Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Wednesday
My senior English class is driving me nuts. I have several seniors in there, and they are lazy. I mean a few scored 22/100 on a test. My damn cat could guess close to that. But they don't study. They just hope to skim by. It's just frustrating to really like the students as people and get so confounded by them as students. You know you have a rather large test at the end of a week, so wouldn't you prepare? I shudder to what some of these kids will do in the workforce. Bounce from Taco John's to McDonalds to Walmart? I wish I could welcome them back into my classroom a decade from now instead. Let them get out there and see what jobs or opportunities are available for those without a work ethic or aptitude.
****
Some snippets I've heard from students over the week.
"If I get an A, my parents will buy me a new car."
"I got into a fight at the dance this weekend. My mom just told me that I better beat her ass before I turn 18."
And then there was this gem, "Did you get the mirror part in my paper. I was using it as a symbol." Stuff like that can keep me going for months at a time.
*****
KoKo and I carved pumpkins last night. She, as the artist in the family, to create her own design. I decided to do a tracing. It's a cop out I know, but it was not as easy as it seemed.
Kristie found out that "Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin" was on ABC and watched that.
****
Some snippets I've heard from students over the week.
"If I get an A, my parents will buy me a new car."
"I got into a fight at the dance this weekend. My mom just told me that I better beat her ass before I turn 18."
And then there was this gem, "Did you get the mirror part in my paper. I was using it as a symbol." Stuff like that can keep me going for months at a time.
*****
KoKo and I carved pumpkins last night. She, as the artist in the family, to create her own design. I decided to do a tracing. It's a cop out I know, but it was not as easy as it seemed.
Kristie found out that "Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin" was on ABC and watched that.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
End of the quarter
Yesterday was a haze of papers and assignmnets. The switch to a new curriculum has not be as easy as I initially anticipated. Now our literature and comp classes are combined. I still believe this is for the best, but with the new technology, materials, and sources, neither the literature nor the writing is getting the attention it deserves. At least right now.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Now This is What I'm Talking About
If I ever retire, I'd like to either run my hometown paper (Kristie will be my diligent editor and fact checker) or open a bookstore (she can give glowing reviews of all the novels she has read to our customers. The state should hire her just to go to schools and talk about books. I get fired up about a book that I know I'll NEVER end up reading. Too few talk about books like she does, like their a dear, favorite relative.) If we end up doing the latter, around Halloween I'd stock up on the horror novels and tales of the macabre. And I picture it looking exactly like this place . . .
So Much For the Essay
Well, that title just about says it all. After my morning coffee and posting a bit, I headed over to UND to visit Kristie (we spent the night in GF helping Gail pack. In the span of a week she retired from work and sold her trailer house). Here she is hard at work.
After that I returned home to find the house a mess and the animals in need. So there went half an hour. Then Casey came home for lunch and I had to run him over to the clinic because his back has been bothering him for a few weeks now. Turns out he was injured in football and he has one hip two inches higher than the other one so that has been causing him quite a bit of discomfort. There went another two hours. Casey and I had to grab a bite to eat. He ran off to school and I sat down to do some writing and reading, but not much came. So I started doing odds and ends around here and now it's 3:10 and I don't have one new word written. Go figure.
So I'm hoping blogging will loosen up those creative juices and I can get back to work. Tomorrow will be a full moving day for Gail, so I won't get a chance there. Sunday, though, I can get some work done. But that pile of work on my desk is getting awfully deep.
After that I returned home to find the house a mess and the animals in need. So there went half an hour. Then Casey came home for lunch and I had to run him over to the clinic because his back has been bothering him for a few weeks now. Turns out he was injured in football and he has one hip two inches higher than the other one so that has been causing him quite a bit of discomfort. There went another two hours. Casey and I had to grab a bite to eat. He ran off to school and I sat down to do some writing and reading, but not much came. So I started doing odds and ends around here and now it's 3:10 and I don't have one new word written. Go figure.
So I'm hoping blogging will loosen up those creative juices and I can get back to work. Tomorrow will be a full moving day for Gail, so I won't get a chance there. Sunday, though, I can get some work done. But that pile of work on my desk is getting awfully deep.
imovie trailers
As usual my best ideas for teaching either hit me as I'm in the shower or driving to work. As I pulled up to the school yesterday and began rethinking what I wanted to do yesterday with my junior English class, I decided to introduce imovie to them. Since we were reading Edgar Allen Poe ("The Masque of the Red Death," "The Black Cat," "The Raven," and possibly "The Fall of the House of Usher," which has never been one of my favorites), I recalled how great of a time they had working on their creative projects yesterday and decided to take it one step further (or is it farther?). I told them if they wanted to get out of the American Romanticism test, they could choose to create a 2 minute imove trailer for one of the Poe pieces we read. So then I hooked up a projector (I was fortunate enough to be able to check one out from the library at the last minute, but that tends to be how I always operate) and connected it to my MacBook and showed them how to create an imovie with pictures and video and music. Then I played them the little "Monster Mash" piece I created for KoKo.
Now we'll see whether they take me up on it or not.
****
Today - obviously - I am not at work. I burned a personal day to get my "McEssay" done. Since I last worked on it - Monday night - I was able to get to 21 pages (the submitted essay is to be between 20 and 25 pages). I just don't know that I'm happy with all of the pages. Kristie, bless her heart, has read it more times that she cares too, but her advice is invaluable. She made me realize how much I absolutely love starting sentences with conjunctions. And I don't know why!
She also has a great eye for what I should cut or add.
Hopefully, today I can finish it. Then I have to do my lesson plan for the MNHS. After that I have to start working on the Six Traits Training sessions credit I signed up for via Colorado State. Oh boy.
Now we'll see whether they take me up on it or not.
****
Today - obviously - I am not at work. I burned a personal day to get my "McEssay" done. Since I last worked on it - Monday night - I was able to get to 21 pages (the submitted essay is to be between 20 and 25 pages). I just don't know that I'm happy with all of the pages. Kristie, bless her heart, has read it more times that she cares too, but her advice is invaluable. She made me realize how much I absolutely love starting sentences with conjunctions. And I don't know why!
She also has a great eye for what I should cut or add.
Hopefully, today I can finish it. Then I have to do my lesson plan for the MNHS. After that I have to start working on the Six Traits Training sessions credit I signed up for via Colorado State. Oh boy.
Nearing the end of the quarter
My desk must be under all of these papers . . . somewhere.
You know my juniors loathe reading. Well, most of them do. They do it for a grade but it’s mostly drudgery for them. But when you turn them loose to be creative, watch out. We are reading some Edgar Allen Poe (“The Masque of the Red Death”) so I came up with several creative assignments they could do - rather than the traditional end of the story worksheet or questions. There are several artistic options (create an action figure of the red death, create a board game for the story, draw a scene from the story) and there are several creative writing options (write a modern day screen play of it, turn it into a CSI episode, pretend you are one of the first people on the scene and write a journal chronicling what you witness) and a few others. Whenever I give them something like this, they go wild. They will work all hour without me having to keep them on task. You think I would learn to do more of this. Maybe I don’t because it doesn’t feel like traditional “learning” or it doesn’t neatly meet a state standard or is easily measurable on a test. But watching the kids work on their projects, taking ownership in the work and totally investing themselves in it, is proof enough for me.
****
In Senior English we are reading a section from Samuel Johnson’s biography and a bit from dictionary of the English language. So I decided to have the students do something a little different. I wanted to put them into Johnson’s shoes, so I went to the Oxford English dictionary web site and looked up all the new words they added this year. Then I ran copies off. Their assignment was twofold - first, take five words we use today and update their meanings (“gay” would be an example of this) and second, come up with five new words that should be included in next year’s dictionary.
Here is what they came up with --
new words to be added -
roticitate - rotate in a circle around the fire.
bling - fancy or nice jewelry.
fugly - something that is fu*&ing ugly.
der - an exclamation one makes when something is various obvious.
ginormous - something that is bigger than big (actually it’s a combination of gigantic and enormous)
emo - a person with major depression and confusion of who they are supposed to be. Whine and complain about life.
O-snap - What someone yells when someone is burned.
common words with updated definitions -
Adult - old fun stopper.
Deer hunting - red neck super bowl.
Burn - to be insulted or picked on.
You know my juniors loathe reading. Well, most of them do. They do it for a grade but it’s mostly drudgery for them. But when you turn them loose to be creative, watch out. We are reading some Edgar Allen Poe (“The Masque of the Red Death”) so I came up with several creative assignments they could do - rather than the traditional end of the story worksheet or questions. There are several artistic options (create an action figure of the red death, create a board game for the story, draw a scene from the story) and there are several creative writing options (write a modern day screen play of it, turn it into a CSI episode, pretend you are one of the first people on the scene and write a journal chronicling what you witness) and a few others. Whenever I give them something like this, they go wild. They will work all hour without me having to keep them on task. You think I would learn to do more of this. Maybe I don’t because it doesn’t feel like traditional “learning” or it doesn’t neatly meet a state standard or is easily measurable on a test. But watching the kids work on their projects, taking ownership in the work and totally investing themselves in it, is proof enough for me.
****
In Senior English we are reading a section from Samuel Johnson’s biography and a bit from dictionary of the English language. So I decided to have the students do something a little different. I wanted to put them into Johnson’s shoes, so I went to the Oxford English dictionary web site and looked up all the new words they added this year. Then I ran copies off. Their assignment was twofold - first, take five words we use today and update their meanings (“gay” would be an example of this) and second, come up with five new words that should be included in next year’s dictionary.
Here is what they came up with --
new words to be added -
roticitate - rotate in a circle around the fire.
bling - fancy or nice jewelry.
fugly - something that is fu*&ing ugly.
der - an exclamation one makes when something is various obvious.
ginormous - something that is bigger than big (actually it’s a combination of gigantic and enormous)
emo - a person with major depression and confusion of who they are supposed to be. Whine and complain about life.
O-snap - What someone yells when someone is burned.
common words with updated definitions -
Adult - old fun stopper.
Deer hunting - red neck super bowl.
Burn - to be insulted or picked on.
Yesterday morning
Next to the spectacular autumn moon hanging full in the lower western horizon (Kristie called me just as I was raising my phone to try and take a picture of it. She told me that she was trying to take a picture of it. She was lucky though she got to drive right toward it. The closer I got to school, the lower it sank into the horizon and the tree line), this was the highlight of my morning. There has to be a back pack under there somewhere!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A Trip Down Memory Lane
An early picture of Einer airing things out on Casey's old bunk bed. We should have known right then . . .
His maiden voyage atop the roof. We should have known right then . . .
Einer daring us to come get him down. And in fact I did. But by the time I put the ladder back in the garage, he was back up there again. We should have known . . .
Einer serving himself up some breakfast. You guessed it, we should have known . . .
His maiden voyage atop the roof. We should have known right then . . .
Einer daring us to come get him down. And in fact I did. But by the time I put the ladder back in the garage, he was back up there again. We should have known . . .
Einer serving himself up some breakfast. You guessed it, we should have known . . .
Monday, October 22, 2007
Monday
Three weeks until the end of the quarter. Where did it go?
What a day. It was one of those days where it was over before I ever really got to take a breath or settle down. First block was off and running to try and get into the computer lab to finish an essay from two weeks ago (remember we had a week off for MEA) before another class came in. Then we returned to the room to begin focusing on "The Masque of the Red Death." To give the students some background knowledge on the plague, I printed off some information from eyewitnesstohistory.com. In that section are several accounts from the middle ages and how the plague killed close to half the total population. In one vivid description of the Bubonic plague, it noted how victims would get large tumors on their bodies in such places as their armpits and groin. Sometimes the tumors grew as large as an egg or even an apple. So before class I ran to the staff lounge to grab my apple from the refrigerator. Then while we were reading the section, I said, "Now imagine a tumor in a very uncomfortable spot as big as this." And I held up the apple. "Imagine it rubbing and aching and then tearing open with puss oozing out all over," then I took a bite of the apple.
A few kids almost lost it. It was hilarious. I continued to eat the apple as I talked about all the grisly details of the plague. I loved it.
Next up was my prep, but that was devoted to reading essays for my fourth block. I came across two heart wrenchers. Now they hit me so hard, possibly, because I just lost Dad not too long ago and Mom not too long before him. But they both dealt with the death of parents. In one a girl's step-mom was trying to remind her that the ten year anniversary of her mother's death will fall just a few days prior to her graduation. The step-mom was also trying to tell her daughter how proud her mother would be. The essay was mostly dialogue and it was the sort of dialogue where you want to say something really important but you can't bring yourself to do it so you have to talk your way around it, letting what you don't say speak volumes instead. It was masterful.
The other essay concerned a student who is adopted. She found out that her adopted parents had received a letter from her birth mom, but they didn't show it to her. When she finally read it, she found that her birth mother was dying (or already dead) from cancer (the essay was handwritten and that point was hazy).
Both are rich with possibilities. If the writers are willing to work at it.
My third hour, senior English, was an introduction to the Restoration - really about an hour of notes and discussion. The students got a kick out of the fact that the British government actually dug Oliver Cromwell up and had him beheaded. But I think what will stick most with the students is that while we were discussing the Restoration, a cell phone starting ringing. I ignored it at first, but then I said, "Okay, turn it off." Then I mumbled, "Hey, that is the same ring tone as mine!" I usually give an automatic quiz whenever I even see a cell phone out, but I was feeling lenient.
Then a student spoke up, "I think it's your's!" It was. I didn't have it on vibrate or silent.
I looked at the clock and saw that Kristie was on her lunch break. Busted.
"Okay, okay. Since I don't want to take 32 different quizzes from you guys. I'll just make up a quiz bank in the grade book and give everyone 25 points since MY cell phone went off." Then, of course, it started beeping signalling that Kristie had left me a voice mail.
Finally I got them settled down and working when it rang again! I had gotten wrapped up in reading essays that I forgot to set the blasted thing to silent.
"Uh oh," some students said.
"Answer it! Answer it!" they chanted. So I did. It was my wife. She was just going to leave me another message and didn't actually think I'd answer.
"Okay, I'll give you another quiz worth of points in the grade book."
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
Then the questions started pouring in - when did you get married? Did you have a bachelor party? Did your wife have a bachelorette party? Where did you get married? How many kids do you have?
And I let them in to my world a bit. They need to see that side of the teacher sometimes too.
Finally, College Comp rolled around. Avis from the college was over to sit in on my class. We discussed "The Yellow Wallpaper." I warned some of my smart-alecs that I didn't want the Colbert Report style of discussion or criticism. For those of you who don't know, and I count myself among your number, Colbert is a political comedian. He has this report on Comedy Central, I think. It is how my step-son and many young man get their information, which is scary. I have noticed too on some of the shallower programming, such as VH1, whenever they do an a retrospect on a musical era or pop culture era, instead of talking to experts or historians, they are quick to bring in the comedians. Somehow getting our knowledge filtered through comedians instead of intellectuals scares the hell out of me.
But our discussion went very well. The kids liked it, which surprised me, and had several interesting theories. It was one of Avis's favorite stories too, so she offered valuable insights.
She also noticed that while I had better students that she does in college (they take just about anyone whereas there are certain academic requirements one has to meet to take a college in the high school class)I had to deal with more foolishness, what I call "The Jackass Factor," than she does. Usually these are athletes (hockey and football) who treat the class like it's high school and not college. Even after visiting with parents I still found one student rapidly scrawling down his assignment in the first few minutes of class. What can you do? It's one of the frustrating things about that class - it's a college class comprised of high school kids. There's that fine line I have to walk between treating them as college students yet reprimanding them for being high school students.
School was out and I left early for the supermarket. There I ran into several people I knew and chatted away half an hour. Dad would have been proud.
Just before bed I fired up the laptop and fired off another four pages. Unfortunately, I downed a couple cups of coffee later than usual. So when I went to bed my mind wasn't ready. Then when I just dosed off, the caffeine kicked in and I was up quite late. But the essay will be done by Friday!
What a day. It was one of those days where it was over before I ever really got to take a breath or settle down. First block was off and running to try and get into the computer lab to finish an essay from two weeks ago (remember we had a week off for MEA) before another class came in. Then we returned to the room to begin focusing on "The Masque of the Red Death." To give the students some background knowledge on the plague, I printed off some information from eyewitnesstohistory.com. In that section are several accounts from the middle ages and how the plague killed close to half the total population. In one vivid description of the Bubonic plague, it noted how victims would get large tumors on their bodies in such places as their armpits and groin. Sometimes the tumors grew as large as an egg or even an apple. So before class I ran to the staff lounge to grab my apple from the refrigerator. Then while we were reading the section, I said, "Now imagine a tumor in a very uncomfortable spot as big as this." And I held up the apple. "Imagine it rubbing and aching and then tearing open with puss oozing out all over," then I took a bite of the apple.
A few kids almost lost it. It was hilarious. I continued to eat the apple as I talked about all the grisly details of the plague. I loved it.
Next up was my prep, but that was devoted to reading essays for my fourth block. I came across two heart wrenchers. Now they hit me so hard, possibly, because I just lost Dad not too long ago and Mom not too long before him. But they both dealt with the death of parents. In one a girl's step-mom was trying to remind her that the ten year anniversary of her mother's death will fall just a few days prior to her graduation. The step-mom was also trying to tell her daughter how proud her mother would be. The essay was mostly dialogue and it was the sort of dialogue where you want to say something really important but you can't bring yourself to do it so you have to talk your way around it, letting what you don't say speak volumes instead. It was masterful.
The other essay concerned a student who is adopted. She found out that her adopted parents had received a letter from her birth mom, but they didn't show it to her. When she finally read it, she found that her birth mother was dying (or already dead) from cancer (the essay was handwritten and that point was hazy).
Both are rich with possibilities. If the writers are willing to work at it.
My third hour, senior English, was an introduction to the Restoration - really about an hour of notes and discussion. The students got a kick out of the fact that the British government actually dug Oliver Cromwell up and had him beheaded. But I think what will stick most with the students is that while we were discussing the Restoration, a cell phone starting ringing. I ignored it at first, but then I said, "Okay, turn it off." Then I mumbled, "Hey, that is the same ring tone as mine!" I usually give an automatic quiz whenever I even see a cell phone out, but I was feeling lenient.
Then a student spoke up, "I think it's your's!" It was. I didn't have it on vibrate or silent.
I looked at the clock and saw that Kristie was on her lunch break. Busted.
"Okay, okay. Since I don't want to take 32 different quizzes from you guys. I'll just make up a quiz bank in the grade book and give everyone 25 points since MY cell phone went off." Then, of course, it started beeping signalling that Kristie had left me a voice mail.
Finally I got them settled down and working when it rang again! I had gotten wrapped up in reading essays that I forgot to set the blasted thing to silent.
"Uh oh," some students said.
"Answer it! Answer it!" they chanted. So I did. It was my wife. She was just going to leave me another message and didn't actually think I'd answer.
"Okay, I'll give you another quiz worth of points in the grade book."
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
Then the questions started pouring in - when did you get married? Did you have a bachelor party? Did your wife have a bachelorette party? Where did you get married? How many kids do you have?
And I let them in to my world a bit. They need to see that side of the teacher sometimes too.
Finally, College Comp rolled around. Avis from the college was over to sit in on my class. We discussed "The Yellow Wallpaper." I warned some of my smart-alecs that I didn't want the Colbert Report style of discussion or criticism. For those of you who don't know, and I count myself among your number, Colbert is a political comedian. He has this report on Comedy Central, I think. It is how my step-son and many young man get their information, which is scary. I have noticed too on some of the shallower programming, such as VH1, whenever they do an a retrospect on a musical era or pop culture era, instead of talking to experts or historians, they are quick to bring in the comedians. Somehow getting our knowledge filtered through comedians instead of intellectuals scares the hell out of me.
But our discussion went very well. The kids liked it, which surprised me, and had several interesting theories. It was one of Avis's favorite stories too, so she offered valuable insights.
She also noticed that while I had better students that she does in college (they take just about anyone whereas there are certain academic requirements one has to meet to take a college in the high school class)I had to deal with more foolishness, what I call "The Jackass Factor," than she does. Usually these are athletes (hockey and football) who treat the class like it's high school and not college. Even after visiting with parents I still found one student rapidly scrawling down his assignment in the first few minutes of class. What can you do? It's one of the frustrating things about that class - it's a college class comprised of high school kids. There's that fine line I have to walk between treating them as college students yet reprimanding them for being high school students.
School was out and I left early for the supermarket. There I ran into several people I knew and chatted away half an hour. Dad would have been proud.
Just before bed I fired up the laptop and fired off another four pages. Unfortunately, I downed a couple cups of coffee later than usual. So when I went to bed my mind wasn't ready. Then when I just dosed off, the caffeine kicked in and I was up quite late. But the essay will be done by Friday!
Back to School
After five days off, it nice to get back to work. I think most teachers really need this break to recharge their batteries. It worked for me. With our new curriculum, it was nice to get a few days to get my wind after staying just a few days ahead of my students.
I was also able to get around 17 solid pages of my essay. I feel good about that. I spent Wednesday and Thursday really polishing the finished pages as much as I could. I think I am going to share that process with my College Composition students to illustrate revision rather than just editing.
Now in my junior English class we will venture into Edgar Allen Poe territory - just in time for Halloween. Then I think I'm going to incorporate Fahrenheit 451 into the curriculum. In terms of chronological order, it doesn't fit, but our text has always made a point to include a section "Literature Through Time" that connects literature thematically. I'd like students see the similarity between Fahrenheit and The Crucible.
Now my senior English class is a different story. I have several seniors who have told me that they will only be in the class for one quarter (since they took both Brit Lit and Comp II last year as juniors, both of those classes have been combined to make our new one semester senior English class). I think we'll read some more selections from the Restoration Period.
In College Comp, we will analyze "The Yellow Wallpaper" today. I'll return their first set of essays for theme #3 and I'll have them write some more. Like always, that class is sheer joy.
I was also able to get around 17 solid pages of my essay. I feel good about that. I spent Wednesday and Thursday really polishing the finished pages as much as I could. I think I am going to share that process with my College Composition students to illustrate revision rather than just editing.
Now in my junior English class we will venture into Edgar Allen Poe territory - just in time for Halloween. Then I think I'm going to incorporate Fahrenheit 451 into the curriculum. In terms of chronological order, it doesn't fit, but our text has always made a point to include a section "Literature Through Time" that connects literature thematically. I'd like students see the similarity between Fahrenheit and The Crucible.
Now my senior English class is a different story. I have several seniors who have told me that they will only be in the class for one quarter (since they took both Brit Lit and Comp II last year as juniors, both of those classes have been combined to make our new one semester senior English class). I think we'll read some more selections from the Restoration Period.
In College Comp, we will analyze "The Yellow Wallpaper" today. I'll return their first set of essays for theme #3 and I'll have them write some more. Like always, that class is sheer joy.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Pictures
Here are some pictures my sister sent me. It's been a long time since I have thought of these moments.
Here is from a Fourth of July around 1987 or so. I am the one on the left with the mullett, huge glasses, horrible jean jacket, and Metallica T-shirt. As if you didn't already know that. Dad is holding my nephew, Matt.
This one is of Mom and Dad with their grandkids on my sister's side. I would date this picture at around 1995 or so.
This is from roughly 1982. My sister's wedding and a kiss from her. How horrible!
This picture is from my brother's wedding. I don't think it is possible for a person to have two more radically different siblings. My sister had the traditional Catholic wedding. My brother had the justice of the piece perform his ceremony next to the river.
Here is from a Fourth of July around 1987 or so. I am the one on the left with the mullett, huge glasses, horrible jean jacket, and Metallica T-shirt. As if you didn't already know that. Dad is holding my nephew, Matt.
This one is of Mom and Dad with their grandkids on my sister's side. I would date this picture at around 1995 or so.
This is from roughly 1982. My sister's wedding and a kiss from her. How horrible!
This picture is from my brother's wedding. I don't think it is possible for a person to have two more radically different siblings. My sister had the traditional Catholic wedding. My brother had the justice of the piece perform his ceremony next to the river.
Pets
Ironically as I'm typing this the newest pet (well, instead of that term we like to say "member of the family), Boo, has just decided to leap on to the back of the computer chair and scale it and then scale all the way up my back and perch her little self on my shoulder, purring happily in my ear.
Pets!
Without a doubt I believe you lead a richer life with pets. There's something about them that makes you a better human. Maybe something that reminds you how precious and delicate life is.
From an early age, I have always had pets in my life, usually cats my mom and grandmother loved them and passed that love on to me. Kristie now has fallen under that category, though she never thought of herself as a cat lover. Sorry if there were typos in the last two sentences, but Boo has seated herself in front of the monitor. Okay, now she is back on my lap. No more excuses for errors. But we also had our share of dogs too. I remember Trixie, a white dog of some sort, being the earliest. Though I think she met the end from a rendering truck that always passed in front of our house. Excuse me, Boo is not sitting on my arm and staring at me as if she is contemplating how to best kill me and eat out my eyes.
Alright, she's back in my lap. Wait, she's in the hood of my sweatshirt. Oh man. What was that little squeak and whoosh. I hope she burped. Nope. Oh man. This kitten is rotten. No more big cat food for you el stencho. Ugh. Picture fanning motions with my hands.
Ugh. Awful. But back to the point. My favorite dog from my childhood was Pooch. We found her out at my dad's farm. She was just hanging around the old house and farmstead like she had lived there all her life. I soooo wanted to bring her home, but Dad refused. I begged. Okay now Boo has decided to plop herself on top of my right hand. So all the keys on that side are going to be tricky. I think she whooshed again and it smells bad. Oh great, here's Mischa now. Can't I get any work done around here?
Picture more fanning motions.
Dad finally did agree, though, that if the dog was at the farm the next day, we could have her. I never looked so forward to going out to the farm as I did that day. And, alas, she was there! So we took her home and dubbed her Pooch. She was the only animal we ever had that we didn't get fixed. So a few summers later, she had puppies. I remember one morning getting up early and crawling right into the dog house with her and the litter. It's a miracle she didn't growl or bite me.
But she grew too old and had to be put down. The came a run of dogs - Fletcher, Tuffy (a poodle that lasted quite awhile. In fact, he made the transition from our home in town to a new farm we bought out in the country. He would have made a real run for it except one day Dad noticed that he was out by the mailbox and called Tuffy back to the yard. Of course, Tuffy always obeyed and bolted across highway 32 and right under the wheels of a car. End of Tuffy).
When we moved out to that farm, we inherited the original owner's dog, Skippy. There is no other way to put it: he was a hound from hell. Originally we got along well. Then we parted company when Dad bought me a three wheeler. See Skippy always used to win all of our battles because I could never catch him. Skippy was one of those dogs who, if you played fetch with him, he didn't return whatever it was you were playing fetch with. Worse yet, if you were just playing by yourself, he'd intrude and soon secure whatever it was you were playing with (usually a baseball or softball - I would toss it against one of our sheds and catch it on the rebound). He would not give the item up either. Even after you were done playing and decided to go into the house, the next time you came out, he saw you and made the connection and ran to where ever he left the ball and he'd crowd over it and growl. After a few chomps, he always lost interest. He just wanted to growl at you and nip if you got too close. That's how he liked to play. And that's when it hit me - I'm not playing with him! That damned hell hound is playing with me! So I decided to use two tennis balls next time, storing the other in my back pocket. Inevitably, after Skippy took my original tennis ball, I'd just use the back up one. Well, he'd secure that one too. Then I planned to just run after the first one he had taken. That worked. For about fifteen minutes. I mean who really likes to play catch with a tennis ball all slick with dog saliva?
But the tables turned when I got that Honda 360 three wheeler. We were on even terms then. I'd hop on my 360, fire it up, and toss the ball. Skippy would haul after, and I'd kick the 360 in gear and go after it too. I finally had him. The first time he went for it, I think I actually ran his head over, but he came out fine with it. I mean I'd even run myself over on the three wheeler (you know how you could get it up on two wheels by leaning hard one way? Well I was going all Dukes of Hazard when I let one leg drag too far on the ground. It went right under that back wheel, dragging me off and under it in about a second. I was fine. Just my ego was damaged. Luckily, no one witnessed it. Well, I bet the hell hound did and he had a good chuckle at that!)
Of course, I couldn't stop pestering Skippy there. He loved the cement steps to the back porch. So I would drive my three wheeler up them and force him off. He'd bark and nip at the tires the entire time. But I got him off.
Then there were times I'd see him sauntering across the yard and take in after him. He'd scurry under one of our sheds to get out of the way.
Horrible right? That is not the reason to have pets at all you're thinking. And you're right. I was cruel to that dog. And I feel bad about it. But don't think I'm too harsh. The dog got his licks in on me too. Ever notice I have a nice two inch scar below my left eye? Guess who gave me that? Yep, Skip who nipped at my face once (never mind I was taking off the rope I had lassoed around his head and was trying to hook him up to the three wheeler).
But the dog didn't just hate me. Other than my mother, he hated everyone. Even my dad. Sure, he liked to work the sheep with my dad. But often times he'd growl at Dad too.
He hated any friends I ever had over. Of course, I'd turn him loose on my friends just for fun. One time Lon and Harry came over. The first words out of Harry's mouth were, "Where's that dog of yours?" He had a phobia of big dogs.
"Oh, he's in the porch, but I'll hold him back while you guys come in," I lied.
He was in the porch, but I wasn't going to hold him back. For long anyway.
Lon and Harry cautiously approached the steps. I opened the door and grabbed onto Skip's collar, who was barking madly at the intruders on his beloved steps. I could hear his old dirty black claws digging into the floorboards of our back porch. Poor Lon and Harry looked like they were headed to the gallows. Just then I let Skip go and yelled, "Get 'em. Sick 'em boy. Intruders! Intruders!"
Ha.
You should have seen the looks on their faces. They made a run for it, with Skip right on their heels snapping away. I rushed into the kitchen, only to see Lon's shaggy mop fly by the kitchen window on his way to our front porch - their only hope of escape. I ran through the living room and into the porch and held the door open for them. I don't know that I've laughed so hard as I did then.
Harry and Lon weren't pleased.
Good times.
But Skip succumbed to arthritis and his hip breaking and Dad put him down. Then we had another poodle, Annie, who would get so excited she'd be where ever she was. She got hit out by the mailbox too.
Then there was Kanavis. Mom ran him over by accident. Then there was Napoleon. He got hit by a gravel truck.
I think up next was Karney. He was my dad's favorite. I swear that dog was a reincarnated Nascar driver because he loved to ride in the back of Dad's Silverado. In fact, my dad would park the Silverado with the back facing the highway, just so Karney could sit there and look at the road. The dog never spent a minute in its doghouse. It lived in the back of that pickup.
Case in point --
In fact, one time Dad took Karney to town. He stopped at Brent's Foodpride. For some reason Karney leaped out. But Dad's end gate was closed, so he couldn't get back in. But Art, one of my Dad's friends, had his truck parked right next to Dad's and he had his end gate open. So when Dad came out, there was Karney happy as ever and raring to go, just in the wrong truck.
I always joked that it would wander out by the road and someone would stop to pick something up and that dog would jump in with them and be gone forever. Well, one day poor Karney was gone forever.
That was about the end of the dogs for Mom and Dad. Then when Mom passed we brought Dad our dog, Joker, and Dad treated him like a son. I bet Joker gained 30 pounds while he lived with Dad. If Dad made eggs, he made some for Joker. If he had steak, Joker had steak. I think Dad just cooked sometimes to feed Joker. He lived like a king!
Among our long history of dogs, we always had cats too. The first was Smokey, my grandmother's old cat that we inherited. I think it was she who was sleeping on the headboard of my parents' bed. Somehow she slipped off in her sleep and landed on my dad's head. Dad sat up, and since he was completely bald on top, the poor cat had trouble holding on to his slippery scalp and dug her claws in. So he had huge scratches on his head. But he wore a cap all the time anyway.
Then we got a black and white kitten from our neighbors who I would dub Sylvester. He lived a good 12 years and made the transition with Tuffy from town to country. Then we got Patch, a kitten who was meowing from our hay shed during our second winter out there. Apparently, the neighbor's cat had kittens somewhere among the alfalfa bales. Patch must have wandered out of the bales and tumbled down the side because I found him sitting on a bale next to the hay shed. I soon did some digging and found several more. Their mother must have died or abandoned them. Soon we had a house full of kittens.
The rest we gave away, but we kept Patch. He lived about 10 years too, surviving the removal of a tumor in his side, but it eventually spread and he was put down. Sylvester too eventually was riddled with cancer and was put down during my junior year of high school.
Then we picked up my brother's obese white angora, Albany. I'm not sure what happened to her. I think she got a bone stuck in her throat and had to be put down. Then after some months without a cat, I picked Mom up a kitten from the humane society and brought it home with my laundry. Mom named it Sam. Then we got another huge angora from my sister. I think we named him Tommy. But he went out one night and never came back. Mom always thought maybe a brush wolf or fox got him. Sam is still alive and well though. After Mom passed and Dad grew ill he gave her to a neighbor lady who was in need of some companionship.
Which brings us to our freakin' house hold: Joker, the wise, sage veteran.
He is very well trained but has grown into something of a pampered baby since his time out at my dad's. He refuses to eat dry dog food, looking up at me as I pour it into his dish as if saying I once ate steak by the pound. Surely, you cannot expect me to dine on such filth as this?.
Next is Einstein, the obese cantankerous cat.
Whenever Kristie portrays him, it's with a thick Russian accent, as if he is a diplomat or something. I've already blogged about having to get him off the porch roof at 3 am and having him claw at our door around 5 to be fed. Oh yeah, and his humping of stuffed animals and clothes. Just this morning I found a pair of Kristie's black slacks dragged into the kitchen and thoroughly molested.
Next is Kozy, our special needs dog.
Where to begin? Yesterday, she crapped in Casey's room. This morning she crapped in her kennel. Twice. Once when my Dad and I were watching a football game, I heard a 'whoosh' and smelled something wretched. I turned and right behind Dad's chair, there was Kozy all hunched up, her tail high, dropping a steamin' hot greenish-gray load of Kibbles and Bits onto our laminate flooring. Then not too much later when Kristie's father and uncle visited, she rolled over and began to urinate high into the air and all over herself. Special needs. That's all I can say about her.
Then there is Kristie's favorite, Mischa.
Discovered on Koko's birthday on the side of the road. She is a lover, always wanting to snuggle under your chin. Of course, she is flawed. She's mute. No meowing. Just a few shrill squeaks is all. Oh yeah, she has the rhino-virus. So there are streaks of snot all over our house.
That brings us to Boo.
It's too early to tell with her.
And then finally there is Buddy.
He has to be 170 years in dog years. I think Kristie said he was 6 when they rescued him from the flood. And that was a decade ago. This guy should be pushing up flowers rather than pushing 17! Oh yeah, he's totally blind and deaf too. And his limbs don't function that well . . . sometimes with each one moving independently from the others. After surviving two plummets down our basement stairs and his fall into the washout next to our house, Kristie said that he deserves to die a natural death.
Pets. Sure. Why not. I'd welcome another in if we had to!
Pets!
Without a doubt I believe you lead a richer life with pets. There's something about them that makes you a better human. Maybe something that reminds you how precious and delicate life is.
From an early age, I have always had pets in my life, usually cats my mom and grandmother loved them and passed that love on to me. Kristie now has fallen under that category, though she never thought of herself as a cat lover. Sorry if there were typos in the last two sentences, but Boo has seated herself in front of the monitor. Okay, now she is back on my lap. No more excuses for errors. But we also had our share of dogs too. I remember Trixie, a white dog of some sort, being the earliest. Though I think she met the end from a rendering truck that always passed in front of our house. Excuse me, Boo is not sitting on my arm and staring at me as if she is contemplating how to best kill me and eat out my eyes.
Alright, she's back in my lap. Wait, she's in the hood of my sweatshirt. Oh man. What was that little squeak and whoosh. I hope she burped. Nope. Oh man. This kitten is rotten. No more big cat food for you el stencho. Ugh. Picture fanning motions with my hands.
Ugh. Awful. But back to the point. My favorite dog from my childhood was Pooch. We found her out at my dad's farm. She was just hanging around the old house and farmstead like she had lived there all her life. I soooo wanted to bring her home, but Dad refused. I begged. Okay now Boo has decided to plop herself on top of my right hand. So all the keys on that side are going to be tricky. I think she whooshed again and it smells bad. Oh great, here's Mischa now. Can't I get any work done around here?
Picture more fanning motions.
Dad finally did agree, though, that if the dog was at the farm the next day, we could have her. I never looked so forward to going out to the farm as I did that day. And, alas, she was there! So we took her home and dubbed her Pooch. She was the only animal we ever had that we didn't get fixed. So a few summers later, she had puppies. I remember one morning getting up early and crawling right into the dog house with her and the litter. It's a miracle she didn't growl or bite me.
But she grew too old and had to be put down. The came a run of dogs - Fletcher, Tuffy (a poodle that lasted quite awhile. In fact, he made the transition from our home in town to a new farm we bought out in the country. He would have made a real run for it except one day Dad noticed that he was out by the mailbox and called Tuffy back to the yard. Of course, Tuffy always obeyed and bolted across highway 32 and right under the wheels of a car. End of Tuffy).
When we moved out to that farm, we inherited the original owner's dog, Skippy. There is no other way to put it: he was a hound from hell. Originally we got along well. Then we parted company when Dad bought me a three wheeler. See Skippy always used to win all of our battles because I could never catch him. Skippy was one of those dogs who, if you played fetch with him, he didn't return whatever it was you were playing fetch with. Worse yet, if you were just playing by yourself, he'd intrude and soon secure whatever it was you were playing with (usually a baseball or softball - I would toss it against one of our sheds and catch it on the rebound). He would not give the item up either. Even after you were done playing and decided to go into the house, the next time you came out, he saw you and made the connection and ran to where ever he left the ball and he'd crowd over it and growl. After a few chomps, he always lost interest. He just wanted to growl at you and nip if you got too close. That's how he liked to play. And that's when it hit me - I'm not playing with him! That damned hell hound is playing with me! So I decided to use two tennis balls next time, storing the other in my back pocket. Inevitably, after Skippy took my original tennis ball, I'd just use the back up one. Well, he'd secure that one too. Then I planned to just run after the first one he had taken. That worked. For about fifteen minutes. I mean who really likes to play catch with a tennis ball all slick with dog saliva?
But the tables turned when I got that Honda 360 three wheeler. We were on even terms then. I'd hop on my 360, fire it up, and toss the ball. Skippy would haul after, and I'd kick the 360 in gear and go after it too. I finally had him. The first time he went for it, I think I actually ran his head over, but he came out fine with it. I mean I'd even run myself over on the three wheeler (you know how you could get it up on two wheels by leaning hard one way? Well I was going all Dukes of Hazard when I let one leg drag too far on the ground. It went right under that back wheel, dragging me off and under it in about a second. I was fine. Just my ego was damaged. Luckily, no one witnessed it. Well, I bet the hell hound did and he had a good chuckle at that!)
Of course, I couldn't stop pestering Skippy there. He loved the cement steps to the back porch. So I would drive my three wheeler up them and force him off. He'd bark and nip at the tires the entire time. But I got him off.
Then there were times I'd see him sauntering across the yard and take in after him. He'd scurry under one of our sheds to get out of the way.
Horrible right? That is not the reason to have pets at all you're thinking. And you're right. I was cruel to that dog. And I feel bad about it. But don't think I'm too harsh. The dog got his licks in on me too. Ever notice I have a nice two inch scar below my left eye? Guess who gave me that? Yep, Skip who nipped at my face once (never mind I was taking off the rope I had lassoed around his head and was trying to hook him up to the three wheeler).
But the dog didn't just hate me. Other than my mother, he hated everyone. Even my dad. Sure, he liked to work the sheep with my dad. But often times he'd growl at Dad too.
He hated any friends I ever had over. Of course, I'd turn him loose on my friends just for fun. One time Lon and Harry came over. The first words out of Harry's mouth were, "Where's that dog of yours?" He had a phobia of big dogs.
"Oh, he's in the porch, but I'll hold him back while you guys come in," I lied.
He was in the porch, but I wasn't going to hold him back. For long anyway.
Lon and Harry cautiously approached the steps. I opened the door and grabbed onto Skip's collar, who was barking madly at the intruders on his beloved steps. I could hear his old dirty black claws digging into the floorboards of our back porch. Poor Lon and Harry looked like they were headed to the gallows. Just then I let Skip go and yelled, "Get 'em. Sick 'em boy. Intruders! Intruders!"
Ha.
You should have seen the looks on their faces. They made a run for it, with Skip right on their heels snapping away. I rushed into the kitchen, only to see Lon's shaggy mop fly by the kitchen window on his way to our front porch - their only hope of escape. I ran through the living room and into the porch and held the door open for them. I don't know that I've laughed so hard as I did then.
Harry and Lon weren't pleased.
Good times.
But Skip succumbed to arthritis and his hip breaking and Dad put him down. Then we had another poodle, Annie, who would get so excited she'd be where ever she was. She got hit out by the mailbox too.
Then there was Kanavis. Mom ran him over by accident. Then there was Napoleon. He got hit by a gravel truck.
I think up next was Karney. He was my dad's favorite. I swear that dog was a reincarnated Nascar driver because he loved to ride in the back of Dad's Silverado. In fact, my dad would park the Silverado with the back facing the highway, just so Karney could sit there and look at the road. The dog never spent a minute in its doghouse. It lived in the back of that pickup.
Case in point --
In fact, one time Dad took Karney to town. He stopped at Brent's Foodpride. For some reason Karney leaped out. But Dad's end gate was closed, so he couldn't get back in. But Art, one of my Dad's friends, had his truck parked right next to Dad's and he had his end gate open. So when Dad came out, there was Karney happy as ever and raring to go, just in the wrong truck.
I always joked that it would wander out by the road and someone would stop to pick something up and that dog would jump in with them and be gone forever. Well, one day poor Karney was gone forever.
That was about the end of the dogs for Mom and Dad. Then when Mom passed we brought Dad our dog, Joker, and Dad treated him like a son. I bet Joker gained 30 pounds while he lived with Dad. If Dad made eggs, he made some for Joker. If he had steak, Joker had steak. I think Dad just cooked sometimes to feed Joker. He lived like a king!
Among our long history of dogs, we always had cats too. The first was Smokey, my grandmother's old cat that we inherited. I think it was she who was sleeping on the headboard of my parents' bed. Somehow she slipped off in her sleep and landed on my dad's head. Dad sat up, and since he was completely bald on top, the poor cat had trouble holding on to his slippery scalp and dug her claws in. So he had huge scratches on his head. But he wore a cap all the time anyway.
Then we got a black and white kitten from our neighbors who I would dub Sylvester. He lived a good 12 years and made the transition with Tuffy from town to country. Then we got Patch, a kitten who was meowing from our hay shed during our second winter out there. Apparently, the neighbor's cat had kittens somewhere among the alfalfa bales. Patch must have wandered out of the bales and tumbled down the side because I found him sitting on a bale next to the hay shed. I soon did some digging and found several more. Their mother must have died or abandoned them. Soon we had a house full of kittens.
The rest we gave away, but we kept Patch. He lived about 10 years too, surviving the removal of a tumor in his side, but it eventually spread and he was put down. Sylvester too eventually was riddled with cancer and was put down during my junior year of high school.
Then we picked up my brother's obese white angora, Albany. I'm not sure what happened to her. I think she got a bone stuck in her throat and had to be put down. Then after some months without a cat, I picked Mom up a kitten from the humane society and brought it home with my laundry. Mom named it Sam. Then we got another huge angora from my sister. I think we named him Tommy. But he went out one night and never came back. Mom always thought maybe a brush wolf or fox got him. Sam is still alive and well though. After Mom passed and Dad grew ill he gave her to a neighbor lady who was in need of some companionship.
Which brings us to our freakin' house hold: Joker, the wise, sage veteran.
He is very well trained but has grown into something of a pampered baby since his time out at my dad's. He refuses to eat dry dog food, looking up at me as I pour it into his dish as if saying I once ate steak by the pound. Surely, you cannot expect me to dine on such filth as this?.
Next is Einstein, the obese cantankerous cat.
Whenever Kristie portrays him, it's with a thick Russian accent, as if he is a diplomat or something. I've already blogged about having to get him off the porch roof at 3 am and having him claw at our door around 5 to be fed. Oh yeah, and his humping of stuffed animals and clothes. Just this morning I found a pair of Kristie's black slacks dragged into the kitchen and thoroughly molested.
Next is Kozy, our special needs dog.
Where to begin? Yesterday, she crapped in Casey's room. This morning she crapped in her kennel. Twice. Once when my Dad and I were watching a football game, I heard a 'whoosh' and smelled something wretched. I turned and right behind Dad's chair, there was Kozy all hunched up, her tail high, dropping a steamin' hot greenish-gray load of Kibbles and Bits onto our laminate flooring. Then not too much later when Kristie's father and uncle visited, she rolled over and began to urinate high into the air and all over herself. Special needs. That's all I can say about her.
Then there is Kristie's favorite, Mischa.
Discovered on Koko's birthday on the side of the road. She is a lover, always wanting to snuggle under your chin. Of course, she is flawed. She's mute. No meowing. Just a few shrill squeaks is all. Oh yeah, she has the rhino-virus. So there are streaks of snot all over our house.
That brings us to Boo.
It's too early to tell with her.
And then finally there is Buddy.
He has to be 170 years in dog years. I think Kristie said he was 6 when they rescued him from the flood. And that was a decade ago. This guy should be pushing up flowers rather than pushing 17! Oh yeah, he's totally blind and deaf too. And his limbs don't function that well . . . sometimes with each one moving independently from the others. After surviving two plummets down our basement stairs and his fall into the washout next to our house, Kristie said that he deserves to die a natural death.
Pets. Sure. Why not. I'd welcome another in if we had to!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
New Intro
Here is that new intro I came up with.
It has taken me a decade, but I have perfected my Sunday night ritual: fill a deep ceramic coffee mug with steaming light roast coffee, snug my ipod headphones into each ear, cradle my gold Cross pen with blue ink (red ink is so 1950’s) in my right hand, and select an essay from the stack of College Composition papers on our kitchen table. Then I get lost in the writing.
For the next few hours, I have the best job in the world, and I am not even at work. Yes, my pen is almost non-stop. “Tell me more” it scrawls in the right margin of one paper while it circles an entire paragraph and responds, “Now you’re showing! Do more of this!” On another essay it weaves over the first paragraph, “Don’t tell us what you are going to write about, show us!” and later in another paper, “This would be more vivid if you used dialogue.” Of course, it often swoops in and notes the wrong use of “there” or spies a missing comma and advises, “End an introductory adverb clause with a comma.” But the reward is getting lost in the writing.
In one essay a student recounts the final bitter words she said to her mother as she left for grade school, only to have her father pluck her out of class later that day and rush her to the hospital, where her mother will die that night in surgery. Another essay takes me onto the golf course in the hazy heat of mid August, where the writer’s rivalry with his older brother comes down to one final putt. Despite his escalating heart rate and his brother’s barrage of insults, the writer drains the putt and defeats his brother for the first time . . . in anything.
By now my coffee is cold and my ipod playlist is repeating, but I’m lost in the work. I am giggling as a student recounts how, as a child, she was fond of discovering new moles and freckles, which her mother dubbed “Angel Kisses.” One day she proudly thrust her head in her older sister’s face, displaying the newest peck from heaven. “That’s not an Angel Kiss, you freak,” her older sister declared (and – after having two older siblings - I can see the devilish grin slice across her sister’s face). “You’re growing a third ear!” She believed her sibling, bragging about it at daycare, even believing she can detect conversations from the house next door. After inspecting the mole in the bathroom mirror on a nightly basis, her mother caught her and had to break the news that it was – alas -- just a mole. In another essay, I am hurrying through downtown Minneapolis, dodging traffic, pedestrians, and vendors, accompanying a student and his father on their trip of a lifetime to see U2 at the Target Center. Their seats are so close, the student can see Bono’s stubble. After that paper, I spit out a partial mouthful of icy coffee and scroll through my ipod in search of The Joshua Tree.
It has taken me a decade, but I have perfected my Sunday night ritual: fill a deep ceramic coffee mug with steaming light roast coffee, snug my ipod headphones into each ear, cradle my gold Cross pen with blue ink (red ink is so 1950’s) in my right hand, and select an essay from the stack of College Composition papers on our kitchen table. Then I get lost in the writing.
For the next few hours, I have the best job in the world, and I am not even at work. Yes, my pen is almost non-stop. “Tell me more” it scrawls in the right margin of one paper while it circles an entire paragraph and responds, “Now you’re showing! Do more of this!” On another essay it weaves over the first paragraph, “Don’t tell us what you are going to write about, show us!” and later in another paper, “This would be more vivid if you used dialogue.” Of course, it often swoops in and notes the wrong use of “there” or spies a missing comma and advises, “End an introductory adverb clause with a comma.” But the reward is getting lost in the writing.
In one essay a student recounts the final bitter words she said to her mother as she left for grade school, only to have her father pluck her out of class later that day and rush her to the hospital, where her mother will die that night in surgery. Another essay takes me onto the golf course in the hazy heat of mid August, where the writer’s rivalry with his older brother comes down to one final putt. Despite his escalating heart rate and his brother’s barrage of insults, the writer drains the putt and defeats his brother for the first time . . . in anything.
By now my coffee is cold and my ipod playlist is repeating, but I’m lost in the work. I am giggling as a student recounts how, as a child, she was fond of discovering new moles and freckles, which her mother dubbed “Angel Kisses.” One day she proudly thrust her head in her older sister’s face, displaying the newest peck from heaven. “That’s not an Angel Kiss, you freak,” her older sister declared (and – after having two older siblings - I can see the devilish grin slice across her sister’s face). “You’re growing a third ear!” She believed her sibling, bragging about it at daycare, even believing she can detect conversations from the house next door. After inspecting the mole in the bathroom mirror on a nightly basis, her mother caught her and had to break the news that it was – alas -- just a mole. In another essay, I am hurrying through downtown Minneapolis, dodging traffic, pedestrians, and vendors, accompanying a student and his father on their trip of a lifetime to see U2 at the Target Center. Their seats are so close, the student can see Bono’s stubble. After that paper, I spit out a partial mouthful of icy coffee and scroll through my ipod in search of The Joshua Tree.
More from Wednesday
Interesting day so far. I'm not getting that much work done, but that's okay. I needed a bit of a break to recharge my ideas any way. I do better when I can really attack the work in a nice large chunk of time - four or five hours or so.
As I was leaving to pick Gail up a retirement gift, who should I run into but Eric, Mr. countryscribe himself, here at Caribou coffee. We chatted a bit. It appears that he and Loiel have been asked to attend our Boston trip for the MNHS this summer. Before we could really get to visiting, though, someone else he knew walked in, and I excused myself.
Then it was off for a gift. I first stopped at Pier One Imports. I was, selfishly, hoping to find some Halloween deals. We're still two weeks from Halloween, and the damn store had all their Christmas stuff up. Oh man. Please.
On to the mall. Macy's, though, had a huge Christmas tree up too, plus all their Christmas merchandise. What is this world coming to. We are still mid October! Stop the insanity.
Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, but not so early. What are we going to do next, put out the Fourth of July stuff in January?
Since we needed to get Gail a card, after Macy's and Spencer's and B. Dalton (I actually found the pumpkin carving book that the pictures previously posted on here came from and a great short horror novel "Dark Harvest," winner of the 2004 Bram Stoker Award), I made beeline for the Hallmark store. It was the jackpot. I not only found a card, but a nice figurine symbolizing love too. Plus, I found a frame and the quote "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." This is ironic. It is one of my favorite quotes from John Lennon, from his song "Beautiful Boy." When Kristie and I were first dating, we were talking on the phone. I was in my apartment and she was in RLF at home. She had the radio on and happened to be listening to that song (I didn't know that Lennon used the quote in that song). In fact, I couldn't even hear the radio. We were talking about life and stuff just happening for a reason when I thought of that line and said it. Well, as I said it, she heard the line (which was also one of her favorites) repeated in the song. It was at that moment, or so she tells me, that she knew I was the one. I knew she was the one the moment I saw her, of course. And that's the truth! So to make a long story short, once I saw the frame with the quote, it was easily worth the $9.50 it cost.
At least at Hallmark I found a Halloween candle in the shape of graver stone. I couldn't resist.
Then it was off to UND to show the gifts to Kristie and to have her fill out the card. Her office is nice. It's the total opposite of the farm supply store she used to work at.
Of course, one of the first things I pulled from the bag was the Halloween candle. Kristie giggled when I showed it to her and she read the "RIP" on it.
"It's not for Gail's retirement!" I said.
"Oh," Kristie giggled. "That would be funny though."
Then we rushed over the Gail's retirement party, which felt like an English department curriculum meeting since I again was the lone Y chromosome (two others did show up though!). It was a great little reception. By far the highlight was a coworkers retelling of Gail accidentally bringing a beer to work in her lunch. They got quite a kick out of that. And if you knew Gail at all, you would know how easily that would happen. Not that she is a booze hound or anything. She doesn't drink. But her children do when they come home (usually Thanksgiving or Christmas). Unfortunately, Gail NEVER throws anything away (she always gets insulted when she offers us a pop and one of us - usually KoKo or me - will check the date), so she must have meant to grab a diet Coke and nabbed a Bud Light instead. Ha.
She will be missed at work.
As I was leaving to pick Gail up a retirement gift, who should I run into but Eric, Mr. countryscribe himself, here at Caribou coffee. We chatted a bit. It appears that he and Loiel have been asked to attend our Boston trip for the MNHS this summer. Before we could really get to visiting, though, someone else he knew walked in, and I excused myself.
Then it was off for a gift. I first stopped at Pier One Imports. I was, selfishly, hoping to find some Halloween deals. We're still two weeks from Halloween, and the damn store had all their Christmas stuff up. Oh man. Please.
On to the mall. Macy's, though, had a huge Christmas tree up too, plus all their Christmas merchandise. What is this world coming to. We are still mid October! Stop the insanity.
Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, but not so early. What are we going to do next, put out the Fourth of July stuff in January?
Since we needed to get Gail a card, after Macy's and Spencer's and B. Dalton (I actually found the pumpkin carving book that the pictures previously posted on here came from and a great short horror novel "Dark Harvest," winner of the 2004 Bram Stoker Award), I made beeline for the Hallmark store. It was the jackpot. I not only found a card, but a nice figurine symbolizing love too. Plus, I found a frame and the quote "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." This is ironic. It is one of my favorite quotes from John Lennon, from his song "Beautiful Boy." When Kristie and I were first dating, we were talking on the phone. I was in my apartment and she was in RLF at home. She had the radio on and happened to be listening to that song (I didn't know that Lennon used the quote in that song). In fact, I couldn't even hear the radio. We were talking about life and stuff just happening for a reason when I thought of that line and said it. Well, as I said it, she heard the line (which was also one of her favorites) repeated in the song. It was at that moment, or so she tells me, that she knew I was the one. I knew she was the one the moment I saw her, of course. And that's the truth! So to make a long story short, once I saw the frame with the quote, it was easily worth the $9.50 it cost.
At least at Hallmark I found a Halloween candle in the shape of graver stone. I couldn't resist.
Then it was off to UND to show the gifts to Kristie and to have her fill out the card. Her office is nice. It's the total opposite of the farm supply store she used to work at.
Of course, one of the first things I pulled from the bag was the Halloween candle. Kristie giggled when I showed it to her and she read the "RIP" on it.
"It's not for Gail's retirement!" I said.
"Oh," Kristie giggled. "That would be funny though."
Then we rushed over the Gail's retirement party, which felt like an English department curriculum meeting since I again was the lone Y chromosome (two others did show up though!). It was a great little reception. By far the highlight was a coworkers retelling of Gail accidentally bringing a beer to work in her lunch. They got quite a kick out of that. And if you knew Gail at all, you would know how easily that would happen. Not that she is a booze hound or anything. She doesn't drink. But her children do when they come home (usually Thanksgiving or Christmas). Unfortunately, Gail NEVER throws anything away (she always gets insulted when she offers us a pop and one of us - usually KoKo or me - will check the date), so she must have meant to grab a diet Coke and nabbed a Bud Light instead. Ha.
She will be missed at work.
Gotta Love Halloween
I wish I would have carved these guys! As those two British guys say on those beer commercials, "Brilliant!"
Wedensday
This morning I accompanied Kristie to GF. We are going to her mother's retirement party at work today. She has worked as a transcriptionist at Altru for more than 30 years. She is opting for early retirement to be with her brother, who is slowly dying from heart, lung, and kidney failure. It is a noble thing to do. And if you knew anything about Gail, she is always willing to help.
After dropping Kristie off and navigating my way off UND campus (it was buzzing with students like a beehive) and washing the Trailblazer (damn the beet trucks!), I settled down for a coffee and some free internet surfing at Caribou Coffee. I could drink their coffee all day. Kristie is fond of saying that salads always taste better in restaurants; I think coffee always tastes better when you have to pay for it (or mooch it off a colleague - thanks Jan for the cups of Hazelnut during conferences).
Alas, my essay beckons. It's really rolling now. After 16 pages, I was unhappy. Some parts sounded like me, others didn't. So I ended up rewriting the introduction. I was happy with that. Instead of just bitching about the five paragraph essay, which I've dubbed the McEssay, I started writing about some of the papers I've read in my current College Comp class. That got things rolling. So far I have about 12 pages that I am very happy with. We'll see if I can't get 12 more and call it done.
******
On the way to GF, Kristie was filling me in on some of the inter-office politics at work. I am so glad we are able to keep that kind of thing to a minimum at school. Of course, it is always going to exist when you get so many people working together with so many diverse personalities. Through in the human propensity to bitch, and you've got a surefire recipe for inter-office politics.
Yesterday as Mike, Kenny, and I walked back to school from Subway, we were having an interesting discussion as always. I think we were talking about how the liberal media only likes to trash the war in Iraq rather than report anything positive coming out of there) I mentioned that in my senior English class my students had written original satires. In brainstorming topics, one student brought up all the negativity on the news. I suggested as a possible topic, create a news show that reports nothing but positive news. What would that be like?
Mike instantly liked the idea. He said he'd generate the ideas and I could write, edit, and publish them. Hell, we might start a damn revolution (kind of a new "Pay It Forward" approach). But, of course, reporting all of the positive things and ignoring the real issues is just as bad as dwelling on all the negatives (which is one reason I think I got so down last year on teaching).
Then Kenny, with a grin, said, "But look at us! We like to bitch too."
*****
Well, that essay isn't going to write itself, is it?
After dropping Kristie off and navigating my way off UND campus (it was buzzing with students like a beehive) and washing the Trailblazer (damn the beet trucks!), I settled down for a coffee and some free internet surfing at Caribou Coffee. I could drink their coffee all day. Kristie is fond of saying that salads always taste better in restaurants; I think coffee always tastes better when you have to pay for it (or mooch it off a colleague - thanks Jan for the cups of Hazelnut during conferences).
Alas, my essay beckons. It's really rolling now. After 16 pages, I was unhappy. Some parts sounded like me, others didn't. So I ended up rewriting the introduction. I was happy with that. Instead of just bitching about the five paragraph essay, which I've dubbed the McEssay, I started writing about some of the papers I've read in my current College Comp class. That got things rolling. So far I have about 12 pages that I am very happy with. We'll see if I can't get 12 more and call it done.
******
On the way to GF, Kristie was filling me in on some of the inter-office politics at work. I am so glad we are able to keep that kind of thing to a minimum at school. Of course, it is always going to exist when you get so many people working together with so many diverse personalities. Through in the human propensity to bitch, and you've got a surefire recipe for inter-office politics.
Yesterday as Mike, Kenny, and I walked back to school from Subway, we were having an interesting discussion as always. I think we were talking about how the liberal media only likes to trash the war in Iraq rather than report anything positive coming out of there) I mentioned that in my senior English class my students had written original satires. In brainstorming topics, one student brought up all the negativity on the news. I suggested as a possible topic, create a news show that reports nothing but positive news. What would that be like?
Mike instantly liked the idea. He said he'd generate the ideas and I could write, edit, and publish them. Hell, we might start a damn revolution (kind of a new "Pay It Forward" approach). But, of course, reporting all of the positive things and ignoring the real issues is just as bad as dwelling on all the negatives (which is one reason I think I got so down last year on teaching).
Then Kenny, with a grin, said, "But look at us! We like to bitch too."
*****
Well, that essay isn't going to write itself, is it?
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Conferences, Day Two
Ten parents signed up for today. That is slow compared with yesterday. My goal - clean my room and finish reading/grading. Oh yeah, I need to finish my MNHS lesson plan (since we are studying kind of the boom town era in MN, with all of the milling, mining, farming, and railroading going on, I thought I'd design a lesson where my students would create a town based on one of the main areas of income. Then I'll have them create an imovie advertising their town). Oh yeah, I also have to register for one graduate credit through Colorado College at Colorado Springs as part of our Six Traits training session.
Goals for MEA - get my "Getting It In Writing" essay finished (I'm sitting at 16 pages. Twelve of which I'm really happy with. But I've come up with a few titles - either the "McEssay" - since I ridicule the "hamburger" method the state includes for devising essays in the BST packet or "The Sixth Paragraph" - since I take on the negative impact of the five paragraph theme. Neither of those, though, are set in stone). I also have to get a storm window fixed at home - or at least pay someone to come over and do it. Kristie's mother is retiring, so there is a party for here. Casey has a football game. And I know there are at least a dozen other things I'm forgetting to put down that I've put off until MEA to get around to doing.
Goals for MEA - get my "Getting It In Writing" essay finished (I'm sitting at 16 pages. Twelve of which I'm really happy with. But I've come up with a few titles - either the "McEssay" - since I ridicule the "hamburger" method the state includes for devising essays in the BST packet or "The Sixth Paragraph" - since I take on the negative impact of the five paragraph theme. Neither of those, though, are set in stone). I also have to get a storm window fixed at home - or at least pay someone to come over and do it. Kristie's mother is retiring, so there is a party for here. Casey has a football game. And I know there are at least a dozen other things I'm forgetting to put down that I've put off until MEA to get around to doing.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Conferences
Our school has a very effective set up for conferences. The teachers choose to work two 12 hour days. This allows us to have Wednesday off, which gives us a nice five day weekend with MEA.
I don't think I have ever been so booked. Today I had at least 20 parents stop in. After 5:30 I was booked solid, with two walk ins. Then there was an hour scheduled for an IEP for one of my student's but neither they nor their parents showed up. Too bad.
I have to admit that I have a rather good group of students this semester. So I was pretty much gushing to the parents the whole time. Several mentioned how their students liked my classes and talked about them at home. That's about as good as it gets for me.
When I got home, I found that Kristie and KoKo had the house all set up for Halloween. Kristie stopped off in GF after work and picked up some goodies. We now have signs leading up the sidewalk. There is a ghoul hanging next to our front door that, if touched, groans and shakes and its eyes glow purple. Inside they had our "Spooky Town" mausoleum and theatre set up. Kristie had Halloween lights ready to hang up. It was perfect.
KoKo, though, is still recovering from a near tragedy. On Saturday, Kristie and I were getting ready to go out with Lon and Sara (it was Sara's 30th birthday). Before we were about to walk out the door, Kristie asked where Buddy (Gail's dog after whom we are looking) was. Just then a look of woe came over KoKo's face. She dropped everything and ran out the door - minus shoes - screaming, "Buddy! Buddy!" Apparently, she let him out to go to the bathroom; however, he is close to 19 years old and is quite blind and deaf.
Kristie joined the search. Who knows how far he could go? For a blind dog, that little shit can navigate his way around.
Kristie was searching in the bushes next to our house when she heard him whimper. Evidently, he stepped next to our outdoor sump pump, which, little did we know, had a large wash out around it. So poor Buddie tumbled down a good four feet into the small hole, of course, out of reach. At least we know why we get so much water leaking into the basement in that area.
Of course, Buddy doesn't wear a collar, so there was no real way for us to get him out since he was well out of arm reach. Without many options, I had to call the police. Gulp. I had flashbacks of when my brother's dog was trapped in a small culvert beneath their driveway. His wife panicked, called him home from work, and when he arrived, he found not only the police, but the fire department too. And they were talking about getting the jaws of life!
Luckily, the police officer brought a very handy animal noose, and we were able to snatch Buddy out of his would-be grave with ease.
Needless to say, KoKo was relieved. And we hope she learned a lesson.
I don't think I have ever been so booked. Today I had at least 20 parents stop in. After 5:30 I was booked solid, with two walk ins. Then there was an hour scheduled for an IEP for one of my student's but neither they nor their parents showed up. Too bad.
I have to admit that I have a rather good group of students this semester. So I was pretty much gushing to the parents the whole time. Several mentioned how their students liked my classes and talked about them at home. That's about as good as it gets for me.
When I got home, I found that Kristie and KoKo had the house all set up for Halloween. Kristie stopped off in GF after work and picked up some goodies. We now have signs leading up the sidewalk. There is a ghoul hanging next to our front door that, if touched, groans and shakes and its eyes glow purple. Inside they had our "Spooky Town" mausoleum and theatre set up. Kristie had Halloween lights ready to hang up. It was perfect.
KoKo, though, is still recovering from a near tragedy. On Saturday, Kristie and I were getting ready to go out with Lon and Sara (it was Sara's 30th birthday). Before we were about to walk out the door, Kristie asked where Buddy (Gail's dog after whom we are looking) was. Just then a look of woe came over KoKo's face. She dropped everything and ran out the door - minus shoes - screaming, "Buddy! Buddy!" Apparently, she let him out to go to the bathroom; however, he is close to 19 years old and is quite blind and deaf.
Kristie joined the search. Who knows how far he could go? For a blind dog, that little shit can navigate his way around.
Kristie was searching in the bushes next to our house when she heard him whimper. Evidently, he stepped next to our outdoor sump pump, which, little did we know, had a large wash out around it. So poor Buddie tumbled down a good four feet into the small hole, of course, out of reach. At least we know why we get so much water leaking into the basement in that area.
Of course, Buddy doesn't wear a collar, so there was no real way for us to get him out since he was well out of arm reach. Without many options, I had to call the police. Gulp. I had flashbacks of when my brother's dog was trapped in a small culvert beneath their driveway. His wife panicked, called him home from work, and when he arrived, he found not only the police, but the fire department too. And they were talking about getting the jaws of life!
Luckily, the police officer brought a very handy animal noose, and we were able to snatch Buddy out of his would-be grave with ease.
Needless to say, KoKo was relieved. And we hope she learned a lesson.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Boo
In honor of Halloween and one of our favorite books, we decided to christen our new kitty "Boo." I think the name fits.
Nicknames
For some reason, in the Reynolds/Pesch family, we can never be satisfied to call each other by just our names. For example, Casey is never (well, hardly ever) addressed simply as Casey -- it's sometimes "Casey Edward Pesch," particularly when is in trouble and Kristie is not pleased. More often it's "Casey Boy." The same is true with Korey. She is called "KoKo" after two of her great grandmothers. But she is also known as "KoKo Bean," "Beaner," "KoKo Crisp," and sometimes even "Dill Weed," which is my name for her in place of her mother's term "air head" or "space cadette." And Kristie often gives me a strange look whenever I refer to her by her first name, for it is usually "honey" or "dear."
This nickname tradition, though, doesn't end with up. It extends to our pets. First you have Joker, aka "Joker Broker." Then there's Kozy, aka "Woobie Woe" (Casey's nickname) or "Weazie" (dubbed this because she has a tendency to weasel her way into things, namely your lap) and even once "Piss Pig" (when Kristie caught her peeing on one of our new rugs). Then there's every one's favorite, Einstein, aka "Einer," "Einer McBeiner," and "Fatty McFatty" (hey, he's pushing 20 pounds), and sometimes even "Pervo" (when he is humping one of KoKo's stuffed animals or one of my shirts). And we can't forget "Misha," who also goes by "Mimers." Now that we have Gail's dog (and there is another example. Kristie's mother's real name is Gail, but everyone calls her "Guilda" because she used to be quite involved in various guilds), Buddy, who has been known as "Budro Wilson" for whatever reason.
Now we have Boo added to the family. This is only her sixth day with us, so we haven't had much of a chance to come up with any nicknames yet, but there most certainly will be.
This nickname tradition, though, doesn't end with up. It extends to our pets. First you have Joker, aka "Joker Broker." Then there's Kozy, aka "Woobie Woe" (Casey's nickname) or "Weazie" (dubbed this because she has a tendency to weasel her way into things, namely your lap) and even once "Piss Pig" (when Kristie caught her peeing on one of our new rugs). Then there's every one's favorite, Einstein, aka "Einer," "Einer McBeiner," and "Fatty McFatty" (hey, he's pushing 20 pounds), and sometimes even "Pervo" (when he is humping one of KoKo's stuffed animals or one of my shirts). And we can't forget "Misha," who also goes by "Mimers." Now that we have Gail's dog (and there is another example. Kristie's mother's real name is Gail, but everyone calls her "Guilda" because she used to be quite involved in various guilds), Buddy, who has been known as "Budro Wilson" for whatever reason.
Now we have Boo added to the family. This is only her sixth day with us, so we haven't had much of a chance to come up with any nicknames yet, but there most certainly will be.
Getting Caught Up
It's hard to fathom that volleyball is now over for KoKo. Actually, it's hard to fathom that she is even in volleyball! Our hometown doesn't have an elementary volleyball program, so that means KoKo is grown up.
The Last Straw
In my English 12 class, I have one beleagured student. Counting summer school, this is now the sixth class he has taken from me. But it wasn't until Friday that I finally had enough.
The sad truth is that sometimes a kid has so many other factors going against him that he is predestined for trouble. In the past I blogged about how I would try to help him and make him feel better about himself in my class. And believe me I tried. I still joke with him and can shoot the shit with him. The way I feel about him as a person has not changed; the way I feel about him as a student, though, has.
I've tolerated many things in the past - an essay about how he ran from the cops and had to hide in the woods or how one of the times he felt most alive was taking some hot girl home while he was all drunk and then waking up to find she was fat and ugly and kicking her out of his place. At summer school he spent more time on youtube and ebay than working on his assignments. This year it has been the same old story -coming in late, wearing his hat all the time, whipping his cell phone out in class constantly, drawing a swastika on his tablet, say "fuck" on a daily basis. Believe me, I could go on.
In fact, last year I caught him chewing in class. According to our school handbook, this is a suspendable offense, and I turned him over. Well, on the first day of school this year, guess what I catch him doing? Yep. I gave him hell and told him that I didn't want to see that happen again.
Then yesterday as he was walking out of class, he dropped a waterbottle full of what appeared to be a light yellow substance. I picked it up, hoping it was apple juice. But the little brown particles floating inside didn't belong to applejuice. So I send it down to the assistant principal's office. So now - according to school policy - he will be suspended. Given all of his legal troubles, I wonder how this will impact him.
I've heard he's going to anger management counseling and taking medications for the myriad of things that ail him. But there has to be a line where enough is enough, right?
So on Monday or Tuesday I will sit down with our counselors and lobby to have him removed from class. I'll bring in the quiz from Friday that he failed. I'll talk to them about the test he missed because he either skipped or was in court that he has not made up yet and is now a zero. There is simply no way he will pass - even if he wanted to totally change his attitude and work hard, he'd still not make it.
I'll plead my case that dealing with him - though I just ignore him 99% of the time - takes away from me being able to teach the rest of the class. Whenever he is present, he tips the class toward chaos. When he is gone, we get a lot accomplished.
So we'll see what will happen. But it's like in coaching. My coach used to tell me, "Kurt, one reason I'm ALWAYS yelling at you is because I want you to get better. When I stop yelling at you, that is when you have to start worrying." I've stopped yelling at this student. It's just wasted breath.
The sad truth is that sometimes a kid has so many other factors going against him that he is predestined for trouble. In the past I blogged about how I would try to help him and make him feel better about himself in my class. And believe me I tried. I still joke with him and can shoot the shit with him. The way I feel about him as a person has not changed; the way I feel about him as a student, though, has.
I've tolerated many things in the past - an essay about how he ran from the cops and had to hide in the woods or how one of the times he felt most alive was taking some hot girl home while he was all drunk and then waking up to find she was fat and ugly and kicking her out of his place. At summer school he spent more time on youtube and ebay than working on his assignments. This year it has been the same old story -coming in late, wearing his hat all the time, whipping his cell phone out in class constantly, drawing a swastika on his tablet, say "fuck" on a daily basis. Believe me, I could go on.
In fact, last year I caught him chewing in class. According to our school handbook, this is a suspendable offense, and I turned him over. Well, on the first day of school this year, guess what I catch him doing? Yep. I gave him hell and told him that I didn't want to see that happen again.
Then yesterday as he was walking out of class, he dropped a waterbottle full of what appeared to be a light yellow substance. I picked it up, hoping it was apple juice. But the little brown particles floating inside didn't belong to applejuice. So I send it down to the assistant principal's office. So now - according to school policy - he will be suspended. Given all of his legal troubles, I wonder how this will impact him.
I've heard he's going to anger management counseling and taking medications for the myriad of things that ail him. But there has to be a line where enough is enough, right?
So on Monday or Tuesday I will sit down with our counselors and lobby to have him removed from class. I'll bring in the quiz from Friday that he failed. I'll talk to them about the test he missed because he either skipped or was in court that he has not made up yet and is now a zero. There is simply no way he will pass - even if he wanted to totally change his attitude and work hard, he'd still not make it.
I'll plead my case that dealing with him - though I just ignore him 99% of the time - takes away from me being able to teach the rest of the class. Whenever he is present, he tips the class toward chaos. When he is gone, we get a lot accomplished.
So we'll see what will happen. But it's like in coaching. My coach used to tell me, "Kurt, one reason I'm ALWAYS yelling at you is because I want you to get better. When I stop yelling at you, that is when you have to start worrying." I've stopped yelling at this student. It's just wasted breath.
Two Lambs
Two Lambs
It was the damndest image I ever saw. As I was dividing the bails into sections and tossing them into the feeders, I saw a ewe standing apart from the other sheep with a miniature head and two tiny hooves sticking out just below the stub of her tail. The ewe craned her neck around and licked the lamb's face. Suddenly, the lamb let a small "baaah" escape its mouth. The mother immediately answered with her own along with some grunts and pants as she tried to expel the lamb.
Oh hell, I thought. Here we go. Dad mentioned that a few ewes might lamb before he returned home.
Why does he always have to be gone when something like this happens? It was not the first time I saw a lamb born. This was our fifth year on the farm, so I was acclimated to the spectacle, though I could never view it the way Dad did. He would sit and brood over the ewes, often times having to stick his hand, and whole arm, up there and turn the lamb or help pull it out. It was the grossest thing I ever witnessed. Even though I owned my fair share of sheep, from which my allowance was derived, there was no way I was about to stick my hand anywhere near there, let alone up there. I even saw him once revive a lamb with mouth to mouth. I cringed at just having to carry them from the feed lot to a pen when they were still slimy with afterbirth and squirming to stand. I would not even touch one until I secured a pair of gloves. Then when I safely had the lamb or lambs and the ewe penned up, I dashed to the house to scrub down like a surgeon.
This lamb was no different. It was covered in a thin membrane of slime and blood. I returned to finish feeding the rest of the herd.
When I was done I walked over to the ewe, who had distanced herself off to a secluded corner of the feed lot. Two lambs lay in a steaming heap on the frozen straw and manure. Even though this sight always disgusted me, I suddenly felt like the their lives belonged to me. The mother tried to maneuver herself between me and her lambs. I always marveled at how protective they were of their young. After all, sheep, especially ewes, are about the most defenseless animals on the planet. They are not blessed with speed, claws, armor (well maybe a few horns, but nothing to inflict any real damage or ward off a wolf), and intelligence (this is after all an animal that, if allowed to, will graze in an alfalfa field until the gasses in their stomach expand quicker than they can expel them and cause them to literally swell and bloat to death). I gently pushed her out of the way, though she tried to steer me away from her young with her head. She bellowed and one of the lambs responded. That was when I knew something was wrong. Looking back at the ewe, I was almost sure she was a yearling. They usually only have one lamb, since they are only one year removed from being lambs themselves. Ewes after their second year traditionally have two to three lambs.
This was trouble. She had two lambs. She was licking the afterbirth from one lamb who was already struggling to bleat and stand, only to stumble to one minute knee, tremble for a split second and crash down to the ground. Its legs seemed to be too long and thin for its slight body. The other lamb lay in a small, slimy puddle.
It neither tried to stand nor bleat.
This lamb couldn't die. Even in the slime and blood and filth, I was linked to it. Forgetting everything else, I reverted to my dad. I tore my gloves off and felt the lamb's soft slippery wool for a heart beat. I could barely see its rib cage rise and fall. I wiped the ooze from its face. One eye lid fluttered. I grabbed some straw and stuffed individual straws up its nose. The lamb shook its head in defiance.
I messaged its chest and watched the mother cradle and nuzzle the other lamb. I knew exactly what happened. Somewhere in her instinctive circuiting, the ewe knew she could only care for one lamb. She chose the strongest and left the other to die. This happened often when they had lambs off on their own and Dad couldn't care for them. I carried their carcasses many times out to the dump. They seemed so slight, like they had never lived at all. In a few months they were just be a few opaque bones scattered among the rocks.
At the moment, this lamb was everything to me. I caressed its rib cage, trying to encourage its tiny heart. I could feel it struggling in there. While its mother's instinct left it for dead, the lamb's own instinct fought to survive.
I opened the lamb's right eye lid. A dark, live eye stared at me. It was nothing like the murky and clouded eyes of those failed lambs I carried to the dump. The eye lid leaped from my fingers and blinked. Still the lamb made no sound. I continued sticking straw up its nose. I knew no reason for this other than I had witnessed Dad do it. I pried my fingers inside the lamb's mouth. It was slippery with slime. I parted the lips and felt tiny shards of teeth. The pink tongue quivered.
Finally, not knowing what else to do, I bent down and pressed my lips to the lamb's and gently gave the lamb its first breath. Nothing. I breathed for it again. It stirred. Another breath. Another breath. Yet another. Finally, it coughed for the first time. Then it inhaled for itself. Suddenly, as the seconds passed and I watched, I saw life erupting. The lamb was electrified. It coughed again. A shrill bleat echoed from its throat, its first sound. Its eyes flickered open, then stayed, its first vision. It sounded again. It floundered in the filth as I held it. Its heart was flexing its dainty rib cage. These would not be among the rocks. It moved its legs, its first steps. Its brain taking in images and scents and tastes and information for the first time. It kicked as if it wanted to run, though it was lying on its side. Lambs had to move quickly after birth or face death. This one wanted life.
I kept my hands on it, holding it down. Try as I might I couldn't let go. It was like finding God's pulse. Here was the secret to everything. New life. Striving to survive, to exist. I squeezed harder to feel the raging heart, imagining the fresh blood, exposed to oxygen from its own lungs, inhaled from its own nostrils for the first time. The umbilical cord, which in hours would be a red shriveled stub, oozed from its tummy. Free new life was coursing through my fingers, into my lungs, and into my blood. For the first time in my life, I had an understanding of why Dad devoted so much time to tending his flock.
I picked the lamb up, not cradling him, not babying it. Just reveling in its vitality. Something that had seemed lost was now alive and battling for more. I carried it toward the barn as it called for its mother and its legs ran in opposite directions. I glanced back at the mother. She seemed confused. She looked back at her first lamb then her second lamb in my hands.
I set my lamb down in a pen. Finally, I tore myself free. God's pulse faded and left my fingertips numb. I plugged in the heat lamp bathing the shivering lamb in 80 degree heat.
I returned to the lot to grab the other lamb. The ewe still was caught halfway between the two lambs. I passed by her and came upon the first lamb. This one seemed pitiful to me now. Even though it was larger than the second lamb, it seemed so much weaker. It just looked at me as I approached. I could, like any wolf or fox, grab it and rip its throat and pour its virgin blood down my throat. Without its mother, it was defenseless. Would it have fought for survival like the other?
I cradled it in my arms and carried it to the pen. The mother now followed and called for her lamb. When I dropped it in there, the second lamb was up on two front knees while the back legs twitched and struggled to acquaint themselves with gravity, still seeking to survive.
I grabbed a faded Bridgeman's ice cream bucket hanging on the wall. Then I grabbed an old green 7UP glass. I fished around in a cabinet for a black, rubber nipple. I set the ice cream bucket beneath the ewe. She continued to tend to her lamb. I grabbed hold of one of her swollen teats, as I had seen my father do, and awkwardly began to milk her. The warm, thick milk began to fill the bucket in slow steaming jets. She stomped at my intrusion. I let her calm down and focus again on her lamb. Then I continued to milk her.
Once the ice cream bucket had an inch of milk in it, I poured it into the 7UP bottle and fitted the nipple onto it. The ewe had nudged her lamb beneath the heat lamp. My lamb was wedged into the corner. I gently tossed her lamb back at her and knelt down to tend to the other. I soaked an index finger in the tepid milk remaining in the ice cream pale. I held it up to the lambs nose. It seemed to recognize the aroma. Then I messaged its lips and gums. The mouth opened. The tiny teeth nipped at my fingers. The tongue engulfed my finger and sought food. It tried to suck my entire finger down its throat. The teeth nipped into my knuckle and the electric pulse flashed through me again. I pulled my finger free and replaced it with the faux nipple. The land began to suck. His head bobbed up and down and he struggled to one knee, his hind legs were already in the air, his tail fluttering to and fro. Then he struggled to the other knee. A moment later he was standing as he drained the bottle.
I left him with the other lamb and began to search for my gloves. Its call echoed after me as I headed for the feed lot. I checked my watch. It would be at least another four hours before I had to feed my lamb again.
It was the damndest image I ever saw. As I was dividing the bails into sections and tossing them into the feeders, I saw a ewe standing apart from the other sheep with a miniature head and two tiny hooves sticking out just below the stub of her tail. The ewe craned her neck around and licked the lamb's face. Suddenly, the lamb let a small "baaah" escape its mouth. The mother immediately answered with her own along with some grunts and pants as she tried to expel the lamb.
Oh hell, I thought. Here we go. Dad mentioned that a few ewes might lamb before he returned home.
Why does he always have to be gone when something like this happens? It was not the first time I saw a lamb born. This was our fifth year on the farm, so I was acclimated to the spectacle, though I could never view it the way Dad did. He would sit and brood over the ewes, often times having to stick his hand, and whole arm, up there and turn the lamb or help pull it out. It was the grossest thing I ever witnessed. Even though I owned my fair share of sheep, from which my allowance was derived, there was no way I was about to stick my hand anywhere near there, let alone up there. I even saw him once revive a lamb with mouth to mouth. I cringed at just having to carry them from the feed lot to a pen when they were still slimy with afterbirth and squirming to stand. I would not even touch one until I secured a pair of gloves. Then when I safely had the lamb or lambs and the ewe penned up, I dashed to the house to scrub down like a surgeon.
This lamb was no different. It was covered in a thin membrane of slime and blood. I returned to finish feeding the rest of the herd.
When I was done I walked over to the ewe, who had distanced herself off to a secluded corner of the feed lot. Two lambs lay in a steaming heap on the frozen straw and manure. Even though this sight always disgusted me, I suddenly felt like the their lives belonged to me. The mother tried to maneuver herself between me and her lambs. I always marveled at how protective they were of their young. After all, sheep, especially ewes, are about the most defenseless animals on the planet. They are not blessed with speed, claws, armor (well maybe a few horns, but nothing to inflict any real damage or ward off a wolf), and intelligence (this is after all an animal that, if allowed to, will graze in an alfalfa field until the gasses in their stomach expand quicker than they can expel them and cause them to literally swell and bloat to death). I gently pushed her out of the way, though she tried to steer me away from her young with her head. She bellowed and one of the lambs responded. That was when I knew something was wrong. Looking back at the ewe, I was almost sure she was a yearling. They usually only have one lamb, since they are only one year removed from being lambs themselves. Ewes after their second year traditionally have two to three lambs.
This was trouble. She had two lambs. She was licking the afterbirth from one lamb who was already struggling to bleat and stand, only to stumble to one minute knee, tremble for a split second and crash down to the ground. Its legs seemed to be too long and thin for its slight body. The other lamb lay in a small, slimy puddle.
It neither tried to stand nor bleat.
This lamb couldn't die. Even in the slime and blood and filth, I was linked to it. Forgetting everything else, I reverted to my dad. I tore my gloves off and felt the lamb's soft slippery wool for a heart beat. I could barely see its rib cage rise and fall. I wiped the ooze from its face. One eye lid fluttered. I grabbed some straw and stuffed individual straws up its nose. The lamb shook its head in defiance.
I messaged its chest and watched the mother cradle and nuzzle the other lamb. I knew exactly what happened. Somewhere in her instinctive circuiting, the ewe knew she could only care for one lamb. She chose the strongest and left the other to die. This happened often when they had lambs off on their own and Dad couldn't care for them. I carried their carcasses many times out to the dump. They seemed so slight, like they had never lived at all. In a few months they were just be a few opaque bones scattered among the rocks.
At the moment, this lamb was everything to me. I caressed its rib cage, trying to encourage its tiny heart. I could feel it struggling in there. While its mother's instinct left it for dead, the lamb's own instinct fought to survive.
I opened the lamb's right eye lid. A dark, live eye stared at me. It was nothing like the murky and clouded eyes of those failed lambs I carried to the dump. The eye lid leaped from my fingers and blinked. Still the lamb made no sound. I continued sticking straw up its nose. I knew no reason for this other than I had witnessed Dad do it. I pried my fingers inside the lamb's mouth. It was slippery with slime. I parted the lips and felt tiny shards of teeth. The pink tongue quivered.
Finally, not knowing what else to do, I bent down and pressed my lips to the lamb's and gently gave the lamb its first breath. Nothing. I breathed for it again. It stirred. Another breath. Another breath. Yet another. Finally, it coughed for the first time. Then it inhaled for itself. Suddenly, as the seconds passed and I watched, I saw life erupting. The lamb was electrified. It coughed again. A shrill bleat echoed from its throat, its first sound. Its eyes flickered open, then stayed, its first vision. It sounded again. It floundered in the filth as I held it. Its heart was flexing its dainty rib cage. These would not be among the rocks. It moved its legs, its first steps. Its brain taking in images and scents and tastes and information for the first time. It kicked as if it wanted to run, though it was lying on its side. Lambs had to move quickly after birth or face death. This one wanted life.
I kept my hands on it, holding it down. Try as I might I couldn't let go. It was like finding God's pulse. Here was the secret to everything. New life. Striving to survive, to exist. I squeezed harder to feel the raging heart, imagining the fresh blood, exposed to oxygen from its own lungs, inhaled from its own nostrils for the first time. The umbilical cord, which in hours would be a red shriveled stub, oozed from its tummy. Free new life was coursing through my fingers, into my lungs, and into my blood. For the first time in my life, I had an understanding of why Dad devoted so much time to tending his flock.
I picked the lamb up, not cradling him, not babying it. Just reveling in its vitality. Something that had seemed lost was now alive and battling for more. I carried it toward the barn as it called for its mother and its legs ran in opposite directions. I glanced back at the mother. She seemed confused. She looked back at her first lamb then her second lamb in my hands.
I set my lamb down in a pen. Finally, I tore myself free. God's pulse faded and left my fingertips numb. I plugged in the heat lamp bathing the shivering lamb in 80 degree heat.
I returned to the lot to grab the other lamb. The ewe still was caught halfway between the two lambs. I passed by her and came upon the first lamb. This one seemed pitiful to me now. Even though it was larger than the second lamb, it seemed so much weaker. It just looked at me as I approached. I could, like any wolf or fox, grab it and rip its throat and pour its virgin blood down my throat. Without its mother, it was defenseless. Would it have fought for survival like the other?
I cradled it in my arms and carried it to the pen. The mother now followed and called for her lamb. When I dropped it in there, the second lamb was up on two front knees while the back legs twitched and struggled to acquaint themselves with gravity, still seeking to survive.
I grabbed a faded Bridgeman's ice cream bucket hanging on the wall. Then I grabbed an old green 7UP glass. I fished around in a cabinet for a black, rubber nipple. I set the ice cream bucket beneath the ewe. She continued to tend to her lamb. I grabbed hold of one of her swollen teats, as I had seen my father do, and awkwardly began to milk her. The warm, thick milk began to fill the bucket in slow steaming jets. She stomped at my intrusion. I let her calm down and focus again on her lamb. Then I continued to milk her.
Once the ice cream bucket had an inch of milk in it, I poured it into the 7UP bottle and fitted the nipple onto it. The ewe had nudged her lamb beneath the heat lamp. My lamb was wedged into the corner. I gently tossed her lamb back at her and knelt down to tend to the other. I soaked an index finger in the tepid milk remaining in the ice cream pale. I held it up to the lambs nose. It seemed to recognize the aroma. Then I messaged its lips and gums. The mouth opened. The tiny teeth nipped at my fingers. The tongue engulfed my finger and sought food. It tried to suck my entire finger down its throat. The teeth nipped into my knuckle and the electric pulse flashed through me again. I pulled my finger free and replaced it with the faux nipple. The land began to suck. His head bobbed up and down and he struggled to one knee, his hind legs were already in the air, his tail fluttering to and fro. Then he struggled to the other knee. A moment later he was standing as he drained the bottle.
I left him with the other lamb and began to search for my gloves. Its call echoed after me as I headed for the feed lot. I checked my watch. It would be at least another four hours before I had to feed my lamb again.
An exercise
Once to illustrate what we learned in terms of grammar, we were called to write the longest sentence we possibly could. Here is what I came up with.
My brother was a sonofabitch, the worst word available to my seven year old vocabulary, and I gladly hurled it at him over and over again in my mind as he dangled the chocolate dip crunch cone just inches above my vertical leap, which probably was no more than four feet, even with my arms outstretched, making me feel like a lousy dog trying to leap up and fetch a treat out of its owner's hand, but no he wouldn't give me even a taste of his beloved ice cream cone; moreover, the sonofabitch didn't have any money left to buy me one, so he took it upon himself to torture me by slowly eating it and letting it melt in the 90 degree heat and giggling as I practically drooled, watching the hard chocolate exterior shell begin to break up and slide down a vanilla flow onto the sugar cone base, only to be stopped by that sonofabitch's hand, which firmly grasped the delicious cone as he took his deliberate time eating it and savoring every divine nibble; thus I abandoned my vain attempts to snatch it from the sonofabitch; instead, I held my steaming, parched tongue open, like a dehydrated man hoping to quench his thirst with mere raindrops, praying a stray drop of vanilla, maybe even with a small fragment of chocolate coating attached to it, might descend like an angel and pardon my eternally suffering soul, but, alas, that sonofabitch hoarded every single stray drop for himself, letting the precious nectar run onto and pool among his greedy fingers, and finally when the sonofabitch ultimately began chomping on the sugar cone, he had the gall to say, "okay, if you really want some, I guess you can lick my fingers."
My brother was a sonofabitch, the worst word available to my seven year old vocabulary, and I gladly hurled it at him over and over again in my mind as he dangled the chocolate dip crunch cone just inches above my vertical leap, which probably was no more than four feet, even with my arms outstretched, making me feel like a lousy dog trying to leap up and fetch a treat out of its owner's hand, but no he wouldn't give me even a taste of his beloved ice cream cone; moreover, the sonofabitch didn't have any money left to buy me one, so he took it upon himself to torture me by slowly eating it and letting it melt in the 90 degree heat and giggling as I practically drooled, watching the hard chocolate exterior shell begin to break up and slide down a vanilla flow onto the sugar cone base, only to be stopped by that sonofabitch's hand, which firmly grasped the delicious cone as he took his deliberate time eating it and savoring every divine nibble; thus I abandoned my vain attempts to snatch it from the sonofabitch; instead, I held my steaming, parched tongue open, like a dehydrated man hoping to quench his thirst with mere raindrops, praying a stray drop of vanilla, maybe even with a small fragment of chocolate coating attached to it, might descend like an angel and pardon my eternally suffering soul, but, alas, that sonofabitch hoarded every single stray drop for himself, letting the precious nectar run onto and pool among his greedy fingers, and finally when the sonofabitch ultimately began chomping on the sugar cone, he had the gall to say, "okay, if you really want some, I guess you can lick my fingers."
Six Traits Prompt
I stole a prompt from last Friday's Six Traits Writing Session. The presenter had us brainstorm some important words we've heard or come across that have impacted our life. I assigned this on Wednesday to my college comp class as the first essay for theme #3.
Here is what I came up with --
Kristie, my wife, stood at Barb’s counter chatting away, her hands gesturing and punctuating her story as she related it to Casey, KoKo, Matt, and Amanda. Dad sat at the table, his chair pushed back, an empty plate in front of him, and slowly drawled through an argument he was enjoying between his son-in-law, Arnie, and Arnie’s father, Bernard.
We had all gathered at Barb and Arnie’s farm, near Plummer, to celebrate her son’s graduation. Matt had just earned his B.S. degree from BSU. Oddly enough, while he graduated with his undergraduate degree, I graduated with my graduate degree in English
Earlier Dad wanted to throw me a part too, but I most certainly turned the idea down.
“But you’ve made a great accomplishment,” he told me referencing my degree and an award my thesis had earned.
But I didn’t want any recognition. That’s just not my style. It was bad enough a journalism student from BSU called to interview me and put the story in not only the Bemidji paper but two local papers as well.
I just wanted to enjoy our family being together. So I just stood back and enjoyed two master storytellers holding court while I just soaked up being part of this family. It was one of those rare instances where one feels conscious of the importance of a moment that can be savored just as it happens.
“Here you go, little brother," Barb said in her mock over-emotional tone. “I know Dad said that you didn’t want us to do anything for you, but Mom would have been so proud.”
My sister knows how, as an English teacher, I loathe Hallmark cards and their over-sentimental drivel, yet it didn’t stop her from sliding the sky blue envelop into my reluctant fist.
Smirking, I dug my index finger into the edge of the envelop and dragged it across the seal, ripping the envelop beyond all repair.
"Just like when you'd open Christmas presents," Barb added with her own smirk now.
To tell you the truth, I remember nothing of the card other than one line scrawled in Barb's looping cursive - "Congrats. Mom would have been (is) so proud of you!"
For a brief moment, imagined how Mom would have reacted to the recognition my thesis, written about her mother, received. She would have been absolutley glowing.
Here is what I came up with --
Kristie, my wife, stood at Barb’s counter chatting away, her hands gesturing and punctuating her story as she related it to Casey, KoKo, Matt, and Amanda. Dad sat at the table, his chair pushed back, an empty plate in front of him, and slowly drawled through an argument he was enjoying between his son-in-law, Arnie, and Arnie’s father, Bernard.
We had all gathered at Barb and Arnie’s farm, near Plummer, to celebrate her son’s graduation. Matt had just earned his B.S. degree from BSU. Oddly enough, while he graduated with his undergraduate degree, I graduated with my graduate degree in English
Earlier Dad wanted to throw me a part too, but I most certainly turned the idea down.
“But you’ve made a great accomplishment,” he told me referencing my degree and an award my thesis had earned.
But I didn’t want any recognition. That’s just not my style. It was bad enough a journalism student from BSU called to interview me and put the story in not only the Bemidji paper but two local papers as well.
I just wanted to enjoy our family being together. So I just stood back and enjoyed two master storytellers holding court while I just soaked up being part of this family. It was one of those rare instances where one feels conscious of the importance of a moment that can be savored just as it happens.
“Here you go, little brother," Barb said in her mock over-emotional tone. “I know Dad said that you didn’t want us to do anything for you, but Mom would have been so proud.”
My sister knows how, as an English teacher, I loathe Hallmark cards and their over-sentimental drivel, yet it didn’t stop her from sliding the sky blue envelop into my reluctant fist.
Smirking, I dug my index finger into the edge of the envelop and dragged it across the seal, ripping the envelop beyond all repair.
"Just like when you'd open Christmas presents," Barb added with her own smirk now.
To tell you the truth, I remember nothing of the card other than one line scrawled in Barb's looping cursive - "Congrats. Mom would have been (is) so proud of you!"
For a brief moment, imagined how Mom would have reacted to the recognition my thesis, written about her mother, received. She would have been absolutley glowing.
A Lesson from Myrtle
It takes a special person to teach a five year old the concept of time on earth and our place in it. But that was exactly what my grandmother did one day in late June.
“Okay, Kurt,” Granny said from the other side of her cramped apartment at Fairview Manor. “Just tape the end of the paper to the back door.”
I pressed my thumb to the green door. The slice of Scotch tape held firm - two feet below the peep and just a little to the left of the imposing deadbolt lock.
“Now come to the front door,” Granny said.
I followed the roll of old white calculator tape as it snaked its way out of the kitchen, over the dining room table, nearly snagging in the fake bowl of plastic fruit in the middle, around the green leather recliner and finally past the TV.
Granny stood at the front door. She held the dwindling roll of paper in one hand and a single piece of tape in the other. Then - wincing just a bit from her arthritis - she gripped the paper with her swollen hands and with a a sharp yank from her bulging knuckle, she tore the paper free from the roll, which she tucked into her front pocket. Then she applied the Scotch tape and adhered the other end of the tape to the front door.
“This is the end of the tape. The end you stuck to the back door is the beginning. Now try to look all the way back to the beginning of the tape,” she instructed.
I retraced the tape back over the TV, by the recliner, past the bowl of fruit on the dining table, and around the corner into the kitchen where it disappeared.
“Now let’s walk back and check the marks,” she said.
I found myself looking closer at the tape. Sure enough there were pencil marks several feet apart on the paper.
“These, my dear,” Granny said in the tone that meant she was teaching me something important, “are the periods in earth’s history. Then she topped right before the kitchen. Now look at the beginning of the tape.
I did.
“That is the creation of earth. And as you can see the longest section lasts all the way from the back door to the dining table. That was the period the earth was cooling and preparing for life. But look how long it lasted. Imagine each each foot is - oh - a hundred million years.”
I began to feel my mind swim.
“Now come here with me,” she said and we walked past several other lines. Then I began to note things drawn on the tape in additon to words. “Here is your favorite period, The Jurassic Period.”
From all the hours Granny spent reading me articles from the National Geographics she ordered and buying me a small horde of plastic dinosaurs, I knew she was right. Sure enough. I looked on top of the TV and saw that she had placed my favorites - T-Rex and Steggosaurus on top next to the Jurrasic period.
“Yet, if you look at the front door, which is where we are now in earth’s history, you can see just how long ago it was.” It was true. I stared at the distance between the TV and thr door.
“So where are we?” I asked.
Granny took me by the hand, walked me over right up to the door. Then she took a pencil out from her back pocket.
“We my dear,” she said with the pencil poised,”are right here” and she snapped a quick thing line across the very edge of the tape. It was so slight that I had to look close to see it.
“So sometimes when we like to thing were so high and mighty,” she said grinning, “thing of this little experiment,” she said and turned me around so I could see the enormity of earth’s entire history winding across her apartment.
“Okay, Kurt,” Granny said from the other side of her cramped apartment at Fairview Manor. “Just tape the end of the paper to the back door.”
I pressed my thumb to the green door. The slice of Scotch tape held firm - two feet below the peep and just a little to the left of the imposing deadbolt lock.
“Now come to the front door,” Granny said.
I followed the roll of old white calculator tape as it snaked its way out of the kitchen, over the dining room table, nearly snagging in the fake bowl of plastic fruit in the middle, around the green leather recliner and finally past the TV.
Granny stood at the front door. She held the dwindling roll of paper in one hand and a single piece of tape in the other. Then - wincing just a bit from her arthritis - she gripped the paper with her swollen hands and with a a sharp yank from her bulging knuckle, she tore the paper free from the roll, which she tucked into her front pocket. Then she applied the Scotch tape and adhered the other end of the tape to the front door.
“This is the end of the tape. The end you stuck to the back door is the beginning. Now try to look all the way back to the beginning of the tape,” she instructed.
I retraced the tape back over the TV, by the recliner, past the bowl of fruit on the dining table, and around the corner into the kitchen where it disappeared.
“Now let’s walk back and check the marks,” she said.
I found myself looking closer at the tape. Sure enough there were pencil marks several feet apart on the paper.
“These, my dear,” Granny said in the tone that meant she was teaching me something important, “are the periods in earth’s history. Then she topped right before the kitchen. Now look at the beginning of the tape.
I did.
“That is the creation of earth. And as you can see the longest section lasts all the way from the back door to the dining table. That was the period the earth was cooling and preparing for life. But look how long it lasted. Imagine each each foot is - oh - a hundred million years.”
I began to feel my mind swim.
“Now come here with me,” she said and we walked past several other lines. Then I began to note things drawn on the tape in additon to words. “Here is your favorite period, The Jurassic Period.”
From all the hours Granny spent reading me articles from the National Geographics she ordered and buying me a small horde of plastic dinosaurs, I knew she was right. Sure enough. I looked on top of the TV and saw that she had placed my favorites - T-Rex and Steggosaurus on top next to the Jurrasic period.
“Yet, if you look at the front door, which is where we are now in earth’s history, you can see just how long ago it was.” It was true. I stared at the distance between the TV and thr door.
“So where are we?” I asked.
Granny took me by the hand, walked me over right up to the door. Then she took a pencil out from her back pocket.
“We my dear,” she said with the pencil poised,”are right here” and she snapped a quick thing line across the very edge of the tape. It was so slight that I had to look close to see it.
“So sometimes when we like to thing were so high and mighty,” she said grinning, “thing of this little experiment,” she said and turned me around so I could see the enormity of earth’s entire history winding across her apartment.
Two summers ago
Two summers ago while Kristie was working at a farm supply store and I was teaching at the ALC, I was fortunate enough to have Fridays off, while Kristie had to venture off to work.
I wrote this one morning thinking about her absence.
Friday Mourning
Sun struggles through blinds
While you struggle to the shower.
Sleep struggles from me
While I struggle deeper into the blankets.
When you leave,
I find the impression
your body has left behind
imprinted in the sheets.
It’s a poor imitation, but it’ll have to do.
I struggle over to your side
and there we embrace --
Your torso indented in the mattress
Your scent clinging to the pillows
Your heat fading from the covers
And best of all,
Your love beating in my chest.
I wrote this one morning thinking about her absence.
Friday Mourning
Sun struggles through blinds
While you struggle to the shower.
Sleep struggles from me
While I struggle deeper into the blankets.
When you leave,
I find the impression
your body has left behind
imprinted in the sheets.
It’s a poor imitation, but it’ll have to do.
I struggle over to your side
and there we embrace --
Your torso indented in the mattress
Your scent clinging to the pillows
Your heat fading from the covers
And best of all,
Your love beating in my chest.
KoKo
KoKo's daily routine --
You say “I love you”
a dozen times a day.
Sometimes you reach that quota
before lunch.
Yet, you need not say it at all.
For you show us in so many ways.
Like how your lips trembled
and your eyes softened
when you learned of your mom’s broken arm.
Like the way you raced after me - your arms
flailing in the air - when I
dropped you off for your Girl Scout trip
- I was sure you had forgotten
your bag in the back seat -
You only wanted a hug and kiss.
And to say those three words.
You say “I love you”
a dozen times a day.
Sometimes you reach that quota
before lunch.
Yet, you need not say it at all.
For you show us in so many ways.
Like how your lips trembled
and your eyes softened
when you learned of your mom’s broken arm.
Like the way you raced after me - your arms
flailing in the air - when I
dropped you off for your Girl Scout trip
- I was sure you had forgotten
your bag in the back seat -
You only wanted a hug and kiss.
And to say those three words.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Hunters
Since we welcomed our third feline into our household, I was thinking of this essay I wrote some time ago about my mom's cats.
++++
The two forms of calico colored death spring from the porch. They immerse themselves in shadows cast by the house. Eyes and ears and noses adjust to their domain, rippling out across the yard, taking in their nightly survey. Prey stirs, crawls, scatters, and nibbles. All oblivious to the doom that is coming.
Two bits of shadow drip from the larger pool and cautiously flow across the yard, low to the grass. As if it were perfectly natural for the dark to do such things.
In utter silence the spots merge with the large shadows of the tree line. There they flow among the umbrage of branches and bushes. Then pause. They wait with the patience of ages. As if the dark is so tentative.
Finally, a mouse crashes through the foliage. It spies a safe place across an open patch of moon light between the base of a choke cherry tree and a fallen branch. The mouse scurries toward the dark harbor.
The two black spots wait for the mouse to get halfway. Then the dark solidifies and pounces, swirling around the rodent. The mouse finds that these shadows teem with fangs and claws. A squeal swells from the black, causing the remaining prey to scurry in all directions, only delaying their deaths.
Back between the tree and the branch, the shadows continue to pool around the victim. Blood drips onto the foliage like ink. But not too much. The teeth and claws only prod and puncture. They didn't kill. The mouse, still oozing, tries to crawl off. From somewhere in the black, claws lash out. The mouse scampers in the other direction. From somewhere else in the night, another set of claws strike. With its back legs in shreds, the vermin squirms forward looking for escape. But torture is all around. And it will not let the rodent die, yet. As if the dark has a thirst for such cruel sport.
The mouse ceases moving. The shadows ebb into the surrounding shade, leaving the rodent bathed in the moon light, still halfway between the choke cherry tree and the branch. The mouse's instinct to survive is draining. But the shadows instinct to hunt, despite no hunger, is rising. Unfortunately for the mouse, their instinct for play is overflowing.
Suddenly one shadow gushes from the rest, clenching the mouse in its jaws and tossing it into the air. The other shadow waits for the rodent to land. A claw rakes the mouse's belly. Its guts spill. The claw recedes. Another claw from the opposite direction hooks an intestine. The claw pulls. The first claw rushes forth again, snaring a pupil. The shadows tug in opposite directions. In this way, death is finally decided. As if the dark could be so merciless.
Once the mouse is cold and still, the two shapes liquefy and flow, with their bellies rubbing the dewy grass, beneath the underbrush, looking for further game.
Sometime after five am, the two shadows recede to the porch. The sun is rising, evaporating their cover.
* * *
I am wakened by sounds of scraping from the kitchen. Moments later two heavy, damp forms converge on the bed. One is under the blanket, rippling toward my head where it curls and rests in the crook of my neck. The other swirls and sinks between my ankles. Instantly, they begin cleansing themselves of the evening smells and dew. Then they begin kneading my flesh and the bedding, content. Their deep purring reverberates through the whole bed.
Their nightly trophies are likely strewn across the porch. Last week alone, I found several mice, a baby rabbit, two swallows, a family of moles, and numerous gophers. This morning, I hope they are all dead. In June, I had to chase a sparrow around the porch with a shoe. Both wings were missing.
I marvel at their skills. Nestled lovingly at my neck and feet are several thousand years of instinct honed to stalk and kill. That instinct cannot be domesticated so easily, like the flesh and brain. Their need to hunt and murder and torture has not been tamed. Evening arrives, and though they are full, their instinct swells.
Fifteen hundred years before Christ was born, the Egyptians worshipped felines. They offered them sacrifices. They even mummified them. Before they ultimately tamed them, the Egyptians created the goddess Sekhmet. She was a bloodthirsty creature with the head of a lion, and they feared her. However, over time, as felines were domesticated, and eventually rid the Egyptians of the pestilence their rodents brought, they created the goddess Bashet. She was a guardian with the head of a cat, and they cherished her. Together these two goddesses represented the two contrasting faces of the sun.
Our sun is shining through the window, hitting my eyes. No use sleeping. Time to rise. Their depleted dishes will need to be filled. I wonder sometimes, who precisely is the pet?
The purring at my head and feet, and the fluttering coming from the porch, remind me that Bashet and Sekhmet still reside somewhere within the feline genetic structure.
I ease myself out from under their weight. Their sacrifices await.
++++
The two forms of calico colored death spring from the porch. They immerse themselves in shadows cast by the house. Eyes and ears and noses adjust to their domain, rippling out across the yard, taking in their nightly survey. Prey stirs, crawls, scatters, and nibbles. All oblivious to the doom that is coming.
Two bits of shadow drip from the larger pool and cautiously flow across the yard, low to the grass. As if it were perfectly natural for the dark to do such things.
In utter silence the spots merge with the large shadows of the tree line. There they flow among the umbrage of branches and bushes. Then pause. They wait with the patience of ages. As if the dark is so tentative.
Finally, a mouse crashes through the foliage. It spies a safe place across an open patch of moon light between the base of a choke cherry tree and a fallen branch. The mouse scurries toward the dark harbor.
The two black spots wait for the mouse to get halfway. Then the dark solidifies and pounces, swirling around the rodent. The mouse finds that these shadows teem with fangs and claws. A squeal swells from the black, causing the remaining prey to scurry in all directions, only delaying their deaths.
Back between the tree and the branch, the shadows continue to pool around the victim. Blood drips onto the foliage like ink. But not too much. The teeth and claws only prod and puncture. They didn't kill. The mouse, still oozing, tries to crawl off. From somewhere in the black, claws lash out. The mouse scampers in the other direction. From somewhere else in the night, another set of claws strike. With its back legs in shreds, the vermin squirms forward looking for escape. But torture is all around. And it will not let the rodent die, yet. As if the dark has a thirst for such cruel sport.
The mouse ceases moving. The shadows ebb into the surrounding shade, leaving the rodent bathed in the moon light, still halfway between the choke cherry tree and the branch. The mouse's instinct to survive is draining. But the shadows instinct to hunt, despite no hunger, is rising. Unfortunately for the mouse, their instinct for play is overflowing.
Suddenly one shadow gushes from the rest, clenching the mouse in its jaws and tossing it into the air. The other shadow waits for the rodent to land. A claw rakes the mouse's belly. Its guts spill. The claw recedes. Another claw from the opposite direction hooks an intestine. The claw pulls. The first claw rushes forth again, snaring a pupil. The shadows tug in opposite directions. In this way, death is finally decided. As if the dark could be so merciless.
Once the mouse is cold and still, the two shapes liquefy and flow, with their bellies rubbing the dewy grass, beneath the underbrush, looking for further game.
Sometime after five am, the two shadows recede to the porch. The sun is rising, evaporating their cover.
* * *
I am wakened by sounds of scraping from the kitchen. Moments later two heavy, damp forms converge on the bed. One is under the blanket, rippling toward my head where it curls and rests in the crook of my neck. The other swirls and sinks between my ankles. Instantly, they begin cleansing themselves of the evening smells and dew. Then they begin kneading my flesh and the bedding, content. Their deep purring reverberates through the whole bed.
Their nightly trophies are likely strewn across the porch. Last week alone, I found several mice, a baby rabbit, two swallows, a family of moles, and numerous gophers. This morning, I hope they are all dead. In June, I had to chase a sparrow around the porch with a shoe. Both wings were missing.
I marvel at their skills. Nestled lovingly at my neck and feet are several thousand years of instinct honed to stalk and kill. That instinct cannot be domesticated so easily, like the flesh and brain. Their need to hunt and murder and torture has not been tamed. Evening arrives, and though they are full, their instinct swells.
Fifteen hundred years before Christ was born, the Egyptians worshipped felines. They offered them sacrifices. They even mummified them. Before they ultimately tamed them, the Egyptians created the goddess Sekhmet. She was a bloodthirsty creature with the head of a lion, and they feared her. However, over time, as felines were domesticated, and eventually rid the Egyptians of the pestilence their rodents brought, they created the goddess Bashet. She was a guardian with the head of a cat, and they cherished her. Together these two goddesses represented the two contrasting faces of the sun.
Our sun is shining through the window, hitting my eyes. No use sleeping. Time to rise. Their depleted dishes will need to be filled. I wonder sometimes, who precisely is the pet?
The purring at my head and feet, and the fluttering coming from the porch, remind me that Bashet and Sekhmet still reside somewhere within the feline genetic structure.
I ease myself out from under their weight. Their sacrifices await.
I miss summer
Here is a pontoon. It's a formulaic poem where you compose a certain set of lines and then repeat them as you go.
Here is what I came up with --
Clouds roll heavy on the horizon
Squirrels scurry from lawn to limb to rooftop and back
Traffic pulses, congests, grinds to a halt then flows again
Coffee roars on the tongue and wakens the brain.
Squirrels scurry from lawn to limb to rooftop and back
The fair is here; summer is almost gone
Coffee roars on the tongue and wakes the brain
The dog days are coming fast.
The fair is here; summer is almost gone
August’s hazy heat awaits
The dog days are coming fast
I should never wear a watch in the summer.
Clouds roll heavy on the horizon
Traffic pulses, congests, grinds to a halt then flows again
August’s hazy heat awaits
I should never wear a watch in the summer.
Here is what I came up with --
Clouds roll heavy on the horizon
Squirrels scurry from lawn to limb to rooftop and back
Traffic pulses, congests, grinds to a halt then flows again
Coffee roars on the tongue and wakens the brain.
Squirrels scurry from lawn to limb to rooftop and back
The fair is here; summer is almost gone
Coffee roars on the tongue and wakes the brain
The dog days are coming fast.
The fair is here; summer is almost gone
August’s hazy heat awaits
The dog days are coming fast
I should never wear a watch in the summer.
Clouds roll heavy on the horizon
Traffic pulses, congests, grinds to a halt then flows again
August’s hazy heat awaits
I should never wear a watch in the summer.
Exercise
This summer at UND we were given a writing prompt that included taking the first four lines from various poems written by those in the class. The four lines are listed below.
"No one asked for God’s mercy or favors . . .
Only then would you have figured out the strength
Maybe, since you’re something like me, you, too
And I shouldn’t tell you, but I will"
Then we were told to write an essay in response to this.
Here is what I came up with.
Maybe, since you’re something like me, you, too have a need for storytelling, a compulsion to spin a tale, a desire to record in narrative form.
The readings yesterday talked about human desire to record events and ideas - beginning first on cave walls as drawings, then as an oral tradition, and then as a written language.
The importance of being remembered. No one asked for God’s mercy or favors, so we must record and remember who either received them or who wanted none of them. And since there is no way of knowing what is beyond our lives, we must record what we did here in this phase while we still can.
My dad kept records. The man was prolific. This is because he was a truck driver for 35 years where he had to meticulously keep a log and record his miles, his fuel, his deliveries, his expenditures, his hours, his routes, and so on.
All of this information preserved. But now that he is gone, I wish he would have recorded more of the stories and history of our family. So I have accepted the role as family recorder from here on out.
This began with me writing a multi-genre, creative nonfiction memoir on my grandmother. Then it moved on to me starting a blog where I record anything and everything that happens to me as a teacher, to be husband and father, and as a human being.
This entails jotting down memories of Mom and Dad. Jotting down stories they had told me. Jotting down new stories I hear from their friends and relatives.
This too me is the power of writing - preservation.
When I was a child, I hated taking naps. The only way my grandmother could get me to lie down - and believe me - that was the last thing I ever wanted to do - was to tell me a story. That lure of a tale, a history, a significant event was irresistible.
So she had us lie down on her bed and she began telling me of a great warrior who lived in a far away land. He heard the story of an evil monster that had been killing another king’s warriors across the sea. So he set out with his best men to help.
The beast came every night to the king’s hall and killed whatever men he could find sleeping there. So my grandmother said our hero decided to sleep there with his men. Sure enough the monster struck, but our hero was ready for him. They were locked in fierce battle. And he tore the monster's arm from its socket. The monster fled and the hero's victory was so grand that they retold it again and again so that the hero was never forgotten.
I never slept a wink during the hour we lied in bed. I just kept staring at my right shoulder and thought about how much that must have hurt the poor monster.
This is the third time I've written about that story Granny told me. Years later, of course, I realized it was "Beowulf." Like the Anglo-Saxons long before me, I tell that story to help keep my grandmother's legacy alive.
***
Ever since our wonderful six traits session last week, I've been trying to use different writing strategies in my classes. I think I'm going to try a version of this same assignment and see what we come up with.
"No one asked for God’s mercy or favors . . .
Only then would you have figured out the strength
Maybe, since you’re something like me, you, too
And I shouldn’t tell you, but I will"
Then we were told to write an essay in response to this.
Here is what I came up with.
Maybe, since you’re something like me, you, too have a need for storytelling, a compulsion to spin a tale, a desire to record in narrative form.
The readings yesterday talked about human desire to record events and ideas - beginning first on cave walls as drawings, then as an oral tradition, and then as a written language.
The importance of being remembered. No one asked for God’s mercy or favors, so we must record and remember who either received them or who wanted none of them. And since there is no way of knowing what is beyond our lives, we must record what we did here in this phase while we still can.
My dad kept records. The man was prolific. This is because he was a truck driver for 35 years where he had to meticulously keep a log and record his miles, his fuel, his deliveries, his expenditures, his hours, his routes, and so on.
All of this information preserved. But now that he is gone, I wish he would have recorded more of the stories and history of our family. So I have accepted the role as family recorder from here on out.
This began with me writing a multi-genre, creative nonfiction memoir on my grandmother. Then it moved on to me starting a blog where I record anything and everything that happens to me as a teacher, to be husband and father, and as a human being.
This entails jotting down memories of Mom and Dad. Jotting down stories they had told me. Jotting down new stories I hear from their friends and relatives.
This too me is the power of writing - preservation.
When I was a child, I hated taking naps. The only way my grandmother could get me to lie down - and believe me - that was the last thing I ever wanted to do - was to tell me a story. That lure of a tale, a history, a significant event was irresistible.
So she had us lie down on her bed and she began telling me of a great warrior who lived in a far away land. He heard the story of an evil monster that had been killing another king’s warriors across the sea. So he set out with his best men to help.
The beast came every night to the king’s hall and killed whatever men he could find sleeping there. So my grandmother said our hero decided to sleep there with his men. Sure enough the monster struck, but our hero was ready for him. They were locked in fierce battle. And he tore the monster's arm from its socket. The monster fled and the hero's victory was so grand that they retold it again and again so that the hero was never forgotten.
I never slept a wink during the hour we lied in bed. I just kept staring at my right shoulder and thought about how much that must have hurt the poor monster.
This is the third time I've written about that story Granny told me. Years later, of course, I realized it was "Beowulf." Like the Anglo-Saxons long before me, I tell that story to help keep my grandmother's legacy alive.
***
Ever since our wonderful six traits session last week, I've been trying to use different writing strategies in my classes. I think I'm going to try a version of this same assignment and see what we come up with.
Thursday
The past two mornings I've woken with teaching on the brain. Yesterday I was wide awake at 4:43 sharp, excited for the new keynote presentation I was going to give my College Comp class on the personal essay (it went over quite well). Today I woke at the same time thinking how to improve my senior English class.
****
Mercifully, our football season is at an end. 1-7. Ouch. As I've said all along, the players are great kids - from singing me happy birthday after our first scrimmage to turning in equipment Tuesday night. Great, great kids. But as football players with the necessary intensity and aggressiveness, they have a loooooong way to go.
****
Yesterday was the first day without football practice right after school. I cannot explain how nice it was not to have to rush down to the lockerroom to get changed and head out for two hours of practice. I forgot how much I was able to get done in that hour after school.
****
Mercifully, our football season is at an end. 1-7. Ouch. As I've said all along, the players are great kids - from singing me happy birthday after our first scrimmage to turning in equipment Tuesday night. Great, great kids. But as football players with the necessary intensity and aggressiveness, they have a loooooong way to go.
****
Yesterday was the first day without football practice right after school. I cannot explain how nice it was not to have to rush down to the lockerroom to get changed and head out for two hours of practice. I forgot how much I was able to get done in that hour after school.
Monday
Monday. Pouring rain. Black as night. Cold. Miserable.
My day hasn’t picked up much since. I chose not to bring ANY work home. Now I’m paying for that.
I planned - according to my lesson plans, which I took care of early Saturday morning - to listen to “Young Goodman Brown” and discuss it. Well, since I have a new student computer in my classroom, which uses my internet and printer cable, I decided to leave my laptop at home. I had transferred all my school stuff from the laptop to my school computer. The only problem - I had the audio version of “YGB” on my laptop. So that’s a no go.
Next I thought I’d jump ahead and listen to the Stephen King tribute to “YGB” called “The Man in the Black Suit.” Only problem - that audio version is on my laptop too. That is quite easier to digest reading on our own than “YGB,” so I thought I’d make copies and have the students read it to themselves. That presented another problem - I couldn’t find the folder. I looked all over. Then I realized I had planned ahead last week (only I forgot that I planned ahead. Go figure. I am the king of planning behind!) and I spotted the folder on my desk.
That means dashing off to the printer. Only there I realize that the original copy I had made was terrible. The left hand column was missing the first word in ever sentence. So that means dashing back to my room and digging around for “Everything’s Eventual,” the book in which the story was originally published. Only I am missing it. I don’t know if I brought it home or borrowed it out or what. That means dashing back to the folder to see if any of the copies would work. Luckily, there was one. But it was the copy I had used to keep notes in so it was unusable.
On to plan C. I thought I’d maybe start showing either the Disney version of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” or the modern remake of it “Sleepy Hollow.” Only problem, I left “Sleepy Hollow” sitting on the kitchen table. I have a computer version, but that’s back home on my laptop. I could show the Disney version but that would only take up about 45 minutes. What to do with the rest?
So plan D roles around. And that is the letter grade I’ve earned for teaching today. Review with the students “The Devil and Tom Walker,” which they started reading after Friday’s test. Introduce Unit #3, which I should be doing anyway, and then give them a short essay to write that will tie into “YGB” when we listen to and read it, hopefully, tomorrow.
Well, things can only improve now. I sure hope so anyway.
***
Okay. So things did get worse. While my juniors were writing their essays, I decided to get some work done for my senior English class. I had them choose a Canterbury Tale to read and then summarize. Since this wasn’t a full fledged essay assignment, or a Writing Workshop assignments as our text calls it, I decided to adjust the weight of the assignment to half. Unfortunately, this somehow wiped out half of all the scores in my computer gradebook. Ouch. So I had to go back to my old red “Class Record Book” and try to find the original scores. And most were there. But it was a lot of unnecessary trouble.
I’ll change my strategy. Maybe things won’t get much worse.
***
Third block. Senior English. We discussed satire. They had previously read “A Modest Proposal,” well most likely read some of it. So today they are working on writing an original satire. The Writing Workshop assignment from the text had a prewriting assignment where students were to determine the form of the satire. In years past I always just had them write an essay. But kids were asking if they could do songs, write laws, devise rules. . . it was great. They took off with it while I quickly got out of their way. It made all of the bungling of first hour worth it.
****
I cannot tell a lie. We have two days of football left, and I’m ecstatic. I love coaching, but it sure gets in the way of teaching. I could never do it full time and be the kind of teacher I want to be. I admire those who can.
My day hasn’t picked up much since. I chose not to bring ANY work home. Now I’m paying for that.
I planned - according to my lesson plans, which I took care of early Saturday morning - to listen to “Young Goodman Brown” and discuss it. Well, since I have a new student computer in my classroom, which uses my internet and printer cable, I decided to leave my laptop at home. I had transferred all my school stuff from the laptop to my school computer. The only problem - I had the audio version of “YGB” on my laptop. So that’s a no go.
Next I thought I’d jump ahead and listen to the Stephen King tribute to “YGB” called “The Man in the Black Suit.” Only problem - that audio version is on my laptop too. That is quite easier to digest reading on our own than “YGB,” so I thought I’d make copies and have the students read it to themselves. That presented another problem - I couldn’t find the folder. I looked all over. Then I realized I had planned ahead last week (only I forgot that I planned ahead. Go figure. I am the king of planning behind!) and I spotted the folder on my desk.
That means dashing off to the printer. Only there I realize that the original copy I had made was terrible. The left hand column was missing the first word in ever sentence. So that means dashing back to my room and digging around for “Everything’s Eventual,” the book in which the story was originally published. Only I am missing it. I don’t know if I brought it home or borrowed it out or what. That means dashing back to the folder to see if any of the copies would work. Luckily, there was one. But it was the copy I had used to keep notes in so it was unusable.
On to plan C. I thought I’d maybe start showing either the Disney version of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” or the modern remake of it “Sleepy Hollow.” Only problem, I left “Sleepy Hollow” sitting on the kitchen table. I have a computer version, but that’s back home on my laptop. I could show the Disney version but that would only take up about 45 minutes. What to do with the rest?
So plan D roles around. And that is the letter grade I’ve earned for teaching today. Review with the students “The Devil and Tom Walker,” which they started reading after Friday’s test. Introduce Unit #3, which I should be doing anyway, and then give them a short essay to write that will tie into “YGB” when we listen to and read it, hopefully, tomorrow.
Well, things can only improve now. I sure hope so anyway.
***
Okay. So things did get worse. While my juniors were writing their essays, I decided to get some work done for my senior English class. I had them choose a Canterbury Tale to read and then summarize. Since this wasn’t a full fledged essay assignment, or a Writing Workshop assignments as our text calls it, I decided to adjust the weight of the assignment to half. Unfortunately, this somehow wiped out half of all the scores in my computer gradebook. Ouch. So I had to go back to my old red “Class Record Book” and try to find the original scores. And most were there. But it was a lot of unnecessary trouble.
I’ll change my strategy. Maybe things won’t get much worse.
***
Third block. Senior English. We discussed satire. They had previously read “A Modest Proposal,” well most likely read some of it. So today they are working on writing an original satire. The Writing Workshop assignment from the text had a prewriting assignment where students were to determine the form of the satire. In years past I always just had them write an essay. But kids were asking if they could do songs, write laws, devise rules. . . it was great. They took off with it while I quickly got out of their way. It made all of the bungling of first hour worth it.
****
I cannot tell a lie. We have two days of football left, and I’m ecstatic. I love coaching, but it sure gets in the way of teaching. I could never do it full time and be the kind of teacher I want to be. I admire those who can.
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