Scottie.

Granana, will you turn on the TV for me?

You can do it, sweetie.

No, only Stephie is allowed to turn on the TV.

When he was shown the video about Ben before Granny camp, his response was:

Is Ben dead, too?

Visiting Michael’s mom: “I remember when we came here last summer. That was before Stephie got dead.”

Scottie is four. He doesn’t even know what forever means and developmentally he won’t for another two years. He still believes in Santa. He thinks that Spiderman can save the entire city and that being a pirate is just as serious job aspiration as becoming a fireman. His daycare provider pointed out to Kelly last weekend that if someone were to tell him Stephie would be back tomorrow, he would believe it. His entire life revolved around doing what his big sister wanted him to do or negotiating a way NOT to do what his big sister wanted him to do. At night, when he lays down his head to sleep on Stephie’s pink princess pillow, what does he dream?

How will this play out in his life? Will he have trust issues? Will he be angry? Will this keep him from caring because caring sometimes hurts? Who knows?

Who knows?

The day after the funeral, the day formerly known as Wednesday, as a family we backed out of the drive and turned separate ways into the unknown. We talk all the time, but ultimately we each need to find our own way and there are no maps, no single directive that is right for all. Little Scottie, like the rest of us, will just have to find a way forward.

A teacher at the Ohio Writing Project at Miami University asked me last week why I blog. Some of is it very personal, she observed. I don’t remember what I mumbled in response, not sure it made any sense at all, in fact. My lips were moving, but my brain is still sputtering. As I think about it, I guess I blog because writing prose is like swimming the sidestroke compared to writing poetry. I’m all caught up with the laundry and my garden is doing well (see lettuce and strawberries above). We are all fed, bills are paid. I’m being a bit more reclusive than normal and have a tendency to turn the other way when I see someone I know. It’s getting a little better and I’m sure (hope) that the part of me that can focus on book commitments is going to kick in here one of these days. Meantime, every morning and several times each day I just remind myself of the wisdom of that old machinist.

Granny Camp: A Retrospective


Fill your hat
with water
dump it on your head,
watch the sunset
fall in bed.

Kick the horse
to make it go,
hike and sing,
explore and show
off your
painted shirt,
and decorate
one of Sophie’s gourds,

eat mac and cheese,
gather
tadpoles,
rocks
geez
110 degrees
is really hot!
How ’bout a swim?
Do your ears hang low?
Can you see Saturn?
How far are we from Mexico?

Road Runner,
Jack Rabbit,
Coyote, Owl,
Turtle,
Mountain Lion,
who’s on room checks?
Hang your suit and towel!

Granny campers are bold.
Granny campers are brave.

We stay on the path
and watch for bats
in Colossal Cave.
Hayrides are bumpy.
FIRE ANTS BITE!

Limestone
dripping down
becomes
stalactite.
Wear hats and sunscreen
and we won’t get burned.
These are some of the facts
we never stopped to learn
while covering ground
at Granny Camp,
instead we picked them up
on our desert run,
mining unknown trails,
where
we struck FUN.

LOST EMAIL


What I want to do is blog about what a fab time I had at Granny Camp and visit with the Ohio Writing Project at Miami U (very cool), but first a bit of Grumpy business. I have been on hold with my email server for a total of 80 minutes today — after the first 25, no you need to talk to the business server, no your email box is too small, we’ll make it bigger, no you’ll have to call back, no you need to talk to us when you are in front of your home computer, no, you need to talk to . . . oh, you get the picture.

Bottom line, all email I received or Kelly received at Kelly@saraholbrook.com, between Sunday June 22 and Thursday, June 26 has been lost in cyberspace and I am not happy about it. The server changed servers, or some such thing, and poof. All my email that was hung up out there has gone away.

Please, if you sent me an email and you read this, please resend.

What a pain!

Live: from Granny Camp

So far we have visited the Desert Museum and the Colossal Cave. We’ve gone horseback riding and written in our journals. We’ve sung camp songs and given ourselves desert names (Ben’s is coyote, mine is fish hook). Why fish hook? That’s a kind of cactus and it seemed appropriate since we all got stuck trying to fish a hook out of one. Granny Debbie had all the supplies put up and man have we been eating them. We must eat 8-15 times a day. We take turns with chores and do crafts. We’ve decorated T shirts and plates and Granny Sophie helped us decorate gourds today. We made gourd name tags and each decorated our own little gourds (grown my Granny Sophie). I’ve been having computer troubles — and still am since I am now learning how to use a Mac. Big leap.

Tonight we sleep under the stars after an astrologist comes to explain the sky to us with her big telescope. More pix to come.

Way too much stuff to do to sit in front of the computer. Oh, and for those who are wondering, it hit 106 today!