Because our house sits on almost an acre of land overlooking a poor-excuse-for-a-creek, the forces of nature are continually trying to remove the soil from the top of the hill to the bottom, which means I have an ongoing erosion-control project. Most of the year, there is an untidy pile of mulch sitting in our driveway. Every day I get a chance, I pull on my dirt-soiled garden gloves with a hole in one finger and haul a few wheelbarrow loads out to lay over the boggiest places or those bare patches most in need of protection. Sometimes I feel like a tiny ant toiling on my own private little ant hill, but I keep hauling mulch, and some days it seems the yard looks almost presentable.

Today as I grunted, overturning my second wheelbarrow-full, I saw something writhing in the mulch, something pink and naked. A shivering primordial fear of intestines or anything vaguely snakelike caused me to recoil. Then I realized it was just a worm. It was the biggest worm I had ever seen, too. My husband and I may have erosion-control trouble and a poor-excuse-of-a-creek, but we are proud of the fact that we have such healthy soil. People who spray may have lawns, but they don't have worms enriching their dirt. Around here, we have heavy clay soil badly in need of aeration, and I can't stick a shovel in the ground without chopping an earthworm in half. (Is it true what they say, that an earthworm can regenerate if it's cut in two? I hope so.)

Anyway, I saw something pink and naked squirming it's way back down into the mulch. "Ah," I thought. "It's a metaphor." Something about education and the raw mulch being slowly transformed into fertile soil by these worms. But that seemed too obvious.

Whenever I'm writing, I take frequent breaks, partly because I'm old enough that it hurts my lower back to sit too long and partly because I'm in constant need of inspiration. Walking the dog helps, as well. But today I was hauling mulch, and the dog kept running up with a Frisbee in her mouth wanting me to throw it for her. 

I saw something pink and naked squirming in the soil, and I thought of education, and that made me think of school supplies. No, it's not linear thinking, but it's the way this inspiration thing works. I can't explain it any better than that.

In about two weeks, my ten-year-old will be starting back to school.  We had some purchases to make at Target today, so I figured we might as well get the school supplies. Target always has a good selection, and it was early enough in the back-to-school season that everything wouldn't be all picked over. I mean, if you can't find just the right cover for your one required spiral-bound notebook with 70-120 pages of wide-ruled paper, then life is pretty dismal, right? In this case, my daughter selected a wolf on a purple background. Very cool. 

There was only one item we could not find. It was the "1 large clear storage box w/handle (14 1/4 in L x 9 1/2in W x 12 1/4 in H)." We found clear storage boxes in several sections of the store. Some had handles. Some had dimensions marked on the labels, but they weren't those specified on our list. Some boxes had no labeled dimensions, so we measured them with the required "1 plastic or wooden ruler with inches and centimeters" that we had handy in our shopping cart. Nothing was the right size. 

As an aside, may I mention that the list was headed by the following note printed in bold?: No Supply Boxes-Please.

"What does that mean?" my daughter asked.

"Dunno," I answered.

It was quite cryptic. I mean, here we were required to purchase "1 large clear storage box w/handle," but  No Supply Boxes-Please.  Deciding to ignore this distraction, because I had no means to reconcile it, I renewed our search for the correctly sized non-supply box. It had to be a non-supply box, because we were required to supply it, but supply boxes were not allowed. Right?

Anyway, there I was, watching that pink, naked worm squirming back down into the mulch, when I realized ... I realized that the "1 large clear storage box w/handle" was a metaphor for education. And not in a good way.

I mean, how many academically struggling children go through their school lives looking at assignment sheets labeled with the equivalent of "1 large clear storage box w/handle" and  "No Supply Boxes-Please"?  And how many of these students have the confidence to ask the teacher for clarification? How many of them even know they need to ask for clarification? How many of them assume the lack of understanding resides within themselves and are afraid to admit it?

When I was an undergrad in college, many years ago, I recall struggling with the concept our professors kept trying to instill in us, that we should always keep our audiences in mind as we write. Who are we writing for? What knowledge of the subject do they already have? What pre-conceived notions? What do they need to know?

In my memory, I see one of my professors writing in chalk on the board (we still had chalkboards back then) and shouting the words as he wrote : ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME. It seemed so profound. It still does, especially as I struggle to comprehend the fifth grade school supply list. 

The fifth-grade teachers evidently assumed we knew something about clear plastic boxes that we did not. They assumed they had provided enough guidance for us to purchase the correct clear plastic box, but they did not. And on back-to-school night, I will need to ask them about these boxes.

In the meantime, I have another load of mulch to haul. When I am done, I put the pitchfork and wheelbarrow away in the garage, remove my gloves and go inside to wash my hands. I sit down in front of the keyboard again and begin to write about education. 

What do you need to know?