MaryAnn F. Kohl, process art and treasures of childhood

Story 4: Walking to Winslow

 Little kids have their own ideas about what it means to 
 be independent and make their own decisions. 
 Read about MaryAnn and Karen, age 3 and 4, 
 and their true adventure one cold winter morning
 on Bainbridge Island, Washington -- about 1950.

 

      My best childhood friend Karen and I were barely four years old when we decided to head out on our own one early November morning, our first of many such independent deeds. Our favorite babysitter, Mrs. Comer, lived several miles across the island in the little town of Winslow, Washington on Bainbridge Island. We loved Mrs. Comer and were keenly aware that her St. Bernard had a litter of new puppies we had never seen. I told Karen we could visit Mrs. Comer and see the puppies, and that I knew the way to walk there all by ourselves. She wasn't so sure, but she agreed, knowing those puppies would be fun to play with in Mrs. Comer's big back yard.

 

We were wearing play-clothes, thin little shoes with white anklets, and lightweight cardigans. It was frosty cold, even icy as I remember. We started out from Karen's house on Wing Point, and of course we didn't bother to tell anyone. We walked across the golf course to save time, but our feet rapidly became wet slugging through the frosty grass. I remember looking at Karen's black patent leather shoes with the thin white anklet socks trimmed in fluffy lace, thinking how pretty they were and extremely shiny with ice on them, like glittery jewels. My sneakers and were holding up pretty well, but were not nearly as exquisite as her shoes in their frosty trim.  
 

     By the time we were about two thirds of the way there and nearing the firehall, Karen was crying (shuddering sobs, actually). She was so cold that she was shaking, her feet hurt, and she was scared. I kept telling her that we were almost there, and that Mrs. Comer would make everything better, something I truly believed. Mrs. Comer loved us and cared about us! We had to keep going! And I wanted to see those new St. Bernard puppies! I knew there were eight of them, and I was anxious to count them one by one like my brother had taught me.

     I don't know how long this walk took. Time was lost as we trudged, putting one icy foot in front of the other. But finally we were ringing Mrs. Comer's doorbell. I can still remember the look on her face when she opened the door and there we were, bright pink cheeks and noses, shivering, and one of us smiling. She said, "Where is your mother, out in the car?" I said, "No, I think she is at home." Her mouth dropped open. I remember that clearly.

She invited us in and went immediately to the phone. Karen started crying again. I was scared now. The puppies were cute, but I was too scared too play with them let alone count them.

     Our parents all arrived within a very short time all at once, all four of them. They had been looking for us and were frantic with worry. And now that they knew we were safe, they were allowing themselves to be angry. Karen's parents especially. Karen got a spanking right there at Mrs. Comer's house in front of everyone. I didn't, but I was plenty worried. We were lectured severely and taken home. (I never did get a spanking; I guess I didn't need one to learn from this experience.)

 

          

I remember several days later I wanted to play with Karen. But my mom said I couldn't because Karen had pneumonia. She was very sick. She was sick for six very long weeks. I missed her and I knew it was my fault. Thankfully, she recovered and became my playmate again. I don't believe her parents ever forgave me entirely. Possibly that is because I taught Karen how to throw rocks at the windows of an empty beach cabin later that spring when she was feeling better. The worst part is, we never got to play with those puppies! 

 

Story 3: Solomon and The Red Balloon

Solomon and the Red Balloon

MaryAnn F. Kohl
* photo caption:
 Lummi nation - child, dancer.
 Name of child not listed.
 
My kindergarten class had just watched the French film, The Red Balloon, a touching and beautifully rendered wordless children's classic. Our class was preparing for recess when Solomon Toby, a brown-eyed Native American boy, approached me requesting a private word.
"Mrs. Kohl," he said in a whisper, "I need to draw about that movie."
My heart rate buzzed. "Of course, you do," I smiled gently. This beautiful child, Solomon with the dark eyes and hair like the feathers of a crow, rarely expressed any interest in school activities or projects of any kind, and had not bonded with me, though I had reached out to him daily. My thoughts were racing to capture this moment with Solomon, to allow it to be meaningful for him, to tread gently so that it might be a possible springboard for future opportunities for learning and communication.
I excused the others to the playground and helped Solomon find a large fresh sheet of drawing paper and a box of unbroken crayons with the points still intact. He packed everything off to the reading corner tent to work alone.
As he worked, I reflected on this silent child. Solomon usually chose fighting over playing, and generally lived a pretty tough life which he acted out on a daily basis. But today, The Red Balloon had touched his heart and he couldn't keep his feelings inside.
I could see him through the entry of the tent. He was working with purpose, elbow and arm moving resolutely across the wide paper, filling it with visual expressions from his heart. He drew about the story of the Red Balloon who befriends a little boy, and about how that little boy loses his friend. He drew and drew.
His drawing was not the blonde French child in the film; it was a brown, strong boy running on a rocky beach with a huge red smiling balloon in tow on a heavy rope, a rope that would never come untied or let a balloon break free. The clouds he drew were gray with rays of sunlight spilling out from behind. The sea breaking on the shore was choppy with two fish jumping, smiles on their silvery faces. The boy was running with a look of surprise and joy on his crayoned face. I could tell that this boy would never let his balloon go, would never lose his gentle friend.
When the drawing was finished, I saw Solomon start to cry. He cried silently, shoulders shaking, tears spilling down his smooth cheeks. I did not interrupt his privacy but waited nearby anxious to soothe his hurts.
When he left his drawing in the tent and walked towards me, I knew I was being allowed a rare gift in this child’s young life. As he approached, I scrunched down to his five year old level as he threw his arms around my neck, hugging me close to him, crying quietly until the sniffling began to subside. I remember thinking, “I will make a difference to this child. We can build from this together. We’re going to make it this one year we have together. Together, we’re going to make it.”
As the other children returned from recess, Solomon and I gathered up his drawing and supplies, but neither of us was the same. We had begun.

Story 2: Reacquainting with Tom (June 7, 2002)

Several years ago, I ran into the younger brother 
 of a former second grade student of mine who,
 sadly, had died at the age of 22 in a car accident. 
 This is what transpired that day in 2002:

---------------------------------------------------

My day today. Something different. Pan-handled by a derelict on Holly Street, right here in my quiet hometown. But something more. Because he looks familiar, I ask him his name. He pulls a slow reply from somewhere deep in his chest. It pours out in ripples and waves, "My name? Uhh, yah, it's, uhh, Tom – Tom Tom".

I can't believe it, I actually remember this 30-something drunk guy, and what's more, I'm glad to see him! "Hey, Tom, I remember you from elementary school in Ferndale when you were a little kid! I used to be a teacher there. Wasn’t your brother's name Randy?"  I'm honestly glad to see him! Little Tom Tom, who was so cute and smart when he was six that he could light up the darkest day with his gappy grin, and here he is before me, gaps and all.

He snaps out of his fog, saying clearly, eyes burning with emotion, "Randy is dead. I miss my brother. You know what happened to him, don't you? My cousin ran him over with a vaaaan."  The word van is loud and drawn out with a release of sadness that sears my face from ear to ear. The pain in Tom’s voice is raw, a little brother desperately missing his big older brother ten years after the car accident.

I say respectfully, "I know, Tom, I remember when that happened. I was so sad when I heard about it. I remember Randy. He was such a sweet, smart kid, and that little round face of his, and such a good person, such a good kid, so good in math. Did you know I had him in kindergarten and again in second grade?" Then, seeing his eyes fill, I add, "Hey, don't worry, Tom. You will see him again someday. I truly believe that." He looks pleased to hear these words, but doubtful too, like he wants to believe me but can't quite get ahold of it.

He then asks me my name, and I tell him, and he says, "Oooh, Mrs. Kohl, and he throws his aromatic arms all the way around me and hugs me close to his faded flannel shirt, as nicely as I have been hugged in a long long time. I'm thinking, "Oh, geez, not lice, please - and God only knows what else..." But then, none of that seems to matter as much as the good hug, the really good hug, and the sharing of real grief missing a sweet kid with a round face and eyes like chocolate chips.

He pulls away slowly, one brown hand on each of my shoulders, and says incredulously like he just thought of it and looking me directly in the eyes, speaking slowly, each word spoken as an individual sentence, "You - remember – my - brother - Randy ..."

I've never forgotten, Randy, and I want Tom to know it, to really know it. "Tom, I could never forget Randy! He was very special to me. I remember his favorite day in second grade - a hike we took deep into the woods at Spirit Falls Park where we found a frog pond, and he showed all the other kids how to climb the steep bank out to the main trail. And I haven’t forgotten when he got hit by that car. What was he, about nine then? He spent weeks and weeks in the hospital in that head contraption. I visited him, hoping to cheer him up."

"Oh, it was horrible. Horrible. Horrible for him," Tom answers shaking his head from side to side, as he sways, trying to stand, waves of words spilling from him. "It almost killed him. Horrible. My brother. My big brother. Dead, dead." He has mixed two stories into one, two horrible car related accidents: one that crippled his big brother as a child, and another that killed him at the age of 22. A second hug engulfs me, Tom patting my back and holding me tight with affection and our shared grief tangible in the noisy breeze from cars passing by.

I look over his shoulder through his long shocks of greasy black hair, see people driving by staring at me, a conservative-looking gray haired lady, a bit pudgy in her Liz Claiborne khaki pants, hugging a drunken man in the middle of downtown, and I think, "You have no idea what's going on here, folks. Not even close."

Then he speaks with deep thought, his alcoholic haze somewhat lifted for the moment, "You know, you're a real nice lady. I wanna tell you something. You look at me and see a drunk street guy, all rotten with alcohol, but I’ll tell you what: I was smart, really smart, and I still have all that knowledge right here." He points to his head, tapping his cranium with one finger, eyes squinty with self-assurance. "I could have finished school and gone to college. I wish I did that." He sways and steps backward, catching his balance.

"I know, Tom. I remember you very well, you know. You were one of the smartest kids in school ... and you were Randy's cooool little brother, weren't you?"  He smiles, a sad smile, but a smile that tells me he feels my words.

He asks me for a quarter, saying he's hungry. I open my wallet, dig around for some bills, and hand a fistful to Tom saying, "So. Here's some money. Buy a taco or a sandwich or something. Eat!" I'm shaking my pointer finger at him like a teacher talking to a little boy. "You'll feel better, get some protein into those big ol’ muscles of yours!” Then I ask, because I really want to know, “Hey, Tom, how's it going for you? You doing okay?"

He looks down at his grimy jeans, hefts his pants up a bit and tightens the rope he uses for a belt, and says, "I dunno, I guess so, I just don't know how to get myself situated. I need to get situated."

I say, "Well, no one knows just how to do that for you, Tom. It's tough, I know. Really tough. Do you have family who could help you out, a sister, a dad, someone?"

"No, just had Randy, he's dead. My big brother is dead."

I point two blocks down the street at a beige three-story building with ten or fifteen guys standing around the brightly colored flower beds outside the front steps. "You could head over to the Mission, and do what they tell you. Maybe you won't get everything situated all at once, but it might get you started. Getting situated - like you said, Tom. Might make your big brother Randy smile that big ol' smile that crinkles up his eyes. You remember that smile, Tom?"

"Yah, I remember that." Tom starts to cry softly, shoulders heaving a little with quiet sobs, and he says, "I don't know if I can situate myself, but know what? You give me respect and talk to me. That's good. That's real good. And you remember Randy, his ol' moon face, my big brother, you really do, don't you?"

"Tom," I say truthfully, "I remember Randy more than I remember just about anyone, and now I will be remembering you, Tom from Mountain School, standing here in front of me on Holly Street. Take care, now. Get that sandwich. I hope you get yourself situated, even just a little bit, Tom."

He gives me some rapper looking hand signal, and I say, "I don't know what that means..."

And he says, "It's street talk for 'You're a nice lady, yah, it's all right, good stuff'."

So I give him the street sign right back and say with a big teasing smile, "Don't drink up that five bucks, Tom. You know Randy's watching!"

He gets the humor and smiles that gappy smile, breaking my heart into two perfect halves with its pure beauty, and says with feeling, "Yah, I miss my big brother. He died. I miss him sooo much."

Tom Tom turns and heads off down the street. I don't know if he's headed to the bar, the park bench, the sandwich counter, or the Mission. His destination doesn't really matter so much all in all. But when he looks back at me and gives me the street sign again, his smile spreads a light in my heart that mends those two halves into one big warm hug inside my chest.

Story 1: "Sent Back", moving from grade 2 back to grade 1

I would like to post a series of stories/essays I have written
that touch on the topic of education, teaching, and childhood.
This is the first:

Sent Back
A memory of moving from grade 2 to grade 1.
MaryAnn Faubion Kohl

 
It was 1953, and I was in Mrs. Jones’ grade two class, a year younger than everyone else in the class due to a curiously high IQ score given orally to me by Mr. Billings, the principal. Mr. Billings liked me and I can remember how he helped draw out my answers. He believed I knew them and just needed a little encouragement. What he didn’t know was that I didn’t know them, but I was great with clues. Therefore, however it came about, I skipped kindergarten and started school in grade one with Mrs. Kelly (another story to tell of how mean a teacher can be).

Now it was grade two, and the IQ conundrum was catching up with me. I was unable to see the chalkboard well due to immature eyesight, and was prescribed glasses with a jaunty red paid design. I diligently cleaned those glasses with a special cloth and cleansing solution over and over (when I should have been listening). There were many times Mrs. Jones called on me and I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I couldn’t do the arithmetic on the board, couldn’t even see the board from my desk in the third row, didn’t understand what was happening around me on any given topic, and though I could read, I couldn’t comprehend. Most of all, I was a dedicated tattler. I thought it was important to keep Mrs. Jones apprised of misbehavior in the classroom and on the playground. Here was one area where I could understand the rules of who was or was not behaving. Sorry to say, tattling was not well received by Mrs. Jones.

Apparently my immature performance in grade two was a concern to all. Mrs. Jones suggested to my mom that I be sent back to grade one because I “lacked the basic foundation to do second grade work”. My mom talked it over with me, and it didn’t sound too bad the way she explained it. I knew what "flunked" meant, but was assured I had not actually flunked. I was simply too young for grade two, and some of my same-age neighbor friends were in grade one, and all would be well. I agreed. Readily. My mom promised that if it didn’t work out, I could go back to Mrs. Jones’ class. I had no desire to return there, so I was comfortable with the change, like, how soon can we get started?!

After Christmas break, the perfect time to make a change, I walked into Mrs. Flood’s grade one class with Mr. Billings holding my hand. All the children were in their seats, for class had already begun. I was very nervous and shy and unsure of myself, more so than usual. As I entered, good kind Mrs. Flood said, “Oh, look, boys and girls, MaryAnn is here! She’s going to be our arithmetic helper because I hear she’s very good at arithmetic.” (“Me?” I wondered, “Good at arithmetic? Good at anything?”) “MaryAnn, sit right there next to Susan in the desk we have saved for you. She is going to be your friend today and help you learn your way around our classroom.”

I sat by Susan. And she was to become my very BEST friend.

I gazed up at the chalkboard, and there to my surprise was “The Alphabet”, all spread out nicely on bright illustrated cards just above the board, showing upper and lower case and their beginning sounds. Aa, apple. Bb, bear. Cc,cat. I thought to myself, "I know those letters! I'm going to love first grade!"

I never looked back that year, or shall I say, forward. Grade two was a misty memory. Mrs. Flood was a wonderful sensitive teacher who carefully watched for securing my success and comfort in her class. And I’ve been happy and successful ever since.
 

Do You Love Little Pigs? (a silly song with hand motions)

 I wrote new lyrics to the song "Little Surfer Girl"
by the Beach Boys -- using hand motions -- 
for you to sing with your children -- just for fun. 
I hope you know the tune!?

Do You Love Little Pigs?
      sung to: Little Surfer Girl (Beach Boys)
      *  Note: add hand motions throughout.
         Make them up, or use the suggestions found in the lyrics.

I have watched pigs on a farm
In the mud so safe and warm.
Do you love them
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

Little pigs can squeal and squeak
They are brown or lovely pink.
Do you love them
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

When their mommy says “snort snort”
     (make a very snorty loud piggy oink sound, twice)
They come running with a “snort”
     (make the loud piggy snort sound again)
Do you love them
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

Pigs eat corn and pigs eat spuds,
     (act like eating)
Pigs love sleeping in the mud.
     (pretend sleeping on hands like pillow)
Do you love them
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

Pigs have names like Pete and Sue,
Barney, Joe, and MaryLou.
     (count on fingers, like counting names)
Do you love them
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

Pigs have snouts and pigs have feet,
     (point to nose and then feet)
Pigs have tails that curl so sweet,
(make a curly tail with fingers, or point to backside)
Do you love them,
Do you love little pigs, little pigs,
     (hold your hands to your heart)
Those cute little pigs?
     (make a rocking motion, like rocking
      a baby in your arms)

Now our song is at an end,
I hope pigs will be my friends!
     (make a dreamy face)
How I love them, How I love
     (make motion of hands over heart)
little pigs, little pigs,
All the cute little pigs.
     (make rocking motion)

Enjoy this list of 

 some of my
 favorite blogs

 

 

•

 T

here are others but this will get you started! •

Some will be familiar -- some new -- ENJOY THEM ALL!

Art for Small Hands
 Julie Voigt provides a blog with art lessons and projects.
  http://www.artforsmallhands.com/

Art is the Best Part of the Day
  Mrs. Jackson is an art teacher who believes every child is an artist and aking mistakes is what art is all about. 
 http://artisthebestpartoftheday.blogspot.com/

Art Projects for Kids
   Kathy Barbro’s blog has lots of ideas for working with the styles of the great masters, and sells products to help too.
 http://www.artprojectsforkids.org/

Artful Parent, The
   My all time favorite blog! Jean is mama of two daughters. She strives to parent in a way that encourages creative expression, imagination, joyfulness, and a love of learning. She has super photos of the art projects she and her daughters explore. Projects for children age 2-12.
http://www.artfulparent.typepad.com/

Big & Little Art
   Hollie Conger shares art and craft ideas with photos and recipes.
http://www.bigandlittleart.com/

Childhood Magic
   Ariella is the soulful mama of two where she shares her parenting inspiration, favorite projects, and a photography.
http://childhoodmagic.blogspot.com/

Color Color Color
   Gail’s blog offers a wide variety of art ideas that always involve color.
 http://alwaysarting-colorcolorcolor.blogspot.com/

Crafty Crow, The
   This popular blog is a children’s “craft collective.” Everything from inspiring art lessons to book recommendations.
  http://belladia.typepad.com/crafty_crow/

Deep Space Sparkle
   Art lessons that are out of this world!
  http://deepspacesparkle.blogspot.com/

Filth Wizardry
   Don’t let the name scare you! Here messy art and craft fun for preschools is given with help from the little filth wizards.
  http://www.filthwizardry.com/

Laugh, Paint, Create
   Erin fills her blog with colorful art and crafts with photos that clearly show the how-to’s. http://laughpaintcreate.blogspot.com/

Let the Children Play
    Jenny’s a preschool teacher at a progressive school nestled in the Australian bush. enjoy all kinds of playful ideas including art you’ve never seen before! http://progressiveearlychildhoodeducation.blogspot.com/

Make and Takes: Craft, Food, Fun
   Lots of ideas from crafts to cupcakes to sewing cards and more. More craft than art. http://www.makeandtakes.com/

MaryAnn F. Kohl, process art and treasures of childhood
   MaryAnn Kohl’s own blog! Art, Interviews, Issues, and Lots of Fun Surprises! http://maryannfkohl.typepad.com/blog/

MaryMaking
   Mary shares highlights from her after school art lesson program. You’ll see lots of actual artworks by kids.
  http://marymaking.blogspot.com

Paint Cut Paste
   A nice friendly blog to inspire young artists.
  http://paintcutpaste.com/

Pink and Green Mama
   Marylea keeps us on our toes with simple craftivities to encourage us all to create, play, and explore with our family.
  http://pinkandgreenmama.blogspot.com/

Scrudillydo
   Jessica Wilson keeps her blog active with laughter, love, and great art and craft ideas. http://scrumdillydo.blogspot.com

Two Straight Lines
   Courtney keeps her blog active sharing things she makes for creative children’s lives. http://www.twostraightlines.typepad.com/

Reminder: 25th Anniversary Sale
 good through July 31.

Please go to my website where the prices are
 all fully listed and ready to click and pay.
 If it is easier for you, email me instead,
 and we'll set up how to send a check payment. 

Great Anniversary Prices! Include shipping and tax!

Christmas in July: "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy"

I'm working on a new book called "Great Composers for Kids" (my daughter Hannah Kohl is the co-author), and came across this Tchaikovsky piece of "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" played on the Glass Armonica. Just close your eyes and listen -- float away in the notes. Ooooo. I know kids are going to love this!!!! I'll have to repost it in December.

The Glass Armonica was invented by Benjamin Franklin.

You can listen to some of Hannah's music on her website if you wish. 
  She's a composer/lyricist/playwrite in New York.

Sanded Wood Spirits • Jewel Praying Wolf James • Great American Artists for Kids

Summer is here, and if you have access to drift wood, this is a very special "busy busy busy" art activity kids love. (It's called busy because kids get to sand wood to make it smooth, and this can take quite awhile, longer for some kids than others!) 

Sanded Wood Spirits is based on the work of the great American carver, Jewell Praying Wolf James (he lives near my town of Bellingham). From the award-winning book Great American Artists for Kids by MaryAnn Kohl and Kim Solga -- presented for you as an example of the book's art activities for you to view and enjoy!

 

25th Anniversary Special Sale! (on my website through July 30)

Bright Ring Publishing and author MaryAnn Kohl are celebrating 25 wonderful years of bringing art activities to children all over the world! Visit my website and take advantage of the easy ordering system. If you'd prefer, you can write to me and pay by check instead.

HAPPY 25TH!!

YAY!!!!!!!!