Shit From an Old Notebook: Springtime Haiku

I had been student teaching 12th grade English at a high school in Vallejo for a couple of weeks. It was a relatively new campus built close to the last vestige of green hills left in that part of the Bay Area. To celebrate the first day of spring, the master teacher took her classes, with me in tow, out to the back of the school to soak up the seasonal vibes and write a haiku.

I was tickled to see that the view included the very same craggy rock cliffs that my best friend Pat Kennedy and I rode our bikes—all the way from the neighboring town of Benicia—to explore when we were kids. In those days, that area was still pretty rural and an angry bull chased us when we had the temerity to cut across his field.

Here was my example:

The smell of new grass
and really fresh manure
Here comes the bull, run!

I was quickly becoming inured to the utter indifference of senior English students, so when one kid slowly raised his hand, I jumped on the opportunity to… well, teach.

“Mr. Larsen,” he started, his face a curious mask of confusion and wonder, “you got chased by a bull… in Vallejo?”

I told him, “yes,” which didn’t close the matter, but only caused further consternation to play upon his eager young countenance. I could tell there was a follow up in the works, so I employed my soon-to-be-patented “raised eyebrow“ technique, giving him the floor. The boy seemed to be struggling with how to phrase his question, before finally just blurting it out.

“Did y’all make your own clothes back then?”