Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

How hard I have searched to find a fuel supply for the heart that can equal the guaranteed 140+ smiles a day lost at the sound of the last school bell. 140 smiles fade into my memories like the wispy willowy lines of a pencil sketch...

The best school-bell smiles were witnessed while standing on the cold speckled gray 12" tile by the light switch of my Art classroom where I lingered. Too near the pencil sharpener, lead shavings gifted the sole of my shoe with a smoothe and elegant ice skater's pivot as I twirled around to greet each class once the last set of legs entered and the last child was seated...for good.

When I chose to step forward from teaching to pursue a full-time art studio; the air I breathed felt heavier without their smiles in my day to offset.  It's not that there was suddenly more Bad or Sad in my life that needed a smile-balance; it's that the sheer volume of child-smiles coming in my direction had become like booeys along a lakeshore edge bobbing their bright colors and keeping my mind from allowing negative thoughts to corral. 

Without my daily smile-quota, mood more easily accidentally wades into deeper waters. What to do?

It's not like a physician who has signed a hypocratic oath and wears a white jacket with a pair of furrowed brows to match would or could prescribe a pharmaceutical solution equivalent to 140 smiles per day for a post-teacher's self-diagnosed smile-anemic heart. That's how many students came and went from my room any given day. Each day that goes by, that depleted tally goes up...or is it down?

This is not a downer story; it's a perspective story. See, there are different types of smiles for different seasons of life. Heaven won't tell, and neither will I, but different smiles count differently in The Smile Tally.

One smile from my new baby grandson is worth at least 1,000...so I'm doing okay...

--more than okay! Noone is counting, but if they were, here is how the smile-math began.

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Every 45 minutes, the blue plastic chairs in my colorful Art classroom were filled by a new mix of Amish and English culture. Preference or creativity was not stifled by seating charts here with the 1 rule to encourage and inspire always, but to do so without distraction.

With each incoming class, excitement bounced in the air like a helium balloon twitching against a ceiling to the windy rhythm of a nearby ceiling fan. Seeing my aproned form in the doorway marked the beginning of their long-awaited 1 Art Class per week. 

Art Teachers have similar perks to the blessed ones who deliver floral bouquets and hand-scooped ice cream cones. These may not be 3 professions most highly recognized in any high school career choice brochure, but there is no job on earth that can compete with the high "smile-ometer" rating coming back in your direction. 

The young smiles that entered my room had skipping legs attached to them clothed in either blue jeans, shorts, heavy navy hand-sewn pants, or skirts floating at the ankles. The nearest empty seats were usually filled with blue-jeaned legs. The swooshing skirts and pants with suspenders seemed to take a little more time to choose. They were often among the last to select and sit; or sit, look around, whisper, stand, move and re-sit.

I didn't mind.  

The Amish children always sat in a minimum of pairs if not 3rds, but they rarely grouped themselves up. An Amish child never sat alone. Others would rise up from their 1st-selected seat and re-sit until 2 or 3 were gathered together. 

They would also, with a polite stubbornness, not allow an English child to harbor alone, even if the child was grumpy and shyly said they wanted to be. Again, the children would rise in pairs or 3rds from their selected seats and reposition...if they noticed someone alone. They always noticed. They always friended. Friending need not have a stream of words attached. They simply arose, and sat down with.

They did not to cluster or provoke segregation of their own doing. Nor did they myopically isolate themselves if the sunrise struck them on a moody day. Grudges were not held against others or themselves. They saw to it that no child sat alone.

As I watched quietly from my arms-crossed perch at the light switch, I gave no hints. I knew what they were doing; and they knew that I knew. Sometimes arranging equitable seating was down right mathematical and the English children were down right clueless of the strategy of their good-intentions.

Each rectangular table with paint smudges, eraser dirt, stray crayons and the lingering aroma of crusty glue sticks, comfortably held 2 blue student chairs on either side.  A 5th and 6th could be pushed up to the ends. If there was a solo child surrounded by two empty seats and 3 students wanted to move to be near; chairs had to be shifted. Math applied.

The Amish children often counted out loud while their resolve to include was quiet and steadfast. When resolved, and everyone was together, they looked up at me and smiled. I would pivot on my left foot, turn the lights off and then on again. We would begin class. The one child was well-worth the linger.

It is the smile of the child
      who was kindly included

            that I miss the most.

The 140 smiles were not lost.

      They are found as I remember.

           As I write. As I draw.

As I enter my studio each day, the light switch is still where I linger. My left foot pivots as I find my 140 smiles again in my memory. I pick up a paintbrush that rests in an imperfect ceramic pot next to a framed photo of my grandson. I begin my day with 1,140 smiles, because his smile counts as 1,000.

Like checking the oil in my truck, I can feel the compass gage of my heart smile-ometer ding to the red FULL line. The ding sounds strangely like the chime of a school bell.

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About the Art: This tiny 8" x 6" Ink, Watercolor, and loose surface-distressed Art translates my illustrated style into portraiture. Trained in realism, once attained, I lost interest in favor of abstracted color and free-flowing incomplete lines that leave ample impressionistic room for the imagination to step in and dance along with the paintbrush.

This is the 6th article in a series of memoire blog articles gleaned from my early teaching days among the Amish. To see the collection, click HERE.