A story

My Dad died this week, and so he is all that has been on my mind.

I've been thinking about his stories, and there are so many. And thinking about mine. It's a strange time, surreal. Every moment feels profound and empty, and everyone speaks to you in clichés.

If I was watching the movie of my life, it would be a sombre part, with appropriate music, or would it? Sure I've felt sad, but there are no rulebooks for these periods in our lives, and I've felt joy more than anything else. It's caught me a little by surprise.

Joy at his determination and strength. Joy that he made a good life, and at the end of it was surrounded by so many people that love him. A good measure of a life well lived I think.

So I wanted to tell you a story, because in our culture sharing stories is what keeps us alive, even after we die. It does more than tell us what to be wary of, or what to seek out. Stories remind us why we live, and good ones remind us what to live for.

When I was in my teens, Dad would take us kayaking on the Goulburn river in winter. It's a river in Victoria Australia, fed from melting snow in the hills. The water is cold, freezing, but in winter the water is high on the bank, and it makes for great paddling.

On this particular day I'd been paddling all day with Dad, and a dozen other club members. We were exhausted, cold and wet as it had been raining a little through the day. When we reached the last bend, Dad was amongst a number of other boats to reach the side first. I hung back, and waited, wanting space and a rest.

I'm not sure what it was that made me overturn. The water was moving, but not rough at all. It was deep however, and when I went in, it was shockingly cold. My legs had been wedged into the sides of a short, low volume, one man kayak and they cramped up the instant they touched the water. My hands were so stiff and store from the days paddling I couldn't make a fist. And I started to drown, just like that. Ten feet from the bank.

I managed somehow to reach the surface, and I remember taking a breath, and seeing Dad's face. It wasn't panicked, he was running when I saw him, and the look in his eyes stayed with me, I've never forgotten it. There was nothing stopping him. I suppose you could call it determination, but it wouldn't do it justice.

He dived in and reached me, and in a tangle of arms and legs we made it to the shore. Even in my early teens I was taller than Dad, and I think I almost drowned HIM on the way back to the bank a few times!

We were finally both sitting exhausted, wet through, freezing on the bank. I remember looking up at him, about to ask about going home or something, and being struck by this incredible sense of pride, and a realisation that he was kind of a hero to me at that moment.

Now if I told you we had this perfect father son relationship after that I'd be lying. I still had the rest of my teens to get through, and he wasn't getting out of it that easily!

Still, that moment, it's amazing to me. Memories like that, are precious and powerful for kids in their teens. When you can look at your Dad like that, know he's your hero, you can overcome anything. It helped me cope with some of the uncertainty of my adolescence, it helped me grow up.

And when I had children of my own, and remembered that look on his face as I floundered in the water ... well I never really understood the determination in his eyes on that day until then.

The Secret Cubby House

Looking for something new and fun to do with the 5/6 class I had this last 6 weeks, I built a unit around designing a cubby house (also I'm informed, known as a Wendy house).

My intention was that the project should be predominantly math based, and that I would build more in complexity over time. Each student would need to design a cubby of their choice.

Everything was trundling along nicely, when I noticed something interesting. Each cubby had a story. Most were subtle, but many had annotations or possessions included in the design that suggested an occupant, that often wasn't necessarily the designer.

As the complexity in the project increased over the weeks ... first a cross section, then a list of materials ... those with a narrative proceeded a little faster than those based purely on design.

It reinforced something I have seen time and time again.

A project that offers the framework for a narrative, regardless of the subject, can develop a strong momentum in the classroom. Story is a powerful motivator, and can fuel engagement.

The question that I didn't have answered, is how the project results may have differed if I had directed the narrative for the cubby project. For example, if I'd instructed the class to build a cubby for a particular occupant.

It might have been a motivating factor, and who lived inside it was a consideration that we all agreed was important as the project progressed. In the same way however, that I've witnessed story starters squash creative responses in students engaged in creative writing ... I suspect too much direction in the narrative may well have dampened enthusiasm.

Students have their own stories to tell, in each project, in each assignment. It can be a powerful motivator ... and math sheets or forced creative instructions don't allow for that expression.