Category Archives: Small People

Big Brains, Big Hearts, Causes and Friends, Communication, Just for Fun, Learning, Small People, Substitute Teaching

Twas the week before Christmas…

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I count myself fortunate when I get to spend some time at school with the kids as Christmas approaches. Admittedly, it can be a bit crazy as energy levels are high and the kids are “wound up.” But I try to enjoy their energy and stay focused on the tasks at hand.

One of the questions I had during my most recent assignment was a bit different. “Mr. Boomsma, how do you make the letter “o” in cursive?” It’s not as easy to answer as one might think but I share it for those who complain the schools aren’t teaching cursive any more. (It turned out the question was actually about the little “hooky thing” that connects it to the next letter.)

The second question was a bit more difficult. A fifth grade boy was not kidding–the question was sincere. “Mr. Boomsma, is Santa Claus real?”

Fortunately, his neighbor interceded, assuring him that Santa Claus was very real. She’d seen him and told the story of her sighting in great detail. However, I should have known I wasn’t off the hook. He looked at me and asked, “Have YOU seen him?” The look on the girl seemed to say they’d both like some assurance.

I’d recently read the news story of a substitute teacher who was ultimately terminated after telling a first-grade class that Santa Claus isn’t real. So like the cursive question, this is not quite as simple as it might first seem.

If it wasn’t Christmas Eve, we might explore several techniques one can use when asked a difficult question. I answered his question by telling him and his seatmate a story, emphasizing it was absolutely true. I will share it with you.

When I was about six, I began to question Santa’s existence. Some of the kids I went to school with were quite convinced “your parents are Santa.” As luck would have it, we were having a “green Christmas” without a hint of snow. So our spirits were dampened and it was easy to believe in something less magical and fun.

To fully appreciate what happened, I need to explain that we lived in a very small town, miles away from any airports or flight paths. We rarely saw or heard planes.

That Christmas Eve announced to my Dad that I was pretty sure there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I reached this conclusion primarily based on the fact there was no snow. His sleigh wouldn’t work.

Since there was no question to answer, my Dad stated, in a rather matter-of-fact tone, “Oh, he comes in a helicopter when there’s no snow.” I was then sent outside to do one of my nightly chores.

It was not the first time I found myself truly torn. I could usually figure out when Dad was teasing but I believed with all my heart that he would never lie to me. Still, his explanation somehow didn’t feel right and I couldn’t detect that little smile that gave him away when he was teasing or joking. It was quiet and cold outside. I wondered if I should continue the conversation when I returned to the warmth inside.

While I was contemplating this, I heard a noise off in the distance… “whomp, whomp,..” Omigod! A helicopter! It flew right over my head, very low, lights flashing! I hurriedly finished my chore, ran back into the house, climbed the stairs two at a time and jumped into bed with my clothes on, pulling the covers up to my neck and pretending to be asleep.

The kids at school seemed to enjoy my story and accepted it at face value. So do I. I don’t really know where that helicopter came from and why it flew over our house at precisely that moment. But I do know that I learned some things about the magic of Christmas and the importance of believing.

Telling the story reminded of another person who was asked almost the same question. In 1897, Francis Pharcellus Church, a former Civil War correspondent and editor at the New York Sun, received a letter from the then 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon questioning Santa’s existence. His answer is not just for kids. It speaks to the innocent joy of childhood and the power of belief. There’s a link at the bottom of this post. It’s important to read it.

My wish for you this Christmas is that you too might hear a helicopter… or hear or experience whatever it takes to help you believe in all of the things Christmas is supposed to be about.

Yes, Virginia, there is a santa claus
Just for Fun, Learning, Mental Health, Personal Growth, Small People

Thanks, Dad!

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First written and published in 1996, a previous version of this article won the “best story about fishing with Dad” award from the Northwoods Sporting Journal in 2007. It’s also a chapter to Small People — Big Brains by Mr. Boomsma. I remember this day often and especially on Father’s Day.  This year I thought I’d share it. 

“This shouldn’t be happening…” according to Ivan – my friend, father-in-law and erstwhile guide to Maine water. He wasn’t complaining though. I was otherwise occupied with my third bass in less than thirty minutes.

Ivan was my father-in-law by marriage. He was my friend by choice. We shared an understanding of the difference between “going fishing” and “catching fish.” We agreed that “going fishing” is as enjoyable as “catching fish.”

We had spent the morning fishing—working the edges of the pond with very little action. We were ready for some catching, so we dropped anchor, switched to ultra-lights, and started soaking night crawlers in anticipation of a few yellow perch.

This was proving mildly successful when the bass we had been after all morning started interfering with our perch fishing. No doubt a more technically oriented fisherman could explain what happened. We were satisfied with simply enjoying it until a fall storm forced us off the lake.

Later as we sat by the fire with our post-trip libations I found my mind wandering back to another time when something happened that shouldn’t have while fishing. It was a lesson that I never forgot.

My father was hooked on fishing. I think he waited until I was walking before he bought me my first pole. It was an unbreakable steel rod (not much action). The little stream that ran through our yard was never more than ankle deep. My ankles weren’t very far from terra firma at that age, so I was allowed to “go fishing” on my own. I lost a lot of hooks in that little brook. If Dad wasn’t around, I’d switch to a safety pin when my hooks were gone. I had to keep fishing. I had to be just like him.

I figured the reason he went across the road to the big river was to leave all the fish in the little brook for me. The fact that I never caught anything did nothing to dissuade me from the idea that Dad was the most unselfish person I knew. The reason he nearly always came home with trout was simply that he was bigger than I and had more experience. I didn’t truly appreciate his patience then as he tried to teach a bumbling, excited five-year-old the fine points of casting and bait placement.

Finally, he and Mom decided I was “big enough” to go with him across the road. My patience was strained to the maximum while we sat through Mom’s lecture about “keeping an eye on me.” My safety pin was removed and replaced with a real hook and off we went on my very first guided trip.

The river was overwhelming but not intimidating. I knew about currents from sailing my boats in the brook. Dad positioned me near a pool my five-year-old arms could reach. He reviewed casting techniques and suggested I just let my worm follow the current. I was warned not to tell Mom about it later, but he was going downstream where he knew there was a big one.

I could see that the techniques I’d been using weren’t going to work. On the little brook, I could always wade in and put my worm exactly where I wanted it. Now I was forced to cast a whole three feet and use nearly all my line. It took what seemed like an eternity to get the wrist action necessary.

On my fifteenth cast, I had that old familiar feeling that meant another lost hook. It wouldn’t do to lose it on my first trip to the big river. So I crossed my fingers (making it hard to hold the pole) and pulled hard. The worm and hook went flying over my shoulder. A little scared now; I realized I had to keep trying even though danger lurked below.

By the time I was reaching the current after only three false casts (false in this context meaning wrong), I was convinced that the bump I was feeling was a bite. Dad had described the feeling in intimate detail and even though I had never experienced it before, I was firmly convinced this was it.

Meanwhile Dad—either out of a desire to try different water or the memory of Mom’s lecture—was coming close. I wanted to watch how he got his line out so far, but I was too busty trying to nab my very first trout. Soon he was standing at my side. “Catching anything?”

I replied that I hadn’t yet, but was about to. He asked for my pole so he could see what was going on. His cast was flawless but his drift didn’t last any longer than mine. How long does it take for five feet of line to play out? He reeled in, handed me back the pole and announced, “Try the next pool. What you’re feeling is the bottom as your worm bumps along.” Then he moved upstream.

What a dilemma! Dad was always right and he always has my best interest at heart. But I was sure he was wrong this time. Or was he? Either way, would continuing to fish this pool be disobedient? If he saw me would he be hurt because I hadn’t listened? And why had he smiled if there was no fish there?

After this great inner battle, I invoked the standard just-a-little-longer logic of all fishermen. I concentrated so hard my head hurt. Cast. Bump. Nothing. Cast. Bump. Yank. Nothing. Cast Bump. Yank…
Something flew over my head that was bigger than my worm. I spun around and saw the trout flapping on the bank. It freed itself from my hook and was working its way back to the river! I pounced on it with a tackle that would make a football coach proud. As I wrestled with my monster I looked up and saw Dad watching. His grin went from ear-to-ear and maybe even around the back of his head. “Got one, did you? Well, I’m surprised! I haven’t caught a thing. Let’s take all eight inches of it home and show Mom.”

She never let on if she tired of hearing all the details of that fine catch. And she seemed genuinely amazed when Dad told her that I had showed him up because he was convinced there should not have been a fish where I caught mine.

Age has not diminished my love of fishing. I still get excited. I still make false (defined as wrong) casts. And I still use the just-a-little-longer theory. I’ve given up on safety pins though. And I wonder about my first trout.

I have a theory about that first trout. For years I was proud that I had figured out something Dad hadn’t and I told everyone who would listen. (And sometimes people who wouldn’t.) Like all fishing trips, my first trip to the big river has improved with time and my fish has gotten bigger. But I no longer think I outsmarted Dad.

I think he knew that trout was there.

And I think he knew what would happen when I caught it. For one, he knew that hooking that trout would hook me on fishing. More importantly,  he knew I’d learn by experience what independence and self reliance truly are. In fishing and in life there are always “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts.” There will always be “reliable sources” and truths. But the greatest resource each of us has is inside us.

My resource was tested several years after catching my first trout when my Dad died. But then and through the many years since that resource has been there and, in a very real sense so has Dad. He guided me to my first trout and led me to believe in myself.

Thanks, Dad.

In memory of Walter Boomsma, Sr.
1926–1954

Big Hearts, Causes and Friends, Maine Life, Small People

Happy Flowers, Angry Trees

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One of the kids at school was having, by her own admission, a challenging and frustrating day last week. She shared with me a somewhat amusing but also very effective coping mechanism that involved “centering” herself with a mantra announcing she was a happy flower and not an angry tree. This was accompanied by appropriate hand signals that mocked a blossoming flower.  I love that she recognizes she has the power of choice.

I’ve also come to truly love her analogy and metaphor. I’d like to use it to share some thoughts regarding the recent tragedy resulting in the loss of Corporal Cole’s life.

Let me first assure you, that incident turned me into a bit of angry tree as it did so many.  You do not have to spend much time on Facebook to realize that anger and frustration were common emotions. One of the things we “like” about social media is the feeling of “shared emotions.”

You also do not have to spend much time on Facebook to be somewhat frightened by the depth of those emotions–some bordering on pure rage. I am both surprised and not surprised at some of the suggestions being posted, many seeking revenge. There are many angry trees with roots that run deep and, in some cases, border on violent in and of themselves.

As someone who works with kids a lot, I am troubled by the example we often set on social media.  When I read some of the comments regarding what should happen to John Williams, the alleged killer of Corporal Cole, I find myself wondering if these people and their comments truly represent the society we live in and, more importantly, the society we hope our kids will create.

But then  I stumble on to a post by a Mom I know in a different part of the state. She announces that she and her daughter are headed to the local police station with a note written by her daughter and some accompanying “treats.” Since it was posted publicly I’ve taken the liberty of sharing the note after “erasing” Delaney’s last name–I’m a bit OCD about confidentiality where kids are concerned.

She is, I think, going to create–maybe already is creating–the sort of society I would like to be part of, one with lots of “happy” flowers.

How about you?

Communication, Mental Health, Personal Growth, Small People

Thanks, Kids!

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I learn a lot from kids. And occasionally they remind me of important truths.

Last week I was in a kindergarten class. I always have fun introducing myself with the age appropriate explanation that there are two sounds, two syllables in my last name. The kids seem to enjoy blending the sounds to arrive at something approximating “Mr. Boomsma.” My activity with these little ones was to create a graph of the class’s favorite farm animal, so I also explained that I would be calling them up one at a time to select their favorite animal so we could glue its picture on the developing graph poster.

One little girl raised her hand high and, when I called on her, asked, “When we come up to do that, may we tell you our names?”

The very next day I attended a middle school science fair, primarily to take photographs. I know most of the kids and they know me. I was scanning the room for photo ops when a student walked over, stood beside me and said, “How are you, Mr. Boomsma?” Normally I have a happy snappy comeback like “If I were any better I’d have to be twins,” but for some reason I only said, “I’m okay.”

Perhaps because the answer was out of character she asked, “What’s wrong?” I briefly debated changing the answer to something more positive. But decided to be honest and share that I have been having some trouble with a pinched nerve that’s causing some trouble with my right arm and hand. She expressed genuine concern and encouragement. I was, to be honest, surprised. She’s not seemed to me to be overly compassionate. Now I realize that might have been because I haven’t given her the opportunity.

Those two incidents have something in common. They both demonstrate the fact that kids of all ages desire and need human connection. I fear too often we deny them the opportunity because we forget they are little human beings, not simply kids.

That kindergartener wanted me to know her and her classmates by name. It was a noble gesture on her part and perhaps a bit of a failure on my part. (In my defense we were pressed for time, but I still feel like I failed a little. They were sitting around me on the rug, so I couldn’t see the name tags on their desks.)

The middle schooler and I knew each other; it wasn’t about names but it was about connecting. I learned a long time ago not to read too much into kids’ behavior, but our encounter was out of character for both of us and did make me think. I am rarely less than happy and good when with students. She has not, historically expressed much interest in my well-being.

The simple truth is we connected in a way that was not usual. It matters far less why than the fact that it did. I certainly am not going to analyze it and remove the joy from it.

I am going to let these incidents serve as a reminder to view humans, regardless of size and age, as humans. We need to be interested in each other. We need to connect with each other.

Human connection doesn’t have to be hard or complex. It could just be wanting to know the other person’s name. In kindergarten it meant listening enthusiastically to a young fellow who insisted he has 6,000 horses and he rides each one every day. (I whispered to the teacher, “I’ll bet you’ve told him a billion times not to exaggerate!”) He gets a lot of points for excitement and enthusiasm. Accuracy is not so critical to the explanation of how much he likes horses.

Human connection could also just be about being interested in how another person is feeling. And, while I don’t recommend we answer with a detailed description of our many health woes, we might choose to put some thought and honesty into our replies.

Some of my favorite conversations with kids are the brief ones, walking through the halls. I’ll try to keep pace with someone and ask how the day is going or for something learned that day. Sometimes I’ll just ask, “Are you okay?” if they seem troubled. I’m not always prepared for the answers, but I try to remember it’s mostly about listening and connecting.

Kids are, I think, better at connecting than adults partly because they haven’t developed as many filters and while often prone to exaggeration, they generally are honest. I recall one conversation with a youngster whose rabbit had died. I mustered up my best empathy until he explained, “No problem. We’re getting a new one tomorrow.” If he’d been a little older I’d have suggested he consider teaching grief management. I suspect we might learn something from him.

Be open and willing to kids and adults. Don’t think of it as trying to be helpful, although that may be one of the results. Think of it as being interested and truly concerned. And that kid may be more interested in you than you realize. We are more alike than different. Why not share those alikes?