Bo Pamplin

Busy night on Franklin St in Chapel Hill- one of the great traditions in sports after a great finish in the greatest sports rivalry. Sorry not Sorry Duke. Go Heels.

DOWN GOES DOOK!!!!

A message from a Kindergarten teacher: After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old: “My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.” No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.” My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me. When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic. But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe. My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown. And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice. They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer. The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.” As if kindness were a weakness. Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure — a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.” a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.” a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.” Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up. But this last year broke something in me. The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival. I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times. So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998: “Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.” I sat on the floor and cried. No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications. I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced. I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers. So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try. Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

@Starlink Thanks for your help at @FryingPanFlag. Would love for you to visit. @Drew_Pamplin

Starlink is designed to endure the elements - it can melt snow and withstand sleet, heavy rain, and even harsh winds 🛰️ 🌪️

Today’s generation will never understand this

Nothing better than the newly minted 2023-24 ACC Champions climbing out the top of the bus to celebrate. Cormac Ryan is wild. And he deserves every second of this celebration. 📸 cred: @sophiaczek (used with permission)

“I got hit with a gum ball. Who has a gum ball?” Harrison Ingram recounted walking over to the Cameron Crazies after Duke beat UNC. He added, “We were talking crazy. It was fun.”

Nasty work. Sorry ass program @BarstoolBDevils

It never gets old watching fans sprint to the 16th hole of the Waste Management Open

A tradition unlike any other. 📍 Franklin St.

And people wonder why there is a lack of teachers

Why you don’t live in Cali

Some heroes don’t wear capes. 👀 College Football >>> (H/t: @LeePaceTweet)

We asked people on Broadway to help us with our 2023 schedule release. 🤣 📺: 2023 Schedule Release on @nflnetwork

Put politics aside, this goes against everything I teach in my Personal Finance class. You should not be punished for trying to better your financial situation only to have it taken away like this.

UVA fans: I can’t believe we lost Arizona fans: hold my beer @MarchMadnessMBB @Princeton @PrincetonAth @ASUathletics

11 years ago, @CJMcCollum WENT OFF for 30pts vs. Duke to help @LehighMBB keep dancing as a 15-seed 🔥 An all-time #MarchMadness performance

Wonder if they will make a series out of it