Groundhog Day. Out comes my furry puppet. I cannot get over how enthralled young children are when I stick my hand up the groundhog's bottom and make it speak. Many of these children have traveled to exotic locales; many have elaborate video game systems; I've seen several who have individual tv screens in the back seats of their cars. And yet this low-tech, goofy little puppet, speaking in a high voice about how she is shy and afraid of her shadow, utterly transfixes them. They sit with their mouths agape but slightly smiling, leaning forward to catch every word. The groundhog explains the details of her favorite day, claps her hands and tells them they can pet her after they hear the story. They do so, tenderly feeding her pretend food, stroking her back and hugging her. So gratifying.

I made a mistake with one group. The young children entered and wouldn't settle down: the sight of the groundhog had them all revved up. (Again -- the kid who went to Belize and rode on zip lines? Are you kidding?) Foolishly, I had the groundhog fuss at them and tell them sharply to sit down. Immediately they turned on the critter: "You shut up!" "You aren't our boss!" They are tender with a shy, scared puppet but belligerent with a cranky one. Something for us teachers to ponder.

One compliment I treasured: "Natalie, you are so good at that! My dad told me it takes years to learn to throw your voice. You do it so great!" I didn't fess up -- she thought I was throwing my voice because she was watching the puppet. "Thank you," I said.