This column first appeared in CityView magazine’s “Back to School” August 2026 edition.
When I was a student at Vanstory Hills Elementary School in the early ’90s, our principal, Donald Dixon, had a catchphrase that he would repeat just about every chance he would get. During his speech at open house, at every assembly throughout the term, and at our end-of-the-year award ceremony. Anyone who ever worked at or attended a school under his leadership can probably still recall his signature mantra.
“Plow to the end of the row.”
As an eight-year-old girl, I never fully understood what he meant when he concluded each and every principal’s address with, “And don’t forget, Vanstory students, to plow to the end of the row.” I always just envisioned my grandfather, an eastern North Carolina farmer, driving his tractor up and down rows of peanut plants, but didn’t really see how plowing had much to do with third grade math, science, social studies, or reading.
I hadn’t thought about Dixon in years, until one afternoon toward the end of the last school year when my children’s school called. I answered to the distressed voice of my daughter, informing me that something had leaked all over her lunch, soaking her sandwich, sogging her potato chips, and rendering her snack cake completely inedible. I thought back to packing her lunch the night before and remembered how I’d desperately tried to find something semi-healthy to add to her box.
The menu was a sandwich made from the last two pieces of bread in the bag—one being the highly offensive heel piece, spread with liquidy strawberry jelly squeezed from the bottom of the bottle, and the overly-dry remnants of peanut butter scraped off the sides of the nearly empty jar, potato chip crumbs poured into a compartment from a rumpled bag, and one of the two Swiss cake rolls from the last pack I’d split between my daughter and her brother.
In the hustle and bustle of Maycember, I’d remembered at bedtime that I’d forgotten to pick up my grocery order that day, leaving me to scrounge the far corners of the pantry for something edible. I’d discovered a neglected jar of mandarin oranges in the fridge, tucked behind the milk and apple juice, checked the expiration date, and spooned a few segments into their own compartment and called it a day, not knowing that the leakproof promise of the bento-style lunchbox would not apply to mandarin orange juice.
As I threw an even more pitiful second lunch of a spotty banana, half-eaten bag of beef jerky, popcorn, and a sad bagel with no cream cheese into a Ziploc bag, I felt a wave of mom guilt wash over me. It was akin to the same feeling I’d had when my son’s sweet reading teacher had, not long before, sent me a gentle text letting me know that her copy of the book “Flora & Ulysses”, which my son had borrowed from her classroom earlier in the year, had not been returned.
After tearing apart both my house and my car looking for the lost book, I’d thrown in the towel and ordered her a new copy from Amazon. When the book arrived, I gave it to my son with specific instructions to immediately hand it to his teacher at school. He took one look at the book and said, “Mom? Why does the title say, ‘Flora y Ulysses’?” Yes, I had inadvertently purchased the Spanish version for a classroom of English-speaking third-graders.
I thought of a field trip permission slip I’d forgotten to sign, a meeting that I’d put on the wrong calendar day, and the shame of having to pull two school uniform shirts off the top of my children’s dirty clothes piles because I was hopelessly behind on laundry. A voice in my head said, “You are not plowing to the end of the row.” And just like that, I remembered Dixon’s words and finally understood what he meant all those years ago.
Just like every other school year before, I’ll start this one strong. There will be lunches packed full of fresh fruit, neatly-cut vegetables, customized deli sandwiches on seedy, multi-grain bread that my kids will have temporarily forgotten that they hate, and low-sugar organic fruit strips. I will help my children neatly label their binders and organize their pencil pouches.
I’ll purchase snazzy new uniforms and enthusiastically develop a new system to help me remember to stay on top of laundry. I’ll actually remember to pick up my online grocery orders during the assigned time window. I’ll enforce bedtimes, prep overnight oats for a quick yet healthy before-school breakfast, and meal-plan nutritious dinners. I will designate a special spot in our home to store miscellaneous school items—like borrowed classroom books—and color code our family calendar to make sure that not one single meeting or event is forgotten.
We’ll see how long this new-school-year enthusiasm lasts, and if all four Mullens can truly “plow to the end of the row.”
Ten months seems like an awfully long time to have to drive the tractor.
Claire Mullen can be reached at clairejlmullen@gmail.com.
