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Do you have something to say? Start your own blog!

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Do you have something to say? Start your own blog!

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Click HERE to create your own blog.

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Ms. Duran reads the poignant, heartbreaking first chapter of this novel.  

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First Chapter Friday: The Beauty that Remains  by Ashley Woodfolk

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First Chapter Friday: The Beauty that Remains  by Ashley Woodfolk

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Click HERE to listen to the first chapter (Part 1) and HERE to listen to Part 2.

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First Chapter Friday: Spanking Shakespeare

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First Chapter Friday: Spanking Shakespeare

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Listen to Ms. Duran read the relentlessly raw first chapter of Spanking Shakespeare by Jake Wizner. Be sure to leave a comment and let us know what you think.

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Flip is where social and emotional learning happens! The leading video discussion platform for millions of PreK to PhD educators, students, and families.

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The inside of Mrs. Heredia's Spanish classes' brochures. 😁

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Mrs. Heredia's Spanish class produced amazing travel brochures. I seriously need to update my passport!

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We love creating and crafting and chatting, oh my!

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Make sure to read Cody's imagery-filled memorial to her beloved Grandpa. 

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by Cody Shaffer

A Tender Heart And Cowboy Boots

“A Grandpa who is missed but never forgotten:  a man who grew wings and flew away in a flash, a man whose smile now shines above. Laughter has turned to thunder, the rain of  tears falling from the weeping angels above, and hands praying for a lost cowboy who now fishes the rivers of heaven and hunts the wide vast green fields.”

I bet you are wondering about this quote. Well, let me tell you a story about a tender hearted man in cowboy boots . . .

My Grandpa was a tall, slim man. He had soft hands wrinkled with the growing olden age of a hard working man.  His brows and mustache were like a thick forest of deep grasslands.  And his eyes were like a soft feather falling gently to the ground. Always filled with wisdom, they were a deep blue, and when you stared into them, it was like looking into a vast, slow-moving sea. His smile held a tender look of love for his wife.  My grandpa was a  man who was tanned from the heated kiss of the hot blazing sun. You could always find him working from early morning to late afternoon. He was a hardworking man, who always saw through to every one of his wishing well products so he could sell them at a yard sale.

I bet you're  asking now, “Well who was he? What did he do?” .. Well let me tell you the grandpa that I grew up with…. I remember all the early mornings. Waking to the sun's cheerful;  “hello” as the morning light peakes from the curtains. And the nature outside is singing a cheerful tone of a glorious morning.  Feeling the warmth coming from the windows surrounding my bed, I would then hear the thick heavy thudding of my already awake grandpa's boots in the kitchen. I remember the deep aroma of coffee risking into the air filling my nose and luns with a sweet leathery, mouth watering want for that steamy mug he is making. I remember hearing the liquid sloshing in the pot as he filled his cup, making a deep hollow void fill with a soft sound of pouring liquid. Then I remember hearing him pour sugar into his cup, hitting his glas making very loud sounds of clinking.  To end with the spoon hitting the rim of his cup multiple times. I remember the long drag of him slurping his coffee to end with a happy sigh, walking to the back door. My grandpa would start his day making wishing wells.

Another memory that I would love to share is on a cold winter morning, the outside slightly white from a long snowfall over the night. I would wake again to my grandpa's boots in the kitchen, this time the house came alive.  He put the spirits in my Christmas, he would buy every kid a small nerf gun, and the adults got bigger nerf guns, while he.. Well he chose the biggest battery powered or just big gun he could find.  He would start a war, shooting someone and the house would turn into a battle of shooting another. This lasted half the morning.  He was the spirit in the family, he was like the essential need of survival that kept the family a whole.  Christmas was always the best time of the year with him around, never felt dull and always had the spirit of love and family.  He kept it that way. He was . . . the one reason the family never broke apart, a fixer, you may say. My Grandpa was the best man I knew. Till one day, he just . . .  got sick. He wouldn't stop coughing and no matter how hard you pushed for him to go to the doctors he was stubborn as a bull and wouldn't go . . .

One day, it just got worse. I remember lying  on my floor in my room at my grandparents, listening to music. When I heard my grandpa hacking up a lung, I opened the door to ask if he was ok. Just a head nod and a wave of dismissal. Needless to say, he fought my grandma and auntie, but they won and off to the hospital he went. The time seemed so slow as I waited for the news of my grandpa. All of a sudden, I heard my Auntie’s scream of pain. “NOOOO!” I became cold as ice. Walking in a hazy glaze of fear,  I entered the room and saw my Auntie hunched over crying, Guess she heard me walk in, ‘cause she looked up, saying the worst words that have been uttered to me. “He’s gone.” Upon hearing those words, I felt a thick throbbing ball growing in my chest as I processed the fact that my grandpa had passed. The dread and pain and the unbelievable fact that my strong, untouchable grandpa had indeed been touched by God's hands ripped me apart.  I remember going up to his casket and staring at his body just laying there as if frozen in time. He held a smile, and his eyes were creased softly. I still didn't believe it was real, until I touched his skin.. His hand was so cold, his hand. Not warm. I remember that day; the tears flew like a stormy ocean, never stopping.

The story of my grandpa comes to an end . . .

“A Grandpa who is missed but never forgotten. A man who grew wings and flew away in a flash, a man whose smile now shines now shines above. The laughter turns to thunder, the rain of  tears from the weeping angels above. And Praying hand for a lost cowboy that now fishes the rivers of heaven and hunts the wide vast green fields.”

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This poem was written a couple of years ago and is in no way a reflection of any teachers in the Cobre District.