Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

Like a tin can band of ukuleles trying to strike the low notes of a bass guitar, the voice inflections tossed back and forth in conversation among the young Amish boys was more than a nod to their fathers. If the little girls in pastel skirts had picked up on their mother's graces, little boys in suspenders mimicked tone with all the unintentional drama they possessed in their small frames.

I granted a fair amount of freedom in my classroom to talk during Art activity believing in the greater benefit of shared inspiration vs risk of distraction. Most days, like this day, it worked out okay. Most days, like this day, I could not imagine what sowing this freedom would reap. Never a dull day in the Art Room! As they say, "Truth is better than fiction."

2 dark-haired boys talked quietly as they finished colored pencil sketches. Due to the uniqueness of their low tones, my tuned ear picked up an intent conversation from across the room. 

Though my intent was not to eavesdrop, it was within a teacher's due diligence to monitor appropriateness of all words spoken within the 4 walls of my classroom, yes? A rattly wheeled chair rolled back from my desk. My legs stood slowly without drawing attention. I edged nearer the boy's table in a nonchalant side-shuffle.

The topic I thought I overheard was like a rare wild animal spied through the brush that didn't come around often. I wanted a closer look, but proceeded with caution.

Care was taken not to be obvious in my approach or their low tones would dissolve and be replaced by self-conscious silence frosted with the scraping whisper of colored pencil tips in nervous motion.

This special brand of teacher-walking was a delicate choreographed dance. My slow-moving presence behind working shoulders caused no alarm on any normal day. My smile was a familiar fixture in this room. Correction was rarely needed. With barely a side-glance to my messy apron inching nearer, their low tones continued.

"He has small round glasses and a long beard like Father and Grandfather and the Elders."

The smaller boy chimed in with a series of clearly mimicked grunts, "Yah, yah, eh, eh, but...the red is too bright. Amish do not wear red like that."

A muffled laugh, "...and he eats too much---maybe too many potato chips. Maybe he is English."

For a moment their giggles sounded like the girl's table. The strategizing tone returned.

"If he were Amish, he would know that horses are stronger. Deer are weak, not tame. And, it costs more to feed 8 of them. 2 horses can pull a buggy. 2 good horses could pull that sleigh!"

"You are right." said the other with a wince of resolve. "He may be English. Our men can stand on a roof to raise a barn, but we know better than to drive a buggy up a rooftop."

"Yes." He agreed with a nod and stroked his smooth beardless chin as he must have seen 100 times. "And...Amish know better than to chuck presents down a chimney to get burned up at the bottom?!"

And that was that.

My inner response was like pent up carbonated bubbles rising in a shook bottle of pop. In earnest, I did not respond with laughter; I responded with pride. 

I could not have dreamed this up in my own creative imagination. My students had exceeded me. Which, by the way, as one who wears the title of an Artist, and the messy apron of an Art Teacher, an underutilized imagination is not a fault of mine. Quite the contrary.

They both colored in silence for a long minute. My shoes began backing away as the overheard sequence of sentences were recounted in my mind like I was cramming for a spelling test. This, I want to remember!

Before I could backpedal unnoticed, the nearest boy lifted his neck and turned to look at me square in the eye.

The last time I was on the receiving end of a gaze that intense, I was walking out of an Amish-run country store with 2 dozen eggs under my arm. As I walked back to my muffler-croaking fume-producing truck, one particular chicken did not scatter at my heels. She stood staring and glaring. Her eyes made me second-guess my purchase, my presence, and my sheer existence.

I nearly set the eggs down, opened the lids, and walked slowly backwards to my vehicle. Instead, I quickened my pace.

My staring student finally looked away and spoke to his friend, "There is only one way to know for sure!"

They whispered closely, then slid their chairs out from their table as I had done at my desk just a few minutes before. In only a few long man-sized steps, their legs had spanned the distance from them to me.

I stood tall and curious. They stood short and more curious.  The collective coloring in the room had stopped. All eyes in the class turned to watch and listen.

Taking notice of his moment in the spotlight only increased confidence in his righteous resolve. He spoke slowly and loud enough for all to hear.

"We would like to know... for sure... if the man called 'Santa' is Amish or English? We know that...you...will tell us the truth." 

All eyes were on me.

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There is a saying that goes like this, "Don't put the cart before the horse." The Amish are more familiar with this concept than most. Any chance we are putting the reindeer before the sleigh?

I can verify the weight-gaining properties of potato chips while I will leave the well-spoken farm facts to the farm boys. But, isn't there one question that precedes? Is the potato-chip crunching, risky roof-hopping, blazing red-wearing, long-bearded, reindeer-raising "man called Santa" who chucks presents for tinder; is he ________?

Ask the Art Teacher.

As they say, truth is better than fiction.

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*About the Art: Many thanks to my friends who submitted photos of their chickens! Even if you do not see your chicken here; the spirit of your chicken is in the ART! 

Isn't she beautiful! Thank you, Melissa.

Isn't she...fuzzy. Thank you, Becky!

Aren't they cute! Thank you, Gail!