El Niño's School

Now that my roof is gone, I can admire the moon.
Chinese Proverb

Borders had blurred. I did not live in a logical, sequential world, and the past had become as real to me as this moment. For months, I had been reading letters written by my father fifty years ago, listening to scratchy 78s, spending hours in a darkroom watching images appear from old negatives. I had been interviewing old-timers with my sixth grade students, and their stories had begun to live inside my head. Now I listened for voices in the wind and thought I sensed the human heat of those who had walked here centuries ago. Maybe I was crazy, but then came the rain, and crazy was the proper frame of mind.

Gaviota Creek had proclaimed its birthright, and the road simply washed away. No one was going anywhere. We had our computers and cans of Campbell soup, but our world was nineteenth century mud after all. We opened doors to the din of running water, stepped uncertainly, and wondered at the way all of our important routines had melted into ambiguous puddles.

And so it came to pass that our stranded students gathered at Bulito Canyon for an impromptu one-room schoolhouse, with myself as schoolmarm, accompanied by an indispensable team of strong and spirited Ranch women. We carried whatever books and materials we had into the grand old Hollister House, built in 1910, and sat at a great table in the front room. The rain had subsided and sunlight streamed through lace curtains. Once again, I had a sense of slipping into yesterday. Local old-timers like Jim Howerton, Tony Ochoa, and J.J. Hollister had told stories of school days with kids of all ages in one room at old Vista del Mar -- or at the Hollister Ranch school, where the older kids sat closest to the window and I imagine them forever gazing outside and yearning to be there. (Recess was often at the beach, and it was conveniently impossible to hear the bell over the surf.)

I learned right away that one of the most caring things a person can do is come an hour early to turn on the heat. And someone did. I learned that working with a range of age groups is a whole different ball game, and those old fashioned schoolmarms deserve a lot of credit. I learned that teachers of the younger grades deserve medals, praise, and gratitude. (I generally stuck with the older kids.) And I learned that smart people wear their tall rubber boots.

But what I will always remember most fondly about our El Niño school and the strangely timeless week in which it lived is the remarkable sense of community it engendered. We seemed to share a simple sense of purpose, and everyone had a contribution to make. Ruth became a teacher-enchantress for the little kids, Susan brought us hot spaghetti, and, when she wasn't giving a chemistry lesson, Beverly carried children piggy-back across a stream. No one asked, "What do you need?" They simply knew and did it.

I have often been told that kids thrive on structure and routine. However, at the El Niño campus, we found it best to go, appropriately enough, with the flow. It was rough at first to get kids to understand that this was seriously "school" and that they were indeed expected to work. They had, after all, been cooped in for a week, and this was an unusual setting. And so rather than fight it, we were fluid. Students were given a list of tasks and could work on these in any order. They could get up and have a snack whenever they wanted. It was okay to find a cozy corner chair in which to sit and read. Helping each other and reading to the little ones was encouraged. Adults milled about, assisting and teaching as needed, and there was a kind of music that was the murmur of kids learning and having fun. Natalie launched an art project, and students painted images and emotions drawn from their storm-related experiences. Once we found our rhythm, the day hummed. There was a sense of history in the setting, but it was nice to hear the old house filled with children's laughter.

Recess was the best. We walked in a watercolor world. There were rope swings from fat oak branches, creeks to cross, a post-storm beach to explore. We didn't have a bell, so recess merged into P.E., and in the spirit of kids throughout all time, we lingered in the delicious green now.

Our bridge and access have been restored, but it seems a little tentative, and I'm not quite ready to reenter the theater of the everyday. I know my neighbors better now, the real ones and the ghosts. I will hang a picture in the Hollister House of the students it briefly contained. I love this place, and I love it best in liquid time ...when borders blur.

-Cynthia Carbone Ward