This is a tale about two boys, who if they had been any smarter would have had enough brains to blow themselves "to smithereens" with gunpowder.
When I was thirteen years old, my family moved to a newer, nicer neighborhood. The reasons we moved there are multiple and mysterious, none of which I will go into, but let's just say that we had moved into what I would call a "ritzy" part of town. The houses were lovely, the two car garages were detached with a spare room and a workshop, and the cars in them were nice and new.
A boy across the street was named Johnny. I won't use his last name because I don't have permission, and if he knew what I was writing about he wouldn't even want me to call him by his first name, so I'll change his name to Larry.
Larry was what I'd call spoiled. He liked to munch on dog biscuits, so his parents provided them to him. Near the back door were two bags of dog treats: one for their dachsund and one for Larry. It was his favorite flavor, and he would grab one every now and then and chomp down on it. Larry also lost a couple of fingers using his Dad's table saw, which would have been off limits to me if my Dad owned one, but not Larry. He had full use of the contraption, and it cost him a couple of fingers. Larry got to choose his lunch and dinner menu. To me that was the top of the top, the proof of the pudding, so to speak, that Larry was spoiled.
Larry was also given most anything he asked for as long as it was reasonable. Now remember, Larry's parents let him snack on dog biscuits, use the table saw, and decide his own menu. So one time Larry and I are in his driveway and he says, "I found out that gunpowder is made from sulphur, charcoal, and saltpeter."
"Really."
"Yeah. And I asked my Dad where I could buy that stuff and he said Curtin Scientific. He's gonna take me there next Saturday."
"What for?"
"To buy some sulphur, charcoal, and saltpeter."
"You gotta be kidding me."
"Nah. I'm serious. I'm gonna buy a pound of each one and grind it up with a mortar and pestle."
"You are joking with me, right?"
"Nah. I'm serious."
"Your dad is going to let you make three pounds of gunpowder?"
"Yeah. He'll let me. Do you wanna come with me to Curtin Scientific to buy the chemicals?"
"Sure. That sounds cool, but how are you going to buy gunpowder material?"
"I'm just gonna go buy it."
"I don't know, Larry. I think if two kids go into a chemical shop and ask for the ingredients to make three pounds of gunpowder, somebody's gonna get suspicious. I don't think they're gonna sell you the chemicals to make three pounds of gunpowder. I've opened up firecrackers and there's not much gunpowder in them. I think three pounds is a huge amount of gunpowder. I think it's enough to blow us up. They're not gonna sell it to you."
"Yeah, you're right. We gotta play it cool when we buy this stuff so they won't get suspicious."
"OK then, I'll go with you."
I asked my parents if I could go with Larry to a chemical shop with his father to learn about chemicals and stuff. They said sure. Mr. Larry, Larry's dad, was a well-paid, highly respected man of some sort, so they assumed everything was on the up and up.
When we arrived at Curtin Scientific, Larry's dad stayed in the car, which I thought was unusual. Larry and I went in by ourselves, went up to a counter, and Larry asked the man if they sold chemicals. Larry did all the talking, of course.
"Yes we do. What are you looking for?"
"Well, we need some sulphur. Do you have any sulphur?"
"Sure. We have some sulphur. How much do you want?"
"Oh I don't know. How about a pound?"
"Sure. Is there anything else you need?"
"Hmm. Let me think. Do you have any charcoal?"
"Sure. How much do you want?"
"Oh I don't know. How about a pound?"
"Alright. Is there anything else?"
"Oh, let me see. How about some......I don't know. How about some magnesium. Do you have any magnesium?" This was a ruse, intended to distract the chemist from our real intentions. Johnny was a genius.
"Sure. How much do you need?"
"I don't know. Like an ounce."
"O......K. Anything else?"
"I think that'll do it."
"I'll be back in a few minutes with your order."
"OK. Wait a minute! I almost forgot. We also need a pound of saltpeter."
"You mean potassium nitrate?"
"No, we want saltpeter."
"That's the chemical name for saltpeter. I'll get you a pound of saltpeter, or potassium nitrate. Anything else?"
"No sir. That'll do it."
The man went into the back to get our gunpowder ingredients and we grinned at each other in disbelief. This was working! Suddenly I thought of something.
"Wait a minute Johnny, I mean Larry. What if this guy is suspicious? What if he comes back with the cops?"
Larry didn't say anything. We just stood there and waited and sweated in silence. Sure enough, that chemist came back with three pounds one ounce of chemicals. Larry paid the man, and we left. Furtive is a good word, and I don't use it often. That's how we left Curtin Scientific. Furtively.
We returned to Larry's house, ground up suphur and charcoal and saltpeter for hours, mixed it all up, then poured a little bit in a coffee can.
"I'm gonna light it now."
"Wait a minute, Larry. If that stuff blows up, it could hurt you. Why don't you make a trail of it from the can down the driveway and we could stand way away from it and light the trail of gunpowder like they do in the movies. Then when it hits the big pile in the can and blows up, we won't be killed."
"That sounds good. Let's do that."
Three pounds of gunpowder is a lot of gunpowder, so we had plenty, and we made a little five foot trail of it to the can, which we laid on its side, stood back, and lit the trail. It made a lot of smoke, moved much more slowly than I expected, and when the fire got to the pile of gunpowder in the can, it made a huge smoke bomb of fire impressively gushing out of the can, but no explosion.
We figured that the stuff wasn't ground up enough. More mortar and pestle work, but that didn't help much. We changed the proportions slightly. No improvement. As it turned out, we weren't smart enough to make gunpowder explode. I'm no scientist, but I think we failed to put it under pressure. In other words, if we had been a tad smarter, we'd both be dead.
I can tell you this, that last coffee can half filled with gunpowder with an ounce of magnesium thrown in was a beautiful sight to see when it went off.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
GOOD LITTLE BOYS
Many, many years ago, my brother Jack and I would visit my mother's sister and her family. Jack and I loved going to visit our cousins. I can still hear us joyfully saying, "We're going to Henry and Matthew's!"
While there we would go to the railroad tracks and line up rocks on the rail near the ditch. Then we'd play "Chicken" to see who was the last one to jump away from the oncoming train and duck into the ditch to watch the rocks burst into pieces as the engine ran over the rocks. It took us awhile to learn that there were no rocks large enough to derail the train, dern it, but a certain type of metamorphic rock would send out "zingers," pieces of rock that would whiz by your head as you watched in fascination as the rocks were "smashed to smithereens."
We would go to the movie theater and make fun of the movie. The old Harrisburg Theatre is long gone by now, but I remember us making loud, public comments during the films. I would never have done that at my neighborhood theater, the Santa Rosa Theater, for fear of excommunication, but Henry and Matthew had tested the Harrisburg Theatre and found it to be devoid of management or complaining adults, so we would spout off all sorts of dumb, sarcastic comments during the film.
We would play King of the Mountain, a game now outlawed on playgrounds and in parks all over this great, lawyerfied country of ours. Sometimes one of us would get hurt and cry, but no one tattled. If you tattled, you'd be told not to play King of the Mountain again, and we didn't want to add any more disobediences to the already growing list.
We would make fun of the Catholic Church, a la George Carlin. Even I knew that if you skipped church on Sunday, you would not be killed by an act of God. I think the story that made us laugh the most was the one about the boy who skipped church, climbed a tree, and died by hanging when his head became stuck in the fork of two branches. A gruesome death, and a true story, according to Sister Chocolata.
One time we "got our hands on a BB gun." We quickly became tired of shooting at birds and trains, so we took turns hiding behind a huge overturned oak tree, then popping our heads up like little ducks at a midway carnival shooting gallery. Matthew was wearing his official U.S. Army helmet and that made him the obvious target. I am quite certain that I am the one who hit Matthew in the forehead with a BB. He cried out and we all stopped and examined the indent in his forehead, which had some redness to it which made it stick out for any adult to see. Matthew wore his official U.S. Army helmet way down to his eyebrows so no one would notice. We got away with what I will simply refer to as an incredibly stupid act of stupid stupidity. "You'll shoot your eye out!" is still an hilarious comment to me, warped as I am by my childhood.
I remember seeing how high we could jump off of things. Henry and Matthew's garage was a little high for me until I turned nine, and then "bailing off" of it quickly became boring. We searched for greater heights, and I still wonder if that isn't why I have short thigh bones.
I remember going very far up into drainage pipes. If you went far enough, you'd come to large rooms with lots of entry pipes at the top and one larger exit pipe at the bottom. Branches of trees, small furniture, and lots of unusual objects were to be found in these rooms. We didn't go often if it was rainy, and that's why I'm still here today.
We walked across pipes that ran over Sims Bayou, Braes Bayou, and Buffalo Bayou. If you were seven or eight years old it was a scary thing to do, but by the time you were nine, it was no big deal. If the pipe was concreted, you could ride your bike across. Nowadays the adults have chain-link-fenced over the pipes so no little kids can learn how to do it.
We played with matches, gasoline, and firecrackers. We "enlarged" mailboxes with cherry bombs. We burned hundreds of ants with magnifying glasses. We froze all assortment of bugs and then thawed them to see if they could be "reanimated." We set fire to anything experimentable, and my recommendation at this time is still a golf ball. Just be patient and get to the rubber bands. Then sit back and enjoy (upwind, of course)!
We could laugh for hours at nothing. We would get filthy dirty and very sweaty, and if you threw your underwear, t-shirt, and socks into a pile, which we would do, the next morning they would reek of moldy, mildew stench, and then we would sniff the pile, of course, and grimace or laugh. We walked down Harrisburg Blvd. and acted sick, or crazy, or blind, or whatever idea would come into our heads.
We made fun of people, told gruesome stories, crashed bikes, peeked in windows, whispered, rolled our eyes, imitated anyone for a laugh, told dirty jokes, did not go home to use the bathroom (if you know what I mean), explored garbage cans and trash piles hoping to find discarded light bulbs to be busted, threw rocks, tried to pry open manhole covers, played with our food, knew why dead batteries were not supposed to be busted open and why live batteries were even more "deadly," snuck cigarettes out of our grandmother's purse, smoked them, smoked any plant stem that was hollow (Don't suck in when the match is on the end!), and we entered vacant buildings without approval or permission, and the thought of not going in was as ridiculous as asking for approval. "Duh! Yeah! That's right! Let's go ask permission! Ha!
I grew up to be a job wanderer, and became an elementary school teacher as a seventeenth career. I am married with no children and am living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Henry became a derelict and died riding the rails, killed in an accident while riding a train.
Jack is an M.I.T. graduate, married and has a son and two twin girls, and is living in Weston, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston.
Matthew is married and has a son, and is a substitute teacher in Houston, Texas.
Monday, October 12, 2009
WILLIAM ON CRUTCHES
My older brother William once "got to use crutches." Now I know that it's an unfortunate incident that causes such damage to the human body and normally we should feel pity for someone who injures themselves to that extent, but as I recall, William seized the opportunity they provided. I don't remember how he was injured, but that's beside the point. His crutches were enough to get people's attention. William hobbled around getting more sympathy from family and friends than I got in a lifetime. He was about fifteen or sixteen, and I was ten or eleven.
During the time he was using his crutches we visited our cousins because Mary Ann and Sissy were having a party. Elizabeth, who everyone called Sissy, which I couldn't understand because she was certainly no sissy and Elizabeth is such a beautiful name so why change it or allow anyone to call you by the name Sissy is beyond me, but I digress. Elizabeth had invited a bunch of her teenage girl friends over, and though they were all too old for me, it didn't prevent me from dreaming. I was dreaming away when who shows up? William.
William comes hobbling into the room and all the girls' eyes turned to him. Seconds later they were all over him, asking if he needed anything, did it hurt, was he in pain, how did it happen, how long had he been suffering, and generally making a big fuss over him. I was really impressed with this obvious display of the power of sympathy.
Then someone started playing Elvis or Ricky Nelson or Pat Boone. A few brave teenagers started dancing, and William was slowly coaxed into gingerly stepping onto the dance floor. He managed to shed his emcumbrances and slow dance a little. Then a fast song started up, and William began to move a little. Suddenly, William could sense all eyes on him, and he sprang into action and started boogying and shimmying. The girls oohed and ahhed and giggled and William could feel all female eyes on him. That wasn't enough, though. He grabbed one girl and set to tearin' up the dance floor. There wasn't room for anyone else, just him and that girl. They both got to rockin' 'n rollin' and covering the whole dance floor together. It was about that time I saw through William's little charade.
It was also about that time that my Aunt Marian came into the room. Now I was thinking what she was thinking long before she did, because I was thinking it before she came into the room, but I have to hand it to her for saying it so quickly and decisively, without hesitation. It just came barreling out of her mouth.
"William, I think it's time you got rid of those crutches. It's pretty obvious all they're good for is a little sympathy. They sure aren't slowing you down any!"
As I recall, William didn't get rid of those crutches too quickly. He carted them around under his arms quite awhile longer, and I wonder sometimes, if he still misses those suckers.
During the time he was using his crutches we visited our cousins because Mary Ann and Sissy were having a party. Elizabeth, who everyone called Sissy, which I couldn't understand because she was certainly no sissy and Elizabeth is such a beautiful name so why change it or allow anyone to call you by the name Sissy is beyond me, but I digress. Elizabeth had invited a bunch of her teenage girl friends over, and though they were all too old for me, it didn't prevent me from dreaming. I was dreaming away when who shows up? William.
William comes hobbling into the room and all the girls' eyes turned to him. Seconds later they were all over him, asking if he needed anything, did it hurt, was he in pain, how did it happen, how long had he been suffering, and generally making a big fuss over him. I was really impressed with this obvious display of the power of sympathy.
Then someone started playing Elvis or Ricky Nelson or Pat Boone. A few brave teenagers started dancing, and William was slowly coaxed into gingerly stepping onto the dance floor. He managed to shed his emcumbrances and slow dance a little. Then a fast song started up, and William began to move a little. Suddenly, William could sense all eyes on him, and he sprang into action and started boogying and shimmying. The girls oohed and ahhed and giggled and William could feel all female eyes on him. That wasn't enough, though. He grabbed one girl and set to tearin' up the dance floor. There wasn't room for anyone else, just him and that girl. They both got to rockin' 'n rollin' and covering the whole dance floor together. It was about that time I saw through William's little charade.
It was also about that time that my Aunt Marian came into the room. Now I was thinking what she was thinking long before she did, because I was thinking it before she came into the room, but I have to hand it to her for saying it so quickly and decisively, without hesitation. It just came barreling out of her mouth.
"William, I think it's time you got rid of those crutches. It's pretty obvious all they're good for is a little sympathy. They sure aren't slowing you down any!"
As I recall, William didn't get rid of those crutches too quickly. He carted them around under his arms quite awhile longer, and I wonder sometimes, if he still misses those suckers.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Typo!
What a difference a reversal of the vowels can make in a sentence!
One of my fourth grade students was writing a story in which they owned a zoo. They wrote, "We feed my loins at eleven o'clock."
Whoa!
One of my fourth grade students was writing a story in which they owned a zoo. They wrote, "We feed my loins at eleven o'clock."
Whoa!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Chinese Fortune Cookies
This story is no great importance to the world or to its eventual outcome. But then very few are, so just read on and shut up.
Another unusual incident involving Chinese fortune cookies occurred to my wife at I at a rather blaise Chinese restaurant. The food was mediocre, but then we have had some really great Chinese food in moments of dining pleasure, and this one wasn't one of them. However, this little restaurant was able to catch our attention with two cellophane wrapped fortune cookies.
Peggy opened hers, and having a melodramatic nature, I waited, anxiously anticipating the mundane. Looking up at me, she said, "This is ridiculous!" Thinking that maybe it said, "You do not do enough for your husband," or "Give your husband a back massage every evening for the rest of your life," or "From this moment on, your husband will be right, no matter what," I grabbed her fortune cookie fortune and read these words: "Your fortune is in another cookie."
I immediately said, "Holy Toledo (sic)! That means that your fortune is in this cookie," and I handed her mine, still wrapped in the cellophane.
Peggy looked at it and said, "Nah. That's yours."
"This one is yours, Peggy. Your first fortune cookie fortune said so."
Peggy reluctantly took it, opened it up, and it said, "Don't take what's not yours."
The Chinese are far out.
Another unusual incident involving Chinese fortune cookies occurred to my wife at I at a rather blaise Chinese restaurant. The food was mediocre, but then we have had some really great Chinese food in moments of dining pleasure, and this one wasn't one of them. However, this little restaurant was able to catch our attention with two cellophane wrapped fortune cookies.
Peggy opened hers, and having a melodramatic nature, I waited, anxiously anticipating the mundane. Looking up at me, she said, "This is ridiculous!" Thinking that maybe it said, "You do not do enough for your husband," or "Give your husband a back massage every evening for the rest of your life," or "From this moment on, your husband will be right, no matter what," I grabbed her fortune cookie fortune and read these words: "Your fortune is in another cookie."
I immediately said, "Holy Toledo (sic)! That means that your fortune is in this cookie," and I handed her mine, still wrapped in the cellophane.
Peggy looked at it and said, "Nah. That's yours."
"This one is yours, Peggy. Your first fortune cookie fortune said so."
Peggy reluctantly took it, opened it up, and it said, "Don't take what's not yours."
The Chinese are far out.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Casper
Most elementary school teachers will have a extra desk in their class room in case they are given a new student in the middle of the year, or a child needs to sit by himself in order to quiet down, or maybe the desk will be used as a science display for the class pet.
Our empty desk is in a cluster of four other desks used for grouping students. This is the first year any class has ever said anything about the empty desk. The class I have this year has assigned it to a student named Casper.
It's not a long running, getting old joke. It's just every now and then. Someone will say, "Mr. R., Casper doesn't have a copy of the test."
Or, "Mr. R., you forgot about Casper."
I don't know who thought of it, but it sure is clever, and a first.
Our empty desk is in a cluster of four other desks used for grouping students. This is the first year any class has ever said anything about the empty desk. The class I have this year has assigned it to a student named Casper.
It's not a long running, getting old joke. It's just every now and then. Someone will say, "Mr. R., Casper doesn't have a copy of the test."
Or, "Mr. R., you forgot about Casper."
I don't know who thought of it, but it sure is clever, and a first.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
John Joe and his son, Henry
In the annals of Houston, Texas fires, two stand out above the others: the refinery fires in Texas City, and the Mykawa Road railroad train chemical fire. My uncle was involved in both. Aunt Marian told me once when I was thinking about being a fireman that her husband, John Joe, went to Mykawa Road to put out a horrific fire involving a derailed trainload of toxic and explosive chemicals. It was extremely dangerous, and firemen were beginning to die. Fifteen or sixteen hours later the front doorbell rang and her heart sank. One of the kids opened the door and there stood Uncle John Joe. She told me she was so relieved she almost cried. She said that there wasn’t a spot on him that wasn’t black, including some of the whites of his eyes. He was not only exhausted, he was scared to come into the house and bring the chemical stench and the ashes and smoke into the house with him. She told me he took his clothes off on the porch, I think, and she drew him a bath, and he bathed several times, took a short nap, and got back in his car to return to Mykawa Rd., which was by this time, one of the most famous fires in the history of Houston, Texas, and it was making national news.
My Uncle John Joe was also a member of the Order of the Hibernians, a group of Irishmen who congregated together on occasions to celebrate their heritage through drink. I saw a photo of my uncle when he was younger and was amazed to see the striking resemblance of Henry to his father. Henry was Uncle John Joe’s third son who died a homeless drunkard. Uncle John Joe may have fit the mold of the men in Frank McCourt’s books, “Angela’s Ashes” and “’Tis,” but he didn’t go too far with the drink, and instead raised a fine family. As David once told me, “Our family is nuts, but you know, for some reason, I like us.”
One time Uncle John Joe and I were alone together. His wife, my father and mother got up from the table and left the room. Uncle John Joe didn’t hesitate. He opened up to me and he almost wailed.
“I feel so horrible. My son is a drunkard, a worthless fool of a bum. I raised a bum. I feel so horrible and ashamed. I can’t believe one of my own children is a bum. A bum! I am so ashamed. ”
I didn’t say anything. All I could do was listen, and Uncle John Joe told me how terrible it felt to have his son Henry become a drunken derelict. Henry was still alive at this time, but Aunt Marian and Uncle John Joe had already reluctantly learned to provide only “tough love” to Henry, and they encouraged everyone else in the family to do the same. Any financial help you gave Henry would be spent on the booze. (See “Angela’s Ashes” and “’Tis.”) I know what they went through because Henry and I were really close, and I always received the latest, tragic news.
I have dozens of stories about Henry, but here is a tale that ends up being a great gift that Henry’s older brother, David, gave me.
When I went into college, Henry was still a senior in high school. Henry came to me one Saturday evening and asked if I wanted to go out looking for girls. He suggested that since I was a college guy, it would impress all the girls that he knew, and we could go meet girls. I jumped at the chance, being desirous of a lasting relationship and a happy marriage with one woman since I was eleven years of age and encountered the wonders of puberty.
Henry and I went out every weekend for a few months. We never met women, but we did meet Mr. Bud, Mr. Falstaff, Mr. Lone Star, Mr. Pearl, Mr. Schlitz, and my personal favorite, the elusive Mr. Darkbeer. It was during one of those wearisome evenings of drinking under the guise of cruising for women that a terrible fog came up. To this day I still remember the thickest fog I ever saw in my life. I was driving my parents’ newly restored Volkswagen. The fog was so thick that I had to bring the VW to a stop because no one in the car knew if we were even on the road. Unfortunately, we stopped in the middle of Capitol Ave., and a lady in a huge Cadillac smacked into us. She was driving excessively fast for such poor driving conditions, but I received the traffic ticket because at the intersection, she was on the right and I was on the left. (At that time, in Texas, the one on the left was at fault in a wreck.) The Volkswagen my parents had just spent a lot of money on fixing up with mechanical work and a paint job was totaled. I was thrown from the car on impact and knocked unconscious for well over an hour. Henry told me later that it took so long for me to “come to” that he began to fear that I was dead. The police report noted that a bottle of beer was found in the car I was driving.
I never went out looking for women (drinking) with Henry again, but I began to hear stories. Stories of Henry coming home dead drunk, found in the morning asleep at the wheel in the driveway while the car was still idling, found in the front yard of a girl’s house he liked and her parents calling the police, disappearance binges, Veteran’s Hospital stays to dry out, detox and hallucinations. And worse. For years I carried with me the shame and blame for Henry’s excessive drinking.
After Peggy and I moved to Albuquerque, David, Henry’s older brother, came to Albuquerque because of his job. He was a well-trained technician who was sometimes asked to travel to out-of-town clients to repair equipment they had purchased from his company.
I confessed to David. I told him the story about Henry dropping by to go check out the ladies, and because I was the oldest, I always managed to buy beer, and that’s how Henry got started drinking. I had initiated Henry’s tragic decline.
David looked at me and confidently said, “You didn’t start Henry drinking. Henry started drinking when he was in the seventh grade. Do you remember Henry being in the 4-H club?”
“Yeah. I think I remember that.”
“Didn’t you think it was a little strange that Henry wanted to learn how to raise cattle and chickens?”
“Well, I wondered about that.”
“Walter, Henry wasn’t learning about pigs and farming. He was drinking. Henry joined the 4-H Club because there were some older boys who got beer and whiskey and Henry was getting drunk in the seventh grade.”
I was shocked. Later I realized that Henry’s young mind had been probably ruined at an early age. At the time of my conversation with David I even wondered if Henry’s short time in San Antonio at the seminary wasn’t really an effort to get him away from that crowd of young drunkards, a dryin’ out phase, so to speak.
I love David very much for telling me those words. They were words that gave me relief, if only partial. They took a world of guilt away. Unfortunately, Uncle John Joe’s guilt may not have been erased until he was given a full pardon by his Creator, a gift he surely deserves.
My Uncle John Joe was also a member of the Order of the Hibernians, a group of Irishmen who congregated together on occasions to celebrate their heritage through drink. I saw a photo of my uncle when he was younger and was amazed to see the striking resemblance of Henry to his father. Henry was Uncle John Joe’s third son who died a homeless drunkard. Uncle John Joe may have fit the mold of the men in Frank McCourt’s books, “Angela’s Ashes” and “’Tis,” but he didn’t go too far with the drink, and instead raised a fine family. As David once told me, “Our family is nuts, but you know, for some reason, I like us.”
One time Uncle John Joe and I were alone together. His wife, my father and mother got up from the table and left the room. Uncle John Joe didn’t hesitate. He opened up to me and he almost wailed.
“I feel so horrible. My son is a drunkard, a worthless fool of a bum. I raised a bum. I feel so horrible and ashamed. I can’t believe one of my own children is a bum. A bum! I am so ashamed. ”
I didn’t say anything. All I could do was listen, and Uncle John Joe told me how terrible it felt to have his son Henry become a drunken derelict. Henry was still alive at this time, but Aunt Marian and Uncle John Joe had already reluctantly learned to provide only “tough love” to Henry, and they encouraged everyone else in the family to do the same. Any financial help you gave Henry would be spent on the booze. (See “Angela’s Ashes” and “’Tis.”) I know what they went through because Henry and I were really close, and I always received the latest, tragic news.
I have dozens of stories about Henry, but here is a tale that ends up being a great gift that Henry’s older brother, David, gave me.
When I went into college, Henry was still a senior in high school. Henry came to me one Saturday evening and asked if I wanted to go out looking for girls. He suggested that since I was a college guy, it would impress all the girls that he knew, and we could go meet girls. I jumped at the chance, being desirous of a lasting relationship and a happy marriage with one woman since I was eleven years of age and encountered the wonders of puberty.
Henry and I went out every weekend for a few months. We never met women, but we did meet Mr. Bud, Mr. Falstaff, Mr. Lone Star, Mr. Pearl, Mr. Schlitz, and my personal favorite, the elusive Mr. Darkbeer. It was during one of those wearisome evenings of drinking under the guise of cruising for women that a terrible fog came up. To this day I still remember the thickest fog I ever saw in my life. I was driving my parents’ newly restored Volkswagen. The fog was so thick that I had to bring the VW to a stop because no one in the car knew if we were even on the road. Unfortunately, we stopped in the middle of Capitol Ave., and a lady in a huge Cadillac smacked into us. She was driving excessively fast for such poor driving conditions, but I received the traffic ticket because at the intersection, she was on the right and I was on the left. (At that time, in Texas, the one on the left was at fault in a wreck.) The Volkswagen my parents had just spent a lot of money on fixing up with mechanical work and a paint job was totaled. I was thrown from the car on impact and knocked unconscious for well over an hour. Henry told me later that it took so long for me to “come to” that he began to fear that I was dead. The police report noted that a bottle of beer was found in the car I was driving.
I never went out looking for women (drinking) with Henry again, but I began to hear stories. Stories of Henry coming home dead drunk, found in the morning asleep at the wheel in the driveway while the car was still idling, found in the front yard of a girl’s house he liked and her parents calling the police, disappearance binges, Veteran’s Hospital stays to dry out, detox and hallucinations. And worse. For years I carried with me the shame and blame for Henry’s excessive drinking.
After Peggy and I moved to Albuquerque, David, Henry’s older brother, came to Albuquerque because of his job. He was a well-trained technician who was sometimes asked to travel to out-of-town clients to repair equipment they had purchased from his company.
I confessed to David. I told him the story about Henry dropping by to go check out the ladies, and because I was the oldest, I always managed to buy beer, and that’s how Henry got started drinking. I had initiated Henry’s tragic decline.
David looked at me and confidently said, “You didn’t start Henry drinking. Henry started drinking when he was in the seventh grade. Do you remember Henry being in the 4-H club?”
“Yeah. I think I remember that.”
“Didn’t you think it was a little strange that Henry wanted to learn how to raise cattle and chickens?”
“Well, I wondered about that.”
“Walter, Henry wasn’t learning about pigs and farming. He was drinking. Henry joined the 4-H Club because there were some older boys who got beer and whiskey and Henry was getting drunk in the seventh grade.”
I was shocked. Later I realized that Henry’s young mind had been probably ruined at an early age. At the time of my conversation with David I even wondered if Henry’s short time in San Antonio at the seminary wasn’t really an effort to get him away from that crowd of young drunkards, a dryin’ out phase, so to speak.
I love David very much for telling me those words. They were words that gave me relief, if only partial. They took a world of guilt away. Unfortunately, Uncle John Joe’s guilt may not have been erased until he was given a full pardon by his Creator, a gift he surely deserves.
The Bike Crash
Henry was raised with all my other cousins on Capitol Ave. a block and a half west of Wayside Dr., and I still remember how to get there. You go north on Wayside Dr., cross Lawndale Dr., go over the bayou, and then turn left on Capitol Ave. just past the railroad tracks with the horribly designed, steep and dinky underpass.
Next door to Henry’s house was an apartment unit, a green and white, rectangular, two-story building with a sidewalk that completely encircled the apartments, except for the rear, which opened up into a driveway that accommodated eight or ten cars for the tenants.
One day Henry and I wanted to race our bikes, and we began by racing around the apartment building. It was an ordinary sidewalk without enough room for two bikes. Neither of us wanted to concede the concrete to the other and ride on the grass, so we got in each other’s way the entire trip around the building, and it was a bump and grind affair that didn’t have a decisive outcome. One of us, and I accuse Henry, but only because he’s not here to defend himself, suggested that we go in opposite directions.
“The first one back to the starting point will be the winner!” proclaimed Henry, but only because he is not here to suggest otherwise.
The race began, and I could tell immediately that this was a great idea. Without Henry hogging the sidewalk, I could get up some real steam, put the pedal to the metal, get the wind whistling in my ears, pour the coal on, and get up some real speed. Henry had no chance.
Henry was probably thinking the same thing, and we “met” in the very back of the apartment unit in front of the garages. It was a horrible crash, and as I lay there moaning in pain, spread eagle on my back fifteen feet from the bicycle, I heard Henry moaning too, and he sounded hurt. I realized how stupid Henry and I had been. Our ignorance was only surpassed by our pain, and I laughed out loud. Henry, in a serious voice said, “Don’t laugh. It hurts too much to laugh.”
Of course we both laughed plenty hard, but our bike riding was over for that day. In fact, Henry and I were banged up quite a bit. If that happened to me today, there’d be broken things, and a lot o’ them.
Next door to Henry’s house was an apartment unit, a green and white, rectangular, two-story building with a sidewalk that completely encircled the apartments, except for the rear, which opened up into a driveway that accommodated eight or ten cars for the tenants.
One day Henry and I wanted to race our bikes, and we began by racing around the apartment building. It was an ordinary sidewalk without enough room for two bikes. Neither of us wanted to concede the concrete to the other and ride on the grass, so we got in each other’s way the entire trip around the building, and it was a bump and grind affair that didn’t have a decisive outcome. One of us, and I accuse Henry, but only because he’s not here to defend himself, suggested that we go in opposite directions.
“The first one back to the starting point will be the winner!” proclaimed Henry, but only because he is not here to suggest otherwise.
The race began, and I could tell immediately that this was a great idea. Without Henry hogging the sidewalk, I could get up some real steam, put the pedal to the metal, get the wind whistling in my ears, pour the coal on, and get up some real speed. Henry had no chance.
Henry was probably thinking the same thing, and we “met” in the very back of the apartment unit in front of the garages. It was a horrible crash, and as I lay there moaning in pain, spread eagle on my back fifteen feet from the bicycle, I heard Henry moaning too, and he sounded hurt. I realized how stupid Henry and I had been. Our ignorance was only surpassed by our pain, and I laughed out loud. Henry, in a serious voice said, “Don’t laugh. It hurts too much to laugh.”
Of course we both laughed plenty hard, but our bike riding was over for that day. In fact, Henry and I were banged up quite a bit. If that happened to me today, there’d be broken things, and a lot o’ them.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tommy and the Bow and Arrow Incident
My Uncle John Joe and Aunt Marian, my mother’s younger sister, married and raised a large and diverse family of seven children on Capitol Avenue just west of Wayside Drive in Houston, Texas.
Their oldest child is Tommy, and there are quite a few “interesting” stories about him, many of them outright lies fabricated by Tommy himself and fondly remembered by me, including but not limited to his claims of witnessing a UFO landing and seeing “little green men,” and his outrageous claims of paranormal abilities, including the gift of communication with ghosts, usually accomplished by having them answer his questions by moving a table which happened to have his foot under one leg of it.
He was also known for his handsome good looks. My sister Carolyn told me that many of her friends in high school were merely “...using her to meet Tommy.” Tommy could, and still does, go months on end refusing to discuss anything seriously. Everything he says can either be tongue-in-cheek or satirically humorous, and then he will suddenly display a surprising knowledge of Scripture and mystical literature such as the works of Immanuel Swedenborg.
This is a story about a legendary moment in the childhood of Tommy as told to me by his younger brother, David. David is quite a character himself, and the most affable and mature of all my cousins. He told me this story years ago, and I never forgot it. With some details provided by David, I will retell the story exactly as I remember it. Squeamish readers who are easily upset by the behavior of boys need to stop reading immediately.
The Bow and Arrow Incident took place in the Year of Our Lord, 1953. These are the words of David Barrett, as best as I can remember.
“You have to know that Tommy was the oldest in the family and that I and all the other boys in the neighborhood considered Tommy to be the leader, the one we looked up to, the one we held in very high regard. You have to understand that to know what an impact this incident had on us because we all thought that Tommy was the king of the neighborhood.
One year it seemed like every kid in the neighborhood got a bow and arrow for Christmas. Most of the boys like Victor and Johnny who lived across the street had weak Bakelite bows that soon broke, and they had to resort to handmade bows and arrows made out of sticks and string. Tommy and I got great quality lemon wood, double recurved bows with a thirty-five pound pull. I could hardly pull mine back and I am left-handed so nobody could show me how to shoot it. Also, the bow string had a lot of strength and it hurt my wrists when it slammed quickly back across my wrist. Tommy practiced and was very skillful, so when we went hunting all the other kids were on safari and Tommy was Bwana.
Our neighborhood had a Catholic Church and its parochial school nearby. During the school year the nuns lived on campus, and out of the goodness of their hearts would feed the neighborhood strays. Not wanting to dwell on such things, they neglected to have the cats neutered or spayed. Summer would come, the nuns would leave, and the cats would overrun the neighborhood.
On one of our hunting expeditions someone spotted a cat with its head down drinking water from the goldfish pond in front of Jean Robinson’s house. The pond was a full block away, too far away for me, Victor, Johnny, or any other kid in the neighborhood to get off a good shot. Tommy sprung into action. He pulled back on his bow, aimed the arrow towards the sky, and with the simple words, “Watch this,” he let it fly. It was a beautiful thing to see. The arrow followed a long graceful climb with nothing but sky as a backdrop. Then slowly, growing smaller and smaller, it began to make a beautiful arc and began its descent. With mystifying skill and accuracy, the arrow entered the cat in the midsection. The cat hollered loud enough for us to hear it, jumped up and turned around in midair with the arrow sticking out both sides, frantically climbed a chain link fence, and then disappeared under a house behind my cousin Timmy’s home.
We were all amazed at Tommy’s incredible feat. This was an event we knew was special. That was no ordinary shot, no ordinary arrow. We had seen it soar through the sky to its spectacular and intended purpose. Tommy’s only reaction however was to quietly say, “Aw. My arrow.” We were afraid of the lady in that house so we ran. None of us were able to forget the sight of that arrow’s flight. Tommy’s incredibly accuracy lifted him to a new status. No longer was Tommy a mere Bwana or King.
The story didn’t end there. The lady that lived behind Timmy began to complain about a bad smell. She paid Timmy a quarter to crawl under her house to see if he could find something that was giving off the foul aroma. Timmy, being the wise and good cousin that he was, gladly took her money which was no small amount in those days, for him a full week’s allowance, and crawled under her house. While he was under there, he removed the arrow from the dead cat and drug the carcass out from under the house. The lady was grateful to Timmy for eliminating the source of her disgust, but not nearly as grateful as Tommy. Timmy, being the good cousin he has always been, returned the arrow to Tommy. No money or reward was exchanged, as was the custom.
Tommy’s reputation rose immediately to the status of a god. Tommy was a god to us, and I’ll never forget that shot.”
As told to yours truly by my cousin David.
Their oldest child is Tommy, and there are quite a few “interesting” stories about him, many of them outright lies fabricated by Tommy himself and fondly remembered by me, including but not limited to his claims of witnessing a UFO landing and seeing “little green men,” and his outrageous claims of paranormal abilities, including the gift of communication with ghosts, usually accomplished by having them answer his questions by moving a table which happened to have his foot under one leg of it.
He was also known for his handsome good looks. My sister Carolyn told me that many of her friends in high school were merely “...using her to meet Tommy.” Tommy could, and still does, go months on end refusing to discuss anything seriously. Everything he says can either be tongue-in-cheek or satirically humorous, and then he will suddenly display a surprising knowledge of Scripture and mystical literature such as the works of Immanuel Swedenborg.
This is a story about a legendary moment in the childhood of Tommy as told to me by his younger brother, David. David is quite a character himself, and the most affable and mature of all my cousins. He told me this story years ago, and I never forgot it. With some details provided by David, I will retell the story exactly as I remember it. Squeamish readers who are easily upset by the behavior of boys need to stop reading immediately.
The Bow and Arrow Incident took place in the Year of Our Lord, 1953. These are the words of David Barrett, as best as I can remember.
“You have to know that Tommy was the oldest in the family and that I and all the other boys in the neighborhood considered Tommy to be the leader, the one we looked up to, the one we held in very high regard. You have to understand that to know what an impact this incident had on us because we all thought that Tommy was the king of the neighborhood.
One year it seemed like every kid in the neighborhood got a bow and arrow for Christmas. Most of the boys like Victor and Johnny who lived across the street had weak Bakelite bows that soon broke, and they had to resort to handmade bows and arrows made out of sticks and string. Tommy and I got great quality lemon wood, double recurved bows with a thirty-five pound pull. I could hardly pull mine back and I am left-handed so nobody could show me how to shoot it. Also, the bow string had a lot of strength and it hurt my wrists when it slammed quickly back across my wrist. Tommy practiced and was very skillful, so when we went hunting all the other kids were on safari and Tommy was Bwana.
Our neighborhood had a Catholic Church and its parochial school nearby. During the school year the nuns lived on campus, and out of the goodness of their hearts would feed the neighborhood strays. Not wanting to dwell on such things, they neglected to have the cats neutered or spayed. Summer would come, the nuns would leave, and the cats would overrun the neighborhood.
On one of our hunting expeditions someone spotted a cat with its head down drinking water from the goldfish pond in front of Jean Robinson’s house. The pond was a full block away, too far away for me, Victor, Johnny, or any other kid in the neighborhood to get off a good shot. Tommy sprung into action. He pulled back on his bow, aimed the arrow towards the sky, and with the simple words, “Watch this,” he let it fly. It was a beautiful thing to see. The arrow followed a long graceful climb with nothing but sky as a backdrop. Then slowly, growing smaller and smaller, it began to make a beautiful arc and began its descent. With mystifying skill and accuracy, the arrow entered the cat in the midsection. The cat hollered loud enough for us to hear it, jumped up and turned around in midair with the arrow sticking out both sides, frantically climbed a chain link fence, and then disappeared under a house behind my cousin Timmy’s home.
We were all amazed at Tommy’s incredible feat. This was an event we knew was special. That was no ordinary shot, no ordinary arrow. We had seen it soar through the sky to its spectacular and intended purpose. Tommy’s only reaction however was to quietly say, “Aw. My arrow.” We were afraid of the lady in that house so we ran. None of us were able to forget the sight of that arrow’s flight. Tommy’s incredibly accuracy lifted him to a new status. No longer was Tommy a mere Bwana or King.
The story didn’t end there. The lady that lived behind Timmy began to complain about a bad smell. She paid Timmy a quarter to crawl under her house to see if he could find something that was giving off the foul aroma. Timmy, being the wise and good cousin that he was, gladly took her money which was no small amount in those days, for him a full week’s allowance, and crawled under her house. While he was under there, he removed the arrow from the dead cat and drug the carcass out from under the house. The lady was grateful to Timmy for eliminating the source of her disgust, but not nearly as grateful as Tommy. Timmy, being the good cousin he has always been, returned the arrow to Tommy. No money or reward was exchanged, as was the custom.
Tommy’s reputation rose immediately to the status of a god. Tommy was a god to us, and I’ll never forget that shot.”
As told to yours truly by my cousin David.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
JACOB'S LADDER AND THE DEATH OF GARY BLACK
One of my teenage friends from down the street was Gary Black, and with his green teeth and twirp ears and deformed tongue that made it a little difficult for him to speak and hold in his saliva, I might not have ever been his friend, except that I found fascinating the way Gary reveled in his peculiarities and deficiencies as a way of shocking those who were planning on spending their life avoiding oddities such as himself.
My mother often suggested I drop Gary as a friend because I told the whole truth about Gary. Little did she know that other more presentable friends I had who passed her judicious inspection were much more broken, insulated, self-absorbed, damaged, and damaging. Some of the things they said or failed to say still hurt, and I still soothe the wounds they inflicted. Gary, however, left no such wounds. But he did leave this earth in a shocking and eerie manner. This is the story of his death and it's a long tale, for it took twenty years to unfold.
I never played with army men as a child. Other boys had the various shades of green plastic extruded men, but I stared at them with dread. "What in the hell is this guy holding a machine gun for?" was my usual thought. "And why are they killing each other?" I wasn't afraid to strap on a gun and holster and shoot some bad guys tryin' to steal Dale Evan's horse and pretend that I could sing as well as her husband Roy, but I'll be durned if I wanted to go out on a battlefield and die in glory killing a bunch of guys just like me who are doing it for the same reason I am: so we won't go to jail like Muhammed Ali did. Die with valor and glory? That ain't glory! And I sensed it as a child. Powerful instincts screamed at me to stay away from war.
By the time I became a young man, Lyndon Baines Johnson, a corrupt Texas politician, had become the President of the United States of America. I had worked with others to defeat this man as a Young Republican, and as history shows, we were soundly defeated. The historic trouncing the Republicans received at the polls left me discouraged at the ability of the American people to choose the proper leader, and it became a valuable lesson. The American public will not necessarily vote for the best choice of leaders to lead our country. As much as I admire LBJ's civil rights legislation, I feel somewhat vindicated by his dismal spending record and his tragic war in Vietnam. To think that LBJ and his campaign director, Bill Moyers, were able to convince the American people that Barry Goldwater would lead us into war!
Lyndon Baines Johnson was the epitome of someone I did not want to pledge my allegiance to, and I knew that if I went into the military I would be his subject and he would arm me with a machine gun, and I had seen what they did to Muhammed Ali who claimed religious immunity, and I wasn't a registered Quaker, so I checked out other ways to get out of the Army draft.
I discovered that anyone who had certain types of ulcers would be considered "unfit for duty." I remembered that I had been diagnosed with peptic ulcers when I was in the ninth grade. I remember it was the ninth grade because that is when I was at the age to begin driving, and my mother would often tell me that I was too nervous to drive, what with my peptic ulcers and all. I considered this a misdiagnosis, because there was no way I would ever outworry my mother, and she had a driver's license.
Without thinking much about what the words "unfit for duty" meant, I went to the physician who had diagnosed my ulcers and he kindly agreed to write a letter stating the fact that indeed, I had been diagnosed with peptic ulcers. I took his letter with me to the physical exam given to all Army inductees as I had been instructed.
I went through the whole routine:
I watched hippies outside the building where the physicals would take place. They were shoveling in raisins by the handful because they heard that excess iron in the blood caused by ingesting a lot of raisins would cause the doctor to reject them for miltary service. I was too morose over the prospect of bein' forced to shoot at "gooks" to tell them that if they weren't gonna be rejected for wearin' tie dye and reekin' of marahoochie, I didn't believe that some much needed iron and a case of shake-itis of the blowhole later once the raisins kicked in would make much of a difference.
I watched in horrid fascination as the physical examination scene from Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" unfolded. This included but is not limited to hearing such phrases as: "Completely strip down. Turn your back to me. Spread your legs. Now bend over as far you can" or "You have great hearing. We'll give you a walkie-talkie and put you right in the middle of all the shootin' 'cause you'll be able to hear over all the gunfire" or "Turn your head to the right and cough" or "You're not afraid o' dyin', are ya?" or "If there are any weenies and pussies who think they are too special to serve in Uncle Sam's Army and save America from its enemies, please step forward and present your pitiful excuses for not performing your military service to your country.
That's when I stepped forward and presented some fellow in a uniform the letter from my family physician. He looked at it, then proceeded to stamp so many documents so quickly it looked like he was tryin' to be funny and I almost laughed, but by this time nothin' was funny, not even Bill Cosby. This soldier finished stamping a dozen documents a dozen times, looked up at me and said, "You'll go after the women and children. Please step through that door."
To my right was a door. I opened it and found myself standing in an alley of the same building I had entered for the exam. I turned around and the door was locked behind me. I stepped out into that downtown traffic thinking my problems were over.
I discovered that I was given the military draft classification of IV-F, an albatross that would perch on my crow's nest for years. I was not a worldly man so I didn't figure it out for a long time. All I knew is that all of a sudden, for some reason, I couldn't land a decent job. I realized years later, when draft status was no longer required on resumes, that I immediately started getting better jobs. Then it hit me! I checked on it and it was true! The draft classification IV-F included people with serious mental illnesses. No one would hire me 'cause I they thought I was nuts. I think it was very dishonest of the U.S. Army to make that information common knowledge.
Later I was given a drug that cured me of ulcers. I knew I wasn't any more nervous than anyone else. Ulcers are not caused by nervousness and mental dysfunction; they are caused by a bacteria. It was all an old wives' tale. My ulcers were easily eliminated with a simple drug named Tagamet. Suddenly, no more pain on an empty stomach.
As bad as my situation was, Gary Black didn't fare as well. Gary was inducted into the Army, made a cook, and shipped off to Vietnam. He came back with the typical traumas of every soldier but with a "twist."
Gary claimed that he died in Vietnam. After he said it three times, I remembered he said it and knew it for what it was: a very unusual comment that called on me to inquire further. I quizzed him about it. All he would say was, "I don't know how to say it. All I know is, I died in Vietnam. And I know when I died. I am not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be dead."
I asked Gary to tell me when he died. It took him a few months to get up the courage to tell me, then he told me of the night he died.
"I woke up in the middle of the night and heard gunfire. It was real close so I knew the gooks had penetrated our camp. I ran from my tent straight into a bunker. It was like in the movies. The guy behind me got shot. He was just a second slower than me, and he got hit hard with machine gun fire. He was dead. I hid in the bunker for a long time listening to everybody scream. It was like a nightmare. Guys were yellin' and screamin' like animals. Later, when the sun came up and the shooting died down, the few guys in my unit that were still alive came out of hiding. I'll never forget what we saw. Our guys' bodies had been mutilated, shot up with so many bullets you couldn't tell who they were. Some of the bodies had their penises cut off and their penises were nailed to trees and door frames and other stuff. It was like a nightmare. It was all gory. What was weird was there wasn't any bodies of any gooks. Not a one. Not even a sign of any. How could the gooks come into our camp and do all that stuff to us without gettin' shot? And if they were shot, how could the gooks haul off all the bodies and not even leave a trace of them? It was horrible. All I know is, I am supposed to be dead."
Gary slowly dropped the topic and never bought it up again, but years later out of the clear blue I could ask him, "Gary, are you alive?" Without hesitation, he'd say, "Nah. I'm not supposed to be here."
I moved to another city and years later I received a phone call from a mutual friend of Gary's. She sounded very serious and concerned.
"I think Gary is going crazy. He's seeing things."
"What kind of things?"
"He's imagining people that aren't there."
"Does he seem normal otherwise? Is it just these people he sees?"
"Yeah, he's still Gary, as normal as that is, but he's goin'around telling everybody about these imaginary people he's seein'. To tell you the truth, I'm seriously worried about Gary. Of course, he got fired from his job for telling everybody there about these imaginary people,"
"He lost his job? He loved that job. He needed that job."
"Yeah, but he told everybody at work and so they fired him. He's more concerned about these people he sees than his job."
"Thanks for letting me know about it. I'm gonna call Gary right now."
And I did, right then and there. Gary was at home probably doing what he always did when he didn't have a job or anything to do. He was sittin' in front of the TV and drinkin' a cream soda.
Gary told me that something weird was goin on. He told me he was seeing strange people that weren't human. The first time he saw one, the nonhuman was standing at the side of the road. Gary said, "He was starin' right at me, and he wasn't a human." I asked Gary if he looked human, and he said that he was close to being human, but he couldn't quite describe it. It was more of a "feeling" that they weren't human. he told me they didn't look right. "They aren't human," is all he could say. More people standing at the side of the road appeared, and then he saw them in cars driving beside him, or going the other way, or the one that scared him the most. It was a non-human looking out of the rear passenger seat of a car that was on an overpass that Gary was driving underneath. He said that one scared him the most because when he saw that one, he knew all of these inhumans were truly watching him, and they were increasing in numbers.
Gary told me he told everyone about it but he was sure no one believed him. His bosses at work heard about it and fired him because they said he was losing his mind. I told Gary I believed him. I told him I didn't believe that he was just seeing these inhumans. I told him I believed him all the way. The inhumans were actually there. I didn't tell him that in order to gain his confidence or to "cure" him. I did it because I know Gary. They were there. No one else saw the inhuman look on their faces, but Gary did, and I told him I believed him.
We talked a few more times over the next few weeks and months. Gary said he enjoyed being at home and not out in public because the inhumans were never at his house to frighten him. They were only out in public. We never talked about Vietnam and his night of terror, and I don't think either one of us ever made the connection.
A phone call came one evening. Gary had died of a heart attack sitting in front of his television set, probably with a cream soda in his hand. I wrote his mother and told Mrs. Black that her son, Gary, was one of the most interesting and best friends I ever had, and I would miss him.
Years later, I watched a movie titled "Jacob's Ladder" starring Tim Robbins and Elizabeth Pena. I won't comment on my interpretation of the movie, although my story of Gary's death probably gives you some insight as to what my interpretation may be, but I will ask this question.
It is possible for a citizen to commit treason against their own government. Is it possible for a government to commit treason against its own citizens?
My mother often suggested I drop Gary as a friend because I told the whole truth about Gary. Little did she know that other more presentable friends I had who passed her judicious inspection were much more broken, insulated, self-absorbed, damaged, and damaging. Some of the things they said or failed to say still hurt, and I still soothe the wounds they inflicted. Gary, however, left no such wounds. But he did leave this earth in a shocking and eerie manner. This is the story of his death and it's a long tale, for it took twenty years to unfold.
I never played with army men as a child. Other boys had the various shades of green plastic extruded men, but I stared at them with dread. "What in the hell is this guy holding a machine gun for?" was my usual thought. "And why are they killing each other?" I wasn't afraid to strap on a gun and holster and shoot some bad guys tryin' to steal Dale Evan's horse and pretend that I could sing as well as her husband Roy, but I'll be durned if I wanted to go out on a battlefield and die in glory killing a bunch of guys just like me who are doing it for the same reason I am: so we won't go to jail like Muhammed Ali did. Die with valor and glory? That ain't glory! And I sensed it as a child. Powerful instincts screamed at me to stay away from war.
By the time I became a young man, Lyndon Baines Johnson, a corrupt Texas politician, had become the President of the United States of America. I had worked with others to defeat this man as a Young Republican, and as history shows, we were soundly defeated. The historic trouncing the Republicans received at the polls left me discouraged at the ability of the American people to choose the proper leader, and it became a valuable lesson. The American public will not necessarily vote for the best choice of leaders to lead our country. As much as I admire LBJ's civil rights legislation, I feel somewhat vindicated by his dismal spending record and his tragic war in Vietnam. To think that LBJ and his campaign director, Bill Moyers, were able to convince the American people that Barry Goldwater would lead us into war!
Lyndon Baines Johnson was the epitome of someone I did not want to pledge my allegiance to, and I knew that if I went into the military I would be his subject and he would arm me with a machine gun, and I had seen what they did to Muhammed Ali who claimed religious immunity, and I wasn't a registered Quaker, so I checked out other ways to get out of the Army draft.
I discovered that anyone who had certain types of ulcers would be considered "unfit for duty." I remembered that I had been diagnosed with peptic ulcers when I was in the ninth grade. I remember it was the ninth grade because that is when I was at the age to begin driving, and my mother would often tell me that I was too nervous to drive, what with my peptic ulcers and all. I considered this a misdiagnosis, because there was no way I would ever outworry my mother, and she had a driver's license.
Without thinking much about what the words "unfit for duty" meant, I went to the physician who had diagnosed my ulcers and he kindly agreed to write a letter stating the fact that indeed, I had been diagnosed with peptic ulcers. I took his letter with me to the physical exam given to all Army inductees as I had been instructed.
I went through the whole routine:
I watched hippies outside the building where the physicals would take place. They were shoveling in raisins by the handful because they heard that excess iron in the blood caused by ingesting a lot of raisins would cause the doctor to reject them for miltary service. I was too morose over the prospect of bein' forced to shoot at "gooks" to tell them that if they weren't gonna be rejected for wearin' tie dye and reekin' of marahoochie, I didn't believe that some much needed iron and a case of shake-itis of the blowhole later once the raisins kicked in would make much of a difference.
I watched in horrid fascination as the physical examination scene from Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" unfolded. This included but is not limited to hearing such phrases as: "Completely strip down. Turn your back to me. Spread your legs. Now bend over as far you can" or "You have great hearing. We'll give you a walkie-talkie and put you right in the middle of all the shootin' 'cause you'll be able to hear over all the gunfire" or "Turn your head to the right and cough" or "You're not afraid o' dyin', are ya?" or "If there are any weenies and pussies who think they are too special to serve in Uncle Sam's Army and save America from its enemies, please step forward and present your pitiful excuses for not performing your military service to your country.
That's when I stepped forward and presented some fellow in a uniform the letter from my family physician. He looked at it, then proceeded to stamp so many documents so quickly it looked like he was tryin' to be funny and I almost laughed, but by this time nothin' was funny, not even Bill Cosby. This soldier finished stamping a dozen documents a dozen times, looked up at me and said, "You'll go after the women and children. Please step through that door."
To my right was a door. I opened it and found myself standing in an alley of the same building I had entered for the exam. I turned around and the door was locked behind me. I stepped out into that downtown traffic thinking my problems were over.
I discovered that I was given the military draft classification of IV-F, an albatross that would perch on my crow's nest for years. I was not a worldly man so I didn't figure it out for a long time. All I knew is that all of a sudden, for some reason, I couldn't land a decent job. I realized years later, when draft status was no longer required on resumes, that I immediately started getting better jobs. Then it hit me! I checked on it and it was true! The draft classification IV-F included people with serious mental illnesses. No one would hire me 'cause I they thought I was nuts. I think it was very dishonest of the U.S. Army to make that information common knowledge.
Later I was given a drug that cured me of ulcers. I knew I wasn't any more nervous than anyone else. Ulcers are not caused by nervousness and mental dysfunction; they are caused by a bacteria. It was all an old wives' tale. My ulcers were easily eliminated with a simple drug named Tagamet. Suddenly, no more pain on an empty stomach.
As bad as my situation was, Gary Black didn't fare as well. Gary was inducted into the Army, made a cook, and shipped off to Vietnam. He came back with the typical traumas of every soldier but with a "twist."
Gary claimed that he died in Vietnam. After he said it three times, I remembered he said it and knew it for what it was: a very unusual comment that called on me to inquire further. I quizzed him about it. All he would say was, "I don't know how to say it. All I know is, I died in Vietnam. And I know when I died. I am not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be dead."
I asked Gary to tell me when he died. It took him a few months to get up the courage to tell me, then he told me of the night he died.
"I woke up in the middle of the night and heard gunfire. It was real close so I knew the gooks had penetrated our camp. I ran from my tent straight into a bunker. It was like in the movies. The guy behind me got shot. He was just a second slower than me, and he got hit hard with machine gun fire. He was dead. I hid in the bunker for a long time listening to everybody scream. It was like a nightmare. Guys were yellin' and screamin' like animals. Later, when the sun came up and the shooting died down, the few guys in my unit that were still alive came out of hiding. I'll never forget what we saw. Our guys' bodies had been mutilated, shot up with so many bullets you couldn't tell who they were. Some of the bodies had their penises cut off and their penises were nailed to trees and door frames and other stuff. It was like a nightmare. It was all gory. What was weird was there wasn't any bodies of any gooks. Not a one. Not even a sign of any. How could the gooks come into our camp and do all that stuff to us without gettin' shot? And if they were shot, how could the gooks haul off all the bodies and not even leave a trace of them? It was horrible. All I know is, I am supposed to be dead."
Gary slowly dropped the topic and never bought it up again, but years later out of the clear blue I could ask him, "Gary, are you alive?" Without hesitation, he'd say, "Nah. I'm not supposed to be here."
I moved to another city and years later I received a phone call from a mutual friend of Gary's. She sounded very serious and concerned.
"I think Gary is going crazy. He's seeing things."
"What kind of things?"
"He's imagining people that aren't there."
"Does he seem normal otherwise? Is it just these people he sees?"
"Yeah, he's still Gary, as normal as that is, but he's goin'around telling everybody about these imaginary people he's seein'. To tell you the truth, I'm seriously worried about Gary. Of course, he got fired from his job for telling everybody there about these imaginary people,"
"He lost his job? He loved that job. He needed that job."
"Yeah, but he told everybody at work and so they fired him. He's more concerned about these people he sees than his job."
"Thanks for letting me know about it. I'm gonna call Gary right now."
And I did, right then and there. Gary was at home probably doing what he always did when he didn't have a job or anything to do. He was sittin' in front of the TV and drinkin' a cream soda.
Gary told me that something weird was goin on. He told me he was seeing strange people that weren't human. The first time he saw one, the nonhuman was standing at the side of the road. Gary said, "He was starin' right at me, and he wasn't a human." I asked Gary if he looked human, and he said that he was close to being human, but he couldn't quite describe it. It was more of a "feeling" that they weren't human. he told me they didn't look right. "They aren't human," is all he could say. More people standing at the side of the road appeared, and then he saw them in cars driving beside him, or going the other way, or the one that scared him the most. It was a non-human looking out of the rear passenger seat of a car that was on an overpass that Gary was driving underneath. He said that one scared him the most because when he saw that one, he knew all of these inhumans were truly watching him, and they were increasing in numbers.
Gary told me he told everyone about it but he was sure no one believed him. His bosses at work heard about it and fired him because they said he was losing his mind. I told Gary I believed him. I told him I didn't believe that he was just seeing these inhumans. I told him I believed him all the way. The inhumans were actually there. I didn't tell him that in order to gain his confidence or to "cure" him. I did it because I know Gary. They were there. No one else saw the inhuman look on their faces, but Gary did, and I told him I believed him.
We talked a few more times over the next few weeks and months. Gary said he enjoyed being at home and not out in public because the inhumans were never at his house to frighten him. They were only out in public. We never talked about Vietnam and his night of terror, and I don't think either one of us ever made the connection.
A phone call came one evening. Gary had died of a heart attack sitting in front of his television set, probably with a cream soda in his hand. I wrote his mother and told Mrs. Black that her son, Gary, was one of the most interesting and best friends I ever had, and I would miss him.
Years later, I watched a movie titled "Jacob's Ladder" starring Tim Robbins and Elizabeth Pena. I won't comment on my interpretation of the movie, although my story of Gary's death probably gives you some insight as to what my interpretation may be, but I will ask this question.
It is possible for a citizen to commit treason against their own government. Is it possible for a government to commit treason against its own citizens?
Friday, June 19, 2009
INNOCENTS AS THEOLOGIANS
My previous blog was about children making accurate musical discernments. I have another story about their abilities to be more judicious and Scripturally wiser than many adults in matters of theology.
When I was a child growing up in the 1950's, I was raised in Catholicism. That meant Pope Pius XII was my theological superior, as were all his minions, including all the priests, nuns, and laity, which I was a minor member. I did not know the meaning of a heretic, but I was warned about them and knew they were dangerous and up to no good. They weren't going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
Down the street from our Catholic church was another church where heretics did whatever it is they did. What a shame. It was such a beautiful building and looked like a church, but what went on inside was heretical, and though I didn't know what that meant, I was to avoid it like the plague. The people inside that church were not going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
An interesting family lived two houses down from our childhood home. There was the lovely girl and her older brothers. The older brothers did stuff like build and fly homemade model airplanes whose propellers could take off your finger if you weren't careful starting it. They put an airplane motor on a handmade basal wood boat that literally did fast, huge "donuts" on the little pond by the bayou, and they built go-carts that went thirty miles per hour and always started. They blew up firecrakers and built firecracker cannons that fired rocks that stuck into tree trunks. It was reported that the oldest had climbed up the outside of the church tower down the street by using a corner of the building. This family was cool, and my siblings and I liked and respected them.
Then we found out they went to the Lutheran church. They were heretics and were going to Hell! That's bad. Still is.
I'll always remember a conversation my older sister Carolyn, 16, my older brother, William, 14, my younger brother Jack, 4, and I (9) had in the oyster shell driveway of our home.
Carolyn: "I think the Pope is wrong. Joe and Bill aren't going to Hell. How could God send good people like that to Hell?"
William: "They're going to Heaven. They've got to! It wouldn't be fair!"
Me: "Mary Ann is going to Hell? No way!"
Jack: "The Pope is wrong!"
William: "That means the priests are wrong too!"
Me: "That means all the nuns are wrong too!"
Carolyn: "I think that they are going to Heaven. I'm sure of it!"
Jack: "Good!"
Me: "So they're not going to Hell?"
William: "That's right. The Pope is wrong."
After a few more years of living and growing in my theological wisdom, I discovered that Lutherans worship Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, minus the judgemental influence of Rome and the Holy See.
Recently Pope Benedict revived the old, nasty claim that Catholicism was the One, True Church, and you had to be Catholic to get to Heaven. Shame on him! I knew four children who were theologically wiser than the present, well-educated leader of millions of Christians. Our only mistake was in judging that we knew they were going to go to Heaven. How could we possibly know?
"Judge not lest you be judged."
When I was a child growing up in the 1950's, I was raised in Catholicism. That meant Pope Pius XII was my theological superior, as were all his minions, including all the priests, nuns, and laity, which I was a minor member. I did not know the meaning of a heretic, but I was warned about them and knew they were dangerous and up to no good. They weren't going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
Down the street from our Catholic church was another church where heretics did whatever it is they did. What a shame. It was such a beautiful building and looked like a church, but what went on inside was heretical, and though I didn't know what that meant, I was to avoid it like the plague. The people inside that church were not going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
An interesting family lived two houses down from our childhood home. There was the lovely girl and her older brothers. The older brothers did stuff like build and fly homemade model airplanes whose propellers could take off your finger if you weren't careful starting it. They put an airplane motor on a handmade basal wood boat that literally did fast, huge "donuts" on the little pond by the bayou, and they built go-carts that went thirty miles per hour and always started. They blew up firecrakers and built firecracker cannons that fired rocks that stuck into tree trunks. It was reported that the oldest had climbed up the outside of the church tower down the street by using a corner of the building. This family was cool, and my siblings and I liked and respected them.
Then we found out they went to the Lutheran church. They were heretics and were going to Hell! That's bad. Still is.
I'll always remember a conversation my older sister Carolyn, 16, my older brother, William, 14, my younger brother Jack, 4, and I (9) had in the oyster shell driveway of our home.
Carolyn: "I think the Pope is wrong. Joe and Bill aren't going to Hell. How could God send good people like that to Hell?"
William: "They're going to Heaven. They've got to! It wouldn't be fair!"
Me: "Mary Ann is going to Hell? No way!"
Jack: "The Pope is wrong!"
William: "That means the priests are wrong too!"
Me: "That means all the nuns are wrong too!"
Carolyn: "I think that they are going to Heaven. I'm sure of it!"
Jack: "Good!"
Me: "So they're not going to Hell?"
William: "That's right. The Pope is wrong."
After a few more years of living and growing in my theological wisdom, I discovered that Lutherans worship Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, minus the judgemental influence of Rome and the Holy See.
Recently Pope Benedict revived the old, nasty claim that Catholicism was the One, True Church, and you had to be Catholic to get to Heaven. Shame on him! I knew four children who were theologically wiser than the present, well-educated leader of millions of Christians. Our only mistake was in judging that we knew they were going to go to Heaven. How could we possibly know?
"Judge not lest you be judged."
Thursday, June 18, 2009
THE KING OF ROCK-N-ROLL
This blog isn't about kids, but it is about my childhood opinions on rock-n-roll.
Elvis Presley is considered the "King" of rock-n-roll. This wasn't the case when rock-n-roll was King. I was there. I was a fan when it came into being, when the first rockers started rolling. I listened to rock-n-roll when parents feared it.
I remember my brother and sister arguing who was the greatest rock-n-roller. My sister Carolyn believed it was Chuck Berry, and she would rattle off all his great hits and talk about his guitar playing. Then my older brother William would pipe up about Little Richard being so out-there, so wild, so crazy, so fresh and inventive. I sided with Carolyn at the time and still do. The thing I remember the most is what wasn't said. To the kids in our household, Elvis wasn't the King.
My cousins talked about Elvis, but it wasn't about the music. It was about the sexuality, the handsomeness, the whiteness. At their house, it was either Elvis or Pat Boone. At our house, Ricky Nelson was the better musician, and upon reflection, one of the most underrated rock-n-rollers ever.
Looking back on it, I am proud of my brother and sister for being so passionate about music and so open-minded and non-judgemental about who was great. Nothing against Elvis, but the King of rock-n-roll is Chuck Berry, unless Little Richard is around. All Elvis fans can make nasty comments, but it won't change my mind. I made up my mind as a child, and after decades of reflection, I believe I was correct from the start.
It's funny how the King of rock-n-roll is an ornery black man, and the greatest rock group was four British guys who were singing with an American accent, thus topping Americans in their own creation.
Elvis Presley is considered the "King" of rock-n-roll. This wasn't the case when rock-n-roll was King. I was there. I was a fan when it came into being, when the first rockers started rolling. I listened to rock-n-roll when parents feared it.
I remember my brother and sister arguing who was the greatest rock-n-roller. My sister Carolyn believed it was Chuck Berry, and she would rattle off all his great hits and talk about his guitar playing. Then my older brother William would pipe up about Little Richard being so out-there, so wild, so crazy, so fresh and inventive. I sided with Carolyn at the time and still do. The thing I remember the most is what wasn't said. To the kids in our household, Elvis wasn't the King.
My cousins talked about Elvis, but it wasn't about the music. It was about the sexuality, the handsomeness, the whiteness. At their house, it was either Elvis or Pat Boone. At our house, Ricky Nelson was the better musician, and upon reflection, one of the most underrated rock-n-rollers ever.
Looking back on it, I am proud of my brother and sister for being so passionate about music and so open-minded and non-judgemental about who was great. Nothing against Elvis, but the King of rock-n-roll is Chuck Berry, unless Little Richard is around. All Elvis fans can make nasty comments, but it won't change my mind. I made up my mind as a child, and after decades of reflection, I believe I was correct from the start.
It's funny how the King of rock-n-roll is an ornery black man, and the greatest rock group was four British guys who were singing with an American accent, thus topping Americans in their own creation.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I AM POSITIVE!
Human nature, left unchecked, can lead one to be sure of oneself far beyond what is reasonable.
Case in point:
Me (Mr. R.): "Does anyone know what is the definition of a smuggler?"
(Student raises his hand immediately.)
Mr. R.: "Now be careful. We've had a lot of kids guessing the wrong definition lately. We have talked about this. You have to learn how your brain works, and recognize what is the difference between something that you tell yourself you know and something you really do know."
(Student begins frantically windshieldwipering their hand.)
Mr. R.: "Some of you may think you know what a smuggler is, but you are only telling yourself that you know. You don't really know. It's a word that children won't run into very often, so don't raise your hand unless you have learned about smugglers and studied them. What is a smuggler?"
(Student begins to wave their hand like a castaway shipwrecked on a desert island for seven years and now sees an airplane.)
Mr. R.: "I'll call on you if you are not just guessing. Please. No guessing."
(Student begins rising out of their chair and making noises. Loud ones.)
Mr. R.: "O--K. I'll call on you, Mario, if you are absolutely positive you know the definition of a smuggler."
Mario: "I am sure, Mr. R."
Mr. R.: "O--K, Mario. What is a smuggler?
Mario: "A smuggler is a guy who dresses up in white and goes into beehives and smokes the bees with a smoking machine so that the bees will get sleepy."
As my wife, Peggy, would say, "There is a reason this child is in your classroom."
Case in point:
Me (Mr. R.): "Does anyone know what is the definition of a smuggler?"
(Student raises his hand immediately.)
Mr. R.: "Now be careful. We've had a lot of kids guessing the wrong definition lately. We have talked about this. You have to learn how your brain works, and recognize what is the difference between something that you tell yourself you know and something you really do know."
(Student begins frantically windshieldwipering their hand.)
Mr. R.: "Some of you may think you know what a smuggler is, but you are only telling yourself that you know. You don't really know. It's a word that children won't run into very often, so don't raise your hand unless you have learned about smugglers and studied them. What is a smuggler?"
(Student begins to wave their hand like a castaway shipwrecked on a desert island for seven years and now sees an airplane.)
Mr. R.: "I'll call on you if you are not just guessing. Please. No guessing."
(Student begins rising out of their chair and making noises. Loud ones.)
Mr. R.: "O--K. I'll call on you, Mario, if you are absolutely positive you know the definition of a smuggler."
Mario: "I am sure, Mr. R."
Mr. R.: "O--K, Mario. What is a smuggler?
Mario: "A smuggler is a guy who dresses up in white and goes into beehives and smokes the bees with a smoking machine so that the bees will get sleepy."
As my wife, Peggy, would say, "There is a reason this child is in your classroom."
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
HISTORICAL MISNOMER AND GOODBYES
The school year is over, and like I have blogged before, I am not thrilled as is commonly perceived to be a teacher's reaction to be when beginning the summer vacation. I'll miss my students, those children who have made a huge impact on me for a whole school year. Suddenly they are gone, some never to be seen again.
I was thinking of something one of them wrote in their New Mexico Report that was due at the end of the year. I thought I'd write the quote exactly as written:
"Los Alamos National Laboratory was made in 1948 by President Harriet Tubman."
I'll miss those little things they say, but not as much as the kids themselves.
I was thinking of something one of them wrote in their New Mexico Report that was due at the end of the year. I thought I'd write the quote exactly as written:
"Los Alamos National Laboratory was made in 1948 by President Harriet Tubman."
I'll miss those little things they say, but not as much as the kids themselves.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sanitation Flunkee. Men!
Boys become men, and judging by their behavior when they're boys, men are downright lucky to be alive. The continued propagation of homo sapiens is impossible without men, but judging by the behavior of the male of the species, it is a miracle that homo sapiens is not extinct.
Here are two exquisite examples:
This week my class had a pizza party. Everyone was happy and carefree, keeping one eye on the pizza heading into their mouths and the other eye on the remaining slices. Suddenly, a Dr. Pepper was spilt. The precious, sugary, dyed liquid was flowing rapidly across a desk laden with boogers, bacteria, retroviruses, and swine flu, and heading for its ultimate overflow onto the classroom carpet.
My decades long training in the the internal Chinese martial arts system, Tai Chi and Chi Gung, and the external system, a combination of Northern and Southern Shaolin Kung Fu, kicked into high gear with an adrenaline rush that sent my body and mind, now in complete sync with the motions and reactions of those around me, into a heightened state of realization, and I cried out, "For Heaven's sakes! Somebody do something!"
One of the boys in my class, whose name will go unmentioned, immediately leapt from his desk, ran to the desk that was flowing with precious Dr. Pepper, dropped to his knees, turned his head sideways, opened his mouth, held it underneath the desk, and waited in great anticipation and readiness for the Dr. Pepper waterfall to begin. He caught quite a bit of it before I finally "came to," jumped up, and used paper towels to sop up the liquid off the desk, thus spoiling the boy's supply of someone else's Dr. Pepper.
Now it should be mentioned again that this student was a boy. Most fourth grade girls, having matured to the approximate level of a sixty year old male teacher (me), never even thought of such a solution. But that's being unfair to the girls. For a brief second, I actually thought of getting down on my knees and fighting for Dr. Pepper waterfall space. I could see an ensuing shoulder pushing contest, with me winning, of course. Ah! The conquest!
A few days later, Janice accidentally spilled a package of dyed sugar candy crud on the carpet. Our classsroom carpet was designed by rug experts......adults who were told by their customers, "Look, let's be honest. We're puttin' this carpet into an elementary school classroom. We ain't looking for good or even nice. What we want is a carpet that will hide every conceivable piece of fourth grader waste and yet not be noticed. When the custodians come into the room to vacuum at night, we don't even want them to notice it. They'll think everything in the room is perfect. We don't want anything, and we mean anything, to be noticeable when it hits this carpet. Not a spot of blood, boogers, vomit, snot, or anything. We want the perfect floor camouflage for nine year olds' excretions, overflows, and waste."
Then the architects and rug experts said, "Eureka! This is it! Look at this stuff! This carpet design will hide everything!" That's what they put in my room. But I digress.
Janice spilled that sugary, purple, candy crystals on our carpet, and I knew if we used water to clean it up, the dye from the candy would seep out and leave an indelible mark. Without the advantage of hindsight, yet thinking rapidly and seizing the moment to pass onto my students all my knowledge, I yelled out, "Oh no! Look at that. How are we gonna clean that up?"
A different boy, whose name shall go unmentioned, dropped to his knees, licked his finger, stuck it into the powder, then lifted his finger and licked the powder off in his mouth, and then did this rapidly, over and over again, at about seventy times faster than Lebron James attacks the basket for a layup in an NBA semifinal game.
I watched in fascination as the size of the powdery pile diminshed in size without creating a stain. However, eventually, my sixty-year old mature mind kicked in, and I yelled, "No! Don't do that! That's gross! Stop!"
He did. But I am still mystified that, "It's a man's world" (see James Brown).
Here are two exquisite examples:
This week my class had a pizza party. Everyone was happy and carefree, keeping one eye on the pizza heading into their mouths and the other eye on the remaining slices. Suddenly, a Dr. Pepper was spilt. The precious, sugary, dyed liquid was flowing rapidly across a desk laden with boogers, bacteria, retroviruses, and swine flu, and heading for its ultimate overflow onto the classroom carpet.
My decades long training in the the internal Chinese martial arts system, Tai Chi and Chi Gung, and the external system, a combination of Northern and Southern Shaolin Kung Fu, kicked into high gear with an adrenaline rush that sent my body and mind, now in complete sync with the motions and reactions of those around me, into a heightened state of realization, and I cried out, "For Heaven's sakes! Somebody do something!"
One of the boys in my class, whose name will go unmentioned, immediately leapt from his desk, ran to the desk that was flowing with precious Dr. Pepper, dropped to his knees, turned his head sideways, opened his mouth, held it underneath the desk, and waited in great anticipation and readiness for the Dr. Pepper waterfall to begin. He caught quite a bit of it before I finally "came to," jumped up, and used paper towels to sop up the liquid off the desk, thus spoiling the boy's supply of someone else's Dr. Pepper.
Now it should be mentioned again that this student was a boy. Most fourth grade girls, having matured to the approximate level of a sixty year old male teacher (me), never even thought of such a solution. But that's being unfair to the girls. For a brief second, I actually thought of getting down on my knees and fighting for Dr. Pepper waterfall space. I could see an ensuing shoulder pushing contest, with me winning, of course. Ah! The conquest!
A few days later, Janice accidentally spilled a package of dyed sugar candy crud on the carpet. Our classsroom carpet was designed by rug experts......adults who were told by their customers, "Look, let's be honest. We're puttin' this carpet into an elementary school classroom. We ain't looking for good or even nice. What we want is a carpet that will hide every conceivable piece of fourth grader waste and yet not be noticed. When the custodians come into the room to vacuum at night, we don't even want them to notice it. They'll think everything in the room is perfect. We don't want anything, and we mean anything, to be noticeable when it hits this carpet. Not a spot of blood, boogers, vomit, snot, or anything. We want the perfect floor camouflage for nine year olds' excretions, overflows, and waste."
Then the architects and rug experts said, "Eureka! This is it! Look at this stuff! This carpet design will hide everything!" That's what they put in my room. But I digress.
Janice spilled that sugary, purple, candy crystals on our carpet, and I knew if we used water to clean it up, the dye from the candy would seep out and leave an indelible mark. Without the advantage of hindsight, yet thinking rapidly and seizing the moment to pass onto my students all my knowledge, I yelled out, "Oh no! Look at that. How are we gonna clean that up?"
A different boy, whose name shall go unmentioned, dropped to his knees, licked his finger, stuck it into the powder, then lifted his finger and licked the powder off in his mouth, and then did this rapidly, over and over again, at about seventy times faster than Lebron James attacks the basket for a layup in an NBA semifinal game.
I watched in fascination as the size of the powdery pile diminshed in size without creating a stain. However, eventually, my sixty-year old mature mind kicked in, and I yelled, "No! Don't do that! That's gross! Stop!"
He did. But I am still mystified that, "It's a man's world" (see James Brown).
Sunday, March 29, 2009
LITTLE LAWMAKERS
I have previous experience teaching fourth graders about the establishment of our United States government under the Constitution by pretending to be the King, having the students overthrow me, setting up a Constitutional government of their own, and culminating the lesson with a trial. I have blogged about it previously: A Lesson in American Justice Gone Astray.
The lawmakers in our class came up with these ideas:
- chewing gum is allowed in class at all times
- food is allowed except for chips and other "noisy" snacks
- a field trip every month
- a class party every week
- a walking field trip to the nearby National Monument every week
- cable tv watching during Wednesday lunches in the classroom
- music, played during quiet writing times and parties, to be chosen by the class and not the teacher
- more computer lab time, and it's to be used playing "games"
- more "self-selection' (wasted free time)
"Congress" has already passed the "Gum Chewing Resolution" and I hate it. It rattles my innards to watch those precious children turned into cud-chewers. Gum just doesn't seem apropo in an elementary classroom. Of course, it could be my 1950's upbringing, but that's my "culture." I respect their "culture," so why don't they respect mine? I hate to say it, but I am itching to arrest all of the little cud-chewers before the week is up. I want to hire one of the best prosecuting attorneys in the class and send them all upriver.
I would be better off, however, preventing them from passing the rest of their bills into law. If all of them are implemented, we won't have time for the Three R's: reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic. Of course, that's where their parents come in.
FIBER ONE BUNNIES
When you spend time with someone for six and a half hours a day, five days a week for nine and a half months, you are going to get to know them pretty well. At the beginning of each school year I tell my fourth grade students exactly that. I also add that we will probably "blow bunnies" in front of each other.
Blowing bunnies is a British nom de plume for farting, at least according to my British sister-in-law, Maggie. Maggie used that slang term for farts many years ago when I first met her. Many years later I reminded her of the expression and much to my surprise, she told me she had never heard it before and I didn't know what I was talking about. Now normally I would accept that as a fact, but this time I asked my wife, Peggy, if I had imagined it, and she said no, I was not imagining it. Peggy had heard her say it too. Maggie had forgotten, or had made it up, or was playing with me. We'll never know. But I don't care. The expression "blowing bunnies" is cute, and the kids love it.
Last week we got to know each other a little better. Someone in our class, whose name will go unmentioned, let loose a rip-snorter, a thundering powerhouse of a fart normally developed and released by a seasoned longshoreman. The class roared with laughter out of the normal embarrassment but with an added shock value. This was a long, deep, titanic blast of gastronomical methane. I have never heard a fourth grader, or any elementary student fart like that, ever. Normally the guilty party is difficult to detect. When a child blows a bunny, it's small, cute, and discreet. This was different. Everyone knew who the guilty party was.
The guilty party stood up, spread their arms wide, and exclaimed, "But guys! I had Fiber One for breakfast!"
Having lifted weights and supplemented my diet with Hoffman's High Protein powder, I knew exactly what had happened. Your diet can affect your ability to blow bunnies.
A new commercial:
"Fiber One. Generating the loudest fart ever heard in a fourth grade classroom."
Blowing bunnies is a British nom de plume for farting, at least according to my British sister-in-law, Maggie. Maggie used that slang term for farts many years ago when I first met her. Many years later I reminded her of the expression and much to my surprise, she told me she had never heard it before and I didn't know what I was talking about. Now normally I would accept that as a fact, but this time I asked my wife, Peggy, if I had imagined it, and she said no, I was not imagining it. Peggy had heard her say it too. Maggie had forgotten, or had made it up, or was playing with me. We'll never know. But I don't care. The expression "blowing bunnies" is cute, and the kids love it.
Last week we got to know each other a little better. Someone in our class, whose name will go unmentioned, let loose a rip-snorter, a thundering powerhouse of a fart normally developed and released by a seasoned longshoreman. The class roared with laughter out of the normal embarrassment but with an added shock value. This was a long, deep, titanic blast of gastronomical methane. I have never heard a fourth grader, or any elementary student fart like that, ever. Normally the guilty party is difficult to detect. When a child blows a bunny, it's small, cute, and discreet. This was different. Everyone knew who the guilty party was.
The guilty party stood up, spread their arms wide, and exclaimed, "But guys! I had Fiber One for breakfast!"
Having lifted weights and supplemented my diet with Hoffman's High Protein powder, I knew exactly what had happened. Your diet can affect your ability to blow bunnies.
A new commercial:
"Fiber One. Generating the loudest fart ever heard in a fourth grade classroom."
TEE SHIRT SAYINGS
We deck our kids out in tee shirts with funny sayings and then send them out in public. I thought I'd make a note of some seen worn at the elementary school where I teach. It's not even summer yet, and as soon as the temperature increases, so will the number of tee shirts with clever sayings on them.
Everyone in my family drives me nuts
I love candy
Five reasons I wear pink:
Everyone in my family drives me nuts
I love candy
Five reasons I wear pink:
- I make this color look good
- My Mom made me wear it
- It's a fashion statement
- Rock stars wear pink
- I am tough enough to wear pink
(Dopey is pointing to the right and saying) "I'm with Grumpy"
You can agree with me or you can be wrong
My way or the highway
May I be excused? My brain is full
Super hero
I gave up video games. It was the worst 15 minutes of my life.
Be thankful I'm not your kid
My attitude....Your problem
I belong to the Dark Side
What would Tinkerbell do?
How to stay out of trouble:
- Don't do anything wrong
- Don't get caught
- Blame your friends
For a minute there you bored me to death
I'm not lucky....I'm good
It's not easy looking this good
How can I get better at video games when I am stuck at school for seven hours a day?
I wasn't sleeping. I was in a deep state of thinking.
No, I don't want to play video games all day. I also want to eat junk food, tease my sister and watch TV.
Simple math: stupid + dumb = my sister
Parents just don't understand
Spoiled but worth it
I'm a keeper
(front) The flying monkeys stole my sister (back) but they brought her back for talking too much
I'm Mom's favorite
My Mom Rocks!
The cops just pulled me over for carrying these huge guns (arrows pointing to the wearers biceps)
(front) Santa thinks I'm nice (back)because I don't get caught
Adults don't normally wear this type of clothing, probably in order to avoid stares, verbal abuse, and physical assaults, but I have a neighbor across the street who has a jagged edge and I saw him wear out a tee shirt that said something unrepeatable on this blog site. For the exact tee shirt wording, please send a self addressed, stamped envelope to: Rafael's Silver Cloud Motel, Room 163, 4500 Rockwell Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90909
Saturday, March 07, 2009
NEW AGE GEOGRAPHY
The other day one of my fourth graders was reading aloud from a science textbook. He was a doing a fine job of reading with inflection, expression, and following all the punctuation. However, one of his sentences had a pronunciation error.
"Many of the invasive fish and mussels that are damaging the ecosystem of the Great Lakes were carried in ballast tanks on ships that traveled from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the St. Lawnmower Seaway."
"Many of the invasive fish and mussels that are damaging the ecosystem of the Great Lakes were carried in ballast tanks on ships that traveled from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the St. Lawnmower Seaway."
BABY TEETH LOSERS
Fourth graders are at an age when baby teeth fall out as readily as bolts and parts off a 1970 Chevrolet Vega. I make sure my fourth grade students get their baby teeth home safely so they can put them under their pillow for the Tooth Fairy by placing them in a tissue, then stapling the tissue inside a large piece of folded over construction paper, thus making it hard to lose.
This year I have had an exceptional class in many ways, and certainly their statistics on losing teeth is one of the best I have ever seen. They lead their grade level (4th) in the greatest average of lost teeth per student (1.24), the smallest tooth (3 mm), the most in one day (3), the most in one week (5), and the most in one year (31, still counting, and it's only March!!). One boy lost two teeth in one day, one girl lost half of a tooth one day and the other half three days later, another kid swallowed his tooth, another gave it up while in the planetarium, and another said, "Mr. Rich, my tooth is loose," and then proceeded to have me get a good close-up look at it while she simultaneously pulled it out and completely grossed out her squeamish teacher.
I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, those baby teeth don't qualify as an accomplishment, but I'll put my class of Baby Teeth Losers up against any class in the country. Their reading and math levels aren't too shabby either.
This year I have had an exceptional class in many ways, and certainly their statistics on losing teeth is one of the best I have ever seen. They lead their grade level (4th) in the greatest average of lost teeth per student (1.24), the smallest tooth (3 mm), the most in one day (3), the most in one week (5), and the most in one year (31, still counting, and it's only March!!). One boy lost two teeth in one day, one girl lost half of a tooth one day and the other half three days later, another kid swallowed his tooth, another gave it up while in the planetarium, and another said, "Mr. Rich, my tooth is loose," and then proceeded to have me get a good close-up look at it while she simultaneously pulled it out and completely grossed out her squeamish teacher.
I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, those baby teeth don't qualify as an accomplishment, but I'll put my class of Baby Teeth Losers up against any class in the country. Their reading and math levels aren't too shabby either.
Monday, March 02, 2009
A SUCCESSFUL PLANETARIUM VISIT
I would like to toot my own horn, pat myself on the back, slap my own butt, high-five myself, and congratulate me for a successful planetarium field trip with my fourth grade class.
You take a bunch of fourth graders and what is a likely but easily overlooked problem when visiting the planetarium? Leaving a kid there? That's amateur stuff. It doesn't happen to a veteran like myself, although I am always cautious. It's not a problem easily overlooked unless you're asleep at the wheel. A kid disappears? Again, not likely or easily overlooked. Someone vomits on your lap. Been there. Done that.
How about this for a worst case scenario:
The teacher comes home the day before the field trip pretty strung out from dealin' with twenty-five children, hits the ol' Cabernet Sauvignon a little too eagerly, stays up late and watches a Terminator movie ("All be bach"), then goes on a field trip the next day at 10:30 in the morning and lays in a luxuriously comfortable, tilting recliner in a dark room with the lights out and some lady starts mumblin' something like, "...and as you can see on our ceiling, between Mars and Jupiter is the asteroid belt, an area full of rocks ranging in size from one mile in diameter to 3 centimeters in diameter, all traveling in an orbit that ish betwixt twelve and midnight your eyes are getting heavy sleep deep shleep night night z zz zzz
when suddenly some ten year old jasper wakes you up sayin', "Mr. Rich! You're sleeping and snoring! Wake up!" and you look around and fifty-two, ten-year old eyes are starin' at you and grinnin' because you, the teacher, the infallible, the perfect example, the hypocrite, the Snoozer, has fallen asleep! Then the little rugrats torture you by not paying attention to the lady but instead they stare at you intently, waiting for you to fall asleep again, you hypocrite! All eyes are no longer on the eternal beauties of the infinite, night skies, but instead are focused on your attentiveness, or rather lack of it, and the little rugrats are no longer listening to the lady who is now talking about the Milky Way. "If you get far enough away from the city where the huge number of lights block the view of the stars similar to what happens in the daytime with the sun, you will be able to see our own galaxy, the Milky Way stars far away distant galax sleep night bye-bye z zz zzz
And then you'll know how humilating it is to take a class of fourth graders to the planetarium, unless you do like I did:
1. Go straight home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 anythings.
2. Stay away from the hootch. No decaffeinated coffee. No nothing.
3. Go to bed early. Beat the little nippers to the mattress. Don't even think about Jay Leno or David Letterman.
4. Wake up on time. Be ready. Be prepared. Be alert.
5. Drink huge amounts of coffee or Mountain Dew.
6. Go to the bathroom. A lot. Pace your intake of caffeine so that a maximum amount of chemical caffeine alertness is achieved with the least amount of pressure on the bladder.
7. Concentrate. Focus. Forge your mind in the fire of your will. Stay awake!
Success! I did it!!
You take a bunch of fourth graders and what is a likely but easily overlooked problem when visiting the planetarium? Leaving a kid there? That's amateur stuff. It doesn't happen to a veteran like myself, although I am always cautious. It's not a problem easily overlooked unless you're asleep at the wheel. A kid disappears? Again, not likely or easily overlooked. Someone vomits on your lap. Been there. Done that.
How about this for a worst case scenario:
The teacher comes home the day before the field trip pretty strung out from dealin' with twenty-five children, hits the ol' Cabernet Sauvignon a little too eagerly, stays up late and watches a Terminator movie ("All be bach"), then goes on a field trip the next day at 10:30 in the morning and lays in a luxuriously comfortable, tilting recliner in a dark room with the lights out and some lady starts mumblin' something like, "...and as you can see on our ceiling, between Mars and Jupiter is the asteroid belt, an area full of rocks ranging in size from one mile in diameter to 3 centimeters in diameter, all traveling in an orbit that ish betwixt twelve and midnight your eyes are getting heavy sleep deep shleep night night z zz zzz
when suddenly some ten year old jasper wakes you up sayin', "Mr. Rich! You're sleeping and snoring! Wake up!" and you look around and fifty-two, ten-year old eyes are starin' at you and grinnin' because you, the teacher, the infallible, the perfect example, the hypocrite, the Snoozer, has fallen asleep! Then the little rugrats torture you by not paying attention to the lady but instead they stare at you intently, waiting for you to fall asleep again, you hypocrite! All eyes are no longer on the eternal beauties of the infinite, night skies, but instead are focused on your attentiveness, or rather lack of it, and the little rugrats are no longer listening to the lady who is now talking about the Milky Way. "If you get far enough away from the city where the huge number of lights block the view of the stars similar to what happens in the daytime with the sun, you will be able to see our own galaxy, the Milky Way stars far away distant galax sleep night bye-bye z zz zzz
And then you'll know how humilating it is to take a class of fourth graders to the planetarium, unless you do like I did:
1. Go straight home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 anythings.
2. Stay away from the hootch. No decaffeinated coffee. No nothing.
3. Go to bed early. Beat the little nippers to the mattress. Don't even think about Jay Leno or David Letterman.
4. Wake up on time. Be ready. Be prepared. Be alert.
5. Drink huge amounts of coffee or Mountain Dew.
6. Go to the bathroom. A lot. Pace your intake of caffeine so that a maximum amount of chemical caffeine alertness is achieved with the least amount of pressure on the bladder.
7. Concentrate. Focus. Forge your mind in the fire of your will. Stay awake!
Success! I did it!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A CHANGE IN STANCE: FREEDOM FROM THE PRESS
I am an elementary schoolteacher, and politics are verboten and useless in the classroom. Children merely articulate what they have heard at home, and they don't have the background or the verbal and conceptual foundation to discuss, much less understand, politics.
I love politics. Even at an early age I was passionate about politics. Unfortunately, my family mistook my passion for irrationality, so the first ten years of my political discussions at home (age 16 - 26) were spent trying to deflect my facial expressions and verbal tone rather than the gist of what I was saying. I always resented that. I suppose my family would have allowed me to discuss politics with them if I were on Prozac or Valium, but as I recall, they hadn't been invented. But I digress.
Outside of the home, I found myself knowledgeable, well read, and ahead of the game. I am still proud of my efforts to elect Barry Goldwater for President in 1964, my shared disregard with Senator Goldwater for Ronald Reagan's military-backed, conservative deceit, my mutual respect for both William Buckley and Hubert Humphrey, my abandonment of the conservative Republican ideal due to its death by internal poisoning from an overdose of Protestant fundamentalism, and my growing disillusionment with the length of a presidential campaign, which has at least helped me in some ways understand previously incomprehensible mathematical concepts, such as my newfound grasp of infinity, especially when applied to elapsed time.
However, I have a new political philosophy, and it pretty much agrees with Christopher ("Christo") Buckley. It doesn't seem that November 4 will ever get here. Until that time comes, I live by my new motto, "All Americans should have the right to freedom from the press."
I love politics. Even at an early age I was passionate about politics. Unfortunately, my family mistook my passion for irrationality, so the first ten years of my political discussions at home (age 16 - 26) were spent trying to deflect my facial expressions and verbal tone rather than the gist of what I was saying. I always resented that. I suppose my family would have allowed me to discuss politics with them if I were on Prozac or Valium, but as I recall, they hadn't been invented. But I digress.
Outside of the home, I found myself knowledgeable, well read, and ahead of the game. I am still proud of my efforts to elect Barry Goldwater for President in 1964, my shared disregard with Senator Goldwater for Ronald Reagan's military-backed, conservative deceit, my mutual respect for both William Buckley and Hubert Humphrey, my abandonment of the conservative Republican ideal due to its death by internal poisoning from an overdose of Protestant fundamentalism, and my growing disillusionment with the length of a presidential campaign, which has at least helped me in some ways understand previously incomprehensible mathematical concepts, such as my newfound grasp of infinity, especially when applied to elapsed time.
However, I have a new political philosophy, and it pretty much agrees with Christopher ("Christo") Buckley. It doesn't seem that November 4 will ever get here. Until that time comes, I live by my new motto, "All Americans should have the right to freedom from the press."
Saturday, October 18, 2008
SPEAKING YOUR MIND OR THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE
About 99% of my favorite people on the planet are under the age of ten, and one of the many reasons why is due to their natural ability to speak the truth, even in public. With the Presidential and Senate campaigns in high gear, it is a relief to be able to go to an elementary school each day and hear someone, even if it's children, speak the truth. Here are some exact quotes from the mouths of babes:
"Mr. Rich, you're wearing too much cologne."
"I don't like school."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"What happened to your hair?"
"You look old."
"You look terrible. Are you sick?"
"You do it too, sometimes!" (I hate that one.)
One of my fellow teachers, Greg, has a son who says things like this in earshot of the offender:
"Daddy, that man's cigarette smoke stinks!"
"Look at that man, Daddy. He pushed his cart into that lady's car and dented the paint. Isn't that against the law?" (The man looks accusingly over at Greg but is unable to say anything because it was a child who spoke the truth and not an adult who could then be physically threatened.
"That lady just said a naughty word. She has a dirty mouth."
"Look, Daddy! That lady opened that package of candy. Is she going to pay for it or is she just stealing?"
We should treasure the truth. Someone very great once said, "The truth shall set you free." How right He was.
"Mr. Rich, you're wearing too much cologne."
"I don't like school."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"What happened to your hair?"
"You look old."
"You look terrible. Are you sick?"
"You do it too, sometimes!" (I hate that one.)
One of my fellow teachers, Greg, has a son who says things like this in earshot of the offender:
"Daddy, that man's cigarette smoke stinks!"
"Look at that man, Daddy. He pushed his cart into that lady's car and dented the paint. Isn't that against the law?" (The man looks accusingly over at Greg but is unable to say anything because it was a child who spoke the truth and not an adult who could then be physically threatened.
"That lady just said a naughty word. She has a dirty mouth."
"Look, Daddy! That lady opened that package of candy. Is she going to pay for it or is she just stealing?"
We should treasure the truth. Someone very great once said, "The truth shall set you free." How right He was.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
NEVER QUIT LEARNING
I never tell my fourth grade students that they are never too old to learn. I tell myself that sometimes, and I try to put it into practice.
All my life, and we're talking quite a span of time, I have envied people who could whistle real loud. They put their fingers in their mouth, take a huge breath of air, and then blow a whistle that snaps your head back, and you can see other people duck their head and wince.
I know that in my pre-retirement years I should be lifting the spirits of the downtrodden, donating my time and services at the Rescue Mission, and making the world a better place for my fellow man, but this summer I could stand it no longer. I yearned to be able to make that whistle with my fingers in my mouth, and my friend and fellow teacher, Greg, was just the fellow to show me. Greg is a teacher, for one thing. Teacher is his name and instruction is his game. And his whistle is so loud it affects your intestines.
Greg and I taught summer school, and several times he put his fingers in his mouth and called over a hundred children to their classroom with one "blow."
I asked Greg if he would be my mentor and teach me how to whistle. I began my apprenticeship with a barely audible air release, like the sound of a grown man at his kid's swimming pool party blowing up the seventeenth air mattress of the day. Pitiful.
A month later, not even a whisper of a whistle had emerged, and my mentor, Greg, disgustingly said, "You'll never be able to do it." I was stunned! Was I a washed up has-been? Was I a dog that was too old to learn a new trick? I started practicing more often. Slowly, whistles emerged. By the beginning of the regular school year, I was able to make a faily loud whistle half of the time. Other teachers with the rare ability to make finger whistles whistled with me.
Kids on the playground were noticing. Some even winced a little and told me I had a loud whistle. Oh, the pride! But I told them that my whistle was not nearly as loud as Greg's, so we went to Greg and had a showdown, a duel, a whistler's contest, and I went first. I let out a good one. Then I carefully watched my mentor. He took a much larger breath, positioned his fingers a little deeper into the mouth, and ripped an ear shattering whistle that beckoned me to greater heights. I continued my studies.
Then today, Thursday, September 19, 2008, at an assembly in front of our school honoring National Pledge of Allegiance Day, the principal was trying in vain to get everyone's attention. I leaped at the chance, and before Greg could even lift his hands to his mouth, I let out a fairly good one, and the kids quieted down. My finger whistle wasn't in the same league as my mentor's, but for a brief moment there was a feeling of accomplishment, of attention getting control of a crowd, and the sense that I was a young dog learning a new trick.
You're never too old to learn, even if it appears to be a worthless talent. The next time Peggy and I are in New York and need a cab, I'll be ready.
All my life, and we're talking quite a span of time, I have envied people who could whistle real loud. They put their fingers in their mouth, take a huge breath of air, and then blow a whistle that snaps your head back, and you can see other people duck their head and wince.
I know that in my pre-retirement years I should be lifting the spirits of the downtrodden, donating my time and services at the Rescue Mission, and making the world a better place for my fellow man, but this summer I could stand it no longer. I yearned to be able to make that whistle with my fingers in my mouth, and my friend and fellow teacher, Greg, was just the fellow to show me. Greg is a teacher, for one thing. Teacher is his name and instruction is his game. And his whistle is so loud it affects your intestines.
Greg and I taught summer school, and several times he put his fingers in his mouth and called over a hundred children to their classroom with one "blow."
I asked Greg if he would be my mentor and teach me how to whistle. I began my apprenticeship with a barely audible air release, like the sound of a grown man at his kid's swimming pool party blowing up the seventeenth air mattress of the day. Pitiful.
A month later, not even a whisper of a whistle had emerged, and my mentor, Greg, disgustingly said, "You'll never be able to do it." I was stunned! Was I a washed up has-been? Was I a dog that was too old to learn a new trick? I started practicing more often. Slowly, whistles emerged. By the beginning of the regular school year, I was able to make a faily loud whistle half of the time. Other teachers with the rare ability to make finger whistles whistled with me.
Kids on the playground were noticing. Some even winced a little and told me I had a loud whistle. Oh, the pride! But I told them that my whistle was not nearly as loud as Greg's, so we went to Greg and had a showdown, a duel, a whistler's contest, and I went first. I let out a good one. Then I carefully watched my mentor. He took a much larger breath, positioned his fingers a little deeper into the mouth, and ripped an ear shattering whistle that beckoned me to greater heights. I continued my studies.
Then today, Thursday, September 19, 2008, at an assembly in front of our school honoring National Pledge of Allegiance Day, the principal was trying in vain to get everyone's attention. I leaped at the chance, and before Greg could even lift his hands to his mouth, I let out a fairly good one, and the kids quieted down. My finger whistle wasn't in the same league as my mentor's, but for a brief moment there was a feeling of accomplishment, of attention getting control of a crowd, and the sense that I was a young dog learning a new trick.
You're never too old to learn, even if it appears to be a worthless talent. The next time Peggy and I are in New York and need a cab, I'll be ready.
NATIONAL "TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY"
I can't believe it! I totally forgot about "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" Every year I confound the li'l deck swabbers (fourth graders) by talking like a pirate all day, except, of course, if the principal happens to drop in to visit.
I was all ready with me accent and me black, eye patch and clever pirate jarrrgon like,"Avast ye there! Heave ho on the math book and open her to page 58, maties!" or "'Are ya wid me, mates? We're talking periods now, and they goes at the end of all yer sentences, aarrrg!" or "You'll be walkin' the plank if ye keeps on talkin' matie," or "Aye, me wee buckoes, and you can feel the heat being released by the chemical reaction. Put yer hands here on the flask," or "Easy there matey. Don't squeeze that pencil so that ye strangles it to death. Let yer hand relax and just let the currrsive flow out o' yer pencil. Aarrrrrg."
I hates to say the words, but I, the Cap'n, done forgots me pirate talk! I'll be keelhauled 'fore I forgets again!
I was all ready with me accent and me black, eye patch and clever pirate jarrrgon like,"Avast ye there! Heave ho on the math book and open her to page 58, maties!" or "'Are ya wid me, mates? We're talking periods now, and they goes at the end of all yer sentences, aarrrg!" or "You'll be walkin' the plank if ye keeps on talkin' matie," or "Aye, me wee buckoes, and you can feel the heat being released by the chemical reaction. Put yer hands here on the flask," or "Easy there matey. Don't squeeze that pencil so that ye strangles it to death. Let yer hand relax and just let the currrsive flow out o' yer pencil. Aarrrrrg."
I hates to say the words, but I, the Cap'n, done forgots me pirate talk! I'll be keelhauled 'fore I forgets again!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Good News: No Foot in the Grave
There's an idiomatic expression everyone knows that says, "They've got one foot in the grave," meaning that one is approaching the beginning of the prelude of the introit to the introduction of the precursor to death. A nasty business. Especially for one like me who likes to think he has a few more kids to teach and a few more ramblings to ramble.
With this in mind, I would like to proudly announce that I do NOT have one foot in the grave. I may be catching a glimpse of the hole every now and then, but I still have a few more days left in me.
An earlier blog titled, "Keeping Secrets From Kids," alluded to some serious health problems that the doctors felt may have something to do with my brain. Much to my wife's surprise and joy, there is nothing wrong with my brain, at least that the doctors can detect. It seems I am fit in every mental way except for that talking to myself business and twitching ever time I get near some pastry.
That's good news, at least for me.
With this in mind, I would like to proudly announce that I do NOT have one foot in the grave. I may be catching a glimpse of the hole every now and then, but I still have a few more days left in me.
An earlier blog titled, "Keeping Secrets From Kids," alluded to some serious health problems that the doctors felt may have something to do with my brain. Much to my wife's surprise and joy, there is nothing wrong with my brain, at least that the doctors can detect. It seems I am fit in every mental way except for that talking to myself business and twitching ever time I get near some pastry.
That's good news, at least for me.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
A NATION'S PREOCCUPATION
When I was a boy growing up in the United States in the 1950's, it seemed that the national preoccupation was with women's breasts, tits, jugs, hooters, knockers, melons, or blouse biscuits, whichever you prefer. The brassiere had been invented, modified, and perfected, and with this technology came a fascination that "peaked" with the Persian Points.
My generation, the hippies of the sixties, is transfixed on a different body part, and after years of personal observation and study, I have decided that our nation is now preoccupied with the rear end, the derriere, the tush, the seat, the keister, the bu77, the a$$.
Have you ever noticed that no one wants to sue your neck or your wallet or even your bank account, which would be the ultimate prize? No! They want to sue your a$$.
Nobody wants to beat your face in anymore; they want to kick yer a$$, or whup yer a$$.
No one crashes into an automobile anymore. They crash into his, her, or your a$$.
Doesn't anyone tell anyone else to forget about it? Doesn't anyone say, "I disagree with you vehemently!"? No! They say, "Kiss my a$$." I don't want anybody kissing my a$$, especially an enemy. How do you know what they're gonna do back there? They could change their mind and do something else.
No one beats someone in a race anymore. Now you beat their a$$.
No one says, "I want you to leave immediately! Get your face and your knees out of my office!" No! They tell you to get your a$$ out of their office. At least that's what I hear most of the time.
No one in the United States is a broken elbow, a fractured brain or a tongue. Nope! They're an a$$hole. Or a bu77wipe.
No one kowtows anymore. Instead, they're an a$$ ki$$er or a brown no$er.
You don't get in trouble anymore. And you don't get your neck in a wringer. You get your a$$ in trouble, or your bu77 in a wringer. At least I do. I'd rather have my bu77 in a wringer than my neck. Of course, that's just me.
My generation, the hippies of the sixties, is transfixed on a different body part, and after years of personal observation and study, I have decided that our nation is now preoccupied with the rear end, the derriere, the tush, the seat, the keister, the bu77, the a$$.
Have you ever noticed that no one wants to sue your neck or your wallet or even your bank account, which would be the ultimate prize? No! They want to sue your a$$.
Nobody wants to beat your face in anymore; they want to kick yer a$$, or whup yer a$$.
No one crashes into an automobile anymore. They crash into his, her, or your a$$.
Doesn't anyone tell anyone else to forget about it? Doesn't anyone say, "I disagree with you vehemently!"? No! They say, "Kiss my a$$." I don't want anybody kissing my a$$, especially an enemy. How do you know what they're gonna do back there? They could change their mind and do something else.
No one beats someone in a race anymore. Now you beat their a$$.
No one says, "I want you to leave immediately! Get your face and your knees out of my office!" No! They tell you to get your a$$ out of their office. At least that's what I hear most of the time.
No one in the United States is a broken elbow, a fractured brain or a tongue. Nope! They're an a$$hole. Or a bu77wipe.
No one kowtows anymore. Instead, they're an a$$ ki$$er or a brown no$er.
No one goes fast anymore. You aren't picking your feet up and puttin' 'em down. Nowadays, yer haulin' a$$.
A woman no longer has a great set o' knockers. Instead, she has a sweet a$$. Or a tight a$$. Or a hot a$$.
No one gets knocked on their back. They get knocked on their a$$. It's in the same area. Why does it have to be the a$$?You don't get in trouble anymore. And you don't get your neck in a wringer. You get your a$$ in trouble, or your bu77 in a wringer. At least I do. I'd rather have my bu77 in a wringer than my neck. Of course, that's just me.
No one gets out of a chair anymore. They get off their a$$.
How come we don't want to shove anything down someone's throat anymore? When I was a kid, we were taught that you were supposed to shove stuff down your enemies throat. Not anymore. Now you gotta shove it up their a$$, which is a slightly more pleasant experience for your enemy and a much more excrutiating experience for yourself.
It's not an important observation about our society. I might not even be correct. I just thought I'd mention it.Monday, September 01, 2008
KEEPING SECRETS FROM KIDS
I think I am brutally honest with kids. However, there are some things I never tell a child.
I have been calling in sick lately, and I tell the kids that a substitute teacher will be here. Kids don't ask questions. Good.
I have some serious health issues. Eight years ago I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had a radical prostatectomy, just a few years before prostatectomies were done orthroscopically. I went under the Big Knife, and it left a big scar. I joined the Prostate Cancer Support Group. They seemed concerned for me that I had been diagnosed at such a young age. The earlier you get it, the greater a chance it will get you.
My PSA is going up and no "hot spots" could be found in my abdominal area. Recently I have had a few incidents of fainting, accompanied by dizziness and nausea. My family physician sent me to a neurologist, who said that it could be the cancer has metastized itself in my brain. That seemed to him the most likely diagnosis. He has me undergoing an MRI and an EEG to see what's in my brain.
I thought of a joke at the time he said it. I could've said, "Well let's hope they find SOMETHING in my brain" (Yuk! Yuk!), or "After so many years of having people tell me I should have my head examined, when I finally do have it examined, I hope you don't find anything wrong." (Ha! Ha!)
However, I didn't joke about it. If they find something, it won't be good.
I haven't been talking to myself as much as to God Almighty. We'll see what's going to happen, what He's got going down.
Life is far out!
I have been calling in sick lately, and I tell the kids that a substitute teacher will be here. Kids don't ask questions. Good.
I have some serious health issues. Eight years ago I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had a radical prostatectomy, just a few years before prostatectomies were done orthroscopically. I went under the Big Knife, and it left a big scar. I joined the Prostate Cancer Support Group. They seemed concerned for me that I had been diagnosed at such a young age. The earlier you get it, the greater a chance it will get you.
My PSA is going up and no "hot spots" could be found in my abdominal area. Recently I have had a few incidents of fainting, accompanied by dizziness and nausea. My family physician sent me to a neurologist, who said that it could be the cancer has metastized itself in my brain. That seemed to him the most likely diagnosis. He has me undergoing an MRI and an EEG to see what's in my brain.
I thought of a joke at the time he said it. I could've said, "Well let's hope they find SOMETHING in my brain" (Yuk! Yuk!), or "After so many years of having people tell me I should have my head examined, when I finally do have it examined, I hope you don't find anything wrong." (Ha! Ha!)
However, I didn't joke about it. If they find something, it won't be good.
I haven't been talking to myself as much as to God Almighty. We'll see what's going to happen, what He's got going down.
Life is far out!
TALKING TO YOURSELF
When I was a boy I talked to myself. Lots of adults who would catch me doing it would jokingly say, "That's OK, as long as you don't answer yourself." That comment always troubled me quite a bit, because I did have two way conversations all the time. As a boy, I had imaginary conversations with Mickey Mantle and Jack Parr, but I gave award acceptance speeches to large crowds, mostly, and all they did was applaud.
My fourth graders talk to themselves. Sometimes, during transitions in class from one subject to the next, I will hear at least eight kids diligently chattering. I'll watch the class carefully and see no one listening. Then I will ring my little bell for silence, everyone will quiet down, I'll inform the class that no one will be in trouble for talking, I'll ask the class who was talking, and not one single person will confess. I'll call students who were talking over to my desk, one by one, and quietly ask them who they were talking to, and each student will, without fail, question my question.
"I wasn't talking."
"I saw you talking. Who were you talking to?"
"I'm talking to myself. Does that count?"
I'm not a blogger; I'm a writer, and no one talks back. Is there anyone out there reading this? If you are, you don't have to blog a comment. I have come to grips with the fact that I still talk to myself. I talk to myself in my blogs, and as I look back on the gist of this blog site, it really says, over and over again, that I like kids, and I strive to look for the good and the funny and the quirky odd and the rewarding in the classroom, and in general, life itself.
As a child, I used to talk to myself. Like the students in my fourth grade classroom, I still do, but my talking to myself has morphed and hybridized itself into writing. If anyone is out there overhearing this, I hope you enjoy listening as much as I do talking. If no one is listening, it doesn't matter. I'm like the kids in my classroom. "I am talking to myself. Does that count?"
My fourth graders talk to themselves. Sometimes, during transitions in class from one subject to the next, I will hear at least eight kids diligently chattering. I'll watch the class carefully and see no one listening. Then I will ring my little bell for silence, everyone will quiet down, I'll inform the class that no one will be in trouble for talking, I'll ask the class who was talking, and not one single person will confess. I'll call students who were talking over to my desk, one by one, and quietly ask them who they were talking to, and each student will, without fail, question my question.
"I wasn't talking."
"I saw you talking. Who were you talking to?"
"I'm talking to myself. Does that count?"
I'm not a blogger; I'm a writer, and no one talks back. Is there anyone out there reading this? If you are, you don't have to blog a comment. I have come to grips with the fact that I still talk to myself. I talk to myself in my blogs, and as I look back on the gist of this blog site, it really says, over and over again, that I like kids, and I strive to look for the good and the funny and the quirky odd and the rewarding in the classroom, and in general, life itself.
As a child, I used to talk to myself. Like the students in my fourth grade classroom, I still do, but my talking to myself has morphed and hybridized itself into writing. If anyone is out there overhearing this, I hope you enjoy listening as much as I do talking. If no one is listening, it doesn't matter. I'm like the kids in my classroom. "I am talking to myself. Does that count?"
Friday, August 29, 2008
RAMBLINGS ABOUT CALLING IN SICK
Teaching is not a second career for me; it's a fourteenth career. Years ago, before I became a school teacher, one of my jobs was as an inside salesman for a wholesale millwork company.
The boss, Stan, was a great guy, and you could clown around with Stan. For example, Stan interviewed a very young man, almost a kid, and before his interview, I casually told him that Stan was a great fellow and had a good sense of humor. Stan hired the young man, and on his first day on the job, Stan told him his initial task would be to enter inventory information into the computer. The kid said, "No problem. I think I can do that," and he sat down at the computer and started staring at the keyboard.
Stan turned and headed to his office. Just as he got to his door, the kid yells out, "Wait a minute! We have a problem!"
Stan turns around and says, "What's the matter?"
The kid yells, "This computer doesn't have an I!"
Stan just shook his head, said, "I hope you're joking," turned around and walked off.
But I digress. I was talking about calling in sick. Or at least the title of this blog suggests I was planning on it. Because of Stan's ability to take a joke, one morning I called the office and asked to speak to Stan. Stan picks up his phone and says, "Yeah."
In my very best frequently practiced, sickly and hoarse voice, I whispered, "Stan? (short pause) Stan, is that you?"
Without hesitation Stan barks, "Get into the office right now and quit foolin' around."
(voice back to normal) "Yes sir," I replied.
So as you can see, I am sensitive to the needs of a boss and a company to have employees on the job, ready to go, never ruining efficiency by needlessly using sick leave time. A good employee will save their sick leave for a real emergency, like maybe when they get to be sixty.
Our school system, Albuquerque Public Schools (APS), is a behemoth bureaucracy and sometimes, I am sure, the teachers take advantage of the generous sick leave package we have in place for medical emergencies. In fact, the local scandal rag, the Albuquerque Journal, did a story on the nefarious teachers who were calling in sick on Mondays and Fridays in excessive amounts.
I can tell you what's a possibility. If you are a school teacher, it is impossible to get a dental or a doctor's appointmemt in this town on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I am about to have two medical "procedures" "performed" on me, and I told the receptionist, "I'm a school teacher. You've seen the articles on the front page of the newpaper complaining about and badgering teachers for their Monday and Friday sick days. The whole community is up in arms over the lazy, no-account, ne'er do well teachers who supposedly extend their weekends. Is there any possibility I can get an appointment in the middle of the week?"
"Let's take a look. Let's see here. OK. It's coming up on the computer. Here we go. Yes! How about Tuesday, June 24?"
"June!? That's ten months from now. No, I need something sooner."
"Well I'm sorry but if you want something sooner, the only thing I have is a Friday."
So here I am, blogging away instead of teaching because I have to go see the doctor later today (Friday). I think I'll send this blog to the local newspaper so they can see the real issue is not teachers deceptively extending their weekend. Why do teachers call in sick on Monday and Friday? That's the only time they can get an appointment.
However, the newspaper could claim a different theory why doctors are not available on Mondays and Fridays. All the teachers are out in public, goofing around, generating traffic, and clogging up the golf courses. Doctors like to play golf, right? Because of the teachers, the only availability of a slot on the golf course for a doctor is mid week. So lots of people have to take a Friday appointment time.
Medical procedures! I'd rather just call in and pretend to be sick, and maybe go to the dollar movie theater.
The boss, Stan, was a great guy, and you could clown around with Stan. For example, Stan interviewed a very young man, almost a kid, and before his interview, I casually told him that Stan was a great fellow and had a good sense of humor. Stan hired the young man, and on his first day on the job, Stan told him his initial task would be to enter inventory information into the computer. The kid said, "No problem. I think I can do that," and he sat down at the computer and started staring at the keyboard.
Stan turned and headed to his office. Just as he got to his door, the kid yells out, "Wait a minute! We have a problem!"
Stan turns around and says, "What's the matter?"
The kid yells, "This computer doesn't have an I!"
Stan just shook his head, said, "I hope you're joking," turned around and walked off.
But I digress. I was talking about calling in sick. Or at least the title of this blog suggests I was planning on it. Because of Stan's ability to take a joke, one morning I called the office and asked to speak to Stan. Stan picks up his phone and says, "Yeah."
In my very best frequently practiced, sickly and hoarse voice, I whispered, "Stan? (short pause) Stan, is that you?"
Without hesitation Stan barks, "Get into the office right now and quit foolin' around."
(voice back to normal) "Yes sir," I replied.
So as you can see, I am sensitive to the needs of a boss and a company to have employees on the job, ready to go, never ruining efficiency by needlessly using sick leave time. A good employee will save their sick leave for a real emergency, like maybe when they get to be sixty.
Our school system, Albuquerque Public Schools (APS), is a behemoth bureaucracy and sometimes, I am sure, the teachers take advantage of the generous sick leave package we have in place for medical emergencies. In fact, the local scandal rag, the Albuquerque Journal, did a story on the nefarious teachers who were calling in sick on Mondays and Fridays in excessive amounts.
I can tell you what's a possibility. If you are a school teacher, it is impossible to get a dental or a doctor's appointmemt in this town on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I am about to have two medical "procedures" "performed" on me, and I told the receptionist, "I'm a school teacher. You've seen the articles on the front page of the newpaper complaining about and badgering teachers for their Monday and Friday sick days. The whole community is up in arms over the lazy, no-account, ne'er do well teachers who supposedly extend their weekends. Is there any possibility I can get an appointment in the middle of the week?"
"Let's take a look. Let's see here. OK. It's coming up on the computer. Here we go. Yes! How about Tuesday, June 24?"
"June!? That's ten months from now. No, I need something sooner."
"Well I'm sorry but if you want something sooner, the only thing I have is a Friday."
So here I am, blogging away instead of teaching because I have to go see the doctor later today (Friday). I think I'll send this blog to the local newspaper so they can see the real issue is not teachers deceptively extending their weekend. Why do teachers call in sick on Monday and Friday? That's the only time they can get an appointment.
However, the newspaper could claim a different theory why doctors are not available on Mondays and Fridays. All the teachers are out in public, goofing around, generating traffic, and clogging up the golf courses. Doctors like to play golf, right? Because of the teachers, the only availability of a slot on the golf course for a doctor is mid week. So lots of people have to take a Friday appointment time.
Medical procedures! I'd rather just call in and pretend to be sick, and maybe go to the dollar movie theater.
WE'RE NOT THAT CLOSE YET
I have a new class of fourth graders, and yesterday I realized that though they are a great group of kids, we haven't quite bonded yet.
Yesterday was my sixtieth birthday. Normally, I would be feeling a mixture of boredom and mild repulsion with the whole idea of turning sixty, but I'm developing some serious health issues that warrant a more thoughtful approach to aging, and maybe I'll blog about them later. Just know that I'd rather not think about another birthday, especially now when I think of my age, the first number is a 6.
I tried to keep my birthday a secret at the elementary school where I teach. I didn't even turn in the Personal Information Form to the office, because it contained my birth date. However, someone got wind of it, and two kind and thoughtful parents brought warm, delicious, homemade, chocolate cupcakes. I have blogged about surprise birthday parties before, and these parents know about my birthday parties, so they surprised me like I surprise the kids. The class sang "Happy Birthday," and we had a quick, impromptu party.
Kids were wishing me a Happy Birthday, and one of them, Jamie, came up to me and said, "Here, Mr. Rich. Here's a present for you. Happy Birthday!" He was proudly holding a dollar bill or two rolled up like a cigarette. I'm not gonna take a kid's money, so I looked at Jamie and said, "I think it's wonderful and generous of you to want to give me a present, Jamie, but I don't want your money. You know what I want?"
Jamie smiled at me and asked, "What?"
There were a couple of parents nearby, so I gave him a warm smile back and said, "I want a hug."
You should have seen his face drop. His happy, cheerful smile just slid right off his face like watered down pancake syrup off a cold, short stack. There was an awkward silence, followed by an intermission, so to speak, of the fun and festivities, so to save him from further agony, I asked, "Jamie, would you rather just give me the money?"
He perked right back up and said, "Oh yeah!"
I laughed, and I'm sure he didn't know why. I told him thanks, but I wasn't going to take his money.
I think Jamie and I need a whole year before its hug time, and even then, it'll be a Man Hug.
Yesterday was my sixtieth birthday. Normally, I would be feeling a mixture of boredom and mild repulsion with the whole idea of turning sixty, but I'm developing some serious health issues that warrant a more thoughtful approach to aging, and maybe I'll blog about them later. Just know that I'd rather not think about another birthday, especially now when I think of my age, the first number is a 6.
I tried to keep my birthday a secret at the elementary school where I teach. I didn't even turn in the Personal Information Form to the office, because it contained my birth date. However, someone got wind of it, and two kind and thoughtful parents brought warm, delicious, homemade, chocolate cupcakes. I have blogged about surprise birthday parties before, and these parents know about my birthday parties, so they surprised me like I surprise the kids. The class sang "Happy Birthday," and we had a quick, impromptu party.
Kids were wishing me a Happy Birthday, and one of them, Jamie, came up to me and said, "Here, Mr. Rich. Here's a present for you. Happy Birthday!" He was proudly holding a dollar bill or two rolled up like a cigarette. I'm not gonna take a kid's money, so I looked at Jamie and said, "I think it's wonderful and generous of you to want to give me a present, Jamie, but I don't want your money. You know what I want?"
Jamie smiled at me and asked, "What?"
There were a couple of parents nearby, so I gave him a warm smile back and said, "I want a hug."
You should have seen his face drop. His happy, cheerful smile just slid right off his face like watered down pancake syrup off a cold, short stack. There was an awkward silence, followed by an intermission, so to speak, of the fun and festivities, so to save him from further agony, I asked, "Jamie, would you rather just give me the money?"
He perked right back up and said, "Oh yeah!"
I laughed, and I'm sure he didn't know why. I told him thanks, but I wasn't going to take his money.
I think Jamie and I need a whole year before its hug time, and even then, it'll be a Man Hug.
Monday, August 25, 2008
TOOTH FAIRY UNDER SCRUTINY
A fourth grade teacher next door to my class has a boy in her class who is very cynical, and probably for good reason. He had been tossed around like a cheap rag most of his life until he was adopted by his new family, who happens to live in our neighborhood.
This boy is the Captain of Cynicism, the Duke of Derision, and the Sultan of Skepticism. This boy doesn't believe in Santa, not because Santa can't fly around the world in one day and fit down any chimneys, but because, if he could, why didn't he stop at his house those two or three years.
He's a little like my younger brother Jack. Our older sister Carolyn, who by the ripe old age of sixteen had decided to inform me and Jack about some of life's Great Mysteries, told us that Santa was not real. How could some dude carry all the presents for every kid in the world in some flying sleigh pulled by deer, and then do it all in one night. I remember telling Carolyn, "You're lyin'! Mom said he's real. He does it with magic!" I looked over at Jack, who was five years old and four years younger, who replied, "I think Carolyn is correct. Santa doesn't make any scientific sense. I think Santa is what adults call a myth. Santa isn't real." Now I'm ten years old, and smart enough to know that Jack is smarter than me, so I went along with both of them. It's a good thing. too. It turns out they're right. But I digress.
This boy doesn't believe in lots of things because he has seen too much negativity, but he is also very intelligent. He approaches this teacher on Friday and says, "Mrs. B., do you believe in the tooth fairy?"
"Why do you ask, Mario?"
"Because I have a loose tooth and I don't think that there's a Tooth Fairy. I think that adults put money under your pillow."
"Well, that could be. How could you find out if you are right?"
"I could make sure this loose tooth I have in my mouth comes out here at school. Then I could go home and not tell my parents. Then I could put the tooth under my pillow and they won't know it's there. If there is no money, that means there is no Tooth Fairy."
Mrs. B. doesn't think much about it until after recess. Mario had gone out on the playground and involved all the other children in her class in his scheme to determine if adults are dupin' 'em. They all come in excited, and she can tell some of them are already giving up on the idea of the Tooth Fairy. There are some heated exchanges, and she tells everyone that the class will have to let Mario's experiment decide if the Tooth Fairy is real.
However, Mrs. B. decides to call Mario's parents and inform them of his experiment and tells them that the outcome will affect other children in the class. She told the father that she had no suggestions for him as to what he should do, but that she would back any decision he made, no matter what it was. It's just that she wanted him to have this information so that he could make an informed decision as to how to handle the problem.
Mario came back to school on Monday with a couple of dollars in his hand, and those who believed in the Tooth Fairy were very pleased. Howver, Mrs. B. informed me that Mario was still skeptical, and he told her, "Mrs. B., I think my Dad found out. I think he could see something in my eyes that told him I had lost a tooth. I still don't believe in the Tooth Fairy."
Smart Boy.
This boy is the Captain of Cynicism, the Duke of Derision, and the Sultan of Skepticism. This boy doesn't believe in Santa, not because Santa can't fly around the world in one day and fit down any chimneys, but because, if he could, why didn't he stop at his house those two or three years.
He's a little like my younger brother Jack. Our older sister Carolyn, who by the ripe old age of sixteen had decided to inform me and Jack about some of life's Great Mysteries, told us that Santa was not real. How could some dude carry all the presents for every kid in the world in some flying sleigh pulled by deer, and then do it all in one night. I remember telling Carolyn, "You're lyin'! Mom said he's real. He does it with magic!" I looked over at Jack, who was five years old and four years younger, who replied, "I think Carolyn is correct. Santa doesn't make any scientific sense. I think Santa is what adults call a myth. Santa isn't real." Now I'm ten years old, and smart enough to know that Jack is smarter than me, so I went along with both of them. It's a good thing. too. It turns out they're right. But I digress.
This boy doesn't believe in lots of things because he has seen too much negativity, but he is also very intelligent. He approaches this teacher on Friday and says, "Mrs. B., do you believe in the tooth fairy?"
"Why do you ask, Mario?"
"Because I have a loose tooth and I don't think that there's a Tooth Fairy. I think that adults put money under your pillow."
"Well, that could be. How could you find out if you are right?"
"I could make sure this loose tooth I have in my mouth comes out here at school. Then I could go home and not tell my parents. Then I could put the tooth under my pillow and they won't know it's there. If there is no money, that means there is no Tooth Fairy."
Mrs. B. doesn't think much about it until after recess. Mario had gone out on the playground and involved all the other children in her class in his scheme to determine if adults are dupin' 'em. They all come in excited, and she can tell some of them are already giving up on the idea of the Tooth Fairy. There are some heated exchanges, and she tells everyone that the class will have to let Mario's experiment decide if the Tooth Fairy is real.
However, Mrs. B. decides to call Mario's parents and inform them of his experiment and tells them that the outcome will affect other children in the class. She told the father that she had no suggestions for him as to what he should do, but that she would back any decision he made, no matter what it was. It's just that she wanted him to have this information so that he could make an informed decision as to how to handle the problem.
Mario came back to school on Monday with a couple of dollars in his hand, and those who believed in the Tooth Fairy were very pleased. Howver, Mrs. B. informed me that Mario was still skeptical, and he told her, "Mrs. B., I think my Dad found out. I think he could see something in my eyes that told him I had lost a tooth. I still don't believe in the Tooth Fairy."
Smart Boy.
Monday, August 18, 2008
THE PERPLEXING CONVERSATION
I have blogged about children's communciation skills before. Here is another example of a bewildering conversation I had with a child. George Burns heard Gracie Allen say lots of things this silly, but it was always a joke. He played her straight man. This wasn't a joke; this child was serious.
One day after school, I called another teacher on the phone to see if she was in her room so I wouldn't have to walk all the way to her classroom only to discover she was somewhere else. Her son, Max, answered the phone. Here is the exact conversation:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Max, this is Mr. Rich. Is your mother there?"
"No, she's not."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No...........................but I know where she is at."
"Well, where is she...at?"
(Then there was a long pause.)
"I don't know."
One day after school, I called another teacher on the phone to see if she was in her room so I wouldn't have to walk all the way to her classroom only to discover she was somewhere else. Her son, Max, answered the phone. Here is the exact conversation:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Max, this is Mr. Rich. Is your mother there?"
"No, she's not."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No...........................but I know where she is at."
"Well, where is she...at?"
(Then there was a long pause.)
"I don't know."
Sunday, August 17, 2008
HOW LONG CAN YOU HOLD IT, BLADDERMAN?
My new fourth grade class this year has the potential to be very entertaining and clever, a very underrated quality in our NCLB (No Child Left Behind) society.
On Friday I had just about had it. It seems that about ten to fifteen minutes after every, single recess, a student or two or three of four needed to go to the bathroom. I thought it was time we talk about the efficient, practical, and efficacious use of the restroom during a break.
"You need to start using the restroom during your recess and not during class time!! How many of you have seen Kobe Bryant in the last few seconds of a NBA basketball game call a timeout and then head to the potty? He doesn't do that, and neither should you!!"
Without raising his hand, Michael proudly pipes up this little tidbit of information. "Mr. Rich, I can go four hours withour discharging my bladder!"
I was more flabbergasted than impressed, and I roared with laughter, because Michael seemed so proud and nonchalant about such a unique talent. That is a long time for a little kid!
On Friday I had just about had it. It seems that about ten to fifteen minutes after every, single recess, a student or two or three of four needed to go to the bathroom. I thought it was time we talk about the efficient, practical, and efficacious use of the restroom during a break.
"You need to start using the restroom during your recess and not during class time!! How many of you have seen Kobe Bryant in the last few seconds of a NBA basketball game call a timeout and then head to the potty? He doesn't do that, and neither should you!!"
Without raising his hand, Michael proudly pipes up this little tidbit of information. "Mr. Rich, I can go four hours withour discharging my bladder!"
I was more flabbergasted than impressed, and I roared with laughter, because Michael seemed so proud and nonchalant about such a unique talent. That is a long time for a little kid!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
MISCOMMUNICATION (IT COULD BE ME)
Kids make the oddest statements. Statements that make sense, once you've done some research and figured out what they meant.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and our principal wants me on that playground on time. Teachers live by a bell. A bell rings, you have to be somewhere. Another bell rings, you have to relocate and be somewhere else. Schools are in some ways like little factories in the business of producing workers, and one of those ways is the bell that goes off like a factory whistle. You have to be punched in on time for your shift. But I digress.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and I had my mind on getting there on time. A student in a third grade classroom next to mine said, "Mr. R., I found out I'm allergic to Shaespeare."
I muttered something quickly like, "What? You're allergic to Shakespeare?" What are you talking about?"
"I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Well I gotta go. I have recess duty. I'll talk to you about this later."
And I did. I wanted to know what in tarnation she was talking about. The next day I sought her out and asked her, "What did you mean when you said you were allergic to Shakespeare? Shakespeare the playwright? The guy that writes the plays like Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet?"
"No, Mr. R. Shakespeare. My dog. I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Oh. Shakespeare's your dog. I get it now."
This didn't turn out nearly as interesting as I was hoping. Can you see a third grader getting hives and sneezing during Romeo and Juliet? Now that's interesting.
A week earlier, Hannah and I were talking about diets. I have lost over twenty pounds, and I am feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . well, how should I put it. I'm feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . hungry. Hannah and I were talking about diets and she said, "Well I tried to diet, but I can't go without candy or electricity for more than a week."
"What?! What do you mean, Hannah? How can you eat electricity?"
"Oh I don't eat it. I was camping in the Pecos Mountains with my Mom and Dad and we didn't have candy or electricity for a week. It was horrible!"
Kids. They'll make great adults.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and our principal wants me on that playground on time. Teachers live by a bell. A bell rings, you have to be somewhere. Another bell rings, you have to relocate and be somewhere else. Schools are in some ways like little factories in the business of producing workers, and one of those ways is the bell that goes off like a factory whistle. You have to be punched in on time for your shift. But I digress.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and I had my mind on getting there on time. A student in a third grade classroom next to mine said, "Mr. R., I found out I'm allergic to Shaespeare."
I muttered something quickly like, "What? You're allergic to Shakespeare?" What are you talking about?"
"I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Well I gotta go. I have recess duty. I'll talk to you about this later."
And I did. I wanted to know what in tarnation she was talking about. The next day I sought her out and asked her, "What did you mean when you said you were allergic to Shakespeare? Shakespeare the playwright? The guy that writes the plays like Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet?"
"No, Mr. R. Shakespeare. My dog. I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Oh. Shakespeare's your dog. I get it now."
This didn't turn out nearly as interesting as I was hoping. Can you see a third grader getting hives and sneezing during Romeo and Juliet? Now that's interesting.
A week earlier, Hannah and I were talking about diets. I have lost over twenty pounds, and I am feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . well, how should I put it. I'm feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . hungry. Hannah and I were talking about diets and she said, "Well I tried to diet, but I can't go without candy or electricity for more than a week."
"What?! What do you mean, Hannah? How can you eat electricity?"
"Oh I don't eat it. I was camping in the Pecos Mountains with my Mom and Dad and we didn't have candy or electricity for a week. It was horrible!"
Kids. They'll make great adults.
Friday, August 15, 2008
CURING A CHILD BY BEING GROSSED OUT
Yesterday on the playground while I was on duty, several kids ran up to me with horrified looks on their faces; there was an injury, and someone was seriously hurt. My instinctual love and concern for a child in distress kicked into hyperdrive, and I followed the children in a furious race to a little girl, who was laying on the ground sobbing.
It's a new year, and I'm kind of, how shall we call it, a babe in the woods all over again. I'm beginning to think my wife, Peggy is right. She's claims that every day is a new day for me, and I've heard her many times refer to some turnip truck that I keep falling off of, which doesn't make sense, because not only do I not like turnips, I don't think I've ever been on a turnip truck. But I digress.
The sobbing, little girl down on the ground had taken off her shoe and sock on her right foot and was squeezing it like one of them doctors on television in the emergency room holding onto a dying man's neck to keep the blood from squirting out like a sprinkler watering a city park lawn.
I got on the ground and as calmly as possible croaked, "What's the matter?!?! She said, "I'm bleeding!" I screamed out, "Where? Where are you bleeding?"
She reaches down to her feet and pulls the big toe and the toe next to it so far apart that my initial diagnosis was that her toe bones had almost been ripped apart. Then she points to a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, minuscule minute drop of what might be considered blood if examined under a miscroscope by a highly trained blood recognizer person.
What mystifies me is the incredible angle of the two toes. Her big toe is at an angle of over 180 degrees from the toe next to it. I ask her, "Do your toes hurt?" She says, "No, Mr. R., it's the blood. Look!" Well I can't see any blood, thank heavens, because if I did, I'd probably pass out, and then everyone would know my secret. (I faint at the sight of blood.) Instead of seeing blood, I am staring at two toes that have been bent to a 200 degree angle from each other, and it's freakin' me out, man. I tell her to let go of her toes, which she does, and then I ask her to bend her toes back again. She bends them a little, but not like before. I have to see it again, so I tell her, "Turn 'em back real far again like you did before." She does it, and I gave an audible moan. "Awwww. Uhhhh. Oh that's gruesome!"
I realize the little girl isn't crying anymore. She said, "What's the matter, Mr. R.?" I told her that her toes are very flexible, and if I had bent my toes like that, they'd have broken like little twigs. That's when she let all hell break loose. She bent those two toes so far back, they almost touched each other at the nail. I shrieked, "No! No! Oh! Stop it! Oh that's awful!" She thought my reaction was funny and did it again.
I had to get up and leave. I don't want to pass out in front of a kid I'm trying to wrench from Death's Door.
I thank our Gracious Lord I am not a doctor, and that, in His Infinite Wisdom, He has seen to it that I am a teacher instead.
But I did inadvertently do some doctoring. I think I distracted that sobbing, little girl so much with my antics, she forgot she was hurt.
It's a new year, and I'm kind of, how shall we call it, a babe in the woods all over again. I'm beginning to think my wife, Peggy is right. She's claims that every day is a new day for me, and I've heard her many times refer to some turnip truck that I keep falling off of, which doesn't make sense, because not only do I not like turnips, I don't think I've ever been on a turnip truck. But I digress.
The sobbing, little girl down on the ground had taken off her shoe and sock on her right foot and was squeezing it like one of them doctors on television in the emergency room holding onto a dying man's neck to keep the blood from squirting out like a sprinkler watering a city park lawn.
I got on the ground and as calmly as possible croaked, "What's the matter?!?! She said, "I'm bleeding!" I screamed out, "Where? Where are you bleeding?"
She reaches down to her feet and pulls the big toe and the toe next to it so far apart that my initial diagnosis was that her toe bones had almost been ripped apart. Then she points to a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, minuscule minute drop of what might be considered blood if examined under a miscroscope by a highly trained blood recognizer person.
What mystifies me is the incredible angle of the two toes. Her big toe is at an angle of over 180 degrees from the toe next to it. I ask her, "Do your toes hurt?" She says, "No, Mr. R., it's the blood. Look!" Well I can't see any blood, thank heavens, because if I did, I'd probably pass out, and then everyone would know my secret. (I faint at the sight of blood.) Instead of seeing blood, I am staring at two toes that have been bent to a 200 degree angle from each other, and it's freakin' me out, man. I tell her to let go of her toes, which she does, and then I ask her to bend her toes back again. She bends them a little, but not like before. I have to see it again, so I tell her, "Turn 'em back real far again like you did before." She does it, and I gave an audible moan. "Awwww. Uhhhh. Oh that's gruesome!"
I realize the little girl isn't crying anymore. She said, "What's the matter, Mr. R.?" I told her that her toes are very flexible, and if I had bent my toes like that, they'd have broken like little twigs. That's when she let all hell break loose. She bent those two toes so far back, they almost touched each other at the nail. I shrieked, "No! No! Oh! Stop it! Oh that's awful!" She thought my reaction was funny and did it again.
I had to get up and leave. I don't want to pass out in front of a kid I'm trying to wrench from Death's Door.
I thank our Gracious Lord I am not a doctor, and that, in His Infinite Wisdom, He has seen to it that I am a teacher instead.
But I did inadvertently do some doctoring. I think I distracted that sobbing, little girl so much with my antics, she forgot she was hurt.
History Misexperts
Americans believe that the school system is dumbing down the curriculum. As proof, we point out the declining background knowledge that college freshman have of history and geography as they enter universities.
Teachers believe that the federal government's No Child Left Behind Initiative forces them to teach to the test, which emphasizes reading comprehension and mathematics, leaving very little time for social studies. That doesn't explain why history and geography knowledge was lagging before the "No Child Left Behind Initiative" was passed, but that's a whole 'nother ball o' wax.
Let's just say that I pride myself on teaching my fourth graders the fifty states, their location, a little information about each one, and some general information about each region of the United States. I also take pride in my fifth grade American history classes and my required history of the state of New Mexico.
However, something recently happened in class that let me know that even I have made a change in what subject matter we are teaching in American history. The history books deemphasize Anglos and stress all cultural influences on our country. This is good, to a point. I don't think that replacing Thomas Edison with Lonnie G. Johnson is a marvelous idea, but I'm sure at least some teachers have.
Last week in class, one of my students, Robert, told me he couldn't pick out a book to read. He just couldn't decide. I told him I would pick one out for him, and I chose "The Story of Daniel Boone."
Robert read the title and said, "Mr. R., who is Danielle Boone?"
I need to work on my history and reading classes a little more, I suppose.
Teachers believe that the federal government's No Child Left Behind Initiative forces them to teach to the test, which emphasizes reading comprehension and mathematics, leaving very little time for social studies. That doesn't explain why history and geography knowledge was lagging before the "No Child Left Behind Initiative" was passed, but that's a whole 'nother ball o' wax.
Let's just say that I pride myself on teaching my fourth graders the fifty states, their location, a little information about each one, and some general information about each region of the United States. I also take pride in my fifth grade American history classes and my required history of the state of New Mexico.
However, something recently happened in class that let me know that even I have made a change in what subject matter we are teaching in American history. The history books deemphasize Anglos and stress all cultural influences on our country. This is good, to a point. I don't think that replacing Thomas Edison with Lonnie G. Johnson is a marvelous idea, but I'm sure at least some teachers have.
Last week in class, one of my students, Robert, told me he couldn't pick out a book to read. He just couldn't decide. I told him I would pick one out for him, and I chose "The Story of Daniel Boone."
Robert read the title and said, "Mr. R., who is Danielle Boone?"
I need to work on my history and reading classes a little more, I suppose.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
MEN AND THEIR INFLUENCE ON DELICATE LITTLE FLOWERS
One of the teachers I work with is Greg. Greg is a little like myself in that we both didn't get married until we were in our thirties, which means we both sowed a lot of wild oats, and although I cannot speak for Greg, I think he would agree with me when I say that wild oats are tasty, but not very nutritious. But I digress.
Greg has two children, a second grade girl named Shayna, and a kindergarten boy named CJ. I was at Greg's house guzzlin' a Moosehead, when Greg says, "CJ, show Mr. Rich your karate." So CJ gets in a little boy's long stance and starts blocking Greg's punches. I can tell Greg is proud of little CJ. He's a blockin' Daddy's punches left and right and I'm dazzled. I'm complimenting little CJ with remarks like, "Look at him go! That's a karate man! Look at those blocked punches! What a karate man!"
All this time Shayna is just watching and observing, but she gets to thinking, "Hmmm. Why is little CJ gettin' all the attention? I'm special, too. What is it that I, Daddy's Delicate Little Flower, can do to bedazzle Mr. Rich? I need the spotlight on me. Think, girl, think!"
I guess it hit her, for about two minutes later she comes into the room and yells, "Mr. Rich! Look what I can do!!" She then proceeds to tug at the neck of her blouse with her right hand, pulling the V-neck opening all the way over to her right bicep. She then slips her left hand under her right armpit, and then slams her right elbow down to her right side and makes what is known as an armpit fart. She then proceeds to rip off seven or eight prize winners in a row. I haven't seen anyone do that in years! I am floored, and proceed to lavish praise on Shayna.
"Shayna, I haven't seen or heard an armpit fart in years! Those are some beauties! You are incredible! I haven't done one in years. Wait a minute. Let me try."
I then proceed to barely make an air noise, much less a little ripper, and then I discover that my left hand now stinks, and I am taken aback and embarrassed. Oh, I could've blamed the "dry heat" of New Mexico. I learned armpit farts back in the '50's in a Houston, Texas "summer sauna," fer cryin' out loud, when your armpit was drippin' wet and you could goose it loud enough to be heard across the yard. But I accepted defeat, resigned myself to the accomplishments of a new generation of armpit farters, told her she is a much better armpit farter than I am, and Shayna proudly walked off, but not until she had goosed her armpit a dozen more times, jus' fer show. For Shayna, mission accomplished!
I look over at Greg and say, "I wonder who taught her that?" Greg says, "That's Shayna, my Delicate Little Flower!"
Greg has two children, a second grade girl named Shayna, and a kindergarten boy named CJ. I was at Greg's house guzzlin' a Moosehead, when Greg says, "CJ, show Mr. Rich your karate." So CJ gets in a little boy's long stance and starts blocking Greg's punches. I can tell Greg is proud of little CJ. He's a blockin' Daddy's punches left and right and I'm dazzled. I'm complimenting little CJ with remarks like, "Look at him go! That's a karate man! Look at those blocked punches! What a karate man!"
All this time Shayna is just watching and observing, but she gets to thinking, "Hmmm. Why is little CJ gettin' all the attention? I'm special, too. What is it that I, Daddy's Delicate Little Flower, can do to bedazzle Mr. Rich? I need the spotlight on me. Think, girl, think!"
I guess it hit her, for about two minutes later she comes into the room and yells, "Mr. Rich! Look what I can do!!" She then proceeds to tug at the neck of her blouse with her right hand, pulling the V-neck opening all the way over to her right bicep. She then slips her left hand under her right armpit, and then slams her right elbow down to her right side and makes what is known as an armpit fart. She then proceeds to rip off seven or eight prize winners in a row. I haven't seen anyone do that in years! I am floored, and proceed to lavish praise on Shayna.
"Shayna, I haven't seen or heard an armpit fart in years! Those are some beauties! You are incredible! I haven't done one in years. Wait a minute. Let me try."
I then proceed to barely make an air noise, much less a little ripper, and then I discover that my left hand now stinks, and I am taken aback and embarrassed. Oh, I could've blamed the "dry heat" of New Mexico. I learned armpit farts back in the '50's in a Houston, Texas "summer sauna," fer cryin' out loud, when your armpit was drippin' wet and you could goose it loud enough to be heard across the yard. But I accepted defeat, resigned myself to the accomplishments of a new generation of armpit farters, told her she is a much better armpit farter than I am, and Shayna proudly walked off, but not until she had goosed her armpit a dozen more times, jus' fer show. For Shayna, mission accomplished!
I look over at Greg and say, "I wonder who taught her that?" Greg says, "That's Shayna, my Delicate Little Flower!"
Monday, July 14, 2008
Miscellaneous Ideas
School is out, and, being an elementary school teacher, I am in the throes of ecstasy. My house is all painted, all important chores are done, I have gained five pounds, and I have gained them watching videos and resting instead of working.
The down side is that I needed the money so I am teaching summer school, but that's easy. The class is full of children who either can't or won't learn. I have four weeks to fix them? I don't think so!
Because it's summer, I have no kids around to provide me fodder for blogs, so I am going to throw out a few ideas that don't have anything to do with kids.
By the way, I wrote these with a couple o' beers in me, and I'm laughin' my head off. Maybe they'll be funnier if you also have a couple o' somethings in you.
Miscellaneaous Ideas:
There is a human being on this planet, whose name shall go unmentioned, who once discovered a marijuana plant growing out of the floorboard of their car. It seems a stray cannabis seed landed in a fertile area of the rotting, rear floorboard carpeting where a broken window above provided moisture. This person either kept a very busy lifestyle or was so stoned they just didn't notice that the plant was doing quite well, thank you. A friend pointed it out to them when they looked in the backseat. It was high enough (pun intended) to be seen, hypothetically, from, say, the driver's seat of a patrol car.
I am on a health food kick. I drink Diet Coke Plus with Vitamins and Minerals (niacin, vitamin B-6 and B-12, magnesium, and zinc).
I'm gettin' butt cancer from all the smoke that's bein' blown up my ass by all the politicians runnin' for President, and later, I'll be footin' the bill for "treatments," too.
The down side is that I needed the money so I am teaching summer school, but that's easy. The class is full of children who either can't or won't learn. I have four weeks to fix them? I don't think so!
Because it's summer, I have no kids around to provide me fodder for blogs, so I am going to throw out a few ideas that don't have anything to do with kids.
By the way, I wrote these with a couple o' beers in me, and I'm laughin' my head off. Maybe they'll be funnier if you also have a couple o' somethings in you.
Miscellaneaous Ideas:
There is a human being on this planet, whose name shall go unmentioned, who once discovered a marijuana plant growing out of the floorboard of their car. It seems a stray cannabis seed landed in a fertile area of the rotting, rear floorboard carpeting where a broken window above provided moisture. This person either kept a very busy lifestyle or was so stoned they just didn't notice that the plant was doing quite well, thank you. A friend pointed it out to them when they looked in the backseat. It was high enough (pun intended) to be seen, hypothetically, from, say, the driver's seat of a patrol car.
I am on a health food kick. I drink Diet Coke Plus with Vitamins and Minerals (niacin, vitamin B-6 and B-12, magnesium, and zinc).
I'm gettin' butt cancer from all the smoke that's bein' blown up my ass by all the politicians runnin' for President, and later, I'll be footin' the bill for "treatments," too.
My wife wants to commission a scientific study on why, when you are microwaving a mug of coffee, the microwave spinning platter ALWAYS stops with the mug handle pointing at the back of the microwave.
How come some people get away with so much foolishness, and others are in deep doo for simple little nothing stuff? I think we ought to go ahead and decide who these people are that can get away with stuff and give them a license plate that reads, "R O M E". That stands for Royal Order of the Most Exempt. Let's get this injustice out in the open and acknowledge it for what it is. Let 'em get away with their stuff, and then the people who are not in the Royal Order of the Most Exempt won't feel so bad. For example, I don't care that I can't go the River Oaks Country Club. I'm not a member, fer cryin' out loud. And if that dude in Washington, D.C. got away with something worse than what I get in big trouble for, well, it's because I'm not a member of the Royal Order of the Most Exempt.
I have a new pet word for women's breasts: blouse biscuits. As in, "My, I sure would love to spread some butter on your blouse biscuits." It's not something I'll ever say to anyone but my wife, Peggy, but I will add, it works magic on her.
When you are on vacation, eating out at all the great restaurants is a real balancing act. You don't want to eat so much that you're so full you have to skip a meal.
The mirror is not our friend.
Money talks, and mine says, "Guhbye."
That's enough of this nonsense.
Monday, July 07, 2008
FIFTH GRADE PUBERTY UNIT
I have blogged about the state required fifth grade puberty unit before. Unfortunately, last year I taught fourth grade and was unable to get an earful of the fifth graders' unusual and sometimes hilarious comments and questions.
I was talking to one of the fifth grade teachers, who I will refer to as "Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith is a relatively new teacher, and this is her first year teaching fifth grade. Mrs. Smith is not a young girl, pink and fresh out of college, no sir! Mrs. Smith has been around for awhile, and in fact, she has three children of her own. But Mrs. Smith is "old school," and women just don't go around saying all kinds of cuss words and talking about genitalia, except during Happy Hour. I was talking to Mrs. Smith about the upcoming fifth grade puberty unit, and she said, "In order to prepare for the puberty unit, I have been standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing saying the word 'penis' without turning red, and I just about have it."
Amateur. Someone needs to take her to the Happy Hour where I have heard the women talking. Good heavens, they are worse than the men, although that does not count the longshoremen I heard blister an ear in Houston, Texas.
I was talking to one of the fifth grade teachers, who I will refer to as "Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith is a relatively new teacher, and this is her first year teaching fifth grade. Mrs. Smith is not a young girl, pink and fresh out of college, no sir! Mrs. Smith has been around for awhile, and in fact, she has three children of her own. But Mrs. Smith is "old school," and women just don't go around saying all kinds of cuss words and talking about genitalia, except during Happy Hour. I was talking to Mrs. Smith about the upcoming fifth grade puberty unit, and she said, "In order to prepare for the puberty unit, I have been standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing saying the word 'penis' without turning red, and I just about have it."
Amateur. Someone needs to take her to the Happy Hour where I have heard the women talking. Good heavens, they are worse than the men, although that does not count the longshoremen I heard blister an ear in Houston, Texas.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Rebecca, Power Tools (Compensators), and Paranoia
I have been having some nightmares lately, and I mentioned them to Rebecca. Rebecca is one of my favorite fellow teachers at school. She has a clever sense of humor and has become a very good friend.
One time I helped her move, and then easily talked her into tearing down a shed in her new backyard that was an ugly affair that hindered an otherwise wonderful view of a golf course on the other side of her fence. I also took offense to its low entry door that managed to clobber me on the head as I entered. ("Clobber me once, shame on you. Clobber me twice, shame on me. Clobber me three times, you're goin' down.") We made good use of Rebecca's cordless electric drill while demolishing the hideous shed, and we took numerous pictures of each other standing on the rubble holding the electric drill and slyly grinning like Schwarzennegger right after he laid siege on and machine gunned ninety-six drug dealers and meth manufacturers in their cement manufacturing plant/stronghold just outside the city of Megalopolis.
I refused to accept payment for helping her, so Rebecca gave me a present of an electric drill even bigger than hers. It's a DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. It's a yellow and black masterpiece of workmanship and power, making light of any home projects I have around the house. Trucks driving by my house slow down when I am out in the front yard using my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. Envy is written all over the drivers' faces as I screw and unscrew and screw again the screws holding the pickets on my fence with the mighty power of my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger.
But I digress.
I was telling Rebecca recently that in my frightening nightmares, someone is trying to kill me. Rebecca casually replied, "I won't try to kill you........except in the heat of the moment."
One time I helped her move, and then easily talked her into tearing down a shed in her new backyard that was an ugly affair that hindered an otherwise wonderful view of a golf course on the other side of her fence. I also took offense to its low entry door that managed to clobber me on the head as I entered. ("Clobber me once, shame on you. Clobber me twice, shame on me. Clobber me three times, you're goin' down.") We made good use of Rebecca's cordless electric drill while demolishing the hideous shed, and we took numerous pictures of each other standing on the rubble holding the electric drill and slyly grinning like Schwarzennegger right after he laid siege on and machine gunned ninety-six drug dealers and meth manufacturers in their cement manufacturing plant/stronghold just outside the city of Megalopolis.
I refused to accept payment for helping her, so Rebecca gave me a present of an electric drill even bigger than hers. It's a DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. It's a yellow and black masterpiece of workmanship and power, making light of any home projects I have around the house. Trucks driving by my house slow down when I am out in the front yard using my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. Envy is written all over the drivers' faces as I screw and unscrew and screw again the screws holding the pickets on my fence with the mighty power of my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger.
But I digress.
I was telling Rebecca recently that in my frightening nightmares, someone is trying to kill me. Rebecca casually replied, "I won't try to kill you........except in the heat of the moment."
Sunday, December 02, 2007
But When I Stand On It, My Weight Looks More Proportionate To My Height
Catching up today over coffee, my friends and I were (gasp!) discussing our children. And one of the threads was so interesting to me that I thought I would continue the conversation, albeit by myself and without the three-dollar latte, guess where we were.
We were talking about authority--specifically kid's lack of automatic respect of. My friend's son had disobeyed a teacher and we were talking about how he viewed the situation. Now don't get me wrong: I struggle constantly with my internal Because I Said So voice, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't give Jake the if-you-don't-play-by-
the-rules-you-won't-get-to-play-and-that's-just-the-way-life-is-
and-quit-cracking-your-knuckles-it's-annoying talk. But I have to wonder about the world that we're presenting to children. And are my rules their rules?
It's not just that I think this kid is cool in a Question Authority tee-shirt wearing kind of way (which I do), it's that I also believe fervently that it isn't all his fault. This is a great, respectful kid whose young brain can't completely wrap around our notion of "do what the teacher says" and his generation's notion of "why should I when what he wants me to do is stupid?" When I step outside of my old, floater-filled eyes and purvey the world with their vision, I see it all a little differently. To an adult, OJ's acquittal upset us with a disappointing shock, a huge example of how the system sometimes seemingly fails us. But to a child or a teen, is it merely another time proving the rules are different now?
I was pulling into a store the other day and, with a car behind me also looking for a spot, chose to pull ahead of an empty place and wait for a car that would soon be backing out. I wasn't in a hurry in that moment--she could have the open spot. But she misunderstood my magnanimous act for one of stupidity. With my blinker on, she could see she was stuck behind the loser waiting for a space. With all her hand gestures and horn blowing behind me, she missed the open spot. She finally did see it, and whipped into it angrily.
I rolled down my window, as I had not received my space yet, this is Boca and the woman pulling out was clearly one hundred and ten. "Hi," I called to her. "I was just letting you have that spot."
Her moment of contrition was non-existent. She was around twenty years old and had no time for my over forty nonsense.
"I KNOW." She rolled her eyes. "It was obvious that's what you were doing. I'm not an idiot."*
Rude? Yes, to me. And to anyone else to whom I tell the story. But when I think about it, it had some elements of generational discordance to it. I am not saying that I wouldn't have appreciated something more genteel, nor am I saying that all young people are this way. She hasn't thought about it since, I am sure, and probably didn't even mean it as insidiously as I took it. It wasn't much different than the flippant comments she grew up hearing on sitcoms, it's just that she said it to me. I have a face that I attach to every conversation I have. She probably online dates and text messages her friends. I was a nobody to her at that moment--why should we even talk?
Okay, I'll get off my soapbox. But there's an advantage of my looking at it this way. Certainly I am not embracing a society that speaks to each other with such a lack of compassion. But the fact is that people are talking like that. And while I can try to present another style to my children, maybe I can take it a little less personally when Jake says his "Whatever", or Olivia--when I tell her she can not have a cookie in the car--says, "Turn around and drive, Mom," small finger pointing in the air. They are polite most of the time, but sometimes they talk to you the way they are hearing all of society talk.
Or maybe, by tomorrow, I will again hit Jake in the back of the head, Italian-style. Because I said so.
*You so are.
We were talking about authority--specifically kid's lack of automatic respect of. My friend's son had disobeyed a teacher and we were talking about how he viewed the situation. Now don't get me wrong: I struggle constantly with my internal Because I Said So voice, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't give Jake the if-you-don't-play-by-
the-rules-you-won't-get-to-play-and-that's-just-the-way-life-is-
and-quit-cracking-your-knuckles-it's-annoying talk. But I have to wonder about the world that we're presenting to children. And are my rules their rules?
It's not just that I think this kid is cool in a Question Authority tee-shirt wearing kind of way (which I do), it's that I also believe fervently that it isn't all his fault. This is a great, respectful kid whose young brain can't completely wrap around our notion of "do what the teacher says" and his generation's notion of "why should I when what he wants me to do is stupid?" When I step outside of my old, floater-filled eyes and purvey the world with their vision, I see it all a little differently. To an adult, OJ's acquittal upset us with a disappointing shock, a huge example of how the system sometimes seemingly fails us. But to a child or a teen, is it merely another time proving the rules are different now?
I was pulling into a store the other day and, with a car behind me also looking for a spot, chose to pull ahead of an empty place and wait for a car that would soon be backing out. I wasn't in a hurry in that moment--she could have the open spot. But she misunderstood my magnanimous act for one of stupidity. With my blinker on, she could see she was stuck behind the loser waiting for a space. With all her hand gestures and horn blowing behind me, she missed the open spot. She finally did see it, and whipped into it angrily.
I rolled down my window, as I had not received my space yet, this is Boca and the woman pulling out was clearly one hundred and ten. "Hi," I called to her. "I was just letting you have that spot."
Her moment of contrition was non-existent. She was around twenty years old and had no time for my over forty nonsense.
"I KNOW." She rolled her eyes. "It was obvious that's what you were doing. I'm not an idiot."*
Rude? Yes, to me. And to anyone else to whom I tell the story. But when I think about it, it had some elements of generational discordance to it. I am not saying that I wouldn't have appreciated something more genteel, nor am I saying that all young people are this way. She hasn't thought about it since, I am sure, and probably didn't even mean it as insidiously as I took it. It wasn't much different than the flippant comments she grew up hearing on sitcoms, it's just that she said it to me. I have a face that I attach to every conversation I have. She probably online dates and text messages her friends. I was a nobody to her at that moment--why should we even talk?
Okay, I'll get off my soapbox. But there's an advantage of my looking at it this way. Certainly I am not embracing a society that speaks to each other with such a lack of compassion. But the fact is that people are talking like that. And while I can try to present another style to my children, maybe I can take it a little less personally when Jake says his "Whatever", or Olivia--when I tell her she can not have a cookie in the car--says, "Turn around and drive, Mom," small finger pointing in the air. They are polite most of the time, but sometimes they talk to you the way they are hearing all of society talk.
Or maybe, by tomorrow, I will again hit Jake in the back of the head, Italian-style. Because I said so.
*You so are.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Bring In The Red Cross, And Why Is Panettone So Expensive?
I have become One Of Those People, and unfortunately do not have the money to back it up. Let me explain: I have always tried to be an organized mother. When Jake was a toddler, I never once--not once--ran out of diapers. I was the neighbor that people called when they needed something last minute, like Pedialyte. "Mine's out of date!" they'd tell me, in a panic. No worry, I had some. Heck, I had a first aid kit in every bathroom that had a check up date (making sure all needed components were restocked) Sharpied on to it. So I never felt I had to run out shopping last minute, or purchase unnecessary products (like gum at the checkout counter) to appease a screaming child. I was superior to that.
Fast forward about ten years. And I'd welcome you into our home, except I don't have an extra Hazmat suit for you to don. Because we have been sick.
For the past two and a half weeks, Jake has been absent almost everyday. And in sixth grade, there are important, age-appropriate studies to make up. Things like algebra, and a world culturesthesis paper on the development of Latin America and its current effect on our environment (WTF?). I have been semi-homeschooling to keep up, all while developing the flu myself and caring for a toddler. So ignore the typos during this post, it's 10:57 and I'm typing this one-handed, the other fist being occupied by an apple martini and don't say I don't deserve it.
Then Olivia, who has not yet, at two, had so much as a stuffy nose, became really sick. And because I am no longer this woman*, I had nothing at home for her. So even though she's crying and feeling like she would like to just stay home and be cuddled, I take her with me to the store. I grab--while cooing to her to please stop crying and to not remember this moment of parenting instead please recall an hour later from now when we'll be home and I'll be rocking her--all the items that we NEED to make her feel better. You know: the aforementioned Pedialyte, chicken soup (ugh--canned), fruit, juices, children's Motrin, tissues. Oh, and a few extra items that she has pointed to while crying: crayons, markers, cupcakes, pack of bubbles, new toothbrush with a Hello Kitty handle, balloons, ice cream sandwiches, and at the point of checkout, a large box of imported Italian Panettone.
I won't admit to you what the bill was, all to appease my sick daughter and restock my home with items that thirty-four year old Laura would have already had in the house. But I will tell you that thirteen dollars and ninety-nine cents of that bill was for a box of Italian raisin bread that she had to have. I guess it's okay, Eric was looking into working at a mini-mart in his spare time anyway.
*Organized Mother
Fast forward about ten years. And I'd welcome you into our home, except I don't have an extra Hazmat suit for you to don. Because we have been sick.
For the past two and a half weeks, Jake has been absent almost everyday. And in sixth grade, there are important, age-appropriate studies to make up. Things like algebra, and a world cultures
Then Olivia, who has not yet, at two, had so much as a stuffy nose, became really sick. And because I am no longer this woman*, I had nothing at home for her. So even though she's crying and feeling like she would like to just stay home and be cuddled, I take her with me to the store. I grab--while cooing to her to please stop crying and to not remember this moment of parenting instead please recall an hour later from now when we'll be home and I'll be rocking her--all the items that we NEED to make her feel better. You know: the aforementioned Pedialyte, chicken soup (ugh--canned), fruit, juices, children's Motrin, tissues. Oh, and a few extra items that she has pointed to while crying: crayons, markers, cupcakes, pack of bubbles, new toothbrush with a Hello Kitty handle, balloons, ice cream sandwiches, and at the point of checkout, a large box of imported Italian Panettone.
I won't admit to you what the bill was, all to appease my sick daughter and restock my home with items that thirty-four year old Laura would have already had in the house. But I will tell you that thirteen dollars and ninety-nine cents of that bill was for a box of Italian raisin bread that she had to have. I guess it's okay, Eric was looking into working at a mini-mart in his spare time anyway.
*Organized Mother
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Shot Down in May!
I have blogged before about excrutiatingly difficult dinner times when I was a child, and the memory of a certain breakfast meal came to mind from my last blog, "Mystery Breakfast Food."
When I was a child, you were on your own for breakfast. Breakfast was OverLord/overseer free. You could eat what you wanted. Except there's a loophole, an asterisk the size of Texas on that last statement. My mother stocked only health food. That meant there were no cookies. No doughnuts. No sugar coated cereals.
My younger brother, Jack, and I yearned for Post Sugar Crisps. They were peddled with cute commercials starring a snuggly little bear, the Sugar Bear, and he looked so happy and plump eating those tasty treats of sugary, wheaty goodness. Jack and I had tasted them at other children's houses, but that meant diddly-squat. We ate breakfast at our house. That meant Kellogg's All Bran. At first, All Bran ripped through me like a gallon of Metamucil through a two year old. By the time I was twelve, my intestines had developed the capacity to digest enough roughage to contipate a horse. But I digress.
We yearned for Sugar Crisps.
Finally, one day, a miracle happened. Jack and I were with our mother at the grocery store and with the inspired amount of cajoling, tears, and persuasion, our mother relented and bought us a box of Sugar Crisps.
We ate the whole box in one morning. We were like those cowboys in the western movies that had been stranded in the desert for two weeks and were dyin' o' thirst, and their horses had crumpled in the last scene, and the cowboys were mumblin' incoherent crap, and their lips were all crudded over and whitish, and the people that found them had to keep them from taking too big a swig of water all at once because their parched throats would swell up. Except we had no one to grab the canteen and keep us from drinking too much water. We were alone in the breakfast room. Alone. All by ourselves. Only the two of us.......and a box of Sugar Crisps.
Our rugged little constitutions couldn't handle that much pleasure, that much joy, that much sugar all in one morning. Hell, we couldn't have handled a whole box of All Bran. We squirted hot broth out our bung holes until we were in a state of exhaustion and compliance, and then our mother informed us we were never to eat those diabolical diuretics ever again.
You're ridin' high in April. Shot down in May!
When I was a child, you were on your own for breakfast. Breakfast was OverLord/overseer free. You could eat what you wanted. Except there's a loophole, an asterisk the size of Texas on that last statement. My mother stocked only health food. That meant there were no cookies. No doughnuts. No sugar coated cereals.
My younger brother, Jack, and I yearned for Post Sugar Crisps. They were peddled with cute commercials starring a snuggly little bear, the Sugar Bear, and he looked so happy and plump eating those tasty treats of sugary, wheaty goodness. Jack and I had tasted them at other children's houses, but that meant diddly-squat. We ate breakfast at our house. That meant Kellogg's All Bran. At first, All Bran ripped through me like a gallon of Metamucil through a two year old. By the time I was twelve, my intestines had developed the capacity to digest enough roughage to contipate a horse. But I digress.
We yearned for Sugar Crisps.
Finally, one day, a miracle happened. Jack and I were with our mother at the grocery store and with the inspired amount of cajoling, tears, and persuasion, our mother relented and bought us a box of Sugar Crisps.
We ate the whole box in one morning. We were like those cowboys in the western movies that had been stranded in the desert for two weeks and were dyin' o' thirst, and their horses had crumpled in the last scene, and the cowboys were mumblin' incoherent crap, and their lips were all crudded over and whitish, and the people that found them had to keep them from taking too big a swig of water all at once because their parched throats would swell up. Except we had no one to grab the canteen and keep us from drinking too much water. We were alone in the breakfast room. Alone. All by ourselves. Only the two of us.......and a box of Sugar Crisps.
Our rugged little constitutions couldn't handle that much pleasure, that much joy, that much sugar all in one morning. Hell, we couldn't have handled a whole box of All Bran. We squirted hot broth out our bung holes until we were in a state of exhaustion and compliance, and then our mother informed us we were never to eat those diabolical diuretics ever again.
You're ridin' high in April. Shot down in May!
Mystery Breakfast Food
My fourth graders were having a discussion of what constitutes a healthy breakfast. This discussion was brought on by an onslaught of weakness and anemia just before lunch time. I thought a group discussion would be of some instruction to my students who think two bites of a Pop Tart is a nutritious meal. We went over all the different foods that would be bad to eat, including junk, sugary breakfast cereals, then we discussed more positive choices.
At the end of the discussion I asked if there were any questions. Mark raised his hand.
"Yes, you have a question, Mark?"
"Yeah. I was wonderin'.....what exactly is 'shreaded meat?' "
"I think you misunderstood, Mark. The class was taking about Shreaded Wheat."
"Oh. What's Shreaded Wheat?"
"It's a breakfast cereal. It's a healthy breakfast cereal made from whole grain wheat. You've never heard of Shreaded Wheat?"
"No. I eat Count Chocula!
Mmmm. Chocolate for breakfast. Lucky Mark.
At the end of the discussion I asked if there were any questions. Mark raised his hand.
"Yes, you have a question, Mark?"
"Yeah. I was wonderin'.....what exactly is 'shreaded meat?' "
"I think you misunderstood, Mark. The class was taking about Shreaded Wheat."
"Oh. What's Shreaded Wheat?"
"It's a breakfast cereal. It's a healthy breakfast cereal made from whole grain wheat. You've never heard of Shreaded Wheat?"
"No. I eat Count Chocula!
Mmmm. Chocolate for breakfast. Lucky Mark.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A.K.A. Michael Myers
A fourth grade student in my class, Nicole, was talking to me at lunch about Halloween and some scary movies she enjoys. In a very excited voice, Nicole described her favorite scary movie.
"My favorite scary movie is that one where the guy wears the hockey mask, and the mask is kinda white, and he chases after this girl and he won't die, and he has this knife, and it's on Halloween, and it is so scary!"
I'm thinking that this is definitely 'Halloween,' the original thriller starring a young Jamie Lee Curtis.
"Is it 'Halloween'?" Is that the name of the movie?"
"I don't know, Mr. R. But the bad guy's name who wears the hockey mask is Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Being of older mind and even slower thinking, I asked, "What's the guy's name again?"
"Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Then Nathan, who was sitting with us interjects, "No it's not. It's Michael Myers!"
"My favorite scary movie is that one where the guy wears the hockey mask, and the mask is kinda white, and he chases after this girl and he won't die, and he has this knife, and it's on Halloween, and it is so scary!"
I'm thinking that this is definitely 'Halloween,' the original thriller starring a young Jamie Lee Curtis.
"Is it 'Halloween'?" Is that the name of the movie?"
"I don't know, Mr. R. But the bad guy's name who wears the hockey mask is Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Being of older mind and even slower thinking, I asked, "What's the guy's name again?"
"Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Then Nathan, who was sitting with us interjects, "No it's not. It's Michael Myers!"Nicole looks at Nathan confusedly and says, "I thought his name was Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
I had to guess at the spelling of the pseudonym Nicole has given Michael Myers. Michael Marion Stinkbaum is his alias, I suppose.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Endless Love
We fully comprehend our future parents-in-law responsibility that came part and parcel with birthing Olivia. The pre-wedding talk with her intended will be well-rehearsed. It will point out the benefits of marrying a girl with a demanding nature, the plus sides of forming a partnership with a girl who is decisive and sure of her wants, and the obvious financial upsides of her still sporting an inexpensive size 6X as an adult. But where we will be of no assistance to the young man will be in the affection department.
As I drove Olivia to school this morning, I reminded her that I loved her a great deal. "Nooooo!" she screamed, as usual. "Yes, Olivia," I persisted. "And you love Mommy, too."
She looked out the window and sighed. "What's goin' on here?" she muttered.
You're on your own, dear son-in-law.
As I drove Olivia to school this morning, I reminded her that I loved her a great deal. "Nooooo!" she screamed, as usual. "Yes, Olivia," I persisted. "And you love Mommy, too."
She looked out the window and sighed. "What's goin' on here?" she muttered.
You're on your own, dear son-in-law.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
An Incredible Resume
I sent out a volunteer form to all the parents of the students in my fourth grade classroom. I use this form to find parents who are willing and able to tutor math and writing, and I schedule them to come together in groups of three of four at a specific, appropriate time when they can assist in the classroom. The volunteer form also has a survey that asks parents if they have an area of expertise they would like to share with the classroom. Any parent who is unable or unwilling to come into the classroom on a regular basis but who would like to talk to the kids about their hobby or their area of expertise are welcome.
Nathan's father responded, and I was amazed at what I read. I mentioned his response to Nathan.
"Nathan, you're father is really somethin', isn't he."
"What do ya mean, Mr. R.?"
"Well, for one thing, your father is a colonel in the United States Air Force."
"He is?"
"Yes, he is. Did you know that he was a colonel?"
"No."
"Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"That means your father has very many people that he gives orders to, but very few people who give him orders. He is very high up in the chain of command. He is an important person. Did you know that?"
"No."
"That isn't all, Nathan. He flies some of the greatest fighter and bomber jets in the world. He flies F-117 Stealths, F-4s and F-4 Phantoms, F-15s, the F-22 Raptor! Did you know he flew the fastest jets in the world?"
"No. I knew he flew stuff."
" 'Stuff?' Nathan! Your father flew F-16s in Operation Desert Storm! He is a fighter ace! He teaches Air Force pilots how to fly all kinds of incredible aircraft, and now he is involved in some kind of project involving a new jet that has new technology....the F-22 or something. Did you know that about your father?
"No." Then with an excited, suddenly animated voice, Nathan exclaims, "He plays football and bakes cookies!"
I guess I'm with Nathan. My eating disorder precludes me from asking his father to discuss the boring aircraft he flies. Nah! Let's get him to bake cookies!!
Nathan's father responded, and I was amazed at what I read. I mentioned his response to Nathan.
"Nathan, you're father is really somethin', isn't he."
"What do ya mean, Mr. R.?"
"Well, for one thing, your father is a colonel in the United States Air Force."
"He is?"
"Yes, he is. Did you know that he was a colonel?"
"No."
"Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"That means your father has very many people that he gives orders to, but very few people who give him orders. He is very high up in the chain of command. He is an important person. Did you know that?"
"No."
"That isn't all, Nathan. He flies some of the greatest fighter and bomber jets in the world. He flies F-117 Stealths, F-4s and F-4 Phantoms, F-15s, the F-22 Raptor! Did you know he flew the fastest jets in the world?"
"No. I knew he flew stuff."
" 'Stuff?' Nathan! Your father flew F-16s in Operation Desert Storm! He is a fighter ace! He teaches Air Force pilots how to fly all kinds of incredible aircraft, and now he is involved in some kind of project involving a new jet that has new technology....the F-22 or something. Did you know that about your father?
"No." Then with an excited, suddenly animated voice, Nathan exclaims, "He plays football and bakes cookies!"
I guess I'm with Nathan. My eating disorder precludes me from asking his father to discuss the boring aircraft he flies. Nah! Let's get him to bake cookies!!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
School Days 2007
Olivia was one of the last to get photographed. It was a horrific twenty minute wait, as Olivia watched the children before her become more and more upset with every camera click. She sat down, nervously, and just there on the right, at her knee level, I think you can see a portion of my shirt.After a substantial amount of flashes, the photographers asked me to please remove her from the bench; they had enough pictures already.
I had the only child who screamed as she was being taken away from the big bad picture man by her mother. As we passed the next terrified child waiting in line, she stuck out her index finger to him. "Don't be scared," she said with the authoritative voice of experience.
Add about 40 years on you and see how much you love that camera, O.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Funny, And I Always Try To Lay Everything On Eric
Simon has been an amazing surprise from the day we brought home Olivia. He was so intensely...uh, playful with Jake that we assumed that around the first of September 2005 it was going to have to be a decision between keeping him or Olivia. We wanted to see if she was a colicky baby before we committed to a decision.
But not to worry. Simon took his charge of Olivia very seriously. Even while running through the house after Jake with his maddest pace--and not that I am screaming at them or anything while this is occurring--he avoids her completely. She can take his bone from his mouth, try to stick a finger at his fascinating rear end, or pull his body hair to help her stand up; he just patiently licks her. His only ill behavior is a rabid consumption of her puzzle pieces. She will bring us another mangled piece, with a sad expression, and we take it from her. "Oh Olivia," we say. "How sad. Simon ate the puzzle."
We were driving to school the other morning, and we passed a snarl of traffic due to a stalled auto. "What is that, Mom?" she pointed to the disabled car.
"That car is broken, Olivia."
"Oh," she said knowingly and sadly. "Simon got it."
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Can-Can
I have a little tradition that every class loves, especially at the beginning of the year when it's fresh. Whenever a child has a birthday, the parents and I plan a surprise party. They bring the cookies, cupcakes, or whatever, and sometimes I supply the drinks. They arrive with these goodies during the kids' last, afternoon recess. Then, when I go get the students who are lined up to come in, I have one of them "rat" or tattle on the birthday child. The "stoolie" will complain about something the birthday child did during recess, and while I am "chewing them out" in the hallway, the other kids line up at the front of the room and sing "Happy Birthday," "The Birthday Rap," and "The Army Birthday Sound-Off Song" to them when the birthday child enters the room.
John and Damian share a birthday, so I contacted both of their parents, plotted and planned the surprise birthday party, the day of the party arrived, the last recess came, the goodies arrived via one of the parents, the recess ended, and I set out on my last contribution to the celebration: to get John and Damian in trouble. Sure enough, Bailey had a complaint about both of them as plotted and planned, and I was out in the hallway giving the two birthday boys a bit of "advice" about playground behavior.
Only I notice they both of them seemed totally unconcerned, and I thought, "Well, we've only done this twice, but Damian is pretty sharp, may have seen this coming, and may have warned John about the possibility of a secret party." I finished my speech, headed into the classroom, and when Damian and John entered, the class started singing our three birthday songs. Except little Damian had figured it out, and he and John had practiced the Can-Can. We watched them dance the Can-Can while we sang to them.
It was a bizzare moment, witnessed by a fifth grade teacher, Mr. N., who came into our classroom to talk to me about a girl in the Chamiza Chorus. I don't know if he told anyone what he saw, but if he did, it must have been a peculiar tale: two, fourth grade boys, arm-in-arm, dancing the Can-Can, with music provided by everyone else in the class singing three birthday songs.
John and Damian share a birthday, so I contacted both of their parents, plotted and planned the surprise birthday party, the day of the party arrived, the last recess came, the goodies arrived via one of the parents, the recess ended, and I set out on my last contribution to the celebration: to get John and Damian in trouble. Sure enough, Bailey had a complaint about both of them as plotted and planned, and I was out in the hallway giving the two birthday boys a bit of "advice" about playground behavior.
Only I notice they both of them seemed totally unconcerned, and I thought, "Well, we've only done this twice, but Damian is pretty sharp, may have seen this coming, and may have warned John about the possibility of a secret party." I finished my speech, headed into the classroom, and when Damian and John entered, the class started singing our three birthday songs. Except little Damian had figured it out, and he and John had practiced the Can-Can. We watched them dance the Can-Can while we sang to them.
It was a bizzare moment, witnessed by a fifth grade teacher, Mr. N., who came into our classroom to talk to me about a girl in the Chamiza Chorus. I don't know if he told anyone what he saw, but if he did, it must have been a peculiar tale: two, fourth grade boys, arm-in-arm, dancing the Can-Can, with music provided by everyone else in the class singing three birthday songs.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Just Sittin' Back Watching Every Adult Die
Damian is one of my fourth grade students, and what a fine, young man he is. One of his recent stories that he wrote and that I was helping him edit during Writer's Workshop class has me still laughing. After you read this blog, you'll either laugh with Damian and me, worry about me, or worry about both of us.
I assigned a prompt, an idea that gets the writer's mind to thinking, and it starts every classroom writer off with the same idea. The prompt was, "You are on a class field trip to the zoo. While walking by the duck pond, you see something glistening under the water. Upon closer inspection you find.........." Each child is then asked to finish the story.
I was checking Damian's prewriting, and he wrote that he saw something shiny under the water, sneaked into the pond, looked under the water, saw a doorknob that looked like a gigantic diamond, pulled on the doorknob, and opened a door that led to a vortex that started sucking all the adults into it. The story continued, but I was intrigued by this unusual development, so I inquired further.
"Damian, did anybody else get sucked into the vortex, or was it just the adults?
"It was just the adults, Mr. R."
"Was it the adults that were in the zoo, all the adults in Albuquerque, or all the adults in the United States?"
"No, it was ALL the adults."
"All the adults in the whole, wide world?"
"Yeah. All the adults."
"Well Damian, your story leaves out some of the details. If every adult in the whole, wide world got sucked in, how long did it take for them to get sucked into this vortex?"
"I don't know. A couple of hours, I guess."
"Well, your story is missing these details. Let's write this down in your prewriting plan...........OK. We have that written down. Now tell me, what did you do during those two hours?"
"I just sat there and watched."
"So every adult in the world, every, single one of them, are being sucked into this vortex, and you sat there and watched for TWO HOURS?"
"At this point, Damian started giggling. "Yeah. Heh, heh, heh! I just sat there."
"What were all the other kids at the zoo doing while all these adults were disappearing? Were they watching too?"
"Heh, heh, heh. Yeah. They were sitting there watching too. Heh heh!"
"So when all the Chinese adults were pouring into this vortex, you looked at all your classmates and the other kids and said, 'Well, there goes all the adults from China.' "
Damian is, by this time, in stitches. He's laughing pretty hard, and I'm starting to get a kick out of this, too.
"Heh heh! Yeah. I guess we just sat there watching 'em go in!"
"Damian, did any kids go get popcorn or a corn dog while all this was happening, or did they just sit there with you and watch?"
Damian is really laughing now. "Mr. R., they just sat there. All the kids just sat there and Ha! Ha! Ha! just watched the adults get sucked into this alternate universe! Ha ! Ha! Ha!"
Damian is an African-American, so I went for the jugular. "When all the adults from Africa got sucked into the vortex, did every kid say, 'Oh look! there goes all the Africans!' "
Damian is unable to stifle his giggles, and said, "Hah! Hah! Hah! Oh my God! I think I need to rewrite this part."
I said, "Damian, I think you're pretty smart for getting my offbeat sense of humor. Let's just say that your story needs detail. We'll let this part go as it is, for now."
Damian, still laughing, says, "No, let me try changing it."
I gave him his story and he went back to his desk. I am really curious as to how his story will play out.
PS. I am referring Damian for the Enriched (Gifted) program. His academic and thinking skills, combined with his abilty to "get" his teacher's unusual sense of humor, make me think that this is one smart boy.
Or, like me, a nimnut with a wacked sense of humor.
I assigned a prompt, an idea that gets the writer's mind to thinking, and it starts every classroom writer off with the same idea. The prompt was, "You are on a class field trip to the zoo. While walking by the duck pond, you see something glistening under the water. Upon closer inspection you find.........." Each child is then asked to finish the story.
I was checking Damian's prewriting, and he wrote that he saw something shiny under the water, sneaked into the pond, looked under the water, saw a doorknob that looked like a gigantic diamond, pulled on the doorknob, and opened a door that led to a vortex that started sucking all the adults into it. The story continued, but I was intrigued by this unusual development, so I inquired further.
"Damian, did anybody else get sucked into the vortex, or was it just the adults?
"It was just the adults, Mr. R."
"Was it the adults that were in the zoo, all the adults in Albuquerque, or all the adults in the United States?"
"No, it was ALL the adults."
"All the adults in the whole, wide world?"
"Yeah. All the adults."
"Well Damian, your story leaves out some of the details. If every adult in the whole, wide world got sucked in, how long did it take for them to get sucked into this vortex?"
"I don't know. A couple of hours, I guess."
"Well, your story is missing these details. Let's write this down in your prewriting plan...........OK. We have that written down. Now tell me, what did you do during those two hours?"
"I just sat there and watched."
"So every adult in the world, every, single one of them, are being sucked into this vortex, and you sat there and watched for TWO HOURS?"
"At this point, Damian started giggling. "Yeah. Heh, heh, heh! I just sat there."
"What were all the other kids at the zoo doing while all these adults were disappearing? Were they watching too?"
"Heh, heh, heh. Yeah. They were sitting there watching too. Heh heh!"
"So when all the Chinese adults were pouring into this vortex, you looked at all your classmates and the other kids and said, 'Well, there goes all the adults from China.' "
Damian is, by this time, in stitches. He's laughing pretty hard, and I'm starting to get a kick out of this, too.
"Heh heh! Yeah. I guess we just sat there watching 'em go in!"
"Damian, did any kids go get popcorn or a corn dog while all this was happening, or did they just sit there with you and watch?"
Damian is really laughing now. "Mr. R., they just sat there. All the kids just sat there and Ha! Ha! Ha! just watched the adults get sucked into this alternate universe! Ha ! Ha! Ha!"
Damian is an African-American, so I went for the jugular. "When all the adults from Africa got sucked into the vortex, did every kid say, 'Oh look! there goes all the Africans!' "
Damian is unable to stifle his giggles, and said, "Hah! Hah! Hah! Oh my God! I think I need to rewrite this part."
I said, "Damian, I think you're pretty smart for getting my offbeat sense of humor. Let's just say that your story needs detail. We'll let this part go as it is, for now."
Damian, still laughing, says, "No, let me try changing it."
I gave him his story and he went back to his desk. I am really curious as to how his story will play out.
PS. I am referring Damian for the Enriched (Gifted) program. His academic and thinking skills, combined with his abilty to "get" his teacher's unusual sense of humor, make me think that this is one smart boy.
Or, like me, a nimnut with a wacked sense of humor.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Saved By A Technicality
I ask the kids to fill out questionnaires on the first few days of school that help me get to know them, and we use them to get to know each other. One group of questions are:
"Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Easter Bunny is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Tooth Fairy is real. Answer yes or no."
I'm sitting there watching the kids eagerly fill out this questionnaire that has them writing about hobbies, loves, favorite things, etc., but in the middle of the writing, Hannah looks up somewhat distressed and raises her hand. I go over to Hannah's desk and quietly ask her if she has a question.
"Yes. I want to know if I can change one of my answers."
"Of course, Hannah. Which one do you want to change?"
"This one," pointing to her "No" answer as to whether Santa Claus is real.
"Do you want to change these two?" I asked, pointing to her "No" answers on the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
"No. I don't want to change those. I want to change this one," she said, pointing to her "No" answer to Santa Claus.
"You go right ahead and change your answer, Hannah."
But when I go back to my chair, I see Hannah writing away on her paper. The word "Yes" doesn't take that much time to write, so when I get her paper back, I go straight to the question, "Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no." Here is her new, revised response.
"Tecknikally yes. tecknikally he is real. He isnt really real but he is real on a technikality.
This is heavy. "I think. Therefore I am on a technicality."
"Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Easter Bunny is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Tooth Fairy is real. Answer yes or no."
I'm sitting there watching the kids eagerly fill out this questionnaire that has them writing about hobbies, loves, favorite things, etc., but in the middle of the writing, Hannah looks up somewhat distressed and raises her hand. I go over to Hannah's desk and quietly ask her if she has a question.
"Yes. I want to know if I can change one of my answers."
"Of course, Hannah. Which one do you want to change?"
"This one," pointing to her "No" answer as to whether Santa Claus is real.
"Do you want to change these two?" I asked, pointing to her "No" answers on the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
"No. I don't want to change those. I want to change this one," she said, pointing to her "No" answer to Santa Claus.
"You go right ahead and change your answer, Hannah."
But when I go back to my chair, I see Hannah writing away on her paper. The word "Yes" doesn't take that much time to write, so when I get her paper back, I go straight to the question, "Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no." Here is her new, revised response.
"Tecknikally yes. tecknikally he is real. He isnt really real but he is real on a technikality.
This is heavy. "I think. Therefore I am on a technicality."
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The Indiscernible Conversation
Hannah is a girl who was born to converse. She is in my fourth grade class, and her third grade teacher warned me that she was a talker. Talkative in class? No. This girl was born to talk.
Last week, during a quiet work time in class, she came up to me and whispered so quietly that I was unable to even hear her.
"Mr. R., I was woing se whisper you widolf whisper hail moo sif ydjhd blah blah whisper whisper whisper?"
I was struck by the fact that Hannah could even consider the possibility that another human being with the limitations of homo sapiens' physiological auditory capabilities could ever hear anything that quiet. I have blogged about my hearing loss before but it's not THAT bad, so I thought, let's find out if Hannah really even heard what SHE said. Whispering as quietly as possible so that no human ear could possibly hear, I replied in total gibberish.
"Hannah, i dunt whisper whisper no nanhe blah blah gibberish nonsense blak blah blah whisper."
Hannah looks at me without batting an eye and says, "Oh! OK. I see."
And then she walks off! For Hannah, it's not the quality of conversation, it's about the quantity, and I had satisfied her need, for the time being.
Last week, during a quiet work time in class, she came up to me and whispered so quietly that I was unable to even hear her.
"Mr. R., I was woing se whisper you widolf whisper hail moo sif ydjhd blah blah whisper whisper whisper?"
I was struck by the fact that Hannah could even consider the possibility that another human being with the limitations of homo sapiens' physiological auditory capabilities could ever hear anything that quiet. I have blogged about my hearing loss before but it's not THAT bad, so I thought, let's find out if Hannah really even heard what SHE said. Whispering as quietly as possible so that no human ear could possibly hear, I replied in total gibberish.
"Hannah, i dunt whisper whisper no nanhe blah blah gibberish nonsense blak blah blah whisper."
Hannah looks at me without batting an eye and says, "Oh! OK. I see."
And then she walks off! For Hannah, it's not the quality of conversation, it's about the quantity, and I had satisfied her need, for the time being.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Einstein, Nick and I
When I was a child, I heard or read somewhere that Albert Einstein once checked out a library book, used a fifty dollar bill as a bookmark, and then returned the book to the library with the fifty dollar bill still in it. The honest person who later checked out the book returned it to the library, informed the library of the mistake made by the previous borrower, and the library used their card system to find out who had last used the book. It turned out to be the absent-minded professor, Albert Einstein.
I loved that story and clung to it as the absolute truth, thus easing myself of much guilt and ensuring myself of an almost tiny pleasure in any evidence that might suggest I am a little forgetful.
I am happy to announce that I may have a little genius in my class. He came into the classroom on Thursday wearing only socks, and I inquired, "Nick, where are your shoes?" Nick looks down at his feet, looks up at me and says, "I don't know. Oh! Wait a minute! I must have left them on the bus."
I buzzed the office, the bus driver was contacted, held onto Nick's shoes for the rest of the day, and Nick got his shoes back. I'm hoping that he has not only Einstein's absent-mindedness, but his mathematical skills as well. I will be teaching Nick differential equations by the end of the year.
Uh-oh. Wait a minute. I forgot how to do differential equations. That's kinda like shoes, isn't it?
I loved that story and clung to it as the absolute truth, thus easing myself of much guilt and ensuring myself of an almost tiny pleasure in any evidence that might suggest I am a little forgetful.
I am happy to announce that I may have a little genius in my class. He came into the classroom on Thursday wearing only socks, and I inquired, "Nick, where are your shoes?" Nick looks down at his feet, looks up at me and says, "I don't know. Oh! Wait a minute! I must have left them on the bus."
I buzzed the office, the bus driver was contacted, held onto Nick's shoes for the rest of the day, and Nick got his shoes back. I'm hoping that he has not only Einstein's absent-mindedness, but his mathematical skills as well. I will be teaching Nick differential equations by the end of the year.
Uh-oh. Wait a minute. I forgot how to do differential equations. That's kinda like shoes, isn't it?
Friday, September 28, 2007
THE LARGEST, PUBLIC, ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHORUS IN THE U.S.A.
I have been pretty busy lately. Besides teaching a great class of fourth graders, I have been overseeing what I believe is the largest, elementary, public school chorus in the United States.
The local newspaper, the Albuquerque Tribune, recently did a front page, five column, lead-in photo of the chorus, and a front page of the second section article on our chorus, with two additional, five column photos, one in color and one in black and white.
I made a claim to the paper that we had the largest public school chorus in the nation right here in our city, and they checked it out. Turns out they believe I'm correct. I think that impressed them, and they went with the story.
For the article and a video, check out these two websites:
http://abqtrib.com/news/2007/sep/27/albuquerques-chamiza-elementary-chorus-thought-hav
or
http://abqtrib.com/search/?q=chamiza+chorus
I've been so busy I've haven't had time to complain about NCLB (No Child Left Behind) and its negative impact on teachers at our school. Lucky me. Lucky you.
The local newspaper, the Albuquerque Tribune, recently did a front page, five column, lead-in photo of the chorus, and a front page of the second section article on our chorus, with two additional, five column photos, one in color and one in black and white.
I made a claim to the paper that we had the largest public school chorus in the nation right here in our city, and they checked it out. Turns out they believe I'm correct. I think that impressed them, and they went with the story.
For the article and a video, check out these two websites:
http://abqtrib.com/news/2007/sep/27/albuquerques-chamiza-elementary-chorus-thought-hav
or
http://abqtrib.com/search/?q=chamiza+chorus
I've been so busy I've haven't had time to complain about NCLB (No Child Left Behind) and its negative impact on teachers at our school. Lucky me. Lucky you.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Red Glitter Shoes
One of my favorite human beings on the planet Earth is Emma. Emma is the five year old daughter of Mary Catherine, a third grade teacher in the classroom next door to mine. Emma is a precocious, darling, kindergarten charmer who first won my heart when I held her as a baby during teachers' meetings.
I saw Emma recently and saw that she had on Red Glitter Shoes. I told her, "Oh, Emma! Those shoes are so wonderful and sparkly. Wow!"
Emma looked so proud in her Red Glitter Shoes.
Then Mary Catherine said, Mr. R., those are special shoes. Those are her Red Glitter Shoes. I bought a pair of Red Glitter Shoes many years ago when it looked like George and I weren't going to be able to have children. We had tried and tried, but it was pretty obvious that we weren't going to have any children, and I was so upset and depressed about it. Then, one day in the Wal-Mart I saw a pair of Red Glitter Shoes. My heart just sank thinking about how I would never be able to buy shoes like that for my real daughter, so I bought them anyway. I don't know why. I just wanted to be able to buy them, even if they were for a little girl I would never have. I put them in the closet and they sat in there for a few years. Then Emma was born, and I was so happy I bought those shoes!"
I looked at Emma's shoes and said, "Are these the pair you bought and put in the closet?"
She laughed and said, "Oh no! She wore out those shoes long ago. These are her third pair of Red Glitter Shoes!"
Emma looked so proud of her Red Glitter Shoes. Almost as proud as her mother.
I saw Emma recently and saw that she had on Red Glitter Shoes. I told her, "Oh, Emma! Those shoes are so wonderful and sparkly. Wow!"
Emma looked so proud in her Red Glitter Shoes.
Then Mary Catherine said, Mr. R., those are special shoes. Those are her Red Glitter Shoes. I bought a pair of Red Glitter Shoes many years ago when it looked like George and I weren't going to be able to have children. We had tried and tried, but it was pretty obvious that we weren't going to have any children, and I was so upset and depressed about it. Then, one day in the Wal-Mart I saw a pair of Red Glitter Shoes. My heart just sank thinking about how I would never be able to buy shoes like that for my real daughter, so I bought them anyway. I don't know why. I just wanted to be able to buy them, even if they were for a little girl I would never have. I put them in the closet and they sat in there for a few years. Then Emma was born, and I was so happy I bought those shoes!"
I looked at Emma's shoes and said, "Are these the pair you bought and put in the closet?"
She laughed and said, "Oh no! She wore out those shoes long ago. These are her third pair of Red Glitter Shoes!"
Emma looked so proud of her Red Glitter Shoes. Almost as proud as her mother.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Kids' Comments
These are some comments my fourth grade students made this week:
Me: "Most of the candidates have already started
running for President of the United States."
Thomas: "How fast do they have to run?"
(Some faster than others.)
Me: (during a life science class studying flower parts)
"What is a gymnosperm?"
Alex: "Isn't that a boy's body part?"
(Fill in your own cute remark here.)
Me: "Why do you think Little Willy
didn't tell everyone that Stone Fox
hit him in the face? (Pause)
Yes. Samantha."
Samantha: "My mother and I went to visit a
friend who lives in Rio Rancho, and she
doesn't have a kitchen. She told her husband
to build the house without a kitchen because
she didn't ever want to cook again, and so he
built the house without a kitchen."
Me: "Huh? What?"
Me: "Most of the candidates have already started
running for President of the United States."
Thomas: "How fast do they have to run?"
(Some faster than others.)
Me: (during a life science class studying flower parts)
"What is a gymnosperm?"
Alex: "Isn't that a boy's body part?"
(Fill in your own cute remark here.)
Me: "Why do you think Little Willy
didn't tell everyone that Stone Fox
hit him in the face? (Pause)
Yes. Samantha."
Samantha: "My mother and I went to visit a
friend who lives in Rio Rancho, and she
doesn't have a kitchen. She told her husband
to build the house without a kitchen because
she didn't ever want to cook again, and so he
built the house without a kitchen."
Me: "Huh? What?"
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Communication Skills
I just love teaching. Teaching is one of the few careers that you start at the top and work your way down.
I get to be in the classroom with a brand new group of fourth graders, and I am already having a great time. Lots of funny little things are said each day due to their unique communication skills.
On Friday I sent a student to the cafeteria to see if it was available for our class to use.
Damian came back and I asked him, "Damian, what's going on in the cafeteria?"
He replied, "Well, there are some kindergarteners or first graders in there."
"What are they doing in there, Damian?"
"Well, they're in there playing with each others' elbows."
I never did find out exactly what was going on in the cafeteria. By the time we got there, the kindergarteners of first graders had finished playing with each others' elbows and had already left.
I get to be in the classroom with a brand new group of fourth graders, and I am already having a great time. Lots of funny little things are said each day due to their unique communication skills.
On Friday I sent a student to the cafeteria to see if it was available for our class to use.
Damian came back and I asked him, "Damian, what's going on in the cafeteria?"
He replied, "Well, there are some kindergarteners or first graders in there."
"What are they doing in there, Damian?"
"Well, they're in there playing with each others' elbows."
I never did find out exactly what was going on in the cafeteria. By the time we got there, the kindergarteners of first graders had finished playing with each others' elbows and had already left.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
I Want To Be A Mysterious Woman
I have a friend named Neal who thinks Christine Lavin is one of America's greatest songwriters. I don't exactly agree with that assessment, but I know that I sure appreciate almost every musical effort ever made by a human being, and Christine Lavin's music is unusually clever and enjoyable. One of her songs is titled, "I Want To be A Mysterious Woman." I thought of Christine Lavin's song when I was giving advice to an ex-student.
I keep in touch with one of my ex-students who is now in the ninth grade, and in our email correspondence, she told me that she went to Disneyland and had a horrible time because she was on her period.
Now I don't mind having a girl feel so comfortable with me that she can tell me this very personal information, but I also have a lot of reservations about knowing it. So I replied to her, and here is what I said.
"I am flattered that you feel so comfortable with me that you would tell me that you were on your period. I also feel concerned that you may be telling other people that information. It is none of your boyfriends' business when you are menstruating, and it isn't any of mine, either.
I want you to keep your menstrual cycle to yourself. Don't even tell me. And certainly don't tell any boys! In the matter of your menstrual periods, I want you to be a Mysterious Woman. I want the boys to wonder about you, but to have no idea what is going on. And that includes what you look like when you are naked. Keep your clothes on, and keep your periods to yourself. Be a Mysterious Woman. Keep boys and men wondering about your sexuality but don't let them find out anything, ever, because as soon as they find out, the mystery is over. Case closed. The "Mystery of You" will have been solved. Don't tell them anything. Don't show them anything. Remain Mysterious."
Some would say my advice doesn't actually fit the meaning of the lyrics of Christine Lavin's song, but on a simple level I think it certainly does. I hope it was good advice. It was advice to a girl whose father and mother don't talk to her properly, and certainly not about such etiquettte, and it was advice from a man who has never had a daughter.
I also have some alarm bells going off about our email correspondence. I am not sure anymore about the legality nor the safety and security of common sense truth.
I keep in touch with one of my ex-students who is now in the ninth grade, and in our email correspondence, she told me that she went to Disneyland and had a horrible time because she was on her period.
Now I don't mind having a girl feel so comfortable with me that she can tell me this very personal information, but I also have a lot of reservations about knowing it. So I replied to her, and here is what I said.
"I am flattered that you feel so comfortable with me that you would tell me that you were on your period. I also feel concerned that you may be telling other people that information. It is none of your boyfriends' business when you are menstruating, and it isn't any of mine, either.
I want you to keep your menstrual cycle to yourself. Don't even tell me. And certainly don't tell any boys! In the matter of your menstrual periods, I want you to be a Mysterious Woman. I want the boys to wonder about you, but to have no idea what is going on. And that includes what you look like when you are naked. Keep your clothes on, and keep your periods to yourself. Be a Mysterious Woman. Keep boys and men wondering about your sexuality but don't let them find out anything, ever, because as soon as they find out, the mystery is over. Case closed. The "Mystery of You" will have been solved. Don't tell them anything. Don't show them anything. Remain Mysterious."
Some would say my advice doesn't actually fit the meaning of the lyrics of Christine Lavin's song, but on a simple level I think it certainly does. I hope it was good advice. It was advice to a girl whose father and mother don't talk to her properly, and certainly not about such etiquettte, and it was advice from a man who has never had a daughter.
I also have some alarm bells going off about our email correspondence. I am not sure anymore about the legality nor the safety and security of common sense truth.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Self Portraits
I love art, but I'm an idiot at art. To prove this wild statement as truth, I will relate a true story. I will not exaggerate, embellish, or in any way alter the facts as I remember them.
Many, many years ago, my sister Carolyn called me on the phone and said, "There is an art gallery on Westheimer Dr. that is selling paintings by Jackson Pollack. They have a few that you and I could afford. Do you want to drive over there, take a look at them, and maybe choose one and buy it together? We could go halvies?"
"Jackson Pollack? Isn't he that guy that throws paint and splashes it around and calls it motion art or some such garbage and they have monkeys that have duplicated his crap and one elephant that has done some doodling with his trunk that looks exactly like it?"
"Well, yes, some people can't appreciate it and have had some monkeys attempt to duplicate it, but his stuff is genuinely creative."
"How much does it cost?"
"Well, some of his large murals are probably ten or twenty thousand dollars. You and I would buy one of his smaller paintings, and it would only cost us four or five thousand. I don't know. In some ways it depends on the size of the painting."
"Five thousand dollars for monkey art? Do you think I'm stupid, Carolyn? Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you really think I'd spend thousands of dollars to buy monkey art? They got a monkey at the Lubbock Zoo that has already proven it's just monkey art."
"Are you sure? His art might be valuable some day, and it is really amazing in a lot of ways."
"Do you really think I'm that dumb? Don't you realize that them art critics are peddlin' junk and laughin' all the way to the bank? No thank you! I got more brains than that. Them art people are laughin' their asses off at all the idjuts that are buyin' that monkey art!"
"OK. I just thought I'd ask. It seemed like a good idea to me."
"No monkey art for me, thank you."
And now? After watching the lady who was a guest on David Letterman who found a Jackson Pollack painting in a garage sale and is fighting off wealthy, wallet-bearing art lovers who are throwing money at her to get their hands on one of his paintings? After stickin' my foot in my mouth and three-quarters o' the way down my esophagus?
I genuinely appreciate all art. Not because of the investment lost, but because of the lesson learned.
Here are some samples of my fourth graders' self portraits:
"The neck bone's attached to the....jaw bone.
The jaw bone's attached to the....arm bone"
"I have powerful upper body strength, Mr. R.!"
"I've never liked my doorknobs. One is bigger than the other."
"I am mesmerized by your charms."
"Gaze into my eyes. You are going deeper. And deeper."
"This caption confused the bejeebers out of my teacher.
I am cheering on Heatran, a Yu-Gi-Oh character."
"You'll never guess what I'm thinking."
"I am from the planet Zertron,
and I have come for your electric toasters."
Saturday, August 11, 2007
But Some of My Best FRIENDS Are, I Swear
Olivia and I spent this morning biking around our neighborhood. Saturday mornings are the best times for this, as we live in a (mostly) Orthodox neighborhood and consequently the Sabbath is free of cars. Well, except for that awkward moment when I race over to Nordstrom, and not knowing how to be nonchalant with my auto, honk bye-bye at my neighbors.
She chattered to me happily during the ride. And as those who know my family will atest, Olivia is most verbal when it comes to food. I was speaking to my good friend the other day when O ran in from her bedroom. "CHOCOLATE CAKE" she screamed, prompting my friend to say, "I do that sometimes!" Another phone conversation with my friend had Olivia shout "MORE PANCAKE!" Over the wires, charming. But accompanied with Olivia's little finger, pointing at your face with accusations of starvation, and it just substantiates my claim that I have birthed a diminutive dictator.
After thirty minutes pedaling in the heat, I was ready to go home; Olivia was not. The only way to be able to even wheel towards my house without her screaming was to promise her a large glass of the precious blood orange juice I had in the refridgerator. She was thrilled. My neighbors however, were not. As we slowly bicycled past the Orthodox people making their way to Synagogue, my daughter joyously pointed at each and every one of them and shouted her oncoming bounty. "Juice!" she yelled "JUICE!"
That, assuredly, is NOT what they heard.
She chattered to me happily during the ride. And as those who know my family will atest, Olivia is most verbal when it comes to food. I was speaking to my good friend the other day when O ran in from her bedroom. "CHOCOLATE CAKE" she screamed, prompting my friend to say, "I do that sometimes!" Another phone conversation with my friend had Olivia shout "MORE PANCAKE!" Over the wires, charming. But accompanied with Olivia's little finger, pointing at your face with accusations of starvation, and it just substantiates my claim that I have birthed a diminutive dictator.
After thirty minutes pedaling in the heat, I was ready to go home; Olivia was not. The only way to be able to even wheel towards my house without her screaming was to promise her a large glass of the precious blood orange juice I had in the refridgerator. She was thrilled. My neighbors however, were not. As we slowly bicycled past the Orthodox people making their way to Synagogue, my daughter joyously pointed at each and every one of them and shouted her oncoming bounty. "Juice!" she yelled "JUICE!"
That, assuredly, is NOT what they heard.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Redundant Chinese Fortune Cookies
Brandon is a sixteen year old teenager I mentor, and he and I are at a Chinese restaurant enjoying a pretty good meal. Brandon and I both love food, and Chinese food is particularly good to both of us, so we're talking and yakking away about love, women, and life in general. I, of course, am providing him with my deep insights and advice, and Brandon is thoughtfully pretending to listen in a way that leads me to believe he will actually follow up on all my pontifications.
We finish our kung pao chicken and moo shui pork, and the waiter brings us those endearing little fortune cookies that once cost me $5 because the lottery was started up in our state and so the fortune cookie companies began printing numbers at the bottom of their fortunes, and my wife and I decided that maybe the numbers were some sort of mysterious omen of winnings to come, so I dash to the nearest convenience store and contribute a Lincoln to the state "kitty" and some of it is given to a lucky yokel in Bernalillo who actually won the damn lottery, but I digress.
I open my fortune cookie and read it out loud to Brandon.
"You are never selfish with your advice or your help."
Brandon nods approvingly and responds, "Yeah. That's right."
"Open yours, Brandon."
Brandon opens his fortune cookie and says, "You are never selfish with your advice or your help."
I state the obvious, of course. "Brandon! That's the exact same fortune as mine!"
Brandon pauses briefly and then announces way too loud so that everyone can hear, "What is this crap?"
We finish our kung pao chicken and moo shui pork, and the waiter brings us those endearing little fortune cookies that once cost me $5 because the lottery was started up in our state and so the fortune cookie companies began printing numbers at the bottom of their fortunes, and my wife and I decided that maybe the numbers were some sort of mysterious omen of winnings to come, so I dash to the nearest convenience store and contribute a Lincoln to the state "kitty" and some of it is given to a lucky yokel in Bernalillo who actually won the damn lottery, but I digress.
I open my fortune cookie and read it out loud to Brandon.
"You are never selfish with your advice or your help."
Brandon nods approvingly and responds, "Yeah. That's right."
"Open yours, Brandon."
Brandon opens his fortune cookie and says, "You are never selfish with your advice or your help."
I state the obvious, of course. "Brandon! That's the exact same fortune as mine!"
Brandon pauses briefly and then announces way too loud so that everyone can hear, "What is this crap?"
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Come On In, The Water's Fine
For me, signs of insanity of any level are frightening. I heartily listened to my father when he preached to "live like video cameras are on you constantly". His meaning was actually to not be hypocritical--live at home with the same manners that you give to the outside world. What for him then was simply a preventative to say, nose-picking, turned into an intense paranoia for me that has led to forty-plus years of carefully edited The Real World, Laura.
Thusly, I have tried to teach my children my father's view, sans the performance. If you wouldn't do it in front of others, don't do it at all. So if you have some strange tendency or quirk, don't hide it, learn to not do it. And then I bear Olivia. A child who gains the most solace in life by her family, her stuffed chicken, and a furball.
A furball is a hand-picked, personal piece of OCD, comprised of the white wool carpet that covers our living room. At an early age, she rolled around on the rug and pushed herself up on it, triumphantly rising with a fist full of white fibers. As she learned to walk about the house, one furball in each hand aided her balance. I kept pulling them out of her stubborn little mitts, envisioning that the day would inevitably come when she wouldn't be able to attend freshman year without them. They are an uninvited guest everywhere, to wit:
Today I caved in. I threw away this morning's little ball and she looked at me so pitifully.
"Come on," I sighed. "Let's go make you a new furball."
Thusly, I have tried to teach my children my father's view, sans the performance. If you wouldn't do it in front of others, don't do it at all. So if you have some strange tendency or quirk, don't hide it, learn to not do it. And then I bear Olivia. A child who gains the most solace in life by her family, her stuffed chicken, and a furball.
A furball is a hand-picked, personal piece of OCD, comprised of the white wool carpet that covers our living room. At an early age, she rolled around on the rug and pushed herself up on it, triumphantly rising with a fist full of white fibers. As she learned to walk about the house, one furball in each hand aided her balance. I kept pulling them out of her stubborn little mitts, envisioning that the day would inevitably come when she wouldn't be able to attend freshman year without them. They are an uninvited guest everywhere, to wit:
Today I caved in. I threw away this morning's little ball and she looked at me so pitifully.
"Come on," I sighed. "Let's go make you a new furball."
Sunday, July 08, 2007
My God Where Have You Been or, Somebody Give Me Joan Rivers' Phone Number
The last week has given me the opportunity to do previously neglected things. Small things, like the laundry, the dentist, and convincing three credit reporting agencies that I am NOT, I repeat emphatically, NOT Laurie A. Smith. (It was bad enough that she stole my identity and racked up substantial debt, but what really fired me up is that no, my birthday is NOT in 1943, Jesus Christ can't you tell, thank you very much.)
This abundance of time is due to a. an absolutely exceptional way that I have been attacking my chores around here; b. my son is away on vacation and what a time-zapper an eleven-year old's life turns out to be; and c. my daughter has grown into a toddler. I am able to breathe again.
This is not the section where I brag on Olivia's intelligence (although may I tell you that at 22 months she recognizes her alphabet, can count to twenty, and just finished Pride and Prejudice--since the sole reason I had a daughter was to marry her off to that perfect man Mr. Darcy, since I missed out on him). This is the section, however, where I tell you that I have been untethered from an infant with the accompanying jars of babyfood, two naps a day, and inability to go anywhere because of my own obsession with the fact that I am not having any more children and I don't want to miss one moment of this!
This WAS her.
And this IS her now:
Actually, this is her around three months ago. I am astounded (yet again, you would think I would remember from the first time) at how quickly the time flies by. One moment you're grinding up peas in a food processor and the next you're both perfecting her routine on skates while you toss grapes she catches in her mouth. (Agenda next month: teach her to strip her own crib and wash the sheets.)
I love, love, love, love, love being the mother to two children. It is so different than being the mother to one. I had time, before, to do things like shop, hang out with friends, work, blog. Now, none of it. And I have never loved life more.
Jake has gone through so many changes lately (I wish I could blog about them but this is my blog not his, and I don't want anyone to read this and find out too much about him). Let me just say that he has been a kind, respectful, stand-up kid through a time when he had to deal with someone challenging him and not saying kind things to him, defend his character staunchly twice, and stand by someone through a hard time and be completely selfless. His feelings still got hurt, and I will work hard to make sure the take-away moral for him is not that the nice guy finishes last, but rather the nice guy finishes happier. Meanwhile, if he would just clean his room.
This is him now:
And this, according to Equifax, is ME now:
This abundance of time is due to a. an absolutely exceptional way that I have been attacking my chores around here; b. my son is away on vacation and what a time-zapper an eleven-year old's life turns out to be; and c. my daughter has grown into a toddler. I am able to breathe again.
This is not the section where I brag on Olivia's intelligence (although may I tell you that at 22 months she recognizes her alphabet, can count to twenty, and just finished Pride and Prejudice--since the sole reason I had a daughter was to marry her off to that perfect man Mr. Darcy, since I missed out on him). This is the section, however, where I tell you that I have been untethered from an infant with the accompanying jars of babyfood, two naps a day, and inability to go anywhere because of my own obsession with the fact that I am not having any more children and I don't want to miss one moment of this!
This WAS her.
And this IS her now:
Actually, this is her around three months ago. I am astounded (yet again, you would think I would remember from the first time) at how quickly the time flies by. One moment you're grinding up peas in a food processor and the next you're both perfecting her routine on skates while you toss grapes she catches in her mouth. (Agenda next month: teach her to strip her own crib and wash the sheets.)I love, love, love, love, love being the mother to two children. It is so different than being the mother to one. I had time, before, to do things like shop, hang out with friends, work, blog. Now, none of it. And I have never loved life more.
Jake has gone through so many changes lately (I wish I could blog about them but this is my blog not his, and I don't want anyone to read this and find out too much about him). Let me just say that he has been a kind, respectful, stand-up kid through a time when he had to deal with someone challenging him and not saying kind things to him, defend his character staunchly twice, and stand by someone through a hard time and be completely selfless. His feelings still got hurt, and I will work hard to make sure the take-away moral for him is not that the nice guy finishes last, but rather the nice guy finishes happier. Meanwhile, if he would just clean his room.
This is him now:
And this, according to Equifax, is ME now:
Thursday, April 12, 2007
LOVING A DOWN'S SYNDROME CHILD
You can repeat a memorized truth heard because you believe it in your head; when you know it in your heart you tell others with a conviction that transcends belief.
I have known for years that children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful, but it is a truth I repeated because I was sure it was correct. Today, my heart opened to a boy with Down's Syndrome, and I know for a fact that Down's Syndrome children are pure delights.
Our school has a boy with Down's Syndrome in its Special Education program. He is in the fifth grade, is very small for his age, and everyone has great difficulty understanding him because of his language development. His mother, a very protective parent, finally acquiesed to the idea that her son be "mainstreamed" into a regular education classroom, and she chose mine. I made what I hoped was a powerful speech to my students about his physical problems and asked them to embrace this boy with warm frienship, thoughtfulness, and enthusiasm.
Our whole class has quickly grown to love little Stevie. The first thing we noticed was that he made friends with all the girls in the classroom, and the boys were somewhat envious of his willingness to hug and associate with the girls. I remember jokingly telling the class that he may have some academic and language problems, but he seemed to be more advanced in the boy/girl area. They all agreed.
Today little Stevie was walking with us to the cafeteria for lunch, and he had his left hand cupped over his left ear. I spoke to him, but he didn't respond. I spoke to him again, but again he didn't say anything. Then I noticed he was talking to himself. One of the astute and observant girls he adores informed me, "Mr. R., Stevie is talking on his cell phone."
I realized that Stevie was pretending to be engrossed in an imaginative phone conversation with someone on his cell phone hand. He would listen for an appropriate amount of time, respond with his animated gibberish, and was totally engrossed in his pretend conversation. He even glanced at his imaginative wristwatch to check the time, like a businessman takin' care o' business. He would listen and reply, then listen and reply.
I suddenly felt a love for this little fellow, and I knew I would be willing to die for him. It was an unusual and very private thought, but worth opening up about and passing onto you.
He didn't hang up his phone or turn it off; his conversation just abruptly ended, and he grinned his joyful grin at me, and I said, "You have a great smile, Stevie!" I didn't understand his reply, but I can tell you this. I used to say, "Children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful people," I said that because I believed it to be true. Now I can tell you for a fact, they are. I know it in my heart.
I have known for years that children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful, but it is a truth I repeated because I was sure it was correct. Today, my heart opened to a boy with Down's Syndrome, and I know for a fact that Down's Syndrome children are pure delights.
Our school has a boy with Down's Syndrome in its Special Education program. He is in the fifth grade, is very small for his age, and everyone has great difficulty understanding him because of his language development. His mother, a very protective parent, finally acquiesed to the idea that her son be "mainstreamed" into a regular education classroom, and she chose mine. I made what I hoped was a powerful speech to my students about his physical problems and asked them to embrace this boy with warm frienship, thoughtfulness, and enthusiasm.
Our whole class has quickly grown to love little Stevie. The first thing we noticed was that he made friends with all the girls in the classroom, and the boys were somewhat envious of his willingness to hug and associate with the girls. I remember jokingly telling the class that he may have some academic and language problems, but he seemed to be more advanced in the boy/girl area. They all agreed.
Today little Stevie was walking with us to the cafeteria for lunch, and he had his left hand cupped over his left ear. I spoke to him, but he didn't respond. I spoke to him again, but again he didn't say anything. Then I noticed he was talking to himself. One of the astute and observant girls he adores informed me, "Mr. R., Stevie is talking on his cell phone."
I realized that Stevie was pretending to be engrossed in an imaginative phone conversation with someone on his cell phone hand. He would listen for an appropriate amount of time, respond with his animated gibberish, and was totally engrossed in his pretend conversation. He even glanced at his imaginative wristwatch to check the time, like a businessman takin' care o' business. He would listen and reply, then listen and reply.
I suddenly felt a love for this little fellow, and I knew I would be willing to die for him. It was an unusual and very private thought, but worth opening up about and passing onto you.
He didn't hang up his phone or turn it off; his conversation just abruptly ended, and he grinned his joyful grin at me, and I said, "You have a great smile, Stevie!" I didn't understand his reply, but I can tell you this. I used to say, "Children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful people," I said that because I believed it to be true. Now I can tell you for a fact, they are. I know it in my heart.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
ONE YEAR OF BLOGGING AND THIS IS WHAT I HAVE LEARNED?
I was in the local Walgreen's drug store on Good Friday, and I noticed they had an awful lot of chocolate Easter candy that hadn't been sold yet. That got me to thinking, and here is what I thought:
Click on this highlighted link to see what I have learned after one year of blogging:
Easter chocolate
Click on this highlighted link to see what I have learned after one year of blogging:
Easter chocolate
Sunday, April 01, 2007
THE KINGDOM OF AMALIAKA
CHAPTER I
Once upon a time there was a very great and powerful kingdom called Amaliaka. The Amaliakans were a hard-working people who valued freedom, courage, and justice. They were ashamed to admit they had used military force in their history to grow in strength and power, and they had tried unsuccessfully to wean themselves from doing that.
There came into their kingdom a visionary, a man who could see into the future. Sure enough, for quite some time all the prophet's predictions came true. Upon his death, some foolhardy Amaliakans used their persuasive powers to convince the Kingdom of Amaliaka that they too had visionary skills. They convinced the Amailakans to shape and mold their society so as to take advantage of future events to ensure wealth and power for themselves and their children.
One of the largest factories in their kingdom was named "Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing, Inc." and specialized in making productive, efficient, dependable, and sensible tools for the the great Amaliakan society. One day the King of Amaliaka, King Gush, and his all-powerful enemy, Prince Teedy, decided that Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing was causing a lot of problems for the future of the Kingdom.
"We must do something to make sure that the tools of our future meet our future needs," decreed King Gush.
"I agree," piped up Prince Teedy. "We don't often agree, King Gush, but on this one, I'm with you all the way. Something must be done to make sure that Amalgajusted Anacomical KidFacturing improves their product to ensure a great future for all Amaliakans!"
The Amaliakans cheered, for they too were worried about some of the tools being produced by the factory. For years, all their tools were wonderful, and made them the strongest kingdom in all the land. Stories abounded about the dazzling displays of dependability and craftsmanship demonstrated by Amaliakan tools, but lately there seemed to be some serious problems with the tools. Reports of tool failures were running rampant through the kingdom. Many Amaliakans were complaining that the tools didn't work and didn't seem to be up to the quality of tools that had been made by the same factory in the past.
Terrible rumors began to eat at the heart of the Amaliakan spirit, rumors that another small country on the other side of Lake Ubettaworrie called CopyCatville had perfected making tools superior to the Amaliakans. The CopyCatters were scaring the living daylights out of the Amaliakans, so the Amaliaknas were relieved to hear that their King and his enemies had banded together to force the factory to make better tools.
"Wait a minute!' insisted the Council that ran the factory. "We've been been doing a great job up until now, and we don't think we need to change a thing. We're doing our best and just leave us alone. We know more about making tools than you do."
"Naw, you don't know what you're doing," replied King Gush and Prince Teedy. "You're making tools the same old way you always have been making them, and we can see the future. The tools have to be better and better and better and better!"
"Well that's hogwash," said the factory Council. "In our defense, we'd like to say that the biggest problem our factory faces is the lousy supply of raw materials provided to us by the lackluster, lazy-ass Amaliakan society. We're doing the best we can with the materials we got!"
That didn't sit too well with the Amaliakans, so King Gush and Prince Teedy riled up the Amaliakans even more and convinced them that the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant was not looking to the future. "Something must be done before it's too late! The CopyCatters are making tools much better than ours! Our great kingdom will be outperformed, overtaken, and overthrown by these other countries. Change is essential! I have a plan, and my plan is called Make Each Tool Better!"
The Amaliakans cheered and new laws, plans, and instructions were given to the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant that made them make better tools.
That didn't sit too well with the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant. "You're just keeping us busy going silly work that is meant to merely prove that we are doing our jobs! This isn't helping at all. This is horrible! Get rid of that stupid law called Make Each Tool Better!"
The Amaliakans were growing concerned because there didn't seem to be any improvement in the quality of the tools, and some of the factory workers at the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant were telling everyone that the new laws were making things worse!
"What do we do?" they all cried. "Our tools are still not working! They break down! They aren't going to be worth a plugged nickel in twenty years or so!!"
"Oh shut up," said King Gush and Prince Teedy. "We are going to make our new law even better. We are going to tweak it and call it, "Make Each Tool Even Betterer Than Better!"
The Amaliakans cheered and voted for more laws to improve their tools, and eventually, King Gush and Prince Teedy passed a law that made it against the law to make a tool that wasn't a better tool than any tool that had ever been made.
"Out tools will be the finest tools that money can buy. Let some whippersnappers from across the lake try to compete with one of our Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing tools!"
Arguing in the Kingdom of Amaliakan began. It seemed that some of the rumors about the CopyCatters tools weren't true.
"I used a CopyCatter tool the other day and it broke down, too!" said one of the lowlier princes of the kingdom.
"That was just that once!" snapped King Gush. "I am convinced that our tools are worse than everybody else's. We must make them better!"
"Wait a minute," said some other citizens. "Are you tryin' to tell us that our tools aren't as good? We think they work just fine. Take care of them, don't leave them out in the yard, oil 'em and shine 'em up every now and then, and our tools are just as good as the CopyCatters! Take care of them, expect the most out of them, and they'll do great!"
The people cheered and quit listening to King Gush whenever he and Prince Teedy tried to get them all worked up over the future. Never once did King Gush or Prince Teedy ever admit that their tools were adequate. Instead, they kept tring to get the citizens of Amaliaka all steamed up over the tool situation, never knowing that the real problem facing the future of the Kingdom of Amaliaka was Bull Mascot and his reign of destruction on the Amaliakan currency.
Once upon a time there was a very great and powerful kingdom called Amaliaka. The Amaliakans were a hard-working people who valued freedom, courage, and justice. They were ashamed to admit they had used military force in their history to grow in strength and power, and they had tried unsuccessfully to wean themselves from doing that.
There came into their kingdom a visionary, a man who could see into the future. Sure enough, for quite some time all the prophet's predictions came true. Upon his death, some foolhardy Amaliakans used their persuasive powers to convince the Kingdom of Amaliaka that they too had visionary skills. They convinced the Amailakans to shape and mold their society so as to take advantage of future events to ensure wealth and power for themselves and their children.
One of the largest factories in their kingdom was named "Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing, Inc." and specialized in making productive, efficient, dependable, and sensible tools for the the great Amaliakan society. One day the King of Amaliaka, King Gush, and his all-powerful enemy, Prince Teedy, decided that Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing was causing a lot of problems for the future of the Kingdom.
"We must do something to make sure that the tools of our future meet our future needs," decreed King Gush.
"I agree," piped up Prince Teedy. "We don't often agree, King Gush, but on this one, I'm with you all the way. Something must be done to make sure that Amalgajusted Anacomical KidFacturing improves their product to ensure a great future for all Amaliakans!"
The Amaliakans cheered, for they too were worried about some of the tools being produced by the factory. For years, all their tools were wonderful, and made them the strongest kingdom in all the land. Stories abounded about the dazzling displays of dependability and craftsmanship demonstrated by Amaliakan tools, but lately there seemed to be some serious problems with the tools. Reports of tool failures were running rampant through the kingdom. Many Amaliakans were complaining that the tools didn't work and didn't seem to be up to the quality of tools that had been made by the same factory in the past.
Terrible rumors began to eat at the heart of the Amaliakan spirit, rumors that another small country on the other side of Lake Ubettaworrie called CopyCatville had perfected making tools superior to the Amaliakans. The CopyCatters were scaring the living daylights out of the Amaliakans, so the Amaliaknas were relieved to hear that their King and his enemies had banded together to force the factory to make better tools.
"Wait a minute!' insisted the Council that ran the factory. "We've been been doing a great job up until now, and we don't think we need to change a thing. We're doing our best and just leave us alone. We know more about making tools than you do."
"Naw, you don't know what you're doing," replied King Gush and Prince Teedy. "You're making tools the same old way you always have been making them, and we can see the future. The tools have to be better and better and better and better!"
"Well that's hogwash," said the factory Council. "In our defense, we'd like to say that the biggest problem our factory faces is the lousy supply of raw materials provided to us by the lackluster, lazy-ass Amaliakan society. We're doing the best we can with the materials we got!"
That didn't sit too well with the Amaliakans, so King Gush and Prince Teedy riled up the Amaliakans even more and convinced them that the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant was not looking to the future. "Something must be done before it's too late! The CopyCatters are making tools much better than ours! Our great kingdom will be outperformed, overtaken, and overthrown by these other countries. Change is essential! I have a plan, and my plan is called Make Each Tool Better!"
The Amaliakans cheered and new laws, plans, and instructions were given to the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant that made them make better tools.
That didn't sit too well with the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant. "You're just keeping us busy going silly work that is meant to merely prove that we are doing our jobs! This isn't helping at all. This is horrible! Get rid of that stupid law called Make Each Tool Better!"
The Amaliakans were growing concerned because there didn't seem to be any improvement in the quality of the tools, and some of the factory workers at the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant were telling everyone that the new laws were making things worse!
"What do we do?" they all cried. "Our tools are still not working! They break down! They aren't going to be worth a plugged nickel in twenty years or so!!"
"Oh shut up," said King Gush and Prince Teedy. "We are going to make our new law even better. We are going to tweak it and call it, "Make Each Tool Even Betterer Than Better!"
The Amaliakans cheered and voted for more laws to improve their tools, and eventually, King Gush and Prince Teedy passed a law that made it against the law to make a tool that wasn't a better tool than any tool that had ever been made.
"Out tools will be the finest tools that money can buy. Let some whippersnappers from across the lake try to compete with one of our Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing tools!"
Arguing in the Kingdom of Amaliakan began. It seemed that some of the rumors about the CopyCatters tools weren't true.
"I used a CopyCatter tool the other day and it broke down, too!" said one of the lowlier princes of the kingdom.
"That was just that once!" snapped King Gush. "I am convinced that our tools are worse than everybody else's. We must make them better!"
"Wait a minute," said some other citizens. "Are you tryin' to tell us that our tools aren't as good? We think they work just fine. Take care of them, don't leave them out in the yard, oil 'em and shine 'em up every now and then, and our tools are just as good as the CopyCatters! Take care of them, expect the most out of them, and they'll do great!"
The people cheered and quit listening to King Gush whenever he and Prince Teedy tried to get them all worked up over the future. Never once did King Gush or Prince Teedy ever admit that their tools were adequate. Instead, they kept tring to get the citizens of Amaliaka all steamed up over the tool situation, never knowing that the real problem facing the future of the Kingdom of Amaliaka was Bull Mascot and his reign of destruction on the Amaliakan currency.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
STUPID QUESTIONS
My sister was talking to me about one of my previous blogs titled "Dumb Questions." During our conversation she thought of and mentioned a classic stupid question, but I forgot what it was, durn it. I am inviting her to add her question to this list by a comment at the end, and I am inviting anyone else to do the same. Here is the complete and unabridged version of the book my fifth graders and I wrote.
STUPID QUESTIONS
BY MR. R. AND HIS STUDENTS
"WHO IS BURIED IN GRANT'S TOMB?"
"HOW MANY COOKIES ARE THERE IN ONE DOZEN?"
"HOW MUCH DOES THE MEAT IN A MCDONALD'S QUARTER POUNDER WEIGH?"
"HOW OLD IS YOUR THREE YEAR OLD SISTER?"
"HOW MUCH DO THE THIRTY-NINE CENT STAMPS COST?"
"IS YOUR BROTHER A BOY OR A GIRL?"
"IS THAT A DOG BARKING?"
(SPOKEN BY A "SALES ASSOCIATE" WITH A HUGE NAME TAG ON HIS SHIRT) "HOW DID YOU KNOW MY NAME?"
"HOW LONG DOES THE TV SHOW '60 MINUTES' LAST?"
"WHEN WAS THE WAR OF 1812?"
"WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE COMPANY THAT MAKES CAMPBELL'S SOUP?"
"WHERE DID THE BOSTON TEA PARTY TAKE PLACE?"
"WHO WAS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES DURING THE EISENHOWER ADMINISTRATION?"
"WHAT IS THE MAIN INGREDIENT IN CREAM OF WHEAT?"
"MR. R., WOULD YOU LIKE A PIECE OF THIS HOT AND DELICIOUS HOMEMADE CHERRY PIE?"
"WHAT CITY DO THE MIAMA DOLPHINS PLAY IN?"
"THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES LIVES IN THE WHITE HOUSE. WHAT COLOR IS IT PAINTED?"
"WHAT IS THE PHONE NUMBER FOR 911?"
"HOW DO YOU SPELL F.B.I.?"
"WHAT MOUNTAIN RANGE DOES THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL GO THROUGH?"
THE END
STUPID QUESTIONS
BY MR. R. AND HIS STUDENTS
"WHO IS BURIED IN GRANT'S TOMB?"
"HOW MANY COOKIES ARE THERE IN ONE DOZEN?"
"HOW MUCH DOES THE MEAT IN A MCDONALD'S QUARTER POUNDER WEIGH?"
"HOW OLD IS YOUR THREE YEAR OLD SISTER?"
"HOW MUCH DO THE THIRTY-NINE CENT STAMPS COST?"
"IS YOUR BROTHER A BOY OR A GIRL?"
"IS THAT A DOG BARKING?"
(SPOKEN BY A "SALES ASSOCIATE" WITH A HUGE NAME TAG ON HIS SHIRT) "HOW DID YOU KNOW MY NAME?"
"HOW LONG DOES THE TV SHOW '60 MINUTES' LAST?"
"WHEN WAS THE WAR OF 1812?"
"WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE COMPANY THAT MAKES CAMPBELL'S SOUP?"
"WHERE DID THE BOSTON TEA PARTY TAKE PLACE?"
"WHO WAS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES DURING THE EISENHOWER ADMINISTRATION?"
"WHAT IS THE MAIN INGREDIENT IN CREAM OF WHEAT?"
"MR. R., WOULD YOU LIKE A PIECE OF THIS HOT AND DELICIOUS HOMEMADE CHERRY PIE?"
"WHAT CITY DO THE MIAMA DOLPHINS PLAY IN?"
"THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES LIVES IN THE WHITE HOUSE. WHAT COLOR IS IT PAINTED?"
"WHAT IS THE PHONE NUMBER FOR 911?"
"HOW DO YOU SPELL F.B.I.?"
"WHAT MOUNTAIN RANGE DOES THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL GO THROUGH?"
THE END
Monday, March 19, 2007
BLOWIN' SMOKE AT THE TEACHER
By the time I got to high school, I became a connoisseur of the bungling art of blowin' smoke at the teacher. Some people refer to it as snow, others as bs, but's it all the same. It's the blundering attempt to get a decent grade in school using only chicanery and a pen, for the brain has no clue. However, there is a blank paper staring at you which will be graded later by a teacher who might be distracted, or better yet, in a stupor.
One of my students gave it a shot, a fine piece of complicated confusion and absurdity, and one of the first really asinine attempts at blowin' smoke at me by this group of kids. Kids don't get good at it until the fifth grade. Here is a fine example of blowin' smoke.
The question: "What causes wind?"
The answer: "Gravity and air causes wind by gravity pushing up and down and inside is wind."
Joe has a way to go before he's eligible for high school quality smoke blowin', but it's a start.
One of my students gave it a shot, a fine piece of complicated confusion and absurdity, and one of the first really asinine attempts at blowin' smoke at me by this group of kids. Kids don't get good at it until the fifth grade. Here is a fine example of blowin' smoke.
The question: "What causes wind?"
The answer: "Gravity and air causes wind by gravity pushing up and down and inside is wind."
Joe has a way to go before he's eligible for high school quality smoke blowin', but it's a start.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
DUMB QUESTIONS
This is a long blog, so have a cup of coffee ready.
My first fifth grade class wrote a book many years ago that I have shared with other subsequent classes, and they have helped add entries into it. The book is titled, "Dumb Questions." Anytime anyone asks or thinks of a dumb question, we write it in the book. So far we have quite a few classics:
"When was the War of 1812?"
"How many doughnuts are in a dozen?"
"How much do the $ .39 stamps cost?"
"What company makes "Campbell's Soup?"
"What color is the White House painted?"
"Who was President during the Eisenhower administration?"
I think you get the picture. My students love making them up and hearing them, and we have had quite a lot of fun with dumb questions.
My fifth grade class was recently visited by two of my ex-students who are now completely grown up and wise to the world. They are eighth graders at the middle school around the corner, and they came to my class to discuss what life was really like at middle school, and we aren't talking the bullshit questions kids will ask when an adult is around like, "Where are the drinking fountains?" or "How many times a week may you visit the library?" or "When is lunch period?" No. Not that crap. This was for real.
The first question was, "Are there knife fights at the school?"
"What?"
"I've heard there are knife fights at the school. Is that true?"
"Of course not! That's ridiculous!"
"I've heard there are fights and kids get beat up."
"I've never seen one. I think you'd get in BIG trouble if you got into a fight."
This is the kind of questions kids want answered. They hear rumors. Scary rumors. Frankenstein scary. Death scary. Kids get hurt. Kids die. Guns, dope, sex, and mayhem. Destruction, and Evil lurk the halls and grab little sixth graders and gobble them up like caramels.
So these two girls are giving my kids a real, honest, truthful look at middle school life. The question and answer session is going quite well, except every now and then they either grossed out my more mature students or confused the more immature ones with some remark about melting to the ground whenever a dreamy boy walked by.
All is going well.
Then someone asked the very good question, "I have heard that you can't ask questions. Is it true you're not allowed to ask questions?"
One of the girls, Marissa, is quite an over-the-top amateur actress/ham, and she started getting a lot of laughs with her answer.
"That's some kinda stupid rumor you've heard. Of course you can ask questions. Now you can't ask dumb questions" (A giggle rose from my students.) "There's one teacher, Ms. Conkle, who can't STAND stupid questions!" (Louder giggling from my students) "Someone will ask her a stupid question like, 'Ms. Conkle, is Texas in Africa or a constant state of stupidity?'" (Guffaws from my students).
By now Marissa is the center of attention and loving it. She's animated. She's doing voices. She's on a roll, and the kids are starting to roar with laughter.
"If you ask Ms. Conkle a dumb question, she'll bug her eyes out at you and say, 'Now that's a stupid question. Stop that right now!' So as you can see, it's only dumb questions you can't ask."
I'm a fan of comedy, and I can play a pretty good straight man. I'm sitting in the back of the room, and I am thinking, "Why don't you ask her a dumb question? She can look at you and say, 'Mr. R.. that's a dumb question! Stop that right now!'" So I raise my hand and Marissa promptly calls on me.
"Yes. Mr. R. You have a question?"
"Yes, Marissa, I do. I was wondering who is buried in Grant's tomb?"
Now I never thought for one minute that she wouldn't know the answer to that question. All my students through the years have heard these questions, including Marissa, and roared with laughter at them. I became immediately concerned when Marissa lowered her head and started scratching her chin as if in thought. Then she promptly looks up at me and exclaims, "Billy the Kid!"
My fifth graders started screaming with laughter. They thought that was the funniest thing they ever heard. Marissa was obviously confused, and I saw her friend, Shannon, whisper to her, "The answer is Grant." I could see Marissa's face fall as she realized her error, and she immediately yelled out, "Okay everybody, stop! Stop laughing. Stop! I see now what I did. I remember the dumb questions and you caught me off guard. Ask me another one, Mr. R. Please! Please ask me another one!"
I immediately said, as a way of letting her save face, "What is the main ingredient in Cream of Wheat?"
Without hesitation, Marissa yells out, CREAM!"
The kids fell out of their chairs! I saw Shannon mouthing the words, "It's wheat, not cream!" I saw the look on poor Marissa's face. It was humiliation turning into anger. I went to the front of the room and told her, amidst all the jeers and cackling, "I'm sorry, Marissa, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
She replied, "I'm never coming back here again!"
I told her that I felt horrible, and please, PLEASE come back.
I am proud to say that she and Shannon did come back about a week later, and we celebrated their return with a short party. In the middle of the party I asked Marissa a question:
"Marissa, is your brother a boy or a girl?"
Marissa proudly and confidently yells out, "He's a boy! And stop it with the dumb questions!!"
The kids cheered.
My first fifth grade class wrote a book many years ago that I have shared with other subsequent classes, and they have helped add entries into it. The book is titled, "Dumb Questions." Anytime anyone asks or thinks of a dumb question, we write it in the book. So far we have quite a few classics:
"When was the War of 1812?"
"How many doughnuts are in a dozen?"
"How much do the $ .39 stamps cost?"
"What company makes "Campbell's Soup?"
"What color is the White House painted?"
"Who was President during the Eisenhower administration?"
I think you get the picture. My students love making them up and hearing them, and we have had quite a lot of fun with dumb questions.
My fifth grade class was recently visited by two of my ex-students who are now completely grown up and wise to the world. They are eighth graders at the middle school around the corner, and they came to my class to discuss what life was really like at middle school, and we aren't talking the bullshit questions kids will ask when an adult is around like, "Where are the drinking fountains?" or "How many times a week may you visit the library?" or "When is lunch period?" No. Not that crap. This was for real.
The first question was, "Are there knife fights at the school?"
"What?"
"I've heard there are knife fights at the school. Is that true?"
"Of course not! That's ridiculous!"
"I've heard there are fights and kids get beat up."
"I've never seen one. I think you'd get in BIG trouble if you got into a fight."
This is the kind of questions kids want answered. They hear rumors. Scary rumors. Frankenstein scary. Death scary. Kids get hurt. Kids die. Guns, dope, sex, and mayhem. Destruction, and Evil lurk the halls and grab little sixth graders and gobble them up like caramels.
So these two girls are giving my kids a real, honest, truthful look at middle school life. The question and answer session is going quite well, except every now and then they either grossed out my more mature students or confused the more immature ones with some remark about melting to the ground whenever a dreamy boy walked by.
All is going well.
Then someone asked the very good question, "I have heard that you can't ask questions. Is it true you're not allowed to ask questions?"
One of the girls, Marissa, is quite an over-the-top amateur actress/ham, and she started getting a lot of laughs with her answer.
"That's some kinda stupid rumor you've heard. Of course you can ask questions. Now you can't ask dumb questions" (A giggle rose from my students.) "There's one teacher, Ms. Conkle, who can't STAND stupid questions!" (Louder giggling from my students) "Someone will ask her a stupid question like, 'Ms. Conkle, is Texas in Africa or a constant state of stupidity?'" (Guffaws from my students).
By now Marissa is the center of attention and loving it. She's animated. She's doing voices. She's on a roll, and the kids are starting to roar with laughter.
"If you ask Ms. Conkle a dumb question, she'll bug her eyes out at you and say, 'Now that's a stupid question. Stop that right now!' So as you can see, it's only dumb questions you can't ask."
I'm a fan of comedy, and I can play a pretty good straight man. I'm sitting in the back of the room, and I am thinking, "Why don't you ask her a dumb question? She can look at you and say, 'Mr. R.. that's a dumb question! Stop that right now!'" So I raise my hand and Marissa promptly calls on me.
"Yes. Mr. R. You have a question?"
"Yes, Marissa, I do. I was wondering who is buried in Grant's tomb?"
Now I never thought for one minute that she wouldn't know the answer to that question. All my students through the years have heard these questions, including Marissa, and roared with laughter at them. I became immediately concerned when Marissa lowered her head and started scratching her chin as if in thought. Then she promptly looks up at me and exclaims, "Billy the Kid!"
My fifth graders started screaming with laughter. They thought that was the funniest thing they ever heard. Marissa was obviously confused, and I saw her friend, Shannon, whisper to her, "The answer is Grant." I could see Marissa's face fall as she realized her error, and she immediately yelled out, "Okay everybody, stop! Stop laughing. Stop! I see now what I did. I remember the dumb questions and you caught me off guard. Ask me another one, Mr. R. Please! Please ask me another one!"
I immediately said, as a way of letting her save face, "What is the main ingredient in Cream of Wheat?"
Without hesitation, Marissa yells out, CREAM!"
The kids fell out of their chairs! I saw Shannon mouthing the words, "It's wheat, not cream!" I saw the look on poor Marissa's face. It was humiliation turning into anger. I went to the front of the room and told her, amidst all the jeers and cackling, "I'm sorry, Marissa, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
She replied, "I'm never coming back here again!"
I told her that I felt horrible, and please, PLEASE come back.
I am proud to say that she and Shannon did come back about a week later, and we celebrated their return with a short party. In the middle of the party I asked Marissa a question:
"Marissa, is your brother a boy or a girl?"
Marissa proudly and confidently yells out, "He's a boy! And stop it with the dumb questions!!"
The kids cheered.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER?
One of the hot new shows on FOX is a game show called "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" If you haven't heard of this show, click on this link.
I like the show because it shows real, fifth grade kids as well-educated, intelligent, and clever. I am a fifth grade teacher, and I know for a fact that some kids today are more intelligent than I am, and many are more mature at their age than I was.
This morning at breakfast I was pontificating about something of no great importance, and I happened to make an offhand remark of little significance which, by chance, happened to have a minor error in it. However, my dear wife, Peggy, quickly and efficiently pointed out my "mistake." Then she said, "I'm smarter than a fifth grade teacher!"
Oh boy. I'm gonna be hearing that punch line a lot.
I like the show because it shows real, fifth grade kids as well-educated, intelligent, and clever. I am a fifth grade teacher, and I know for a fact that some kids today are more intelligent than I am, and many are more mature at their age than I was.
This morning at breakfast I was pontificating about something of no great importance, and I happened to make an offhand remark of little significance which, by chance, happened to have a minor error in it. However, my dear wife, Peggy, quickly and efficiently pointed out my "mistake." Then she said, "I'm smarter than a fifth grade teacher!"
Oh boy. I'm gonna be hearing that punch line a lot.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
KIDS' QUESTIONS
My fifth graders can ask some off-beat questions. Here are some examples:
"What is the difference between living in an apartment and a condom?"
"Mr. R., what is a ho?"
"Well, Joe, I think that is a question you should ask your Mom. Where did you hear that word?"
"I was at my Grandma's and she told my Grandpa that were was a snake in the yard so go get a hoe."
"Mr. R., who is Martian Luther King?"
"You mean Martin Luther King."
"No. It says here Martian Luther King."
"That's a misprint, a misspelling.
"Oh."
"Mr. R., what's an IV?"
"An IV? Well, I've heard of an IV drip. It's when a person is in the hospital and receives medication and nourishment through a tube that's hooked up to their bloodstream. Is that what you mean?"
"I think so."
"Well how did you hear the word?"
"My Mom told the waitress to start bringing her margaritas and to just keep feeding them to her in an IV."
"What is the difference between living in an apartment and a condom?"
"Mr. R., what is a ho?"
"Well, Joe, I think that is a question you should ask your Mom. Where did you hear that word?"
"I was at my Grandma's and she told my Grandpa that were was a snake in the yard so go get a hoe."
"Mr. R., who is Martian Luther King?"
"You mean Martin Luther King."
"No. It says here Martian Luther King."
"That's a misprint, a misspelling.
"Oh."
"Mr. R., what's an IV?"
"An IV? Well, I've heard of an IV drip. It's when a person is in the hospital and receives medication and nourishment through a tube that's hooked up to their bloodstream. Is that what you mean?"
"I think so."
"Well how did you hear the word?"
"My Mom told the waitress to start bringing her margaritas and to just keep feeding them to her in an IV."
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
CALL ME "MR. BATTERING RAM"
Have you ever seen two Bighorn sheep ramming their heads together? Have you ever seen the film of the two locomotives that were driven into each other at full speed? I am a fifth grade teacher who conjures up these images when I think of myself and one of my students. The reason? My job is to bring up and discuss this student's problem behaviors and his incorrect solutions to answers despite the fact that he is having great difficulty accepting the possibility that he is not perfect.
The boy has always been overly sensitive to criticism. My strategy so far has been to say something that doesn't work, like "I like you. You're wonderful. But you're answer is not exactly correct."
Unfortunately, his issues have worsened. All his life he has been the center of attention, the most popular boy, the fastest, the strongest, the tallest, the handsomest, the creme de la creme. Now he finds himself second fiddle to his new step-brother, and he is not handling this new situation well. His new step-brother has leukemia. I am sure that his displacement as the family's center of attention must hurt, but his need for continued back-patting has turned sour. As his teacher, I am now unable to correct him in the slightest way without getting arguments and denials. He is unable to accept responsibilty for his own actions.
His reflexes are quick and responsive, and I can see him formulating his argument the moment I begin my sentence with, "This is good, _ _ _ _ _ _ _, but - ." Instantly I get some arbitrary, contrary excuse that prevents me from pointing out his answer makes no sense, and if it did, there is no punctuation of any kind on his paper.
I have a tough road to travel with this boy, and unfortunately, he is the class leader. That means other students take his side. I have become the Bald Meanie, the Yeller, and the Grumpy Teacher. It's a role I can't stand.
I have three choices:
1) Let the kid sit in the corner and mildew. Stop all instruction. Discontinue all learning on his part. Have no expectations. Just keep him from arguing with me. His arguing is a detriment to the rest of the class. Unfortunately, setting him in the corner to rot is to his detriment.
2) Butt heads! Collide head-on!! Use all forces in my arsenal, including but not limited to sending him to the school principal.
3) Use what little tactical advantage I have as an adult to get through to this kid. In other words, use my older intellect (I was gonna use the word "superior" intellect, but I'm not convinced that's accurate), reverse psychology, and every mental and emotional trick in my thin, little book to make this boy understand that I have to be able to teach him without his taking it the wrong way.
I'll tell you what I have always done in the past: #3.
I'll let you know if it works. The collision/solution will be decided soon.
The boy has always been overly sensitive to criticism. My strategy so far has been to say something that doesn't work, like "I like you. You're wonderful. But you're answer is not exactly correct."
Unfortunately, his issues have worsened. All his life he has been the center of attention, the most popular boy, the fastest, the strongest, the tallest, the handsomest, the creme de la creme. Now he finds himself second fiddle to his new step-brother, and he is not handling this new situation well. His new step-brother has leukemia. I am sure that his displacement as the family's center of attention must hurt, but his need for continued back-patting has turned sour. As his teacher, I am now unable to correct him in the slightest way without getting arguments and denials. He is unable to accept responsibilty for his own actions.
His reflexes are quick and responsive, and I can see him formulating his argument the moment I begin my sentence with, "This is good, _ _ _ _ _ _ _, but - ." Instantly I get some arbitrary, contrary excuse that prevents me from pointing out his answer makes no sense, and if it did, there is no punctuation of any kind on his paper.
I have a tough road to travel with this boy, and unfortunately, he is the class leader. That means other students take his side. I have become the Bald Meanie, the Yeller, and the Grumpy Teacher. It's a role I can't stand.
I have three choices:
1) Let the kid sit in the corner and mildew. Stop all instruction. Discontinue all learning on his part. Have no expectations. Just keep him from arguing with me. His arguing is a detriment to the rest of the class. Unfortunately, setting him in the corner to rot is to his detriment.
2) Butt heads! Collide head-on!! Use all forces in my arsenal, including but not limited to sending him to the school principal.
3) Use what little tactical advantage I have as an adult to get through to this kid. In other words, use my older intellect (I was gonna use the word "superior" intellect, but I'm not convinced that's accurate), reverse psychology, and every mental and emotional trick in my thin, little book to make this boy understand that I have to be able to teach him without his taking it the wrong way.
I'll tell you what I have always done in the past: #3.
I'll let you know if it works. The collision/solution will be decided soon.
Monday, February 26, 2007
WHERE IS THE "GOOD" IN GOODBYE?
My job as Melissa's piano teacher is about to end. I know it sounds silly, but I believe I may cry when her lessons stop. I'm mighty misty-eyed just writing this blog.
She hasn't been practicing for quite some time, and I have mentioned this fact in some of my blogs. Last week I told my wife that it seems odd that she is still continuing her lessons. Peggy hit me in the gut by speaking the obvious to the oblivious. "Well, it's easy to see what's going on. She likes spending time with you."
I realized that I have not complained about her lack of practice because I like spending time with her. I like spending time with her a lot, but I am a teacher and I have to use my best professional judgement, so at the last lesson I brought up the unpleasant idea that maybe we should discontinue her piano lessons. She told me that she didn't want to stop the lessons because she enjoyed spending time with me. I told her that I should have dropped her as a student some time back, but I didn't say anything because I enjoyed spending time with her.
The idea of her quitting is out there, now........lying out there like a pig turd on a hot fudge sundae. I think her piano lessons are about to end.
Losing Melissa as a student reminds me of the lyrics of the barbershop quartet song from the Broadway musical and the movie, "The Music Man."
"How can there be any sin in sincere?
Where is the good in goodbye?"
She hasn't been practicing for quite some time, and I have mentioned this fact in some of my blogs. Last week I told my wife that it seems odd that she is still continuing her lessons. Peggy hit me in the gut by speaking the obvious to the oblivious. "Well, it's easy to see what's going on. She likes spending time with you."
I realized that I have not complained about her lack of practice because I like spending time with her. I like spending time with her a lot, but I am a teacher and I have to use my best professional judgement, so at the last lesson I brought up the unpleasant idea that maybe we should discontinue her piano lessons. She told me that she didn't want to stop the lessons because she enjoyed spending time with me. I told her that I should have dropped her as a student some time back, but I didn't say anything because I enjoyed spending time with her.
The idea of her quitting is out there, now........lying out there like a pig turd on a hot fudge sundae. I think her piano lessons are about to end.
Losing Melissa as a student reminds me of the lyrics of the barbershop quartet song from the Broadway musical and the movie, "The Music Man."
"How can there be any sin in sincere?
Where is the good in goodbye?"
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Application of Studies to Daily Life
Jake is preparing for FCATs. This means he is learning the same stress he will face as an adult when you get the announcement that your company is merging with a larger company and this will result in termination that means you are bankrupt within six months, not that this is an actual example anyone you know is drinking over.
He is valiantly attempting to truly comprehend abstract ideas like algebra, gravity, and excerpts from Little House books. And he has been struggling the most with science. We spent quite a bit of time discerning between the different forms of matter (solids, gases, liquids), and of the various energy types (kinetic, chemical, light, etc.).
It all came into focus for him the other day. We both went in to check on Olivia, and watch our little Tasmanian sleep without stirring. Her legs were splayed, she was grabbing her stuffed chicken with passion, and her pacifier had slipped out of her open, momentarily-resting mouth.
Jake shook his head as he watched her. "That's Potential Energy," he noted.
He is valiantly attempting to truly comprehend abstract ideas like algebra, gravity, and excerpts from Little House books. And he has been struggling the most with science. We spent quite a bit of time discerning between the different forms of matter (solids, gases, liquids), and of the various energy types (kinetic, chemical, light, etc.).
It all came into focus for him the other day. We both went in to check on Olivia, and watch our little Tasmanian sleep without stirring. Her legs were splayed, she was grabbing her stuffed chicken with passion, and her pacifier had slipped out of her open, momentarily-resting mouth.
Jake shook his head as he watched her. "That's Potential Energy," he noted.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
It Should Have Been In The Gargantua
Albuquerque received another wonderful snow fall, and the schools are closed due to hazardous driving conditions. I am happy to have the day off. However, I did something VERY stupid.
My fourth grade car (nine years old), my thirty miles to the gallon in town and forty-one miles to the gallon on the highway little Saturn, my little, quick, blue gem with the stiff seats and the rattly ride and the ten disc CD player that takes up most of the trunk but sounds really good if the fan motor isn't blowing for the heater or the air-conditioner, is in the body shop. A lady whacked it with her big, huge, monstrous truck and dented the left front fender just a tad, so my little Saturn is being repaired. Her insurance company generously and rightly paid for me to have a rental car to drive while my Saturn is in the body shop. The rental car is a big, huge, monstrous, gigantic, typical, modern-day American Gas Hog that can pass everything except a gas station, and it needs but doesn't come equipped with a tugboat to get it in and out of parking spaces. I don’t remember the name of the car, but I think if I was given the power to name the……..”Thing”, I would call it a:
1) Ford Whale
2) Chevy Guzzler
3) Buick Behemoth
4) Pontiac Titanic
5) GMC Mammoth
6) Chrysler Colossus
But I digress. I was talking about my act of stupidity. When I picked up the rental car early yesterday morning, I was in a hurry to get to school so I grabbed my stuff out of my Saturn and put it in the Wake Maker, but I forgot one thing: my wife’s Valentine’s card I had hidden under the passenger seat of my Saturn. So this morning I sneak out to the garage to get my wife’s Valentine’s card so I can put it on the kitchen table so when she comes in to get her coffee and sits down and starts sipping in that cozy, enchanting way she does that makes me happy to be with her, she’ll see the card propped up on the table and will open it, and she’ll gaze into my eyes and kiss me, and laugh, and cry.
But NO!! My Saturn isn’t in the garage! It’s at the body shop, being repaired. In the garage is this empty space because the Beast won’t fit in my garage. It's out in my driveway crushing cement and it doesn’t have the Valentine’s card in it either, because I am a knucklehead and left it in the Saturn.
So this morning I sat down and drank my acid-free, decaffeinated coffee because of my babyfied, old man tummy, and I saw my wife’s card, and I opened it, and I gazed into her eyes, and I kissed her, and I laughed, and I cried, and I told her I bought her card two weeks ago. I mentioned that it was carefully selected out of thousands because it told her how much I loved her in the way I wanted to say it. “But it’s in the Saturn, baby. Sorry.”
She forgave me, but I won’t forgive myself so easily.
My fourth grade car (nine years old), my thirty miles to the gallon in town and forty-one miles to the gallon on the highway little Saturn, my little, quick, blue gem with the stiff seats and the rattly ride and the ten disc CD player that takes up most of the trunk but sounds really good if the fan motor isn't blowing for the heater or the air-conditioner, is in the body shop. A lady whacked it with her big, huge, monstrous truck and dented the left front fender just a tad, so my little Saturn is being repaired. Her insurance company generously and rightly paid for me to have a rental car to drive while my Saturn is in the body shop. The rental car is a big, huge, monstrous, gigantic, typical, modern-day American Gas Hog that can pass everything except a gas station, and it needs but doesn't come equipped with a tugboat to get it in and out of parking spaces. I don’t remember the name of the car, but I think if I was given the power to name the……..”Thing”, I would call it a:
1) Ford Whale
2) Chevy Guzzler
3) Buick Behemoth
4) Pontiac Titanic
5) GMC Mammoth
6) Chrysler Colossus
But I digress. I was talking about my act of stupidity. When I picked up the rental car early yesterday morning, I was in a hurry to get to school so I grabbed my stuff out of my Saturn and put it in the Wake Maker, but I forgot one thing: my wife’s Valentine’s card I had hidden under the passenger seat of my Saturn. So this morning I sneak out to the garage to get my wife’s Valentine’s card so I can put it on the kitchen table so when she comes in to get her coffee and sits down and starts sipping in that cozy, enchanting way she does that makes me happy to be with her, she’ll see the card propped up on the table and will open it, and she’ll gaze into my eyes and kiss me, and laugh, and cry.
But NO!! My Saturn isn’t in the garage! It’s at the body shop, being repaired. In the garage is this empty space because the Beast won’t fit in my garage. It's out in my driveway crushing cement and it doesn’t have the Valentine’s card in it either, because I am a knucklehead and left it in the Saturn.
So this morning I sat down and drank my acid-free, decaffeinated coffee because of my babyfied, old man tummy, and I saw my wife’s card, and I opened it, and I gazed into her eyes, and I kissed her, and I laughed, and I cried, and I told her I bought her card two weeks ago. I mentioned that it was carefully selected out of thousands because it told her how much I loved her in the way I wanted to say it. “But it’s in the Saturn, baby. Sorry.”
She forgave me, but I won’t forgive myself so easily.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
A Truly Great Spelling Sentence
I have written posts that pass along some of the clever or inane sentences that my fifth grade students have written using their spelling sentences. Here is the greatest of them all, a little gem, a pure treasure, and frankly, one that this year's students will never be able to top.
The spelling word is : impair
By Sarah:
"Breaking an arm will impair your ability to slap your sister."
The spelling word is : impair
By Sarah:
"Breaking an arm will impair your ability to slap your sister."
Sunday, February 04, 2007
I Play Straight Man to Andrea
Those precious fourth graders I taught last year have become fifth graders heading into sixth grade, and their charm is fading quickly.
On Friday I went by Andrea's desk and saw billions and billions of tiny pieces of paper. It looked like some tiny, minute creatures so small their fingers could not be recognized by the human eye had taken several pieces of 8.5" x 11" notebook paper and turned them into the world's most miniature confettti.
I was dumbfounded. I looked at Andrea and disbelievingly asked her, "Andrea, what is going on here? What is this crud?"
"Well, it's just paper and erasers and stuff."
"Did you do this during class time?"
"Yes sir, I did."
"Are my classes so boring that you have nothing better to do than shred paper and erasers?"
"Yeah, sometimes."
On Friday I went by Andrea's desk and saw billions and billions of tiny pieces of paper. It looked like some tiny, minute creatures so small their fingers could not be recognized by the human eye had taken several pieces of 8.5" x 11" notebook paper and turned them into the world's most miniature confettti.
I was dumbfounded. I looked at Andrea and disbelievingly asked her, "Andrea, what is going on here? What is this crud?"
"Well, it's just paper and erasers and stuff."
"Did you do this during class time?"
"Yes sir, I did."
"Are my classes so boring that you have nothing better to do than shred paper and erasers?"
"Yeah, sometimes."
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Melissa, Shopping Afficionado
I have given up on the idea of ever teaching Melissa to play the piano. She has reached a level of proficiency that is satisfactory to her needs, and any further keyboard skills just don't fit into her plans of becoming a professional shopper.
During her piano lesson last week, I asked her if she ever did any exercise.
"Yes, I get lots of exercise. I shop."
"How can shopping be exercise?"
"Well, you have to start out treadmilling. Some people call it walking. Then you do a LOT
of weight training by picking up items and turning them over and looking at them. Speed walking is necessary if there's a sale or you're running out of time in a mall that covers a lot of area. That means you also have to carry heavy items. All of this, of course, takes a lot of stamina, determination, and practice. I'm very good at it!"
"I'll bet you are, Melissa."
For her Christmas present I bought her a MasterCard gift card with her name on it:
Mellissa, Shopping Aficionado. An appropriate gift, I think.
During her piano lesson last week, I asked her if she ever did any exercise.
"Yes, I get lots of exercise. I shop."
"How can shopping be exercise?"
"Well, you have to start out treadmilling. Some people call it walking. Then you do a LOT
of weight training by picking up items and turning them over and looking at them. Speed walking is necessary if there's a sale or you're running out of time in a mall that covers a lot of area. That means you also have to carry heavy items. All of this, of course, takes a lot of stamina, determination, and practice. I'm very good at it!"
"I'll bet you are, Melissa."
For her Christmas present I bought her a MasterCard gift card with her name on it:
Mellissa, Shopping Aficionado. An appropriate gift, I think.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Because It Is FIVE Whole Days
No parents are allowed on Jake's trip to DC tomorrow. Do you think he'd really recognize us?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Ask A Few Of My Former Bosses Where She Could Have Gotten THAT From
Olivia started gymnastics today. She is in the Kitten Division at the Cat Gym in Boca, and we have been talking about today's excitement for a week. "Are you ready for Kitten Gym, Olivia?" "Yes," she will answer, or "Meoww." My preparation for today's big step was remembering Jake at that age, and the excited way with which he ran from me toward the instructor, any instructor, to get the maximum amount of fun from the forty-five minutes. Jake would try anything and everything, while I looked with great envy at the mothers who were having to peel their children off their legs.
Olivia has thus far been all you could hope if you were looking for a petite, sweet girl. She says the word "tutu" out of the blue, meaning she wants to wear it around the house, or during lunch, and I am only too happy to oblige. She is verbal, and loves to pose for photographs, and relishes a new pair of shoes.
And today, my little daughter was a clingy. She hung on to my knees while the other babies learned to somersault down padded ramps. While the toddlers around her clamored for one more ride on the swing, or another attempt at the rings by which they swung like monkeys, Olivia grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, the car, and freedom.
"Bye-bye." She said to the instructor, fifteen minutes in to our session. When the instructor would insist she try something (I was all for it), Olivia would look into my face and cry at me and I knew the pain that all my friends had felt as they left their sobbing offspring--against every procreative fiber in their being--and sat in their car, miserable.
The instructor solaced my child with plenty of attention, and enticed her to finally enjoy a couple of minutes of jumping on the trampoline. After that, Olivia went to whatever station the children were not at, and played in her own fashion.
The instructor consoled me that she would be fine by the time she had a couple of sessions under her belt, and pointed out her opinion of Olivia's temperament. "It seems that if you tell her what to do and when to do it, it takes all the pleasure away from her. She seems to have a little distaste for authority."
Olivia has thus far been all you could hope if you were looking for a petite, sweet girl. She says the word "tutu" out of the blue, meaning she wants to wear it around the house, or during lunch, and I am only too happy to oblige. She is verbal, and loves to pose for photographs, and relishes a new pair of shoes.
And today, my little daughter was a clingy. She hung on to my knees while the other babies learned to somersault down padded ramps. While the toddlers around her clamored for one more ride on the swing, or another attempt at the rings by which they swung like monkeys, Olivia grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, the car, and freedom.
"Bye-bye." She said to the instructor, fifteen minutes in to our session. When the instructor would insist she try something (I was all for it), Olivia would look into my face and cry at me and I knew the pain that all my friends had felt as they left their sobbing offspring--against every procreative fiber in their being--and sat in their car, miserable.
The instructor solaced my child with plenty of attention, and enticed her to finally enjoy a couple of minutes of jumping on the trampoline. After that, Olivia went to whatever station the children were not at, and played in her own fashion.
The instructor consoled me that she would be fine by the time she had a couple of sessions under her belt, and pointed out her opinion of Olivia's temperament. "It seems that if you tell her what to do and when to do it, it takes all the pleasure away from her. She seems to have a little distaste for authority."
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Do You Just WANT Them To Beat Up Your Kid?
I have been extremely focused on a suitcase. No, not this one, my smart-alec friends. A really important one, the one that my son will be toting with him as he rides the rails off to Washington DC for five days. It must solidly contain his life, in an organized and easy-to-maintain fashion, and I won't be there to calmly handle the little messes.
Funny how our survival packages for the trip are so extremely different. His is a large red pullman and mine is so significantly smaller: a three-inch tall cylinder marked Valium. And so to focus on something, anything, other than the horrible imagined dangers that I can so freely conjure up, I have chosen to worry, effusively, about the contents of his suitcase. One such worry was where to pack his winter coat: too bulky for his backpack, not accessible enough in the suitcase, and sure-to-be-lost simply carried by hand.
As I was lying in bed, it came to me. I had already planned to ziploc bag every day's outfit--appropriately marked--so why not go one step further? I would buy a vacuum compressed bag, stuff a coat, gloves, and hat inside, vacuum out the air and he would have a neat little package for his backpack. Upon arrival in DC, he would merely need to pull out the ziploc bag, decompress it with a big whoosh, and voila! Cold weather gear at hand. I detailed to Eric my plan.
He looked me in the eye and said, "It surprises me greatly that Jake has not already been required to defend himself, you being his mom all these years."
Funny how our survival packages for the trip are so extremely different. His is a large red pullman and mine is so significantly smaller: a three-inch tall cylinder marked Valium. And so to focus on something, anything, other than the horrible imagined dangers that I can so freely conjure up, I have chosen to worry, effusively, about the contents of his suitcase. One such worry was where to pack his winter coat: too bulky for his backpack, not accessible enough in the suitcase, and sure-to-be-lost simply carried by hand.
As I was lying in bed, it came to me. I had already planned to ziploc bag every day's outfit--appropriately marked--so why not go one step further? I would buy a vacuum compressed bag, stuff a coat, gloves, and hat inside, vacuum out the air and he would have a neat little package for his backpack. Upon arrival in DC, he would merely need to pull out the ziploc bag, decompress it with a big whoosh, and voila! Cold weather gear at hand. I detailed to Eric my plan.
He looked me in the eye and said, "It surprises me greatly that Jake has not already been required to defend himself, you being his mom all these years."
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Chorus Christmas Show
I know I'm supposed to call it the Holiday Show, but I'm too ornery. The school chorus I started had its Christmas Show, and I am happy to say all went well, mostly.
I'll give the good news first.
Our performance had 139 third, fourth, and fifth grade singers crammed onto the risers, and my chorus is the largest public school chorus in the United States.
We had almost 700 people in attendance, making it the largest audience we have ever had.
The chorus and the soloists performed admirably. The hightlight of the show for everyone was a fifth grade soloist, Derrick, who is phenomenal. The audience went crazy over him. First, he loves performing. Second, he has a lot of experience. I have taught him for two previous years, and this show was his fifth working with me as a soloist. Third, he has so much talent. He has the looks, the sound, the charisma, and the naturalness. Performing is easy for Derrick. Last, he has worked with professionals locally in other venues and shows, both as an actor and a singer.
The Director, Lauren, did a commendable job considering this is her first effort at directing without my guidance, and most importantly, directing with an audience. Teachers call that affective assessment, the toughest and most stressful type of test of all.
Now for the bad news.
The moment I walked into the Community Center where we performed, I was "under the gun." Criticism roared at me from the six directions (north, south, east, west, up, and down). The fire department is across the street, and some swell parent with a genuine gripe that they didn't have a seat called the the fire department and complained that we were breaking the fire code. The Fire Marshall came for a visit, and sure enough promptly gave the Community Center a citation for breaking the fire code by having too may people crowded into too small a space. It was beyond standing room only; audience members were blocking the exits and standing in the hallways in order to get a good view. People that arrived an hour early were surprised to discover that the best seats available were in the fifth row. We were very fortunate the Fire Marshall didn't shut down our show.
Otherwise, all went well. We did it!
I'll give the good news first.
Our performance had 139 third, fourth, and fifth grade singers crammed onto the risers, and my chorus is the largest public school chorus in the United States.
We had almost 700 people in attendance, making it the largest audience we have ever had.
The chorus and the soloists performed admirably. The hightlight of the show for everyone was a fifth grade soloist, Derrick, who is phenomenal. The audience went crazy over him. First, he loves performing. Second, he has a lot of experience. I have taught him for two previous years, and this show was his fifth working with me as a soloist. Third, he has so much talent. He has the looks, the sound, the charisma, and the naturalness. Performing is easy for Derrick. Last, he has worked with professionals locally in other venues and shows, both as an actor and a singer.
The Director, Lauren, did a commendable job considering this is her first effort at directing without my guidance, and most importantly, directing with an audience. Teachers call that affective assessment, the toughest and most stressful type of test of all.
Now for the bad news.
The moment I walked into the Community Center where we performed, I was "under the gun." Criticism roared at me from the six directions (north, south, east, west, up, and down). The fire department is across the street, and some swell parent with a genuine gripe that they didn't have a seat called the the fire department and complained that we were breaking the fire code. The Fire Marshall came for a visit, and sure enough promptly gave the Community Center a citation for breaking the fire code by having too may people crowded into too small a space. It was beyond standing room only; audience members were blocking the exits and standing in the hallways in order to get a good view. People that arrived an hour early were surprised to discover that the best seats available were in the fifth row. We were very fortunate the Fire Marshall didn't shut down our show.
Otherwise, all went well. We did it!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
At Some Point The Secret Comes Out, And Then You Just Have To Sigh And Promise To Do Better
A friend of mine was reviewing Olivia's vocabulary. "What does the tiger say, Olivia?"
"Roooaaaar!"
"What does the cow say?"
"Mooooo."
"What does the duck say?"
"Quack, quack."
What does the mouse say?"
"Eeeek, eeeek."
"What does the bear say?"
"Oyee, oyee, oyee."
This one is a mystery to us, as well.
"What does Simon say?"
"Woof, woof."
My friend continued with all sorts of prompts, the cutest one being that Olivia identifies my new computer as "Apple." After she had exhausted all the words she knew Olivia enjoyed saying, she threw out one just for fun, knowing she would not be able to retort. "What does Mommy say, Olivia?"
"Damn."
"Roooaaaar!"
"What does the cow say?"
"Mooooo."
"What does the duck say?"
"Quack, quack."
What does the mouse say?"
"Eeeek, eeeek."
"What does the bear say?"
"Oyee, oyee, oyee."
This one is a mystery to us, as well.
"What does Simon say?"
"Woof, woof."
My friend continued with all sorts of prompts, the cutest one being that Olivia identifies my new computer as "Apple." After she had exhausted all the words she knew Olivia enjoyed saying, she threw out one just for fun, knowing she would not be able to retort. "What does Mommy say, Olivia?"
"Damn."
Sunday, January 07, 2007
School Is Starting Up Again
We were supposed to have two weeks and two days off from school due to Christmas and New Year, but Albuquerque got hit with near record snowfalls. The side streets and school parking lots were too dangerous for school buses, so we were given an extra three days which means we had three (3) whole weeks off!
I bet I irritate some of the kids with my enthusiastic, energetic, excited-to-be-back, cheerleading, rah-rah, sis-boom-bah attitude towards school. I can see some of their sad, tired faces in my mind. Poor babies. They are going to have to deal with a teacher who is happy to be back in the classroom.
For one thing, I'll have two new/old students. When I "looped" with this class, I taught them fourth grade last year and took the same class to fifth grade except for two students who moved. They have both, by chance, moved back to Albuquerque and our neighborhood over the holidays. Just a simple thing like two new students (that everyone already knows) will change the "chemistry" of social interaction in the classroom, hopefully for the better.
I am also excited about and proud of the hours and hours and hours and hours and days and days I spent on my "New & Improved, Standards-Based Lesson Plans!" To think that I did what the bureaucracy wanted and did a bunch of useless, senseless, fallow, unavailing, valueless, inane, good for nothing busy work. It makes me want to hold my head up with great pride; this is an important step for me. I usually whine and complain, upset middle and upper management, and get in trouble for refusing to do dumb tasks that bureaucracies dump on me. I am so proud of myself for going ahead and doing it.
I can look my students right square in the eyes and say, "If some of this work I'm givin' ya seems stupid, well that's just too bad. You're gonna have to tough it up, ride it out, put on a stiff upper lip, get over it, move on, quit whining, take off yer diapers, put on yer big work pants, and just...........do it. I KNOW I DID! I was told by the federal government and the state government and the local school district to do a bunch of stupid, worthless, brain deadening work, AND I DID IT!! So just shut up!!" But I digress.
I'm sure most of the kids will be joyous to be back. There will be a few sad sacks, but I'm not one of them. I'll be glad to see the little nippers. And hopefully, I can concentrate on them and processing my craft as a teacher, rather than stupid "No Child Left Behind" stuff.
I bet I irritate some of the kids with my enthusiastic, energetic, excited-to-be-back, cheerleading, rah-rah, sis-boom-bah attitude towards school. I can see some of their sad, tired faces in my mind. Poor babies. They are going to have to deal with a teacher who is happy to be back in the classroom.
For one thing, I'll have two new/old students. When I "looped" with this class, I taught them fourth grade last year and took the same class to fifth grade except for two students who moved. They have both, by chance, moved back to Albuquerque and our neighborhood over the holidays. Just a simple thing like two new students (that everyone already knows) will change the "chemistry" of social interaction in the classroom, hopefully for the better.
I am also excited about and proud of the hours and hours and hours and hours and days and days I spent on my "New & Improved, Standards-Based Lesson Plans!" To think that I did what the bureaucracy wanted and did a bunch of useless, senseless, fallow, unavailing, valueless, inane, good for nothing busy work. It makes me want to hold my head up with great pride; this is an important step for me. I usually whine and complain, upset middle and upper management, and get in trouble for refusing to do dumb tasks that bureaucracies dump on me. I am so proud of myself for going ahead and doing it.
I can look my students right square in the eyes and say, "If some of this work I'm givin' ya seems stupid, well that's just too bad. You're gonna have to tough it up, ride it out, put on a stiff upper lip, get over it, move on, quit whining, take off yer diapers, put on yer big work pants, and just...........do it. I KNOW I DID! I was told by the federal government and the state government and the local school district to do a bunch of stupid, worthless, brain deadening work, AND I DID IT!! So just shut up!!" But I digress.
I'm sure most of the kids will be joyous to be back. There will be a few sad sacks, but I'm not one of them. I'll be glad to see the little nippers. And hopefully, I can concentrate on them and processing my craft as a teacher, rather than stupid "No Child Left Behind" stuff.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Outsmarting as an Artform
Okay, I have been in hiding. For a month. And if you've been wondering where I am or why I haven't written, well, heck. I HAVE A TODDLER. That, and, has anyone else been paralyzed with wonder about how Rosie O'Donnel is dealing with the fact that Donald Trump thinks she is fat?
The holidays left me disorganized and befuddled. I cannot tell you where my days go, or what one productive thing I manage...ever. But let me drop Olivia off at your house for half an hour and we'll see what you do with that time.
Eric is really a fine father. He works hard and comes home to cheerfully parent Jake and Olivia and doesn't complain that he never is going to put a golf club back into his hand again. And I allow him his victories and try very hard to not burst his bubbles.
Last week Olivia had decided to play with his work computer. She put her hands on the keys and banged. "No, no," he said firmly. "Not for Olivia." She smiled at him her favorite crinkly nose smile and attempted to type in her resume again. "No, no," he repeated. "NOT for Olivia."
She retracted her hand and looked around on the floor for a certain toy to play with. "See," he noted triumphantly. "She is really great at listening to my no's."
Olivia picked up a ball and threw it past Eric. And as soon as he turned around to retrieve the ball and participate in her little game, she banged the computer as hard as she could.
The holidays left me disorganized and befuddled. I cannot tell you where my days go, or what one productive thing I manage...ever. But let me drop Olivia off at your house for half an hour and we'll see what you do with that time.
Eric is really a fine father. He works hard and comes home to cheerfully parent Jake and Olivia and doesn't complain that he never is going to put a golf club back into his hand again. And I allow him his victories and try very hard to not burst his bubbles.
Last week Olivia had decided to play with his work computer. She put her hands on the keys and banged. "No, no," he said firmly. "Not for Olivia." She smiled at him her favorite crinkly nose smile and attempted to type in her resume again. "No, no," he repeated. "NOT for Olivia."
She retracted her hand and looked around on the floor for a certain toy to play with. "See," he noted triumphantly. "She is really great at listening to my no's."
Olivia picked up a ball and threw it past Eric. And as soon as he turned around to retrieve the ball and participate in her little game, she banged the computer as hard as she could.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Lost In Marriage 2
My wife has been on a roll and really zinging away at me again. Here are some recent examples:
I'm lyin' on my backside in the bed watching television, all snuggly and warm and happy. My little dog Wookie is lyin' beside me and gettin' petted, and all is right with the world. I'm watchin' a sitcom and the couple starring in the show are talking about a married couple they know who are going through a divorce. It seems the woman wanted "......one last chance at love and romance" and was willing to give up her marriage for that youthful feeling that stirs the heart. Peggy turns to me from her ironing and says, in a very stilted voice, "Oh Walter, I don't want a divorce. I don't want to give you up. I don't want love and romance. I want.........YOU!"
Hmmm.
The very next day, I did something stupid and worrisome. I asked Peggy a question, a question of no great importance, but she gave me a concerned look and anxiously said, "Punkin', you just asked me that question about five minutes ago. I'm worried about you and the state of your mind."
I got a little concerned too, because I didn't remember asking her, and I certainly didn't remember the answer. I thought, "I'm getting Alzheimer's or maybe Halfzeimer's, and it's startin' at a mighty early age. What's gonna become of me in the next twenty years if this is my pitiful condition at this early stage of the game?"
Realizing my impending old age was drawing near, I earnestly pleaded, "Baby, please don't leave me. Stay with me."
Peggy dropped her voice and said, "I won't. I've got too much time and energy invested in you already."
Hmmm.
I'm lyin' on my backside in the bed watching television, all snuggly and warm and happy. My little dog Wookie is lyin' beside me and gettin' petted, and all is right with the world. I'm watchin' a sitcom and the couple starring in the show are talking about a married couple they know who are going through a divorce. It seems the woman wanted "......one last chance at love and romance" and was willing to give up her marriage for that youthful feeling that stirs the heart. Peggy turns to me from her ironing and says, in a very stilted voice, "Oh Walter, I don't want a divorce. I don't want to give you up. I don't want love and romance. I want.........YOU!"
Hmmm.
The very next day, I did something stupid and worrisome. I asked Peggy a question, a question of no great importance, but she gave me a concerned look and anxiously said, "Punkin', you just asked me that question about five minutes ago. I'm worried about you and the state of your mind."
I got a little concerned too, because I didn't remember asking her, and I certainly didn't remember the answer. I thought, "I'm getting Alzheimer's or maybe Halfzeimer's, and it's startin' at a mighty early age. What's gonna become of me in the next twenty years if this is my pitiful condition at this early stage of the game?"
Realizing my impending old age was drawing near, I earnestly pleaded, "Baby, please don't leave me. Stay with me."
Peggy dropped her voice and said, "I won't. I've got too much time and energy invested in you already."
Hmmm.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Holiday Ramblings
I’m a fifth grade school teacher and have no kids, so the ideas for blogs have come to a screeching halt. All I’ve done since school let out has been to watch videos and gain weight. However, I did spend the afternoon with Warren, a sixth grade boy I mentor. Warren has a wonderful life……..........................
if you live in Darfur. He lives in a rundown, 385 square foot apartment with his uneducated, minimum-wage earning mother who was abandoned by her felonious boyfriend who left her with Warren and a black eye.
I took Warren to the movie theater, and we didn’t go to the dollar theater where I usually go. No sir! We went straight to the top, to the Cineplex 24, with the recliner seats, arm rests with built-in cup holders, a sloped floor so even if a woman with big hair sits in front of you it’s still a great view, a surround sound stereo system, a projector with a brand new light bulb so you can see what’s happening on the screen, and a heater that was turned up so high people were taking their coats off indoors. (There’s nuttin’ quite as heartwarming to the tightwad as the frosty breath of a dollar movie theater audience.)
Halfway through the movie, “Night at the Museum,” the film looked like it caught on fire. I thought for a second that the movie was doin’ a takeoff on the opening of "Ponderosa," the old TV show that opened with a map catching on fire and burning up from the middle out to the edges. Only it wasn’t a takeoff of "Ponderosa;" The film had really burnt up, or melted, or mutated into a quivering blob of plastic goo. A teenager came in and informed the audience that the projector would be fixed and the movie would start again in a few minutes, but I knew better, so Warren and I headed to another screen.
We watched a few minutes of “Rocky Balboa,” and though it didn’t appear to be a foreign film and there were no subtitles, both of us were having trouble understanding WTF the actors were saying. The main problem with the film was it just wasn’t Warren’s cup o’ tea. I could tell by the way he sat in his seat, so we got up and left.
By this time, the line to give everyone watching “Night at the Museum” a refund or readmission tickets was short. We got in the back of the line and just before it was our turn to get our readmission tickets from the manager, I turned to the last guy in line who was right behind me and whispered, “Watch carefully. You and I are in the back of the line and that means a golden opportunity awaits us. Follow my lead.” I told the manager I didn’t want two tickets for my boy and me. I wanted TWO tickets each: one to finish a movie we didn’t get to finish, and one for our troubles.
She was adamant. “I can’t do that sir. You get just one ticket for each person.”
I said, “But that’s only a ticket for half a movie. We’ve already seen half of it, so we have to come back and watch the first half all over again and THEN get to finish the movie.
“That’s means you owe me. You get to see a movie and a half for the price of just one movie.”
I scowled and said, “Well that makes me an unhappy camper. I spend my time and my gas and the boy and I are just plain disappointed. I’m gonna leave here unhappy with the Cineplex 24. Instead, why don't you give me two tickets for each of us, and I’ll be extolling the greatness of the magnificent Cineplex 24.”
She rolled her eyes and gave me four tickets. The guy behind me was giving the same pitch to her as we walked off.
Warren was disappointed, so I took him to get a hamburger at Fuddrucker’s, arguably the best burger in our fair city. Fuddrucker’s hangs old toys, bikes, and signs from the ceiling and on the wall, and they have an eclectic assortment of statues and motorcycles all over the place. Warren was eating his hamburger in record time, excited about the décor, and making me feel old.
“Look there, Mr. R.! It’s an antique baseball glove! There’s an old, old, wagon. And there’s an antique bicycle.”
Of course I’m older than all the antique toys there. Anyway, Warren then adds, “That bike is an old one like Einstein made. Einstein invented the bike.”
I just had to play school teacher and give Warren a very simplified and succinct explanation of Einstein’s contribution to mathematics and his famous formula E = mc2. However, I left out the latest anti-male propaganda our society uses to emasculate men. I didn’t tell Warren that Mrs. Einstein was really the genius in the family. The man of the family, Albert, was merely the unkempt front man, the shill if you will, for the brains of the operation. This anti-man stuff is getting’ out of control. Last Sunday my wife whispered to me in church, “Say, pass the hermnal.”
But I digress.
Right after I explain that Einstein was a mathematician, not an inventor, Warren says, “Look at that statue of Long John Silver. He has a wooden leg because one of his legs was circumcised.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. I told him that Long John Silver had burnt it badly while deep fat frying a batch o’ fish, and his leg had been amputated, not circumcised.
Warren. I love being around kids, and I’m looking forward to school and the kids who provide me with my blogging ideas.
if you live in Darfur. He lives in a rundown, 385 square foot apartment with his uneducated, minimum-wage earning mother who was abandoned by her felonious boyfriend who left her with Warren and a black eye.
I took Warren to the movie theater, and we didn’t go to the dollar theater where I usually go. No sir! We went straight to the top, to the Cineplex 24, with the recliner seats, arm rests with built-in cup holders, a sloped floor so even if a woman with big hair sits in front of you it’s still a great view, a surround sound stereo system, a projector with a brand new light bulb so you can see what’s happening on the screen, and a heater that was turned up so high people were taking their coats off indoors. (There’s nuttin’ quite as heartwarming to the tightwad as the frosty breath of a dollar movie theater audience.)
Halfway through the movie, “Night at the Museum,” the film looked like it caught on fire. I thought for a second that the movie was doin’ a takeoff on the opening of "Ponderosa," the old TV show that opened with a map catching on fire and burning up from the middle out to the edges. Only it wasn’t a takeoff of "Ponderosa;" The film had really burnt up, or melted, or mutated into a quivering blob of plastic goo. A teenager came in and informed the audience that the projector would be fixed and the movie would start again in a few minutes, but I knew better, so Warren and I headed to another screen.
We watched a few minutes of “Rocky Balboa,” and though it didn’t appear to be a foreign film and there were no subtitles, both of us were having trouble understanding WTF the actors were saying. The main problem with the film was it just wasn’t Warren’s cup o’ tea. I could tell by the way he sat in his seat, so we got up and left.
By this time, the line to give everyone watching “Night at the Museum” a refund or readmission tickets was short. We got in the back of the line and just before it was our turn to get our readmission tickets from the manager, I turned to the last guy in line who was right behind me and whispered, “Watch carefully. You and I are in the back of the line and that means a golden opportunity awaits us. Follow my lead.” I told the manager I didn’t want two tickets for my boy and me. I wanted TWO tickets each: one to finish a movie we didn’t get to finish, and one for our troubles.
She was adamant. “I can’t do that sir. You get just one ticket for each person.”
I said, “But that’s only a ticket for half a movie. We’ve already seen half of it, so we have to come back and watch the first half all over again and THEN get to finish the movie.
“That’s means you owe me. You get to see a movie and a half for the price of just one movie.”
I scowled and said, “Well that makes me an unhappy camper. I spend my time and my gas and the boy and I are just plain disappointed. I’m gonna leave here unhappy with the Cineplex 24. Instead, why don't you give me two tickets for each of us, and I’ll be extolling the greatness of the magnificent Cineplex 24.”
She rolled her eyes and gave me four tickets. The guy behind me was giving the same pitch to her as we walked off.
Warren was disappointed, so I took him to get a hamburger at Fuddrucker’s, arguably the best burger in our fair city. Fuddrucker’s hangs old toys, bikes, and signs from the ceiling and on the wall, and they have an eclectic assortment of statues and motorcycles all over the place. Warren was eating his hamburger in record time, excited about the décor, and making me feel old.
“Look there, Mr. R.! It’s an antique baseball glove! There’s an old, old, wagon. And there’s an antique bicycle.”
Of course I’m older than all the antique toys there. Anyway, Warren then adds, “That bike is an old one like Einstein made. Einstein invented the bike.”
I just had to play school teacher and give Warren a very simplified and succinct explanation of Einstein’s contribution to mathematics and his famous formula E = mc2. However, I left out the latest anti-male propaganda our society uses to emasculate men. I didn’t tell Warren that Mrs. Einstein was really the genius in the family. The man of the family, Albert, was merely the unkempt front man, the shill if you will, for the brains of the operation. This anti-man stuff is getting’ out of control. Last Sunday my wife whispered to me in church, “Say, pass the hermnal.”
But I digress.
Right after I explain that Einstein was a mathematician, not an inventor, Warren says, “Look at that statue of Long John Silver. He has a wooden leg because one of his legs was circumcised.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. I told him that Long John Silver had burnt it badly while deep fat frying a batch o’ fish, and his leg had been amputated, not circumcised.
Warren. I love being around kids, and I’m looking forward to school and the kids who provide me with my blogging ideas.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Merry Christmas
I don't have children of my own; I am just a school teacher, and I teach them. That means I don't have to/get to select and purchase Christmas gifts for kids. I do have piano students, so I get to buy for them. It is really wonderful to watch a little girl's eyes light up at the jewelry box, or to watch a boy's face realize the gift card I bought him for the sporting goods store is enough to buy heelies.
It is possible I have spent so much on myself that I don't need anything anymore, but I prefer to believe it really is better to give than to receive.
I won't say "Happy Holidays." Even Scrooge said, "A merry Christmas, Bob!"
Merry Christmas to Us, Every One!
It is possible I have spent so much on myself that I don't need anything anymore, but I prefer to believe it really is better to give than to receive.
I won't say "Happy Holidays." Even Scrooge said, "A merry Christmas, Bob!"
Merry Christmas to Us, Every One!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Spelling Sentences
I'm old school and still teach spelling, and I also expect the fifth graders to know how to use their spelling words in sentences. I know that children will say, and with certainty, that they know how to use the word. I can say, with certainty, that many times they are unable to correctly use the word. Here are some examples of my fifth graders' sentences. I will leave them untouched , without embellishments or embroidery of any sort except to highlight the spelling word. Just verbatim sentences:
"The man had to betray his boss and not kill the cow."
"The man died when his radiation exploted."
"The president did'nt know what he was doing in the deficit."
"The fatter you get the more you are at risk of becomeing obese."
"I found my perspective in my room."
"Albert Einstein was so busy he didn't have time to comb his hair."
"Santa Clause isn't real because if he could go fast enough to go around the world in one night his body would be crushed by the sleigh and he would be turned into a quivering blob of pink goo."
"The man had to betray his boss and not kill the cow."
"The man died when his radiation exploted."
"The president did'nt know what he was doing in the deficit."
"The fatter you get the more you are at risk of becomeing obese."
"I found my perspective in my room."
"Albert Einstein was so busy he didn't have time to comb his hair."
"Santa Clause isn't real because if he could go fast enough to go around the world in one night his body would be crushed by the sleigh and he would be turned into a quivering blob of pink goo."
Thursday, December 14, 2006
No One is Perfect...Shucks!
I know that no one is perfect, but there are people that seem perfect. One of my piano student's father is one of those men that reveals no flaws. He is intelligent, handsome, articulate, friendly and engaging, a good provider, his lovely and personable wife is content, his two precious daughters run to greet him at the door when he comes home from work, his home is kid-friendly, and everyone in the family seems well-adjusted, loving, loved, and happy.
So when I heard this story about him I was a little surprised. I know he isn't perfect, but that was only in theory; until I heard the story I had no proof that he wasn't. It isn't much of a mistake and really doesn't qualify him as an ignoramus in the category of Yours Truly, but it is proof that even Mr. A. isn't perfect. His wife told me that he was putting Christmas lights in the front yard tree. This year he planned to do a better job than last year, so he went up a little higher. However, he went up too high, became frightened, and was unable to climb down, so he hung there on a little branch for awhile and then called his wife on his cell phone. She said he seemed fairly calm, but he wanted her to help talk him down. If he couldn't make it, they'd have to call the fire department. The wife and his two daughters talked him down with encouragement and offers of hugs and cookies and hot chocolate if he'd just take those first few steps down.
I won't bring it up to him, and I won't mention the fact that his Christmas lights are REALLY low in the tree this year. I used to take secret pleasure when other men would do somethin' stupid or silly like that, but nowadays I am saddened. It's as if my own ability to at least appear perfect has somewhat diminished, which should no longer concern me since my motor mouth destroyed all pretensions of perfection long ago.
So when I heard this story about him I was a little surprised. I know he isn't perfect, but that was only in theory; until I heard the story I had no proof that he wasn't. It isn't much of a mistake and really doesn't qualify him as an ignoramus in the category of Yours Truly, but it is proof that even Mr. A. isn't perfect. His wife told me that he was putting Christmas lights in the front yard tree. This year he planned to do a better job than last year, so he went up a little higher. However, he went up too high, became frightened, and was unable to climb down, so he hung there on a little branch for awhile and then called his wife on his cell phone. She said he seemed fairly calm, but he wanted her to help talk him down. If he couldn't make it, they'd have to call the fire department. The wife and his two daughters talked him down with encouragement and offers of hugs and cookies and hot chocolate if he'd just take those first few steps down.
I won't bring it up to him, and I won't mention the fact that his Christmas lights are REALLY low in the tree this year. I used to take secret pleasure when other men would do somethin' stupid or silly like that, but nowadays I am saddened. It's as if my own ability to at least appear perfect has somewhat diminished, which should no longer concern me since my motor mouth destroyed all pretensions of perfection long ago.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Progress Reports vs. Report Cards and the TV Burden
It was "progress report" time at our school last week.........time to hand out what used to be called "report cards" to my fifth graders. A progress report sounds better, doesn't it? When you get reported, that's bad. "I'm gonna report you to the principal." "If you don't behave I'm gonna report you to the police." Yes, the term progress report is much gentler, and it is implying that, "I am going to give a report on your progress, and how much better you're doing, and how much improvement you've made." Definitely better. More politically correct. I bet some administrator got a promotion, a pay raise, or both, on that one idea.
All the progress reports I handed out during parent/teacher conferences went quite well, except for one. Daniel cried a lot, and in my opinion, way too much for a fifth grade boy. Of course, he got two D's and that caused his eyes to water, but the real sobbing occurred when I discovered that his single Mom has a new job that has her working until 11:00 pm, and in the meantime Daniel watches television the whole night staying up for her (or for Conan O'Brien) instead of doing his homework correctly. He whimpered a little and told his Mom that the homework was hard to understand sometimes. His mother and I gave him my home phone number and the phone number for the Homework Hotline. It was those phone numbers that brought him to sobs.
I must be cold-blooded. I have no pity for him. He needs direction, guidance and limitations. Tea and sympathy? Yes. Pity? No. I bet he won't call.
I have read that the average kid in the United States watches six or seven hours of television a day, or some unholy amount. One of Daniel's classmates, Royce, is only allowed to watch four hours a week. I guess Daniel is just trying to pick up some of the slack and attempting to carry his and some of Royce's fair share o' the load.
All the progress reports I handed out during parent/teacher conferences went quite well, except for one. Daniel cried a lot, and in my opinion, way too much for a fifth grade boy. Of course, he got two D's and that caused his eyes to water, but the real sobbing occurred when I discovered that his single Mom has a new job that has her working until 11:00 pm, and in the meantime Daniel watches television the whole night staying up for her (or for Conan O'Brien) instead of doing his homework correctly. He whimpered a little and told his Mom that the homework was hard to understand sometimes. His mother and I gave him my home phone number and the phone number for the Homework Hotline. It was those phone numbers that brought him to sobs.
I must be cold-blooded. I have no pity for him. He needs direction, guidance and limitations. Tea and sympathy? Yes. Pity? No. I bet he won't call.
I have read that the average kid in the United States watches six or seven hours of television a day, or some unholy amount. One of Daniel's classmates, Royce, is only allowed to watch four hours a week. I guess Daniel is just trying to pick up some of the slack and attempting to carry his and some of Royce's fair share o' the load.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Teaching Teenagers and a Sub Story
Every now and then a teacher will tell me a memorable anecdote, and last week a substitute teacher at our elementary school told a group of fourth and fifth grade teachers a unique experience she had at the nearby middle school.
That's what we call 'em here in New Mexico. Middle schools. In other parts of the country they call them junior high schools, but they're the same thing, and they are filled with kids who, when interrogated, will state their unequivocal belief that they are smarter than me. I don't teach teenagers. Or at least I try not to, except for that one moment when I got conned to teach teenagers.
It happened at my church, for heaven's sake. I was having a grand time teaching fourth and fifth grade elementary Sunday School. However, there was a class of about nine or ten junior high and senior high school teenagers without a teacher, and somebody asked me to switch classes and teach the teenagers.
I told them, "Oh no! I'm not doin' that! I'm not stupid. I can't teach kids that age."
The congregation member/Christian /salesperson / shimmy shyster /snake oil peddler on the other end of the conversation said, "But you're a professional teacher with capabilities and experiences far beyond that of any normal human adult. And don't forget, you'll be teaching children who are believers in Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, and they will be at Sunday School ready to learn more about God's Word found in the Bible. And you have been through five years of BSF and are very knowledgeable on the Old and New Testament. If anyone can handle this job, you can."
I'm ashamed to say I fell for that crud, and replied, "Yup. Yup. Dat's me. I can do dis. Gives me da job!"
Five Sundays later I quit, with a resignation letter to the Sunday School Superintendent, informing her that the God-fearing teenagers in our congregation had emotionally driven me to bended knees on a dead end street. Half of them had told me on more than a dozen occasions that they were far more intelligent than me and any of their previous Sunday School teachers, and they were always askin' me what in tarnation I was mumblin' about, and they told me that everything I said and ever would say would be under immediate scrutiny as a lie, and they asked where was my hair, and then after gettin' personal like that and leavin' me exposed, so to speak, they questioned my credentials as a Bible teacher. One of the boys had expressed his concern, on more than a few occasions, that I apparently was an evil man who was corrupting God's Word, was on my way to Hell, and mentioned something about Dante's Inferno, and brought up the idea that maybe my imminent and welcomed death would necessitate a tenth level of hell being developed especially for human frailities such as myself, and one of them told me to quit asking them to sit down and pay attention, followed by an aside about different learning styles and that some people were "mobile learners."
I told that story to that lady, that substitute teacher at our elementary school, and she agreed. "Oh I hate subbing at middle schools. The kids have no respect for authority and are incorrigible."
Then she said something that caught everyone's attention in the teachers' lounge. Everyone stopped chewing and listened as she told us this inspirational story.
"I do have one shining moment as a substitute at the middle school. One day I was subbing in a seventh grade classroom, and during social studies I was hit in the face by a spit wad. It was a big, wet, juicy spit wad. I didn't see who did it, and I felt humiliated, and I was upset, and I asked the class, 'Who was it that threw that spit wad?' Of course, no one answered, so we went back to reading the textbook, but I was so upset by the incident that I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and prayed to God. I prayed, 'Dear God. Please help me find out who it was that threw that spitwad. It isn't right that this student gets away with that type of abuse to a woman they don't even know. I know it's impossible for me to find out who it was, but I would appreciate some intervention on your part, Almighty Creator, to help me do the impossible and reveal to me the perpetrator. Please help me find out who it was.' At the very instant I finished my prayer, I opened my eyes, looked up, and lo and behold, there was one of the boys in the class with his arm rared back and ready to hit me with another one o' those nasty spit wads. I caught him right in the act! It was wonderful!"
All of the teachers in the elementary school teachers' lounge nodded their heads in agreement, expressed acknowledgment of and appreciation for the Creator working in our lives, and offered up a silent thankful prayer to the Infinite Being and Lord of Lords for making us elementary school teachers.
That's what we call 'em here in New Mexico. Middle schools. In other parts of the country they call them junior high schools, but they're the same thing, and they are filled with kids who, when interrogated, will state their unequivocal belief that they are smarter than me. I don't teach teenagers. Or at least I try not to, except for that one moment when I got conned to teach teenagers.
It happened at my church, for heaven's sake. I was having a grand time teaching fourth and fifth grade elementary Sunday School. However, there was a class of about nine or ten junior high and senior high school teenagers without a teacher, and somebody asked me to switch classes and teach the teenagers.
I told them, "Oh no! I'm not doin' that! I'm not stupid. I can't teach kids that age."
The congregation member/Christian /salesperson / shimmy shyster /snake oil peddler on the other end of the conversation said, "But you're a professional teacher with capabilities and experiences far beyond that of any normal human adult. And don't forget, you'll be teaching children who are believers in Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, and they will be at Sunday School ready to learn more about God's Word found in the Bible. And you have been through five years of BSF and are very knowledgeable on the Old and New Testament. If anyone can handle this job, you can."
I'm ashamed to say I fell for that crud, and replied, "Yup. Yup. Dat's me. I can do dis. Gives me da job!"
Five Sundays later I quit, with a resignation letter to the Sunday School Superintendent, informing her that the God-fearing teenagers in our congregation had emotionally driven me to bended knees on a dead end street. Half of them had told me on more than a dozen occasions that they were far more intelligent than me and any of their previous Sunday School teachers, and they were always askin' me what in tarnation I was mumblin' about, and they told me that everything I said and ever would say would be under immediate scrutiny as a lie, and they asked where was my hair, and then after gettin' personal like that and leavin' me exposed, so to speak, they questioned my credentials as a Bible teacher. One of the boys had expressed his concern, on more than a few occasions, that I apparently was an evil man who was corrupting God's Word, was on my way to Hell, and mentioned something about Dante's Inferno, and brought up the idea that maybe my imminent and welcomed death would necessitate a tenth level of hell being developed especially for human frailities such as myself, and one of them told me to quit asking them to sit down and pay attention, followed by an aside about different learning styles and that some people were "mobile learners."
I told that story to that lady, that substitute teacher at our elementary school, and she agreed. "Oh I hate subbing at middle schools. The kids have no respect for authority and are incorrigible."
Then she said something that caught everyone's attention in the teachers' lounge. Everyone stopped chewing and listened as she told us this inspirational story.
"I do have one shining moment as a substitute at the middle school. One day I was subbing in a seventh grade classroom, and during social studies I was hit in the face by a spit wad. It was a big, wet, juicy spit wad. I didn't see who did it, and I felt humiliated, and I was upset, and I asked the class, 'Who was it that threw that spit wad?' Of course, no one answered, so we went back to reading the textbook, but I was so upset by the incident that I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and prayed to God. I prayed, 'Dear God. Please help me find out who it was that threw that spitwad. It isn't right that this student gets away with that type of abuse to a woman they don't even know. I know it's impossible for me to find out who it was, but I would appreciate some intervention on your part, Almighty Creator, to help me do the impossible and reveal to me the perpetrator. Please help me find out who it was.' At the very instant I finished my prayer, I opened my eyes, looked up, and lo and behold, there was one of the boys in the class with his arm rared back and ready to hit me with another one o' those nasty spit wads. I caught him right in the act! It was wonderful!"
All of the teachers in the elementary school teachers' lounge nodded their heads in agreement, expressed acknowledgment of and appreciation for the Creator working in our lives, and offered up a silent thankful prayer to the Infinite Being and Lord of Lords for making us elementary school teachers.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Daniel Boone
I was completely vegged out in Taos, New Mexico. To be vegged out in Taos, New Mexico, one must aspire to heights of laziness and laid-back-ness that transcend normal human levels of do-nothing-ness. My wife and I were unable to get out of bed and do all the hard work required to attend to society's minimum levels of expectations for public appearances, so we didn't even get maid service in the motel a couple of days.
By Sunday evening I was doing some school work, which meant lesson plans and grading papers, and I was listening to my wife express frustration at the Notre Dame football team's lousy performance against a superior USC team. I was poring over a lot of writing that my students had turned in lately, and one of the stories had some quotes worth mentioning. They were from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" story. The assignment? If you could go back in a time machine and meet a famous person in history, who would it be? What questions would you ask them? What would you, a person from the future, want to tell them that would be of interest to them? Here are some highlights from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" report. These are exact quotes. Thomas is a good speller; there are no misspelled words or punctuation errors.
"I would want to find out what life was like when Daniel Boone was adopted by Native Americans..............I would ask him how he made it through the gauntlet and what it was like running the gauntlet........... I would tell him that in the future we have a very different military. I would show him some ground beef and some ice cream."
Hmmm. Kit Carson is a local Taos hero, and the town has a museum honoring his life and accomplishments. I wonder if Kit Carson would be interested in ground beef and ice cream. I wonder if he had to run the gauntlet?
By Sunday evening I was doing some school work, which meant lesson plans and grading papers, and I was listening to my wife express frustration at the Notre Dame football team's lousy performance against a superior USC team. I was poring over a lot of writing that my students had turned in lately, and one of the stories had some quotes worth mentioning. They were from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" story. The assignment? If you could go back in a time machine and meet a famous person in history, who would it be? What questions would you ask them? What would you, a person from the future, want to tell them that would be of interest to them? Here are some highlights from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" report. These are exact quotes. Thomas is a good speller; there are no misspelled words or punctuation errors.
"I would want to find out what life was like when Daniel Boone was adopted by Native Americans..............I would ask him how he made it through the gauntlet and what it was like running the gauntlet........... I would tell him that in the future we have a very different military. I would show him some ground beef and some ice cream."
Hmmm. Kit Carson is a local Taos hero, and the town has a museum honoring his life and accomplishments. I wonder if Kit Carson would be interested in ground beef and ice cream. I wonder if he had to run the gauntlet?
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Profoundly Understanding "Appreciating What You Have", While Living in Boca
Jake and I started Thanksgiving morning with a few quiet minutes alone. In between icing a cake, and preparing to start cooking The Bird, we snuck off to Starbucks. He and I don't find it easy to get time with "just us", and sometimes that's hard for both of us. Especially considering the fact that for many years it was twenty-four/seven "just us".
We had a soulful discussion on this beautiful, non-materialistic holiday. He shared his feelings on having a wonderful family and what joy that gave him. We confabulated, with great sincerity, on how hard it must be to be born opressed, or in poverty. With less than a half-hour of communicating, I could see that my son's priorities were in check, despite the influences of Boca Raton or brief exposures to friends' copies of Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City.
As we walked back out to the car, arm in arm, he added a last bit of wisdom to our discussion. I had my hot espresso, he a cold apple juice.
"You know what would be great, Mom?" he asked me.
World peace? Health for all our friends and family?
"If we had refrigerated cupholders in the car."
We had a soulful discussion on this beautiful, non-materialistic holiday. He shared his feelings on having a wonderful family and what joy that gave him. We confabulated, with great sincerity, on how hard it must be to be born opressed, or in poverty. With less than a half-hour of communicating, I could see that my son's priorities were in check, despite the influences of Boca Raton or brief exposures to friends' copies of Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City.
As we walked back out to the car, arm in arm, he added a last bit of wisdom to our discussion. I had my hot espresso, he a cold apple juice.
"You know what would be great, Mom?" he asked me.
World peace? Health for all our friends and family?
"If we had refrigerated cupholders in the car."
Monday, November 20, 2006
Because Ultimately Everything Is Used Against Me
Simon The Wheaten is thirty-five pounds of fluffy puissance that barrels through our home like a tornado. Olivia--armed with an ankle-breaking walker--and he race through the house, all monstrous eighteen-hundred square feet of it, so I end up most of the day hollering, "OUT!" as he races into forbidden zones like my bedroom.
I often wonder what it is like for Olivia to grow up with such a large fireball of a pet. I longed for a dog my whole childhood, and I am happy that she is fortunate enough to be able to take it for granted that he's around. And as much as he can be a nuisance (i.e.: almost every one of Olivia's toys has the head chewed off), I like to think that he's an addition to the family that teaches the children wonderful life lessons.
He does. Olivia and I were in her room playing, and she picked up one of her ususal tidbits from the floor (dirt, thread, paperclip) and slyly attempted to put it into her mouth. I, due to months of training, was too quick for her and swept it away with a firm No.
She looked right at me and pointed to the door: "OUT."
Friday, November 17, 2006
But What's Important Is That I Had a Fun Time
The entire house is keeping me up. And it has made me irritable. Eric has dreams so strong that he wakes me up at night thinking I am, in fact, the intruder/ghost/Jake/boss/barmaid. If he doesn't, then Olivia wails at 2:00 a.m., and if they both require sleeping straight through, they tag Jake to stumble in to me. Going back to sleep immediately seems to be a bargain I had with my youth. I guess as I am getting older my clock is aware that the time left is on the less side, so any sleep disturbance tells me to get up by god you could be watching Erik Estrada sell property and in a few years you won't be able to.
Yesterday I awoke feeling so tired. But I refused to succumb to the desire to put her in the playpen, crawl in there as well, and try to nap while she bangs blocks into my head. I ambitiously showered, got dressed, and met my friend for coffee and shopping with my credit card poised in my fist with that hey, I deserve it passion.
And that kind of resolve pays off, my friends. I had fun. We laughed, and successfully shopped for clothing that requires I not eat until next Tuesday, and Olivia--who has lately despised the stroller--was enough of an angel to inspire us to grab some sushi before heading home to wait for our children. Olivia slept through the first half of the meal and woke with a pleasant, demure smile. I was armed with her favorite babyfoods. Life was good.
As I talked with my friend, I felt like I had done something wrong. I looked down quizzically; I felt that something was askew. A texture had felt different, a routine move incorrect. And just as I looked over at Olivia, I realized that I had spooned a mouthful of wasabi from my plate into her mouth.
Here's where the sleep deprivation showed itself. I was of zero help to my own daughter. In my panic I grabbed my coke and tried to coax her to drink some, out of the straw she has not yet learned to master. In my frenzy to look around for help--a doctor, the sushi chef, someone to raise this baby other than me--it was my friend Shirli who put her hand on my arm and urged me to relax, wait, it was okay.
Olivia's face was beet red and she had tears from the wasabi. Her breathing was comprised of short little gasps to cool her mouth, and she had clenched fists. But no crying. She had swallowed the wasabi like a champ. She looked at me through her watery eyes uncritically and kindly. And then, politely, she opened her mouth for the next bite.
When I print off these pages and hand them to her in lieu of a beautifully crafted baby book, I think I will neglect to print this page. So, please, don't tell her.
Yesterday I awoke feeling so tired. But I refused to succumb to the desire to put her in the playpen, crawl in there as well, and try to nap while she bangs blocks into my head. I ambitiously showered, got dressed, and met my friend for coffee and shopping with my credit card poised in my fist with that hey, I deserve it passion.
And that kind of resolve pays off, my friends. I had fun. We laughed, and successfully shopped for clothing that requires I not eat until next Tuesday, and Olivia--who has lately despised the stroller--was enough of an angel to inspire us to grab some sushi before heading home to wait for our children. Olivia slept through the first half of the meal and woke with a pleasant, demure smile. I was armed with her favorite babyfoods. Life was good.
As I talked with my friend, I felt like I had done something wrong. I looked down quizzically; I felt that something was askew. A texture had felt different, a routine move incorrect. And just as I looked over at Olivia, I realized that I had spooned a mouthful of wasabi from my plate into her mouth.
Here's where the sleep deprivation showed itself. I was of zero help to my own daughter. In my panic I grabbed my coke and tried to coax her to drink some, out of the straw she has not yet learned to master. In my frenzy to look around for help--a doctor, the sushi chef, someone to raise this baby other than me--it was my friend Shirli who put her hand on my arm and urged me to relax, wait, it was okay.
Olivia's face was beet red and she had tears from the wasabi. Her breathing was comprised of short little gasps to cool her mouth, and she had clenched fists. But no crying. She had swallowed the wasabi like a champ. She looked at me through her watery eyes uncritically and kindly. And then, politely, she opened her mouth for the next bite.
When I print off these pages and hand them to her in lieu of a beautifully crafted baby book, I think I will neglect to print this page. So, please, don't tell her.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Lost In Marriage
My wife came up with another zinger again. Lately Peggy has been nagging me to help her more around the house (for about twenty-seven years). She has made some good points about the percentage of my time and effort spent on housework type of stuff compared to other, more frivolous endeavors, and after twenty-seven years of marriage, I am thinking, “You know, actually, come to think of it, when it gets right down to it, upon reflection, and in all due honesty, it would be possible to admit that maybe I could do more around here.”
So I’m at the television watching a really good movie, and on a spur of the moment thing, kind of out of the clear blue sky, on a lark, and without any notification of my intentions, I mosey into the bedroom where I find my love pedaling away on her exercise bike. I can tell she didn’t just get on the thing, for she is slumped over on the handlebars, breathing hard through her mouth, and her otherwise lovely hair all sweaty and stuck to her face. Her appearance says, “My butt is sore as hell from this seat being shoved way up in there, and both legs are really burning like they’re on fire, and I’m almost done in.” I am thinking that her day is about to change for the better, so with a cheerful tone in my voice in order to perk up her day, to make this a radiant moment, I ask my sweetheart, “Peggy, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything I can bring you? Can you think of any chores for me to do around the house or anything I can do to help out in any way?” She bolts upright in her seat and says, “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
So I’m at the television watching a really good movie, and on a spur of the moment thing, kind of out of the clear blue sky, on a lark, and without any notification of my intentions, I mosey into the bedroom where I find my love pedaling away on her exercise bike. I can tell she didn’t just get on the thing, for she is slumped over on the handlebars, breathing hard through her mouth, and her otherwise lovely hair all sweaty and stuck to her face. Her appearance says, “My butt is sore as hell from this seat being shoved way up in there, and both legs are really burning like they’re on fire, and I’m almost done in.” I am thinking that her day is about to change for the better, so with a cheerful tone in my voice in order to perk up her day, to make this a radiant moment, I ask my sweetheart, “Peggy, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything I can bring you? Can you think of any chores for me to do around the house or anything I can do to help out in any way?” She bolts upright in her seat and says, “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
Friday, November 10, 2006
Top Ten List of Free Advice for Kids
Here are the top ten pieces of free advice I have for today's kids. Be forewarned. This list will contain no pipe dreams like "World Peace." Pipe dreams are unachievable. Fear never qualifies an attainable, desirable goal as a pipe dream.
1. All computers should work. Don't expect them to do a thousand frickin' things. Just expect them to do a few things reliably. If they are at a public school system, they have to work, period, or somebody should go to jail. No one should ever have to say, "The server is down." If you can't get the computers to work, put the mechanics in charge of the computers and the computer geeks in charge of the cars, but be ready. Within ten or twenty years the computers will be simplified, operator friendly, and reliable, but nobody will be able to go anywhere because the cars will be down.
2. If you have to vote, don't expect to stand in a long line. Don't experience history by reenacting what it feels like to be a Soviet Russian in Leningrad during the 1960's, just a-standin' there waitin' your turn to buy stale groceries.
3. The President should act like a normal person and mingle with real people. If he can't for security reasons, then there is too much insecurity. He needs to be forced to be brave and take his chances like all the rest of you.
4. Take control of your neighborhoods. When and where can kids just play? I'd say at this time, it's limited to recess at the schools, and there are schools that are eliminating recess.
5. Quit judging people by their looks. Oops! Now this is a real pipe dream.
5. Nobody is being left behind who is in school. People with no school, now that's being left behind. Study to help yourself. Then help those who have no school.
6. Let older kids continue to mutilate themselves with ear piercings, baggy clothes, and tattoes. Then sit back and wait to see what YOUR generation will consider fashionable. It's going to be difficult to top that one in its sheer ability to achieve a 10 out of 10 on the Masochist Scale.
7. Don't try to top the previous generation's sins, and don't think you've done it. Every generation has its own sins, yet each generation assumes their sins are the worst the world has ever seen. Don't rate your sins so high that a few religious nutcases are going to be able to convince some of your screwballs that Armageddon Is Coming (see Hal Lindsey). Armegeddon ain't coming because your generation is the worst the world has ever seen.
8. Quit eating! Get in shape! I am definitely overweight, out of shape, and 58 years old, but I can still, with a little warm-up, outrun nineteen of the twenty-two fifth graders in my class.
9. Stop and smell the roses. It's a lost art. Recapture it.
10. Quit religious fanatacism, including some American versions of it, and start worshipping our Almighty Creator. So it's a pipe dream. It's my list.
1. All computers should work. Don't expect them to do a thousand frickin' things. Just expect them to do a few things reliably. If they are at a public school system, they have to work, period, or somebody should go to jail. No one should ever have to say, "The server is down." If you can't get the computers to work, put the mechanics in charge of the computers and the computer geeks in charge of the cars, but be ready. Within ten or twenty years the computers will be simplified, operator friendly, and reliable, but nobody will be able to go anywhere because the cars will be down.
2. If you have to vote, don't expect to stand in a long line. Don't experience history by reenacting what it feels like to be a Soviet Russian in Leningrad during the 1960's, just a-standin' there waitin' your turn to buy stale groceries.
3. The President should act like a normal person and mingle with real people. If he can't for security reasons, then there is too much insecurity. He needs to be forced to be brave and take his chances like all the rest of you.
4. Take control of your neighborhoods. When and where can kids just play? I'd say at this time, it's limited to recess at the schools, and there are schools that are eliminating recess.
5. Quit judging people by their looks. Oops! Now this is a real pipe dream.
5. Nobody is being left behind who is in school. People with no school, now that's being left behind. Study to help yourself. Then help those who have no school.
6. Let older kids continue to mutilate themselves with ear piercings, baggy clothes, and tattoes. Then sit back and wait to see what YOUR generation will consider fashionable. It's going to be difficult to top that one in its sheer ability to achieve a 10 out of 10 on the Masochist Scale.
7. Don't try to top the previous generation's sins, and don't think you've done it. Every generation has its own sins, yet each generation assumes their sins are the worst the world has ever seen. Don't rate your sins so high that a few religious nutcases are going to be able to convince some of your screwballs that Armageddon Is Coming (see Hal Lindsey). Armegeddon ain't coming because your generation is the worst the world has ever seen.
8. Quit eating! Get in shape! I am definitely overweight, out of shape, and 58 years old, but I can still, with a little warm-up, outrun nineteen of the twenty-two fifth graders in my class.
9. Stop and smell the roses. It's a lost art. Recapture it.
10. Quit religious fanatacism, including some American versions of it, and start worshipping our Almighty Creator. So it's a pipe dream. It's my list.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
My New Best Friend, Thy Name is Cake
Jake has always been such an easy eater with a fun and relatively healthy relationship with food. He will try almost any dish (excluding some of the more stomach-wrenching ones he witnessed Anthony Bourdain try on his food/travel series). At just ten years of age he has gulleted raw oysters, sushi, and shows a preference at any meal for mussels. His favorite foods are not common for this MacDonald's generation: baby lamb chops, oysters on the grill, lobster, veal chops, artichokes. So when his eleventh birthday rolled around on Tuesday, he requested--with the same deliberance one would choose a last meal--Weinerschnitzel, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and cake for dessert.
I grilled him hard about dessert. He is not a sweets consumer, but he is a sweets procurer. Halloween night, like with every other child, was spent rifling through his bounty. The difference was that he had a trashcan by the bed, into which he tossed unfortunate tootsie rolls and dum-dums. Valentine's Day has to include chocolate, but I'll be throwing away the uneaten portion by mid-March. "Are you sure you want a birthday cake?" I pushed him. "You really love strawberry shortcake." He was adamant. He wanted the presentation that a grand cake provides.
I set to work Tuesday morning after dropping him off. I thought a three-layer caramel cake might interest him, since previous coconut and Italian creme cakes have left him unimpressed. I put turtles on the outside edge, and caramalized pecans on top. And he did love the look of the cake when he arrived home from school, probably as much as he loved the pile of presents on the table. His patience, in both dessert devouring and present opening, is so much better than mine. I have been known to pester my birthday gift givers to the point of their feeling complete hatred of the entire month of May, but Jake walked by the dining room table without a finger in the icing, nary a poke of a package.
He adored dinner, entirely appreciated the presents, and contemplated his all-important birthday wish until the candles had almost burned themselves out. And as Eric and I consumed the cake with numerous sighs and eye rolling, Jake ate a bite and said, "I'm just not a cake person." I wish I weren't. There's a pair of leggings in my closet I am petrified to wear because the cakes are so darn good.
Meanwhile, I have told you how often I scoop things out of Olivia's mouth, namely every little thing that is on the floor. She has helped me relax a little, since her little tastebuds have begun to rely on my startled, fearful No! when she dexteriously pincers a delectable tidbit like a paper shred or a staple. Unfortunately on Tuesday night, however, a crumb of caramel cake apparently hit the floor, surely from Jake's portion. And my Wednesday morning No! did not come until after it had hit her tongue, and her look at me was heartwrenching. In that moment, her eyes told me, she learned the truth about the gastronomic floor wonders I had been been denying her. So now she is back at it again, scouring the floor, shoving unknown items into her mouth with the same fervor as a second-time heroine user, searching for that amazing caramel cake high that changed her life forever.
My days are once again spent frantically vacuuming while she naps, chasing her every step and wiping her hands off. And it will be a long time before she trusts that, maternally, my every goal is not to keep her from experiencing pleasure. Oh, wait a minute--yes it is.
I grilled him hard about dessert. He is not a sweets consumer, but he is a sweets procurer. Halloween night, like with every other child, was spent rifling through his bounty. The difference was that he had a trashcan by the bed, into which he tossed unfortunate tootsie rolls and dum-dums. Valentine's Day has to include chocolate, but I'll be throwing away the uneaten portion by mid-March. "Are you sure you want a birthday cake?" I pushed him. "You really love strawberry shortcake." He was adamant. He wanted the presentation that a grand cake provides.
I set to work Tuesday morning after dropping him off. I thought a three-layer caramel cake might interest him, since previous coconut and Italian creme cakes have left him unimpressed. I put turtles on the outside edge, and caramalized pecans on top. And he did love the look of the cake when he arrived home from school, probably as much as he loved the pile of presents on the table. His patience, in both dessert devouring and present opening, is so much better than mine. I have been known to pester my birthday gift givers to the point of their feeling complete hatred of the entire month of May, but Jake walked by the dining room table without a finger in the icing, nary a poke of a package.
He adored dinner, entirely appreciated the presents, and contemplated his all-important birthday wish until the candles had almost burned themselves out. And as Eric and I consumed the cake with numerous sighs and eye rolling, Jake ate a bite and said, "I'm just not a cake person." I wish I weren't. There's a pair of leggings in my closet I am petrified to wear because the cakes are so darn good.
Meanwhile, I have told you how often I scoop things out of Olivia's mouth, namely every little thing that is on the floor. She has helped me relax a little, since her little tastebuds have begun to rely on my startled, fearful No! when she dexteriously pincers a delectable tidbit like a paper shred or a staple. Unfortunately on Tuesday night, however, a crumb of caramel cake apparently hit the floor, surely from Jake's portion. And my Wednesday morning No! did not come until after it had hit her tongue, and her look at me was heartwrenching. In that moment, her eyes told me, she learned the truth about the gastronomic floor wonders I had been been denying her. So now she is back at it again, scouring the floor, shoving unknown items into her mouth with the same fervor as a second-time heroine user, searching for that amazing caramel cake high that changed her life forever.
My days are once again spent frantically vacuuming while she naps, chasing her every step and wiping her hands off. And it will be a long time before she trusts that, maternally, my every goal is not to keep her from experiencing pleasure. Oh, wait a minute--yes it is.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
What Is He Thinking?
Laura's last blog, the one just below, reminded me of an ongoing tough time I am having with a boy in my fifth grade class. I am glad she wrote that blog. It has me reflecting on all that has transpired lately concerning the boy, and I want to share it with you.
Last year I took this boy into my fourth grade class from another teacher's class on his mother's premise that he needed a male teacher because his father had recently died. I'm not so sure that the boy needed a father figure as much as he needed reassurance from his mother that all would be well, but, hey, she obviously had her mind made up so the school administration abided by her strong wishes. All seemed to go well last year.
As my readers may know, I "looped" with this class, which means I am teaching the same group of students who are now fifth graders. This year started off reasonably well, but by September I saw a tendency on this boy's part to argue with me. By October he started displaying anger towards his classmates. His arguing and anger increased, so I called his mother. I tried on several occasions to talk to her on the phone, but she was always asleep and did not return my calls. Alarm bells went off inside my head, and sure enough, he came to school a week later and informed me that his mother was going into rehab for a month. I asked him why, and he told me it was for drinking. I asked him who he would be staying with, and he replied that he would be living with his aunt and uncle until his mother's return.
Then, three days later, all hell broke loose. He was arguing with me relentlessly, almost suicidally. Worst of all, he was losing his friends. If he had been given a BB gun, I am sure he would have tried to shoot both eyes out.
I promptly sent him to the principal for a strong conversation, and to our wonderful school counselor for emotional healing. Moving the problem up to the administration and to a professional counselor raised the stakes, and I saw immediate results.
I am hoping and praying for this boy. I am also doing all that I can to help him, including but not limited to avoiding confrontation. That may mean sidestepping a desire on his part to "rumble" with his teacher. I'll also hope that his mother's rehabilitation includes the ability to let him be a little boy rather than a spousal substitute, which I felt at times may have been taking place.
I could go into all kinds of heavy duty, professional reflection, and thought provoking gobbledy-gook about this boy, but to tell you the truth, I am not sure I know what in the hell is going on. I find myself mystified and amazed at human beings. I don't consider myself an expert on them, and I am one, for cryin' out loud.
I know that progress reports (report cards) are coming up, yet this boy's grades are of little importance in his life compared to other priorities at this time.
Last year I took this boy into my fourth grade class from another teacher's class on his mother's premise that he needed a male teacher because his father had recently died. I'm not so sure that the boy needed a father figure as much as he needed reassurance from his mother that all would be well, but, hey, she obviously had her mind made up so the school administration abided by her strong wishes. All seemed to go well last year.
As my readers may know, I "looped" with this class, which means I am teaching the same group of students who are now fifth graders. This year started off reasonably well, but by September I saw a tendency on this boy's part to argue with me. By October he started displaying anger towards his classmates. His arguing and anger increased, so I called his mother. I tried on several occasions to talk to her on the phone, but she was always asleep and did not return my calls. Alarm bells went off inside my head, and sure enough, he came to school a week later and informed me that his mother was going into rehab for a month. I asked him why, and he told me it was for drinking. I asked him who he would be staying with, and he replied that he would be living with his aunt and uncle until his mother's return.
Then, three days later, all hell broke loose. He was arguing with me relentlessly, almost suicidally. Worst of all, he was losing his friends. If he had been given a BB gun, I am sure he would have tried to shoot both eyes out.
I promptly sent him to the principal for a strong conversation, and to our wonderful school counselor for emotional healing. Moving the problem up to the administration and to a professional counselor raised the stakes, and I saw immediate results.
I am hoping and praying for this boy. I am also doing all that I can to help him, including but not limited to avoiding confrontation. That may mean sidestepping a desire on his part to "rumble" with his teacher. I'll also hope that his mother's rehabilitation includes the ability to let him be a little boy rather than a spousal substitute, which I felt at times may have been taking place.
I could go into all kinds of heavy duty, professional reflection, and thought provoking gobbledy-gook about this boy, but to tell you the truth, I am not sure I know what in the hell is going on. I find myself mystified and amazed at human beings. I don't consider myself an expert on them, and I am one, for cryin' out loud.
I know that progress reports (report cards) are coming up, yet this boy's grades are of little importance in his life compared to other priorities at this time.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Because That's What Marriage Is, Dammit
Sometimes a child begins a long, downward cycle of repetitious, improper behavior, and the child drags an adult into their circle of negativity by not responding to criticism or punishment.
Mr. Holland
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Albert Einstein
And yet, in a brief misguided but hopeful moment of solidarity I turn to Eric and ask him, "What do you think of my new purse?"
Mr. Holland
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Albert Einstein
And yet, in a brief misguided but hopeful moment of solidarity I turn to Eric and ask him, "What do you think of my new purse?"
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
What Halloween Really Means To Retailers
is that mothers all over the country are doing everything they can to walk past this siren's call while their children are at school and in valiant efforts to do so will run away from the house to the mall and drop over three hundred dollars at places like Victoria's Secret.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Great Children's Literature
I love good books and reading them. By the time I was sixteen, I had read almost every major league baseball player's biography I could get my hands on, every science fiction short story and novel I could find, Mark Twain, Mad Magazine, comic books, Edgar Rice Burroughs, etc.
Children's literature at an intermediate reading level is a booming business and is a genre that is not familiar to many adults. By the time your child is an independent reader, you don't read with them much. Therefore, a lot of intermediate level books for children may have escaped your attention.
I have read these over and over and enjoy them every time. Check 'em out. I consider each one a treasure, a gem, a classic.
Redwall
Where the Red Fern Grows
There is a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom
Harris and Me
Tuck Everlasting
Bridge to Terabithia
Old Yeller
Walk Two Moons
Because of Winn-Dixie
Shiloh
Hank the Cowdog (every one of 'em)
A Year Down Yonder
These are just a few of my favorites.
Children's literature at an intermediate reading level is a booming business and is a genre that is not familiar to many adults. By the time your child is an independent reader, you don't read with them much. Therefore, a lot of intermediate level books for children may have escaped your attention.
I have read these over and over and enjoy them every time. Check 'em out. I consider each one a treasure, a gem, a classic.
Redwall
Where the Red Fern Grows
There is a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom
Harris and Me
Tuck Everlasting
Bridge to Terabithia
Old Yeller
Walk Two Moons
Because of Winn-Dixie
Shiloh
Hank the Cowdog (every one of 'em)
A Year Down Yonder
These are just a few of my favorites.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Thar He Blows!
I love class parties. We had a "Cold Weather Is Finally Here!" party on Friday, and we bobbed for apples, played "Heads Up Seven Up" and "Murder", and ate lots of goodies. Here is Melissa bobbing for apples. She sure hesitated a long time.
We had seven different kinds of chips, three different dips including some delicious homemade guacamole, four of five different kinds of sweets including homemade cookies and those little bite sized candy bars, and six different flavors of soda pop including Diet Dr. Pepper (I am on a diet!).
I told the kids at the end of the party that I was so stuffed that I was about to pop. Melissa yelled out, "Fire in the Hole!!" and hit the floor.
We had seven different kinds of chips, three different dips including some delicious homemade guacamole, four of five different kinds of sweets including homemade cookies and those little bite sized candy bars, and six different flavors of soda pop including Diet Dr. Pepper (I am on a diet!).
I told the kids at the end of the party that I was so stuffed that I was about to pop. Melissa yelled out, "Fire in the Hole!!" and hit the floor.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
More Fodder for His Future Shrink
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is the school nurse calling regarding Jake."
"Ohmygod, is he okay?"
"Yes, I am just calling regarding his hand."
"Oh, yes, well, um, he hurt it last night playing football. I supposed he jammed it."
Ok, you are talking to a nurse. You might not want to diagnose.
"Well, I really think it should be looked at. He came in because it was hurting and I splinted it."
"Oh, well, yes. I mean, I thought the same thing, but my husband..." (of course, Eric's fault)
"Of course. I wouldn't worry. I just would have it looked at to be cautious."
After the call, I sit on the bed, reeling from worry, embarassment, and fever. This is day one suffering from the cold I caught from Jake. Then, because I am the mother, I gather myself and call his pediatrician, who wisely suggests that I take him immediately to the ER for pictures.
Swig of Dayquil. (Did I do one of those already? My head is so fuzzy.) Shower and go get Jake. I can do this. Before I step into the shower, the phone rings and I can see it is my friend Shirli, checking on me.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?" She asks. "I just saw Jake."
"I'm on my way," I tell her. "Is he hurting?"
"Well, he's upset."
Wow. He seemed fine this morning.
"He saw me and asked me to call you to make sure you were coming in time."
Silence from me. What? More fuzziness.
"I'm at the Student of the Month ceremony. Are you going to make it?"
OHMYGOD. This morning--right now--is the ceremony for the Students of the Month, and Jake is one of them. HE WORKED SO HARD FOR THIS. HOW COULD I FORGET? WE JUST TOOK HIM TO DINNER TWO NIGHTS AGO TO CELEBRATE.
I explain to Shirli that I won't be there, as there are a mere five minutes remaining until the lengthy, two-minute ceremony. She, my friend-angel, promises to take pictures and cheer for him.
As I race through my shower and try to remember if I took my cold medicine, it occurs to me that I must stop forgetting important award ceremonies. Because I want to be present when I waste all the other contenders for Best Mother of the Year award.
Friday, October 27, 2006
You Can't Say Christmas, Or Halloween
Twenty-first century Americans are a bunch of mealy-mouthed, scardy-cat, lip zippered, panty-waists, and I am one of them. I have been told a thousand times by society, the newspapers, the press and all the media, pollsters, attorneys, my bosses, and all sorts of politicians, that I should never use the words Christmas and Halloween at the elementary school where I teach. One of the words is Christian in nature ( see the word Christ in Christmas) and the other is historically based on either satan worship or paganism.
So I don't say the word Christmas, despite the fact that the school library has books that go into great detail about Islam and the respect it deserves, the Jewish faith ( the kids and I are about to be provided with our annual historical look at menorahs), Father Sky and Mother Earth, and religious tolerance towards all faiths, yet our library is not allowed to have one, single book on the Christian faith. I have been legally challenged on my chorus's "Winter Program." I am not allowed to use the phrase "Christmas Program," but I have been challenged on my choice of music because many of the songs use the word Christmas (e.g. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer), and I have changed past programs in order to accomodate those complaints. The reason I have done so is because the school district's most influential attorney, who presides in a high rise office that looks like something out of the TV show Boston Legal, told me that despite the fact that the legal interpretation of the word Christmas by a U.S. District Court of Appeals (the case didn't make it to the Supreme Court) is that it is NOT purely religious in nature but also has secular connotations, I would still be terminated by the school district if I forced the issue to be resolved in a court of law. I was warned to just do whatever it takes to appease any complaints, despite the fact that I may be legally correct.
I don't say the word Halloween, either, despite the fact that every Wal-Mart and mall in town is shoveling the word and the accouterments of the holiday down our throats (mmm....chocolate).
So I am having a party today in order to celebrate "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day." I am about the only teacher in our school that has the gumption to pull this off, despite the fact that I consider myself pretty mealy-mouthed. I tell the kids, bring party supplies, dress appropriately (there will be bobbing for apples), and be ready for "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day."
Melissa raised her hand and asked, "Mr. R., why do you call it 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day' when everyone knows it's a Halloween party?"
Well, Melissa, that's because I celebrate cold weather. I'm too old for Halloween. It's not a Halloween party." (See 'panty-waist' in first paragraph.)
"Well, Mr. R., my parents say that you can't use the word Halloween because you're not supposed to, but you have changed it to 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day.' They told me you are supposed to be calling it the 'Venerial Equinox.' How come you don't call it the 'Venerial Equinox'?"
"I don't celebrate that either, Melissa."
So I don't say the word Christmas, despite the fact that the school library has books that go into great detail about Islam and the respect it deserves, the Jewish faith ( the kids and I are about to be provided with our annual historical look at menorahs), Father Sky and Mother Earth, and religious tolerance towards all faiths, yet our library is not allowed to have one, single book on the Christian faith. I have been legally challenged on my chorus's "Winter Program." I am not allowed to use the phrase "Christmas Program," but I have been challenged on my choice of music because many of the songs use the word Christmas (e.g. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer), and I have changed past programs in order to accomodate those complaints. The reason I have done so is because the school district's most influential attorney, who presides in a high rise office that looks like something out of the TV show Boston Legal, told me that despite the fact that the legal interpretation of the word Christmas by a U.S. District Court of Appeals (the case didn't make it to the Supreme Court) is that it is NOT purely religious in nature but also has secular connotations, I would still be terminated by the school district if I forced the issue to be resolved in a court of law. I was warned to just do whatever it takes to appease any complaints, despite the fact that I may be legally correct.
I don't say the word Halloween, either, despite the fact that every Wal-Mart and mall in town is shoveling the word and the accouterments of the holiday down our throats (mmm....chocolate).
So I am having a party today in order to celebrate "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day." I am about the only teacher in our school that has the gumption to pull this off, despite the fact that I consider myself pretty mealy-mouthed. I tell the kids, bring party supplies, dress appropriately (there will be bobbing for apples), and be ready for "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day."
Melissa raised her hand and asked, "Mr. R., why do you call it 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day' when everyone knows it's a Halloween party?"
Well, Melissa, that's because I celebrate cold weather. I'm too old for Halloween. It's not a Halloween party." (See 'panty-waist' in first paragraph.)
"Well, Mr. R., my parents say that you can't use the word Halloween because you're not supposed to, but you have changed it to 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day.' They told me you are supposed to be calling it the 'Venerial Equinox.' How come you don't call it the 'Venerial Equinox'?"
"I don't celebrate that either, Melissa."
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Elementary Tactfulness
I have really been working on writing in my fifth grade classroom lately. Class time is allocated during each day to provide students with adequate time to generate completed rough drafts, and then parent volunteers come in three times a week to help students revise and edit their writing assignments. Lately there have been a lot of writing assignments to grade.
Because of this procedure, I grade a lot of papers I have not seen, even in the rough draft stage. One of the students wrote about me, and in a stupendous attempt to be to be tactful, made what I believe is a very clever statement. Here are her exact words:
"When Mr. R. is not getting mad at someone, he is very patient."
I have to agree. It's true.
Because of this procedure, I grade a lot of papers I have not seen, even in the rough draft stage. One of the students wrote about me, and in a stupendous attempt to be to be tactful, made what I believe is a very clever statement. Here are her exact words:
"When Mr. R. is not getting mad at someone, he is very patient."
I have to agree. It's true.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Awwww, But Hearing You Say That Makes It All Worthwhile
Jake was home sick today. And the real kind of sick; the kind where you can't even study in case you go back to school tomorrow after your friend lugs all your books home from class for you. So for me, it was kind of a "day off". Sure there was nursemaiding to be done, and running after an infant--who as you found out yesterday has learned to walk and now will not sit still--in between water-fetching, and a few regular chores that couldn't be ignored. As I was cleaning the kitchen for like the eighth time (you know how it is when someone's sick), Jake looked up from the couch in the sitting room and asked me, "Mom, is this really what you do all day when I'm at school?"
The woman defenses kicked in. I wanted to explain that actually, this had been an easy day. No running anywhere, no floor scrubbing (no way with both kids at home), and no spa appointments. But why lay all that on a kid who clearly is now of the opinion that I do nothing but tinker on the internet?
"Yes," I answered.
"Whew, no wonder you go to bed so early." he said. "You have a crappy job."