Ha.
I tried something with my fourth block College Comp class that I’ve always been meaning to try. I assigned “The Yellow Wallpaper” as homework. I also gave each student some reader response starters to aid in their comprehension.
Of course, I know this class is not the most ambitious, so I also devised a quiz. And as I expected, two of the students completed the assignment. A few had it half complete and a few others had absolutely nothing done.
For the quiz I decided to put at the end of the directions that if they read the directions thoroughly, they could skip all of the multiple choice questions and just answer the two essay questions on back.
So far I’m 8 for 8 in not having a student notice that.
It just amazes me that for a supposed college level class, where we are supposed to get the best and brightest, that they still fail to do a measly homework assignment.
And we wonder why we rank 25th in the world in education scores (and India and China aren’t on that list). It’s the apathy that has always been present in our society (or any society for that matter) but the apathy has become more popular. It’s become the cool think to brag about how little you do or how you did nothing to earn an A.
That’s why reports like “A Nation at Risk” (http://www.ed.gov/pubs/NatAtRisk/risk.html) and “A Democracy at Risk” (http://www.forumforeducation.org/upload_files/files/FED_ReportRevised415.pdf) are so worrisome.
****
Wonders never cease. I was irritated about their lack of motivation. But they’re are kicking ass now.
I decided to listen to a version of the story. While they are doing that, they are keeping a reading journal where they chronicle what new things they notice on this second reading (or initial reading for many).
Already we had an interesting interpretation. In fact, it was a postmodern interpretation - the narrator is not in a house at all. Instead she is confined in a mental institution. John is just an orderly as is his sister.
This keeps with such movies as Identity or Fight Club.
Great interpretation. I don’t agree with it, but the original thinking and examples some are coming up with are the real important thing.
Others think she is just nuts. I’m waiting to see if any tackle the feminism perspective.
We just discussed how she appears to be returning to a childlike state. Maybe, one student said, she isn’t going nuts. Instead, maybe she is just regressing to a child like state. After all, the room used to be a nursery. She talks about the strange wallpaper in a child like way, even mentioning that she had quite an overactive imagination as a child. Then she gets worked up and John has to carry her to bed and read to her until she falls asleep. Just like a child.
I’m just trying to stay out of their way.
Now the students are really starting to stockpile the evidence for their postmodern theory that she is really in an asylum.
One student wants to know why the author “uses the word ‘creep’ about a hundred times.”
I love.
Again, wonders never cease.
I think I’m going to find a copy of The Truman Show to watch and compare next week. Of course, that is the story of a man named Truman who is the subject of a reality TV show, only he thinks it is really his real life. The bulk of the movie is Truman’s awakening to his manipulated ‘reality.’
I think it would tie in quite well. I’d love to show Fight Club or Identity, but I think there are some questionable scenes in those films. Plus, The Truman Show, for a Jim Carey film, is pretty obscure. Hopefully, they won’t be familiar with it.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sad News
One of my students' mothers is dying from cancer. He wrote about it in one of his essays. Usually, his writing is sarcastic and satirical; however, he really opened up with his last essay. Having lost both of my parents to cancer, it was difficult for me to read. But he handled it well.
Just another reminder of how no child should have to go through that.
The other day I was reading through an old poetry text I acquired somehow (I have a lot of books like that) when I came across this little poem that reminded me of not only my student but also all of the others we have known in the past few years who have lost loved ones.
Death Stands Above Me
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.
-- Walter Savage Landor
I like that.
Just another reminder of how no child should have to go through that.
The other day I was reading through an old poetry text I acquired somehow (I have a lot of books like that) when I came across this little poem that reminded me of not only my student but also all of the others we have known in the past few years who have lost loved ones.
Death Stands Above Me
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.
-- Walter Savage Landor
I like that.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Monday
Today was a good day.
My Lit and Language 11 class began working on their Edgar Allan Poe imovie trailers. I’m worried though. Just when I went got imovie all figured out, the software on all of the computers in the library was updated over the summer, so now I don’t know what is going on. Usually, this is never a problem, but I’ve heard bad things about the newest version of imovie. Why apple had to go and mess with a good thing is beyond me.
My third block College Comp class was a riot. We are working on our fifth theme, which happens to involve writing an essay in the traditional way, well by ‘traditional’ I mean in the way of Montaigne, who used the essay as a way to explore what he thought about subjects (as opposed to ‘proving’ a thesis as the modern way seems to be).
Student had to write two “On . . .” essays on whatever concrete objects they wanted. I gave them a list but advised them to feel free to deviate from that list. As an example, we talked about an essays of Montaigne’s called “On . . . thumbs.”
Well, today the essays sure rolled in . . . at least in my third block College Comp class. Students read about ipods, pets, their rooms, slow drivers, eyes (in this essay, the student revealed a time she found a hair in her eye and as she pulled on it, realized that it was a rather long hair that actually wrapped around her eyeball – and it ended with a glob of puss!). That got several of us rubbing our eyes. Another essay was about “Hydrogen Hydroxide” and how deadly it was (found in drownings and car accidents) and addicting (prominent athletes can be seen gulping it down at an alarming rate) plus it is contained in pollution, namely acid rain. This horrible substance should be banned at once. Of course, that substance is water. What a satire. It had the students rolling. Then one of my true stars read an essay on, well, feces. It was a rational account of the substance. He analyzed how ironic it was that the substance can be used as fertilizer, yet if you were to bring the subject up at the dinner table, well . . . it wouldn’t go over well. Then he talked about the different names for it. Finally, he recounted a childhood experience with it that left half the class disturbed and the other half crying from laughter. I had to take my glasses off and wipe the tears from my eyes. David Sedaris’s classic “Big Boy” essay has nothing on this kid’s!
The voices are starting to emerge. Slowly, but they’re coming a long.
My final College Comp class is another story altogether. It’s a smaller class, but they aren’t as vocal, nor are they particularly energetic. What works with the earlier class tends to bomb with them.
That reminds me of a phenomenon in teaching. How one lesson or activity can work so well with one class, but fail miserably with another.
Years ago I had one of my top ten all time class periods (who thinks of such rankings, right?). It was my Comm 10 class. Something like 2001 or so.
We were studying poetry. I had an overhead of the poem “Harlem” by Langston Hughes. As we read it, the students made the imagery come alive. They argued about each rhetorical question and its effectiveness and how that related to the overall meaning of the poem. Then they talked about the title (the poem is more commonly known as “A Dream Deferred” but I held the title “Harlem” until the end to help hammer home the questions that the poem raises). We spent the entire class discussing the poem. Everyone shared and contributed. I was walking on air.
As the bell sounded, I ran for my desk and scribbled down notes, hoping to preserve the lesson for the next class.
Fourth block arrived and the next Comm 10 class walked in. I put up the poem. They read it and collectively sighed . . . “So what?”
I was heartbroken.
I realized right then that teaching is all about those moments your create with the specific kids unique to each class. There is no lesson plan formula (sorry Madaline Hunter and all those people at the state level that seem to think we can take model lessons and easily foster the skills students are tested on) that guarantees a great lesson.
The same is true with my two College Comp classes. So now, I’ve totally stopped trying to do the same thing with each class. It sounds weird, teaching the same class two different ways, but I really don’t know what else to do.
My Lit and Language 11 class began working on their Edgar Allan Poe imovie trailers. I’m worried though. Just when I went got imovie all figured out, the software on all of the computers in the library was updated over the summer, so now I don’t know what is going on. Usually, this is never a problem, but I’ve heard bad things about the newest version of imovie. Why apple had to go and mess with a good thing is beyond me.
My third block College Comp class was a riot. We are working on our fifth theme, which happens to involve writing an essay in the traditional way, well by ‘traditional’ I mean in the way of Montaigne, who used the essay as a way to explore what he thought about subjects (as opposed to ‘proving’ a thesis as the modern way seems to be).
Student had to write two “On . . .” essays on whatever concrete objects they wanted. I gave them a list but advised them to feel free to deviate from that list. As an example, we talked about an essays of Montaigne’s called “On . . . thumbs.”
Well, today the essays sure rolled in . . . at least in my third block College Comp class. Students read about ipods, pets, their rooms, slow drivers, eyes (in this essay, the student revealed a time she found a hair in her eye and as she pulled on it, realized that it was a rather long hair that actually wrapped around her eyeball – and it ended with a glob of puss!). That got several of us rubbing our eyes. Another essay was about “Hydrogen Hydroxide” and how deadly it was (found in drownings and car accidents) and addicting (prominent athletes can be seen gulping it down at an alarming rate) plus it is contained in pollution, namely acid rain. This horrible substance should be banned at once. Of course, that substance is water. What a satire. It had the students rolling. Then one of my true stars read an essay on, well, feces. It was a rational account of the substance. He analyzed how ironic it was that the substance can be used as fertilizer, yet if you were to bring the subject up at the dinner table, well . . . it wouldn’t go over well. Then he talked about the different names for it. Finally, he recounted a childhood experience with it that left half the class disturbed and the other half crying from laughter. I had to take my glasses off and wipe the tears from my eyes. David Sedaris’s classic “Big Boy” essay has nothing on this kid’s!
The voices are starting to emerge. Slowly, but they’re coming a long.
My final College Comp class is another story altogether. It’s a smaller class, but they aren’t as vocal, nor are they particularly energetic. What works with the earlier class tends to bomb with them.
That reminds me of a phenomenon in teaching. How one lesson or activity can work so well with one class, but fail miserably with another.
Years ago I had one of my top ten all time class periods (who thinks of such rankings, right?). It was my Comm 10 class. Something like 2001 or so.
We were studying poetry. I had an overhead of the poem “Harlem” by Langston Hughes. As we read it, the students made the imagery come alive. They argued about each rhetorical question and its effectiveness and how that related to the overall meaning of the poem. Then they talked about the title (the poem is more commonly known as “A Dream Deferred” but I held the title “Harlem” until the end to help hammer home the questions that the poem raises). We spent the entire class discussing the poem. Everyone shared and contributed. I was walking on air.
As the bell sounded, I ran for my desk and scribbled down notes, hoping to preserve the lesson for the next class.
Fourth block arrived and the next Comm 10 class walked in. I put up the poem. They read it and collectively sighed . . . “So what?”
I was heartbroken.
I realized right then that teaching is all about those moments your create with the specific kids unique to each class. There is no lesson plan formula (sorry Madaline Hunter and all those people at the state level that seem to think we can take model lessons and easily foster the skills students are tested on) that guarantees a great lesson.
The same is true with my two College Comp classes. So now, I’ve totally stopped trying to do the same thing with each class. It sounds weird, teaching the same class two different ways, but I really don’t know what else to do.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Publishing
It was almost a year ago this week that I had an essay, "The McEssay; Choking the Voice Out of Student Writing," accepted for publication (still no word, though, on the publication date. The previous date I had been going by was just a deadline to get the essays into the publisher).
This week I sent off pieces to four different places for publication. I sent Glimmertrain Press an essay I wrote on my father some years ago entitled "Better Days" for a competition on stories based on family. I sent Diagram the introduction to my thesis, but I reworked it into an analytical piece about beginning a memoir (and I added the piece below to it). To Sow's Ear I sent in several poems. Today, I sent out my entire thesis, a creative non-fiction memoir on my grandmother, to New Rivers Press.
Maybe I'll get lucky and one of these places will find my work interesting and publish it. We'll see.
This week I sent off pieces to four different places for publication. I sent Glimmertrain Press an essay I wrote on my father some years ago entitled "Better Days" for a competition on stories based on family. I sent Diagram the introduction to my thesis, but I reworked it into an analytical piece about beginning a memoir (and I added the piece below to it). To Sow's Ear I sent in several poems. Today, I sent out my entire thesis, a creative non-fiction memoir on my grandmother, to New Rivers Press.
Maybe I'll get lucky and one of these places will find my work interesting and publish it. We'll see.
Time
It takes a special person to not only teach a five year old to fathom earth’s entire history but to also realize our place as a minute speck on 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 metal door at the back of her kitchen. 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 called from the living room.
I followed the roll of old white calculator tape as it snaked its way out of the kitchen, over the dining room table where it nearly snagged 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 had spent the past few minutes drawing and writing on the roll of paper before propping the pencil behind an ear. She held the dwindling roll of paper in one hand and a single strip of tape in the other. Then - wincing just a bit from her arthritis - she gripped the paper with her swollen hands and with 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, adhering the other end to the front door.
“Now this will help us view earth’s history in perspective. The piece you stuck to the back door is the beginning of earth. The piece I stuck to the front door is present day,” she instructed.
I turned and looked at the tape as it stretched back over the TV, by the recliner, past the fake bowl of fruit, 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 eras in earth’s history.”
Then she stopped at the dinning room table and pulled out a chair. She bent down to my perspective and said, “Look at the beginning of the things.”
I did.
“As you can see,” Granny said from beside me, “the longest period in earth’s history, the Precambrian period, lasts all the way from the back door to the dining table here. That was the period the earth was cooling and preparing for life. Imagine each foot of tape is - oh - a thousand million years.”
“But most of the tape is taken up by it!”
“Yes. It roughly makes up about 90 percent of earth’s history. Just think of how long it took for the most basic forms of life to begin.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. So much white tape where there was no life on earth at all. It certainly put my measly five years on it in perspective.
Granny noticed my awe. She gave it a few seconds to sink in. Then she spoke in my ear. “That is why I think God created life on earth, Kurt.”
I turned to look at her.
“It must have been so terribly lonely for so incredibly long.“
That certainly made sense to me.
“Now, come here with me,” she said close to my ear, and moved from the table and inched our way along the tape, leaving that stretch of 10 or 12 feet of empty time behind us.
“Things began to change,” she said as I looked at the strange words scrawled onto the tape. “More complex forms of life began to flourish. The Precambrian era ended and the Palezoic began. At this point it is believed that all of the continents were joined into one large landmass. It was at this point that the dinosaurs – your favorites – began to arise.”
We then ventured a little farther, stopping in front of the TV. “Here is your favorite period, The Jurassic Period.”
From all the hours Granny spent reading me articles from the National Geographics and buying me a small horde of plastic dinosaurs, I knew she was right. I looked on top of the TV and saw that she had placed my favorites - T-Rex and Steggosaurus - on top next to the word “Jurassic.”
“See how long this period lasted?”
I nodded as I saw the more recent eras blocked off into shorter periods that only measured a few inches. Things were getting interesting now.
“During the Cretaceous period, the dinosaurs began to die out.”
I followed the tape over the TV and the bookshelf, where several dinosaurs were tipped over. I nodded as I realized I was seeing the downfall of the dinosaurs.
“But it seems like the dinosaurs lived so long ago,” I said, eyeing the tape as it was quickly running out, for the front door was just a few inches away. “We’re almost at the end!”
Granny cracked a broad smile.
“Okay, stand here at the front door,” she said steering me toward it. “This marks the most current era in earth’s history where the earth cooled because of the Ice Age and homo sapiens came into the picture.”
“But you don’t have anything written down for them . . . I mean us!”
“Just wait,” she said. “First, from our place in the present, look back at all of earth’s history.”
I followed the tape from the door over the bookshelf and to the TV. So much for the dinosaurs.
Then I watched as it wound toward the dining room table.. The Palezoic era.
Finally, I saw how the majority of the tape belonged to the blank – and mostly lifeless -- Precambrian era. Indeed, how lonely it must have been for all those years.
“So where are we?” I asked, turning back to the front door and peering at the tape.
Granny gave me her I-am-glad-you-asked-me-that smile and snatched the pencil out from behind her ear.
“We my dear,” she said with the pencil poised, ”are right here.”
With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the thinnest of lines across the very edge of the tape. It was so slight that I had to look close to even see it.
“That’s it?”
“Yep. There’s not even enough room to write homo sapiens.”
I stared at the line.
“So whenever we like to think we humans are so high and mighty,” she said grinning and propping the pencil back behind her ear, “just remember our little lesson here.”
“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 metal door at the back of her kitchen. 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 called from the living room.
I followed the roll of old white calculator tape as it snaked its way out of the kitchen, over the dining room table where it nearly snagged 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 had spent the past few minutes drawing and writing on the roll of paper before propping the pencil behind an ear. She held the dwindling roll of paper in one hand and a single strip of tape in the other. Then - wincing just a bit from her arthritis - she gripped the paper with her swollen hands and with 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, adhering the other end to the front door.
“Now this will help us view earth’s history in perspective. The piece you stuck to the back door is the beginning of earth. The piece I stuck to the front door is present day,” she instructed.
I turned and looked at the tape as it stretched back over the TV, by the recliner, past the fake bowl of fruit, 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 eras in earth’s history.”
Then she stopped at the dinning room table and pulled out a chair. She bent down to my perspective and said, “Look at the beginning of the things.”
I did.
“As you can see,” Granny said from beside me, “the longest period in earth’s history, the Precambrian period, lasts all the way from the back door to the dining table here. That was the period the earth was cooling and preparing for life. Imagine each foot of tape is - oh - a thousand million years.”
“But most of the tape is taken up by it!”
“Yes. It roughly makes up about 90 percent of earth’s history. Just think of how long it took for the most basic forms of life to begin.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. So much white tape where there was no life on earth at all. It certainly put my measly five years on it in perspective.
Granny noticed my awe. She gave it a few seconds to sink in. Then she spoke in my ear. “That is why I think God created life on earth, Kurt.”
I turned to look at her.
“It must have been so terribly lonely for so incredibly long.“
That certainly made sense to me.
“Now, come here with me,” she said close to my ear, and moved from the table and inched our way along the tape, leaving that stretch of 10 or 12 feet of empty time behind us.
“Things began to change,” she said as I looked at the strange words scrawled onto the tape. “More complex forms of life began to flourish. The Precambrian era ended and the Palezoic began. At this point it is believed that all of the continents were joined into one large landmass. It was at this point that the dinosaurs – your favorites – began to arise.”
We then ventured a little farther, stopping in front of the TV. “Here is your favorite period, The Jurassic Period.”
From all the hours Granny spent reading me articles from the National Geographics and buying me a small horde of plastic dinosaurs, I knew she was right. I looked on top of the TV and saw that she had placed my favorites - T-Rex and Steggosaurus - on top next to the word “Jurassic.”
“See how long this period lasted?”
I nodded as I saw the more recent eras blocked off into shorter periods that only measured a few inches. Things were getting interesting now.
“During the Cretaceous period, the dinosaurs began to die out.”
I followed the tape over the TV and the bookshelf, where several dinosaurs were tipped over. I nodded as I realized I was seeing the downfall of the dinosaurs.
“But it seems like the dinosaurs lived so long ago,” I said, eyeing the tape as it was quickly running out, for the front door was just a few inches away. “We’re almost at the end!”
Granny cracked a broad smile.
“Okay, stand here at the front door,” she said steering me toward it. “This marks the most current era in earth’s history where the earth cooled because of the Ice Age and homo sapiens came into the picture.”
“But you don’t have anything written down for them . . . I mean us!”
“Just wait,” she said. “First, from our place in the present, look back at all of earth’s history.”
I followed the tape from the door over the bookshelf and to the TV. So much for the dinosaurs.
Then I watched as it wound toward the dining room table.. The Palezoic era.
Finally, I saw how the majority of the tape belonged to the blank – and mostly lifeless -- Precambrian era. Indeed, how lonely it must have been for all those years.
“So where are we?” I asked, turning back to the front door and peering at the tape.
Granny gave me her I-am-glad-you-asked-me-that smile and snatched the pencil out from behind her ear.
“We my dear,” she said with the pencil poised, ”are right here.”
With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the thinnest of lines across the very edge of the tape. It was so slight that I had to look close to even see it.
“That’s it?”
“Yep. There’s not even enough room to write homo sapiens.”
I stared at the line.
“So whenever we like to think we humans are so high and mighty,” she said grinning and propping the pencil back behind her ear, “just remember our little lesson here.”
Better Days
Better Days
The cold, clinical air sucked me into the hospital as the doors swooshed open. The sterile air nipped at my tanned skin as I passed the nurses' station and headed for the elevators. This whole atmosphere made me shiver. It was an odd juxtaposition to the humid, oppressive heat outside. The middle of June was baking northern Minnesota and North Dakota.
These conditions even felt purified compared to the air conditioning and cleanliness of our 1988 Buick Skylark. Mom made me use it to pick up Dad. I could count on both hands the times we had taken it out of the garage for something other than church or to go to the fair.
I pushed the arrow for the elevator. I noticed how everything was so clean and ordered. This too was an odd contrast to the outside world. Grand Forks seemed such a clotted mess of traffic and pedestrians, especially since I was used to either hauling our sheep around the pasture in an old Ford truck or driving on minimum maintenance roads with our rusty 1983 Silverado to and from the hay fields.
I didn't belong in this sterile environment. Neither did Dad. As I thought this, it felt like someone was churning my guts with a stick.
There was a fountain next to the elevator. I let the water wash down my throat and cool my stomach. Even the water tasted
antiseptic.
I returned to the elevator and pressed the button again.
I pushed the button a third time. Then I felt my face heat up as I noticed the up and down arrows on the buttons.
This time I pushed the button with the arrow pointing up.
Another nurse, this one older and sturdier, passed by with a tray full of cups. I noticed my sock was partially sticking out of the toe of one of my high tops. The heat continued to boil my face. Then I noticed a thistle thorn embedded in my right palm.
I began to dig at it with my index nail.
I was relieved when the doors finally opened and the elevator was empty.
The cage took me slowly to Dad's room on the fourth floor.
* * *
I shuffled to the fourth floor nurses' station, relieved to see a plump, middle age nurse sitting there.
"Excuse me. I'm here to pick up Dad, er, Mr. Olson," I said stupidly.
"Oh. Kenny is in room 404," she said with a smile that revealed her fillings.
I was surprised by her use of Dad's first name; I was reminded for the first time
in a long time that he had one.
"He won't be ready for awhile yet, though. The nurse will have to prep him. Why don't you have a seat in the waiting room? It's just down the hall from Kenny's room."
On my way to the waiting room, I poked my head into Dad's room. It was the first time I had seen him since he was rushed to the hospital a week ago. Once I glimpsed him, I knew it was a mistake.
I hurried to the waiting room. It was empty. I found a chair and began studying the thistle thorn rooted in my right palm again. If I were my dad, I thought, I wouldn't hesitate to pull out my pocketknife and dig at it. That damn knife of his. Its purposes were ubiquitous: trim his nails, cut bail twine, trim a ewe's hooves, pry open the top on his great bull piggy bank, slice an apple. I grimaced every time he used it. Did he ever clean the thing? I was amazed he never got sick . . .
I gouged at the thistle some more. I tried to forget what I had seen when I looked in his room.
Dad had spent the past week recovering from a triple bypass. The last time I had spoken with him was on the eve of the operation. However, today I arrived at St. John's in Grand Forks an hour early to pick him up. My mom's incessant monologue of "don’ts" hounded me: don't be late, your father will be released at two, don't keep him waiting, don't get him all worked up, don't let him try to carry any of his bags, don't let him forget anything in his room . . .
While the rest of my family had gone to the hospital for the surgery, I had stayed behind. I had no desire to see Dad reduced to life support. Instead, I stayed behind to look after our 500 head of sheep and the farm. Plus, I had to finish bailing the first cutting of alfalfa. It was a job Dad and I had begun together just two weeks ago. . .
I looked around the room. My gaze fell on a large picture on the wall across from me. It was the image of Christ gently cradling a lamb.
Unable to return His gaze, I further inspected the sliver. It looked like I was actually pushing it deeper into my flesh.
Sighing I walked over to a table littered with magazines. I didn't look, but I knew Our Savior's eyes followed my every step. I reached for an issue of Rolling Stone with Heather Locklear posing half nude on the cover. But the scrupulous gaze fell across my shoulders and I grabbed a copy of Sport instead. Christ's suspicious eyes ushered me back to my chair again.
That watchful gaze made it feel like things were normal again. Whether I was mowing the alfalfa, raking it, or standing on the rickety, lurching hayrack, I could feel Dad's gaze. He could be off in the next field disking with the "R" and I would be bored out of my mind on the "A," mowing the alfalfa, and I would just sense Dad's eyes checking on me, even though I was 17. Or he could be driving the 730 while we bailed, and I would be back on the hay wagon. I would still feel him silently supervising me as I strained to stack the bails impossibly high. Sometimes I would lash my head around, only to find him scrutinizing the swath as the bailer gobbled it.
Resigned to leave the sliver and unable to find anything on football in the magazine, I pulled Dad's cap from the back pocket of my Levi's. I began to aimlessly look over its worn features while I waited for the nurse to prep him, whatever that meant.
Looking at his cap, with its faded green material, frayed John Deere logo, and its patented 'teepee' folded brim, I knew how I would always remember him. It was the same image I watched when I was younger, around ten, when I was too small to lift and stack bails by myself. So I had to drive the 730 and watch Dad. In my mind he would always be a tall, sturdy man entrenched on the teetering and lurching hayrack. Pale blue eyes inspecting the field. Forehead etched with deep wrinkles. Eyes shaded by the peeked brim of his cap. Baldhead protected from the scorching rays by the cap. The skin at the base of his skull baked to a perpetual scorch mark, where the cap was buttoned and exposed skin. The corner of his mouth gripped a glowing, filterless Pall Mall. His breast pocket of his light cotton shirt housed the rest of the pack. Hair on his broad chest and chiseled arms cluttered with alfalfa leaves. Huge hands protected by scuffed leather gloves. His right hand clenched a red bail hook. His lower waist tried to cling to tattered and patched Levi's. Nonexistent rear and white Hanes briefs exposed by his sagging jeans.
That image of Dad stood in stark contrast to the man I glimpsed when I peeked into his room earlier. The shades were drawn, casting a yellow hue over the room. He sat resting in his bed. His eyes were closed. His face looked so sullen, but somehow serene. A tube was slipped into his mouth so he could sip water. A paper-like hospital gown covered his slowly rising and falling chest. His hands were folded peacefully on his lab. Blankets covered the rest.
This was the latest I had ever seen him in bed, even when he was sick. He looked like a corpse . . .
The pain in my palm brought my focus back to the waiting room. I was vacantly staring at Christ's picture. I could only maintain eye contact for a second. As I looked at my palm, I noticed that just a stub of the thorn was now protruding.
I got up without looking at the opposite wall and left the room. I walked the three rooms back down to Dad's room.
I took a step back and gently rapped a knuckle on the door. That person with the stick was back at it, churning my guts.
Dad's eyes fluttered open. Once they were open, they were as pale blue as ever.
"Boy, you're early!" he rasped in a voice that robbed his tone of its usual resonance and good-natured enthusiasm. He removed the tube from his mouth and asked, "how'd first cutting go?" He squirmed to sit up straight. As he did so, I noticed a look on his face that I had never seen before: pain.
I reached to help him. He gazed at me and whispered through clenched teeth, "how did it go?"
"Not bad. It went well. Really well," I said.
"Tell me about it," he said as the pain receded.
"Well . . . " Then I proceeded to lie. I explained the week. Our work styles differed greatly. He liked to take his time and do things right the first time, deriving satisfaction from a job done and done well. I, though, liked to rush through everything, taking my satisfaction from a job done and over. There were so many other important things for me to do, cruise to town and find my friends, go to the pool, tube, lift weights, or play Nintendo. Thus, I had to revise the events as I saw fit.
He grilled me on everything, the cutting, raking, baling, and stacking of the hay, even though we had done it together for the past eight summers when we first moved to the farm.
"The baler sheer any pins?" he asked.
"A couple. Nothing big," I continued to lie. In actuality, I had lost count of the number of pins sheered. I also neglected to tell him that I had stopped at the New Holland dealership in town to pick up a new box of sheer pins before I came to the hospital.
I did not possess his patience either to periodically stop everything each couple of rounds to carefully inspect the bails and swaths to see if they were too green and to adjust the bailer accordingly so it would not clog from green or large swaths and, thus, sheer pins.
"Remember to grease everything?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Of course. Even the mower," I lied more. I again neglected to reveal that I had also purchased a new grease gun at the same New Holland dealership. I had become so enraged at the bailer sheering pins every other round, I had finally grabbed the grease gun from the tractor and lashed the damned bailer with it and, in the process, broke the grease gun.
I likewise did not possess his patience to routinely grease the mower, rake, and bailer before each use. He especially would grease the mower every other round. I had greased it before and after I mowed an entire field. Maybe.
Our conversation was the usual. It was almost as if the heart attack and surgery had never occurred, until he swung his legs out from beneath the blanket. Initially I was shocked to see him without his tattered and patched Levis, or even his old brown dress paints pulled out of storage for class reunions, church, and the rare evening out with mom.
Along the inside of his left thigh ran an ugly, crimson line, which contrasted with his ghostly pale legs. I shivered. The scar was the remnant of when the doctors had removed a vein from his leg in order to reconstruct his arteries.
I could also see down the front of his gown some too. I again shivered as I glimpsed the massive scar on his shaved chest.
White tape ran across it like frail wooden bridges across some deep gorge. The doctors had to split his breastplate to operate and staple it back together after.
"I need to use the bathroom before we go," he said.
I grabbed hold of his arm and helped him to his feet. I almost gasped when I touched his arm. It was like grabbing a piece of fruit that had been left in the back of the fridge too long. I instantly thought of my grandmother, who had passed away two summers ago. Her flesh was so soft and seemed to hang from her bones.
My gaze fell on my Reeboks again. I didn't look up until he was hobbling to the bathroom and the ridiculous paper robe exposed his bare ass.
I gouged at the sliver until the warmth in my face went away.
The nurse arrived in time to help him into bed. If I were my dad, I would rush to help like the time he held me while the doctor removed my shoe when I was seven and had broken my ankle. That was Dad, always going out of his way to help others. The nurse was young, maybe 25, and had long blond hair. I looked away at the walls as my dad had to lean on the nurse, who couldn't have weighed more than 125 pounds, and have her help him into bed. For the first time I noticed the picture above the dresser. It was Christ walking among a flock of sheep.
I felt their gazes on my back as I silently left and returned to the waiting room.
* * *
I sat unconsciously mining the thorn with a fingernail waiting still for the nurse. Then I realized for the first time just how different things were going to be these days. Maybe forever. As I thought about what the rest of the summer would be like, my mom's persistent lecture began to reverberate in my mind, how Dad will be tired easily, irritable from quitting smoking, unable to drive for the rest of summer, resigned to eating low fat and low cholesterol food, unable to lift anything over fifteen pounds . . .
I vainly tried to envision Dad like this, winded by walking from the barn to the house, using the nicotine patch, unable to even drive the riding lawn mower, sitting down to a dinner of non-fat yogurt and rice cakes, pouring himself a tall glass of skim milk. How much does a gallon of skin milk weigh anyway?
Under Our Savior's surveillance, I focused on excavating the thistle from my palm.
I nearly jumped from my chair when the nurse said, "Kenny is ready, Grant." I didn't even have time to wonder how she knew my name. Later, of course, I would understand that Dad had familiarized himself with all of the nurses and doctors like they were one of the family.
* * *
The nurse wheeled Dad to the door. I walked behind him and grabbed the wheelchair's handles. As I squeezed hard and popped a wheelie with his chair, causing a smile to flicker across his face, I realized I felt no sting from the splinter in my palm. I quickly peeked at it as we moved down the hallway. The thorn was gone. It must have worked itself free.
We joked some as we continued down the hallway. I knew he was relieved to be getting out of here.
"Oh, yeah, I thought you might need this," I said, pulling his ragged cap out of my back pocket and placing it on his head.
"Thanks," he said, instantly reaching up and cocking it back. It aligned perfectly with the eternal tan mark on the back of his head.
He added, "I think we better stop off at the New Holland dealership in town and pick up a new grease gun. That old one has seen better days."
I was unable to contain my smile.
As we passed the waiting room, I didn't look back. I let my gaze fall on my father.
The cold, clinical air sucked me into the hospital as the doors swooshed open. The sterile air nipped at my tanned skin as I passed the nurses' station and headed for the elevators. This whole atmosphere made me shiver. It was an odd juxtaposition to the humid, oppressive heat outside. The middle of June was baking northern Minnesota and North Dakota.
These conditions even felt purified compared to the air conditioning and cleanliness of our 1988 Buick Skylark. Mom made me use it to pick up Dad. I could count on both hands the times we had taken it out of the garage for something other than church or to go to the fair.
I pushed the arrow for the elevator. I noticed how everything was so clean and ordered. This too was an odd contrast to the outside world. Grand Forks seemed such a clotted mess of traffic and pedestrians, especially since I was used to either hauling our sheep around the pasture in an old Ford truck or driving on minimum maintenance roads with our rusty 1983 Silverado to and from the hay fields.
I didn't belong in this sterile environment. Neither did Dad. As I thought this, it felt like someone was churning my guts with a stick.
There was a fountain next to the elevator. I let the water wash down my throat and cool my stomach. Even the water tasted
antiseptic.
I returned to the elevator and pressed the button again.
I pushed the button a third time. Then I felt my face heat up as I noticed the up and down arrows on the buttons.
This time I pushed the button with the arrow pointing up.
Another nurse, this one older and sturdier, passed by with a tray full of cups. I noticed my sock was partially sticking out of the toe of one of my high tops. The heat continued to boil my face. Then I noticed a thistle thorn embedded in my right palm.
I began to dig at it with my index nail.
I was relieved when the doors finally opened and the elevator was empty.
The cage took me slowly to Dad's room on the fourth floor.
* * *
I shuffled to the fourth floor nurses' station, relieved to see a plump, middle age nurse sitting there.
"Excuse me. I'm here to pick up Dad, er, Mr. Olson," I said stupidly.
"Oh. Kenny is in room 404," she said with a smile that revealed her fillings.
I was surprised by her use of Dad's first name; I was reminded for the first time
in a long time that he had one.
"He won't be ready for awhile yet, though. The nurse will have to prep him. Why don't you have a seat in the waiting room? It's just down the hall from Kenny's room."
On my way to the waiting room, I poked my head into Dad's room. It was the first time I had seen him since he was rushed to the hospital a week ago. Once I glimpsed him, I knew it was a mistake.
I hurried to the waiting room. It was empty. I found a chair and began studying the thistle thorn rooted in my right palm again. If I were my dad, I thought, I wouldn't hesitate to pull out my pocketknife and dig at it. That damn knife of his. Its purposes were ubiquitous: trim his nails, cut bail twine, trim a ewe's hooves, pry open the top on his great bull piggy bank, slice an apple. I grimaced every time he used it. Did he ever clean the thing? I was amazed he never got sick . . .
I gouged at the thistle some more. I tried to forget what I had seen when I looked in his room.
Dad had spent the past week recovering from a triple bypass. The last time I had spoken with him was on the eve of the operation. However, today I arrived at St. John's in Grand Forks an hour early to pick him up. My mom's incessant monologue of "don’ts" hounded me: don't be late, your father will be released at two, don't keep him waiting, don't get him all worked up, don't let him try to carry any of his bags, don't let him forget anything in his room . . .
While the rest of my family had gone to the hospital for the surgery, I had stayed behind. I had no desire to see Dad reduced to life support. Instead, I stayed behind to look after our 500 head of sheep and the farm. Plus, I had to finish bailing the first cutting of alfalfa. It was a job Dad and I had begun together just two weeks ago. . .
I looked around the room. My gaze fell on a large picture on the wall across from me. It was the image of Christ gently cradling a lamb.
Unable to return His gaze, I further inspected the sliver. It looked like I was actually pushing it deeper into my flesh.
Sighing I walked over to a table littered with magazines. I didn't look, but I knew Our Savior's eyes followed my every step. I reached for an issue of Rolling Stone with Heather Locklear posing half nude on the cover. But the scrupulous gaze fell across my shoulders and I grabbed a copy of Sport instead. Christ's suspicious eyes ushered me back to my chair again.
That watchful gaze made it feel like things were normal again. Whether I was mowing the alfalfa, raking it, or standing on the rickety, lurching hayrack, I could feel Dad's gaze. He could be off in the next field disking with the "R" and I would be bored out of my mind on the "A," mowing the alfalfa, and I would just sense Dad's eyes checking on me, even though I was 17. Or he could be driving the 730 while we bailed, and I would be back on the hay wagon. I would still feel him silently supervising me as I strained to stack the bails impossibly high. Sometimes I would lash my head around, only to find him scrutinizing the swath as the bailer gobbled it.
Resigned to leave the sliver and unable to find anything on football in the magazine, I pulled Dad's cap from the back pocket of my Levi's. I began to aimlessly look over its worn features while I waited for the nurse to prep him, whatever that meant.
Looking at his cap, with its faded green material, frayed John Deere logo, and its patented 'teepee' folded brim, I knew how I would always remember him. It was the same image I watched when I was younger, around ten, when I was too small to lift and stack bails by myself. So I had to drive the 730 and watch Dad. In my mind he would always be a tall, sturdy man entrenched on the teetering and lurching hayrack. Pale blue eyes inspecting the field. Forehead etched with deep wrinkles. Eyes shaded by the peeked brim of his cap. Baldhead protected from the scorching rays by the cap. The skin at the base of his skull baked to a perpetual scorch mark, where the cap was buttoned and exposed skin. The corner of his mouth gripped a glowing, filterless Pall Mall. His breast pocket of his light cotton shirt housed the rest of the pack. Hair on his broad chest and chiseled arms cluttered with alfalfa leaves. Huge hands protected by scuffed leather gloves. His right hand clenched a red bail hook. His lower waist tried to cling to tattered and patched Levi's. Nonexistent rear and white Hanes briefs exposed by his sagging jeans.
That image of Dad stood in stark contrast to the man I glimpsed when I peeked into his room earlier. The shades were drawn, casting a yellow hue over the room. He sat resting in his bed. His eyes were closed. His face looked so sullen, but somehow serene. A tube was slipped into his mouth so he could sip water. A paper-like hospital gown covered his slowly rising and falling chest. His hands were folded peacefully on his lab. Blankets covered the rest.
This was the latest I had ever seen him in bed, even when he was sick. He looked like a corpse . . .
The pain in my palm brought my focus back to the waiting room. I was vacantly staring at Christ's picture. I could only maintain eye contact for a second. As I looked at my palm, I noticed that just a stub of the thorn was now protruding.
I got up without looking at the opposite wall and left the room. I walked the three rooms back down to Dad's room.
I took a step back and gently rapped a knuckle on the door. That person with the stick was back at it, churning my guts.
Dad's eyes fluttered open. Once they were open, they were as pale blue as ever.
"Boy, you're early!" he rasped in a voice that robbed his tone of its usual resonance and good-natured enthusiasm. He removed the tube from his mouth and asked, "how'd first cutting go?" He squirmed to sit up straight. As he did so, I noticed a look on his face that I had never seen before: pain.
I reached to help him. He gazed at me and whispered through clenched teeth, "how did it go?"
"Not bad. It went well. Really well," I said.
"Tell me about it," he said as the pain receded.
"Well . . . " Then I proceeded to lie. I explained the week. Our work styles differed greatly. He liked to take his time and do things right the first time, deriving satisfaction from a job done and done well. I, though, liked to rush through everything, taking my satisfaction from a job done and over. There were so many other important things for me to do, cruise to town and find my friends, go to the pool, tube, lift weights, or play Nintendo. Thus, I had to revise the events as I saw fit.
He grilled me on everything, the cutting, raking, baling, and stacking of the hay, even though we had done it together for the past eight summers when we first moved to the farm.
"The baler sheer any pins?" he asked.
"A couple. Nothing big," I continued to lie. In actuality, I had lost count of the number of pins sheered. I also neglected to tell him that I had stopped at the New Holland dealership in town to pick up a new box of sheer pins before I came to the hospital.
I did not possess his patience either to periodically stop everything each couple of rounds to carefully inspect the bails and swaths to see if they were too green and to adjust the bailer accordingly so it would not clog from green or large swaths and, thus, sheer pins.
"Remember to grease everything?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Of course. Even the mower," I lied more. I again neglected to reveal that I had also purchased a new grease gun at the same New Holland dealership. I had become so enraged at the bailer sheering pins every other round, I had finally grabbed the grease gun from the tractor and lashed the damned bailer with it and, in the process, broke the grease gun.
I likewise did not possess his patience to routinely grease the mower, rake, and bailer before each use. He especially would grease the mower every other round. I had greased it before and after I mowed an entire field. Maybe.
Our conversation was the usual. It was almost as if the heart attack and surgery had never occurred, until he swung his legs out from beneath the blanket. Initially I was shocked to see him without his tattered and patched Levis, or even his old brown dress paints pulled out of storage for class reunions, church, and the rare evening out with mom.
Along the inside of his left thigh ran an ugly, crimson line, which contrasted with his ghostly pale legs. I shivered. The scar was the remnant of when the doctors had removed a vein from his leg in order to reconstruct his arteries.
I could also see down the front of his gown some too. I again shivered as I glimpsed the massive scar on his shaved chest.
White tape ran across it like frail wooden bridges across some deep gorge. The doctors had to split his breastplate to operate and staple it back together after.
"I need to use the bathroom before we go," he said.
I grabbed hold of his arm and helped him to his feet. I almost gasped when I touched his arm. It was like grabbing a piece of fruit that had been left in the back of the fridge too long. I instantly thought of my grandmother, who had passed away two summers ago. Her flesh was so soft and seemed to hang from her bones.
My gaze fell on my Reeboks again. I didn't look up until he was hobbling to the bathroom and the ridiculous paper robe exposed his bare ass.
I gouged at the sliver until the warmth in my face went away.
The nurse arrived in time to help him into bed. If I were my dad, I would rush to help like the time he held me while the doctor removed my shoe when I was seven and had broken my ankle. That was Dad, always going out of his way to help others. The nurse was young, maybe 25, and had long blond hair. I looked away at the walls as my dad had to lean on the nurse, who couldn't have weighed more than 125 pounds, and have her help him into bed. For the first time I noticed the picture above the dresser. It was Christ walking among a flock of sheep.
I felt their gazes on my back as I silently left and returned to the waiting room.
* * *
I sat unconsciously mining the thorn with a fingernail waiting still for the nurse. Then I realized for the first time just how different things were going to be these days. Maybe forever. As I thought about what the rest of the summer would be like, my mom's persistent lecture began to reverberate in my mind, how Dad will be tired easily, irritable from quitting smoking, unable to drive for the rest of summer, resigned to eating low fat and low cholesterol food, unable to lift anything over fifteen pounds . . .
I vainly tried to envision Dad like this, winded by walking from the barn to the house, using the nicotine patch, unable to even drive the riding lawn mower, sitting down to a dinner of non-fat yogurt and rice cakes, pouring himself a tall glass of skim milk. How much does a gallon of skin milk weigh anyway?
Under Our Savior's surveillance, I focused on excavating the thistle from my palm.
I nearly jumped from my chair when the nurse said, "Kenny is ready, Grant." I didn't even have time to wonder how she knew my name. Later, of course, I would understand that Dad had familiarized himself with all of the nurses and doctors like they were one of the family.
* * *
The nurse wheeled Dad to the door. I walked behind him and grabbed the wheelchair's handles. As I squeezed hard and popped a wheelie with his chair, causing a smile to flicker across his face, I realized I felt no sting from the splinter in my palm. I quickly peeked at it as we moved down the hallway. The thorn was gone. It must have worked itself free.
We joked some as we continued down the hallway. I knew he was relieved to be getting out of here.
"Oh, yeah, I thought you might need this," I said, pulling his ragged cap out of my back pocket and placing it on his head.
"Thanks," he said, instantly reaching up and cocking it back. It aligned perfectly with the eternal tan mark on the back of his head.
He added, "I think we better stop off at the New Holland dealership in town and pick up a new grease gun. That old one has seen better days."
I was unable to contain my smile.
As we passed the waiting room, I didn't look back. I let my gaze fall on my father.
Friday
My Lit and Language 11 class has exceeded all of my expectations. Talk about active learners.
They devoured The Crucible. One student actually read the entire thing the first night it was assigned.
We just finished a great discussion of a classic suspense tale, perfect for the season, by McKnight Malmar called "The Storm." Check out this link for an on-line text version (you won't regret it).
http://shortstory-theboythatis.blogspot.com/2006/09/storm.html
These kids ate it up. I couldn't believe it.
Talk about a dream class.
The past two weeks we have been reading Edgar Allan Poe. Another student, who had missed some time, said, “You know these stories were actually good. Usually, I begin reading and think ‘how much do I have to read?’ and ‘I can’t wait for this to be over.’ But these were really good.’
I also have some really creative students in here. So for “The Cask of Amontillado,” I devised a creative assignment to take a break from the traditional reading guides or read and discuss the story approach.
Students could write a prologue or epilogue to the story. They could devise their own revenge story. They could create a soundtrack for the tale. They could make a poster or drawing based on the tale (I think Montresor pausing prior to putting the last stone in place would make a great scene).
In fact, this was the same assignment Dr. Drake gave us at NCTC as part of an extra credit assignment. I jumped at the chance – and will include my example here – and it saved my grade. Remember, I wrote this in the fall of 1992. It was fun to dig it out again and read it.
They devoured The Crucible. One student actually read the entire thing the first night it was assigned.
We just finished a great discussion of a classic suspense tale, perfect for the season, by McKnight Malmar called "The Storm." Check out this link for an on-line text version (you won't regret it).
http://shortstory-theboythatis.blogspot.com/2006/09/storm.html
These kids ate it up. I couldn't believe it.
Talk about a dream class.
The past two weeks we have been reading Edgar Allan Poe. Another student, who had missed some time, said, “You know these stories were actually good. Usually, I begin reading and think ‘how much do I have to read?’ and ‘I can’t wait for this to be over.’ But these were really good.’
I also have some really creative students in here. So for “The Cask of Amontillado,” I devised a creative assignment to take a break from the traditional reading guides or read and discuss the story approach.
Students could write a prologue or epilogue to the story. They could devise their own revenge story. They could create a soundtrack for the tale. They could make a poster or drawing based on the tale (I think Montresor pausing prior to putting the last stone in place would make a great scene).
In fact, this was the same assignment Dr. Drake gave us at NCTC as part of an extra credit assignment. I jumped at the chance – and will include my example here – and it saved my grade. Remember, I wrote this in the fall of 1992. It was fun to dig it out again and read it.
Three Parts to My Tale
There are three parts to my tale. The first began when I was working in my tailor shop. My father had opened it long before I was born. By the time I was seven, he began to apprentice me into the trade. When I reached the age of 19, he claimed that I had mastered the trade and, in fact, had transformed it into an art, an art that would do our family, the Montresors, proud.
Father died three months before I wed my beloved Lady Montresor.
It was a tiresome Monday afternoon until a stranger entered the shop. The man was young and rather tall, with dark hair, a frail mustache, and very brown eyes. He was quite handsome. And wealthy. He was dressed in some of the finest garments I had ever seen. Silk and cashmere flowed from his extravagant shirt and coat. The clothes accentuated his build and gold jewelry encircled his fingers and wrists. A large jeweled cross dangled from his neck and rested on the middle of his broad chest.
“Good afternoon,” he said bowing his head slightly and not extending his hand, though I had extended mine. After a few painful seconds, I let it drop and buried my hands in my threadbare pockets. “I am Fortunato. I have heard about your talent as a tailor. Lent is soon upon us and I would like a new wardrobe for the occasion, including an extravagant jester’s costume for the upcoming carnival. You may ship them to my palazzo near the monetary.”
“Oh! What a coincidence,” I began. “My mother in law lives close by. In fact, my wife is heading there this afternoon for a short stay.”
However, this Fortunato did not care, for he turned to leave, as a servant held the door open, but just then my wife entered the shop from the back.
“Oh my, who do we have here?” Fortunato asked as he paused, one step from the exit.
In fact, the two had almost collided. In haste, hoping he wouldn’t take insult and withdraw his request, I apologized for my wife’s lack of awareness, for which he explained that there was no need to apologize.
I introduced Lady Montresor to him. He politely leaned forward and kissed her dark hand and said that a woman so beautiful could never lack anything. He then entered into a conversation with her while I busied myself with the task of reading the fabric for the garments.
My wife called to the back of the shop and asked if I would join her for dinner before she had to leave for her mother’s. I responded that I had to get started on the outfits as soon as possible, for April had just begun.
The man immediately called back and inquired if I had any objections to his taking Lady Montresor out to dinner.
“Surely not,” I said as an after thought as I began to cut some of my finest silk into sections.
Several hours went by and I assumed that my wife simply left for her mother’s after lunch with Mr. Fortunato. But as I finished the man’s second outfit, he entered my shop with Lady Montresor.
They were laughing and sounded in high spirits, obviously having sampled quite a few over lunch.
Fortunato began to explain that after lunch, they began sampling wine from his personal stock.
“When will you be leaving for you mother’s then?” I asked since it was rather late in the afternoon and her ride had wished to leave before dark.
Fortunato quickly said that he would be all too happy to drop her off at her mother’s on the way back to his palazzo. I quickly thought of not having to pay for her original ride and quickly consented.
The man peered at my work and picked up the garment I had just finished.
“Very nice indeed. You are a man of skill. These are incredible. I will return in a week for the collection,” he said.
Then I kissed my wife and the two ventured out.
This is where the second part of my tale beings.
Lady Montresor was to spend four days with her ailing mother. The time without her went quickly, for I poured all of my time into finishing Fortunato's collection.
When I finally emerged from my shop, I realized that I finished half a day early.
With this unexpected free time and a large profit ensured, I decided to close shop and venture into the city.
When I reached my mother-in-law’s home, it was dark.
I knocked on the door. My wife’s mother slowly opened the door. She was the picture of death. Her eyes were sunken and her voice was more than a groan . . . “Where is Alonza?”
“She isn’t here?’
“No . . . and I need her so!”
The old woman, after hearing the first part of my tale, suggested that there must have been some trouble with the coach.”
I agreed and left for home.
On my way back, I grew hungry and – with the large sum from Fortunato assured – I decided to treat myself to a meal. A local inn that Alonza and I frequented was just ahead.
However, as I tied my horse to the post, I noticed a familiar coach in the adjacent stable . . . it was Fortunato’s.
I ran to it and tore open the door. My heart sank when I saw Alonza’s scarf there on the seat.
I returned to my shop in a fury. There I found a small amount of solace down in the catacombs where I stored my own selection.
I woke in a pool of wasted Medoc and spilled tears. I immediately returned to my shop and ripped Fortunato’s collection to shreds. Then I drank more wine.
The thoughts that took form in my mind were products of my anger and hate, but they didn’t shock me. This insult could not be tolerated. I grabbed another cask of wine, and finding it empty, shattered it against the back wall of my shop.
It disintegrated against a tapestry of my family’s coat of arms. Staring at the tapestry, I began to read the family motto, “nemo me impune lacessit” over and over. No one can provoke me and get away with it.
I could see my father and grandfather laughing at my cuckoldry.
Then my mind returned to its violent thoughts, which soon began to please me.
Later that night, Lady Montresor returned as I manned the front of the shop.
“How is your mother?”
“Oh, she is getting worse by the day. I fear that I shall have to stay with her indefinitely.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Maybe when you are staying with her, you could inquire as to how Fortunato likes his collection.”
“Oh, it is done then? She inquired, and any hint of melancholy vanished.
I told her that I had indeed finished the collection.
She begged to see them and remarked how perfect she thought the first garments were.
I ushered her to the work area in back of our shop.
When Alonza saw the wreckage, she shrieked at the mess. I feigned surprise.
“Someone must have broke in over the night,” I said.
“I hope the garments aren’t damaged,” she said, rushing over to my worktable.
“Here is what is left of them,” I said and held up the tattered silk.
“Oh God. Can you possibly make a new one for the carnival?”
“I think so. . . But, dear, only with your help.”
“Of course. I was hoping to attend the carnival to see the reaction to Fortunato’s outfit.”
“I bet you were my dear. I bet you were,” I said as a smile struck my face and an empty bottle of Medoc struck the back of
Alonza’s head.
When she woke, I longed to se kaleidoscope of emotions in my wife’s eyes. Fear would be prominent, as would shock, disbelief, pain, and finally, beautiful terror, which I had become an apprentice of.
However, Alonza never opened her eyes. She couldn’t. I sewed them shut . . . along with other openings. Never would
Fortunato have my wife again. Nor would Alonza speak his name again. Nor would she be able to scream.
I did, though, leave her ears untouched. I wanted her to hear what I had in store for my final masterpiece.
“Now, dear, I must cut some fabric for Fortunato’s new costume,” I said as I walked toward the table where I had her bound.
“In fact,” I said, patting the inside of her thigh, “I just so happen to have his favorite kind right here.”
Lady Montresor began to writhe.
“Please, my dear, hold still.”
And I reached for my scissors.
The third part of my tale began at the carnival before Lent when I began contemplating, “The thousands injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best I could . . .”
Father died three months before I wed my beloved Lady Montresor.
It was a tiresome Monday afternoon until a stranger entered the shop. The man was young and rather tall, with dark hair, a frail mustache, and very brown eyes. He was quite handsome. And wealthy. He was dressed in some of the finest garments I had ever seen. Silk and cashmere flowed from his extravagant shirt and coat. The clothes accentuated his build and gold jewelry encircled his fingers and wrists. A large jeweled cross dangled from his neck and rested on the middle of his broad chest.
“Good afternoon,” he said bowing his head slightly and not extending his hand, though I had extended mine. After a few painful seconds, I let it drop and buried my hands in my threadbare pockets. “I am Fortunato. I have heard about your talent as a tailor. Lent is soon upon us and I would like a new wardrobe for the occasion, including an extravagant jester’s costume for the upcoming carnival. You may ship them to my palazzo near the monetary.”
“Oh! What a coincidence,” I began. “My mother in law lives close by. In fact, my wife is heading there this afternoon for a short stay.”
However, this Fortunato did not care, for he turned to leave, as a servant held the door open, but just then my wife entered the shop from the back.
“Oh my, who do we have here?” Fortunato asked as he paused, one step from the exit.
In fact, the two had almost collided. In haste, hoping he wouldn’t take insult and withdraw his request, I apologized for my wife’s lack of awareness, for which he explained that there was no need to apologize.
I introduced Lady Montresor to him. He politely leaned forward and kissed her dark hand and said that a woman so beautiful could never lack anything. He then entered into a conversation with her while I busied myself with the task of reading the fabric for the garments.
My wife called to the back of the shop and asked if I would join her for dinner before she had to leave for her mother’s. I responded that I had to get started on the outfits as soon as possible, for April had just begun.
The man immediately called back and inquired if I had any objections to his taking Lady Montresor out to dinner.
“Surely not,” I said as an after thought as I began to cut some of my finest silk into sections.
Several hours went by and I assumed that my wife simply left for her mother’s after lunch with Mr. Fortunato. But as I finished the man’s second outfit, he entered my shop with Lady Montresor.
They were laughing and sounded in high spirits, obviously having sampled quite a few over lunch.
Fortunato began to explain that after lunch, they began sampling wine from his personal stock.
“When will you be leaving for you mother’s then?” I asked since it was rather late in the afternoon and her ride had wished to leave before dark.
Fortunato quickly said that he would be all too happy to drop her off at her mother’s on the way back to his palazzo. I quickly thought of not having to pay for her original ride and quickly consented.
The man peered at my work and picked up the garment I had just finished.
“Very nice indeed. You are a man of skill. These are incredible. I will return in a week for the collection,” he said.
Then I kissed my wife and the two ventured out.
This is where the second part of my tale beings.
Lady Montresor was to spend four days with her ailing mother. The time without her went quickly, for I poured all of my time into finishing Fortunato's collection.
When I finally emerged from my shop, I realized that I finished half a day early.
With this unexpected free time and a large profit ensured, I decided to close shop and venture into the city.
When I reached my mother-in-law’s home, it was dark.
I knocked on the door. My wife’s mother slowly opened the door. She was the picture of death. Her eyes were sunken and her voice was more than a groan . . . “Where is Alonza?”
“She isn’t here?’
“No . . . and I need her so!”
The old woman, after hearing the first part of my tale, suggested that there must have been some trouble with the coach.”
I agreed and left for home.
On my way back, I grew hungry and – with the large sum from Fortunato assured – I decided to treat myself to a meal. A local inn that Alonza and I frequented was just ahead.
However, as I tied my horse to the post, I noticed a familiar coach in the adjacent stable . . . it was Fortunato’s.
I ran to it and tore open the door. My heart sank when I saw Alonza’s scarf there on the seat.
I returned to my shop in a fury. There I found a small amount of solace down in the catacombs where I stored my own selection.
I woke in a pool of wasted Medoc and spilled tears. I immediately returned to my shop and ripped Fortunato’s collection to shreds. Then I drank more wine.
The thoughts that took form in my mind were products of my anger and hate, but they didn’t shock me. This insult could not be tolerated. I grabbed another cask of wine, and finding it empty, shattered it against the back wall of my shop.
It disintegrated against a tapestry of my family’s coat of arms. Staring at the tapestry, I began to read the family motto, “nemo me impune lacessit” over and over. No one can provoke me and get away with it.
I could see my father and grandfather laughing at my cuckoldry.
Then my mind returned to its violent thoughts, which soon began to please me.
Later that night, Lady Montresor returned as I manned the front of the shop.
“How is your mother?”
“Oh, she is getting worse by the day. I fear that I shall have to stay with her indefinitely.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Maybe when you are staying with her, you could inquire as to how Fortunato likes his collection.”
“Oh, it is done then? She inquired, and any hint of melancholy vanished.
I told her that I had indeed finished the collection.
She begged to see them and remarked how perfect she thought the first garments were.
I ushered her to the work area in back of our shop.
When Alonza saw the wreckage, she shrieked at the mess. I feigned surprise.
“Someone must have broke in over the night,” I said.
“I hope the garments aren’t damaged,” she said, rushing over to my worktable.
“Here is what is left of them,” I said and held up the tattered silk.
“Oh God. Can you possibly make a new one for the carnival?”
“I think so. . . But, dear, only with your help.”
“Of course. I was hoping to attend the carnival to see the reaction to Fortunato’s outfit.”
“I bet you were my dear. I bet you were,” I said as a smile struck my face and an empty bottle of Medoc struck the back of
Alonza’s head.
When she woke, I longed to se kaleidoscope of emotions in my wife’s eyes. Fear would be prominent, as would shock, disbelief, pain, and finally, beautiful terror, which I had become an apprentice of.
However, Alonza never opened her eyes. She couldn’t. I sewed them shut . . . along with other openings. Never would
Fortunato have my wife again. Nor would Alonza speak his name again. Nor would she be able to scream.
I did, though, leave her ears untouched. I wanted her to hear what I had in store for my final masterpiece.
“Now, dear, I must cut some fabric for Fortunato’s new costume,” I said as I walked toward the table where I had her bound.
“In fact,” I said, patting the inside of her thigh, “I just so happen to have his favorite kind right here.”
Lady Montresor began to writhe.
“Please, my dear, hold still.”
And I reached for my scissors.
The third part of my tale began at the carnival before Lent when I began contemplating, “The thousands injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best I could . . .”
Update
It certainly has been a long time since I’ve written much on my blog. But Kenzie has dominated much of out time. To be honest, she has gobbled up almost all of Kristie’s time, so I tend to try to help out with other things as best I can.
Now that coaching is over, hopefully I’ll be able to spend more time with her. My favorite moments are at night when she falls asleep on my chest in the rocker.
Unfortunately, that is one of the few times she seems to be content with me.
It’s a bit of a running joke around our house that she hates males. Kristie will hold her and Kenzie will be content and happy. She’ll hand her off to me, and the crying starts.
I’ll hand her back to Kristie and within a few seconds, she is content again!
Kristie said that when she brought Kenzie to work yesterday for a baby shower, she was a perfect angel for all the ladies there. However, when a male co-worker walked in, Kenzie began fussing.
So at least it isn’t me that so upsets her.
I don’t know if it’s my cologne or the fact that I haven’t spent nearly as much time with her as Kristie or if she can sense my frustration when she begins to fuss or what.
That little girl is the most confounding thing I’ve ever encountered in my life. When I hold her at night, so Kristie can finally get some rest, she will inevitably start fussing.
And I am at a total loss.
I try cradling her. I try holding her tight to my chest and burping her. I try holding her against my stomach and hopping. I try rocking her. I hum and sing (really, I can do neither but I give it my best shot).
And still she fusses.
Until Mom comes down and soothes her or feeds her.
I wish there was a button I could push that would work every time to relax and calm her.
However, Kenzie is getting better. Last night I was able to soothe her and spend some quality time with her. I tell you when she turns those big blue eyes on me and cracks a bit of a smile, I am totally hers. Everything else in the world just fades and I realize how big of a commitment I have to this beautiful little girl. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But at the same time, I realize just how much I don’t know – and likely never will. So though I feel absolutely vital to Kenzie’s life, I am also completely humbled by her needs.
I don’t know how Kristie can carry on as well as she does. I swear being a new mom must cause the body to release extra endorphins or something.
She is a machine. Feeding and caring for Kenzie. As well as feeding and caring for Casey, KoKo, and I.
It really is something.
Yesterday, I burned a personal day with the intention of helping Kristie out. I envisioned holding Kenzie most of the day, while Kristie could get a break and spend some time to herself.
Well, it didn’t really work out that way.
Kenzie was up much of Wednesday night. Since Kristie breast feeds, there wasn’t much I could do whenever Kenzie became hungry. She was up until close to two. Then up early.
Since Kristie had her baby shower at work, I thought I’d get some stuff done around the house. However, since I was lacking the extra endorphins, I showered and pretty much zonked out for five hours.
In the end, I took the day off for me. What is it that they say about good intentions?
Now that coaching is over, hopefully I’ll be able to spend more time with her. My favorite moments are at night when she falls asleep on my chest in the rocker.
Unfortunately, that is one of the few times she seems to be content with me.
It’s a bit of a running joke around our house that she hates males. Kristie will hold her and Kenzie will be content and happy. She’ll hand her off to me, and the crying starts.
I’ll hand her back to Kristie and within a few seconds, she is content again!
Kristie said that when she brought Kenzie to work yesterday for a baby shower, she was a perfect angel for all the ladies there. However, when a male co-worker walked in, Kenzie began fussing.
So at least it isn’t me that so upsets her.
I don’t know if it’s my cologne or the fact that I haven’t spent nearly as much time with her as Kristie or if she can sense my frustration when she begins to fuss or what.
That little girl is the most confounding thing I’ve ever encountered in my life. When I hold her at night, so Kristie can finally get some rest, she will inevitably start fussing.
And I am at a total loss.
I try cradling her. I try holding her tight to my chest and burping her. I try holding her against my stomach and hopping. I try rocking her. I hum and sing (really, I can do neither but I give it my best shot).
And still she fusses.
Until Mom comes down and soothes her or feeds her.
I wish there was a button I could push that would work every time to relax and calm her.
However, Kenzie is getting better. Last night I was able to soothe her and spend some quality time with her. I tell you when she turns those big blue eyes on me and cracks a bit of a smile, I am totally hers. Everything else in the world just fades and I realize how big of a commitment I have to this beautiful little girl. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But at the same time, I realize just how much I don’t know – and likely never will. So though I feel absolutely vital to Kenzie’s life, I am also completely humbled by her needs.
I don’t know how Kristie can carry on as well as she does. I swear being a new mom must cause the body to release extra endorphins or something.
She is a machine. Feeding and caring for Kenzie. As well as feeding and caring for Casey, KoKo, and I.
It really is something.
Yesterday, I burned a personal day with the intention of helping Kristie out. I envisioned holding Kenzie most of the day, while Kristie could get a break and spend some time to herself.
Well, it didn’t really work out that way.
Kenzie was up much of Wednesday night. Since Kristie breast feeds, there wasn’t much I could do whenever Kenzie became hungry. She was up until close to two. Then up early.
Since Kristie had her baby shower at work, I thought I’d get some stuff done around the house. However, since I was lacking the extra endorphins, I showered and pretty much zonked out for five hours.
In the end, I took the day off for me. What is it that they say about good intentions?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
One of THOSE parents
Well, I've become one of those parents. So, if you don't want to watch baby video, skip this entry.
Kenzie snoring --
Kenzie snoring --
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Eerie
Does this sound like Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness or what? It’s frighteningly similar.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20081021/sc_livescience/hugemountainrangeshouldnotbethere;_ylt=AjxU3msmmtrAQTeu1i7O1v2s0NUE
http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20081021/sc_livescience/hugemountainrangeshouldnotbethere;_ylt=AjxU3msmmtrAQTeu1i7O1v2s0NUE
Damn you, Steve Jobs!
First, apple shows its total disregard for capitalization (apple, iPod, iPod touch, and so on), but now Jobs thinks he can mess with the very language. Open apple’s homepage and you’ll see a screen declaring the iPod touch as “The funnest iPod ever.”
Funnest? Blasphemy!
Funnest? Blasphemy!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Who started this lie?
Maybe it's that I'm getting cranky in my old age. I don't know. But I'd like to know who started the lie that I have now read on so many of my college comp papers, "People say that your senior year is supposed to be the best time of your life."
Three words: "Crock of shit."
Don't get me wrong. I had a great time in high school. But I was never foolish enough to think that it was the peak of my life and that everything would be down hill from there.
I just want to know where this myth originated. Or maybe students don't even believe it; they just blather on about it because it's what they have heard themselves for so long.
Every passing year is the best time of my life. Am I in the minority?
Three words: "Crock of shit."
Don't get me wrong. I had a great time in high school. But I was never foolish enough to think that it was the peak of my life and that everything would be down hill from there.
I just want to know where this myth originated. Or maybe students don't even believe it; they just blather on about it because it's what they have heard themselves for so long.
Every passing year is the best time of my life. Am I in the minority?
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Errrr...
Homecoming is always a royal pain in the ass. This year was no different. It didn't help matters that I missed two days helping take care of Kenzie. When I was finally able to get back to school on Friday, the annual homecoming insanity was in full swing.
Instead of being able to discuss "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Black Cat" in Lit and Language 11, I was informed by half a dozen students that they needed to get out early to work on their float for the upcoming parade. At least they had the courtesy to come to class and get all the homework over the next week (we don't have school next week since Monday and Tuesday are full of 24 hours worth of conferences).
I thought things would be different with my advanced College Comp classes, but I couldn't have been more mistaken. My third block class had a good turn out, though most of the supposed leaders of the school, the athletes, had better things to do. I think maybe one football player, again, a supposed leader of the student body, who bothered to come in early and get the assignment over break. So next week, they are simply going to be out of luck for that writing assignment. I mean this is supposed to be a college level course, yet they treat it as if they're in freaking middle school or something.
So to combat this, I gave what one of my professors did in college, usually on Friday, when few turned out: a Mickey Mouse quiz. It's simply a reward for showing up. Sad I know.
My fourth block College Comp class was even worse. Apparently, the football players in there found it more important to practice for the upcoming pep fest and volleyball scrimmage (where most wore skin tight spandex and the tucked socks into their crotches for an indecent display. You'd think somebody in charge (pardon the pun) would have the balls to put a stop to such nonsense, but foolishness like this is always allowed to go on during homecoming - remember those dances where females for each class would practically take turns grinding themselves into the gym floor?) than to bother to show up for their assignment. Great student athlete leadership right?
Now, given the apathy illustrated from many students (namely, the supposed leaders, the student athletes), I am going to have to change my policies.
Usually, for every 'theme' my students write, I have them write rough drafts on three separate topics. For example, for the descriptive theme, I had students write about their favorite time of year, their favorite place, and finally a description of whatever they want. Then they are free to choose whatever rough draft they like the best to develop and revise for their final descriptive theme.
I do this to allow them to do not only a lot of writing but also to let them have more freedom over what they want to write about. This way they are not locked into one topic and just one essay.
However, some don't even bother to do these. Instead, they just write one essay for their theme (usually a day or two before it's due), which, of course, defeats the entire purpose.
Instead, now I will be more stringent and be the crusty old teacher who walks around and checks each students draft. They will be given one chance to get points for this. Plus, I will make it requisite that drafts be complete on time in order for them to have a shot at full credit on their final themes. Plus, I will make it requisite that they attend each class period. If they choose to complete just two of the three drafts and they attend only seven of ten days, then their final scores will suffer.
Now, honestly, I think this is kind of hogwash. I agree with a study I was part of that found one big problem with high school writers struggling in college is that they aren't rewarded just on the final project. Too many high school teachers grade them on the writing process or give extra credit. As I said, I happen to agree with this. In college, if a student doesn't have to work as hard in class because they are incredibly gifted and they can crank out a superb effort in one night's work, then so be it. Likewise, if a student really struggles at writing and they have to put in work in class every day and each night to just get an average grade on their essays, then so be it.
I would love to adopt that attitude in my College Comp class, but I'd have too many students struggling far too much. They just aren't ready for that type of responsibility.
Hopefully, I can put them to the coals for awhile like this and they can learn to show up every day and to complete the assignments. Not too much to ask is it? But you'd be surprised how many of my supposed college level students are struggling.
Instead of being able to discuss "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Black Cat" in Lit and Language 11, I was informed by half a dozen students that they needed to get out early to work on their float for the upcoming parade. At least they had the courtesy to come to class and get all the homework over the next week (we don't have school next week since Monday and Tuesday are full of 24 hours worth of conferences).
I thought things would be different with my advanced College Comp classes, but I couldn't have been more mistaken. My third block class had a good turn out, though most of the supposed leaders of the school, the athletes, had better things to do. I think maybe one football player, again, a supposed leader of the student body, who bothered to come in early and get the assignment over break. So next week, they are simply going to be out of luck for that writing assignment. I mean this is supposed to be a college level course, yet they treat it as if they're in freaking middle school or something.
So to combat this, I gave what one of my professors did in college, usually on Friday, when few turned out: a Mickey Mouse quiz. It's simply a reward for showing up. Sad I know.
My fourth block College Comp class was even worse. Apparently, the football players in there found it more important to practice for the upcoming pep fest and volleyball scrimmage (where most wore skin tight spandex and the tucked socks into their crotches for an indecent display. You'd think somebody in charge (pardon the pun) would have the balls to put a stop to such nonsense, but foolishness like this is always allowed to go on during homecoming - remember those dances where females for each class would practically take turns grinding themselves into the gym floor?) than to bother to show up for their assignment. Great student athlete leadership right?
Now, given the apathy illustrated from many students (namely, the supposed leaders, the student athletes), I am going to have to change my policies.
Usually, for every 'theme' my students write, I have them write rough drafts on three separate topics. For example, for the descriptive theme, I had students write about their favorite time of year, their favorite place, and finally a description of whatever they want. Then they are free to choose whatever rough draft they like the best to develop and revise for their final descriptive theme.
I do this to allow them to do not only a lot of writing but also to let them have more freedom over what they want to write about. This way they are not locked into one topic and just one essay.
However, some don't even bother to do these. Instead, they just write one essay for their theme (usually a day or two before it's due), which, of course, defeats the entire purpose.
Instead, now I will be more stringent and be the crusty old teacher who walks around and checks each students draft. They will be given one chance to get points for this. Plus, I will make it requisite that drafts be complete on time in order for them to have a shot at full credit on their final themes. Plus, I will make it requisite that they attend each class period. If they choose to complete just two of the three drafts and they attend only seven of ten days, then their final scores will suffer.
Now, honestly, I think this is kind of hogwash. I agree with a study I was part of that found one big problem with high school writers struggling in college is that they aren't rewarded just on the final project. Too many high school teachers grade them on the writing process or give extra credit. As I said, I happen to agree with this. In college, if a student doesn't have to work as hard in class because they are incredibly gifted and they can crank out a superb effort in one night's work, then so be it. Likewise, if a student really struggles at writing and they have to put in work in class every day and each night to just get an average grade on their essays, then so be it.
I would love to adopt that attitude in my College Comp class, but I'd have too many students struggling far too much. They just aren't ready for that type of responsibility.
Hopefully, I can put them to the coals for awhile like this and they can learn to show up every day and to complete the assignments. Not too much to ask is it? But you'd be surprised how many of my supposed college level students are struggling.
Mommy's Girl
I thought it was supposed be to Daddy's Girl. That's not the case, though, with our little one.
Usually, after Kristie feeds her, I'll take Kenzie downstairs and rock her to sleep (and sleep for a couple hours myself in the process) so Kristie can get some sleep and a break since she spends all day with Kenzie while I'm at work.
However, I'm finding that because of all the time Kenzie spends with her mother, she has become a Mommy's Girl. For when I bring her downstairs, if she isn't already asleep, she tends to wake up. If she realizes that I am holding her -- instead of her mother - oh man, all hell breaks loose.
I have never felt so completely helpless in my life as when I'm holding Kenzie, and I have no way to soothe her cries. I hold her and walk around. Still cries. I sit and cradle her and rock her. Still cries. I try to sing (though, I've realized I may know thousands of songs and the artists who perform them - my ipod library consists of approximately three thousand songs -- but I can't remember a full lyric to save my soul. In fact, I know exactly how Tom Cruise's character feels in War of the Worlds where his daughter is panicking and he attempts to sing her a lullaby, only to realize that he doesn't know any. Instead, he offers her a rendition of "Little Deuce Coup" by the Beach Boys). She cries louder. I hum. Still cries. I sway from side to side. No luck.
However, by this time, Kristie has heard the cries from upstairs and comes to the rescue.
The worst part is, as soon as I hand her over to Kristie, I can count the seconds on one hand that it takes for her to calm down.
Worse yet, even our former babysitter, Rene, is able to soothe her! She was over last night and she immediately had Kenzie calm and nearly asleep. The trick, she said, was to swing her in small figure eights.
Well, I tried that, and it's a crock.
So I guess I'll just have to wait for about four years or so when I can spoil her and turn her into Daddy's Little Girl finally.
Usually, after Kristie feeds her, I'll take Kenzie downstairs and rock her to sleep (and sleep for a couple hours myself in the process) so Kristie can get some sleep and a break since she spends all day with Kenzie while I'm at work.
However, I'm finding that because of all the time Kenzie spends with her mother, she has become a Mommy's Girl. For when I bring her downstairs, if she isn't already asleep, she tends to wake up. If she realizes that I am holding her -- instead of her mother - oh man, all hell breaks loose.
I have never felt so completely helpless in my life as when I'm holding Kenzie, and I have no way to soothe her cries. I hold her and walk around. Still cries. I sit and cradle her and rock her. Still cries. I try to sing (though, I've realized I may know thousands of songs and the artists who perform them - my ipod library consists of approximately three thousand songs -- but I can't remember a full lyric to save my soul. In fact, I know exactly how Tom Cruise's character feels in War of the Worlds where his daughter is panicking and he attempts to sing her a lullaby, only to realize that he doesn't know any. Instead, he offers her a rendition of "Little Deuce Coup" by the Beach Boys). She cries louder. I hum. Still cries. I sway from side to side. No luck.
However, by this time, Kristie has heard the cries from upstairs and comes to the rescue.
The worst part is, as soon as I hand her over to Kristie, I can count the seconds on one hand that it takes for her to calm down.
Worse yet, even our former babysitter, Rene, is able to soothe her! She was over last night and she immediately had Kenzie calm and nearly asleep. The trick, she said, was to swing her in small figure eights.
Well, I tried that, and it's a crock.
So I guess I'll just have to wait for about four years or so when I can spoil her and turn her into Daddy's Little Girl finally.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Homecoming 08
Over the years I have been a constant guinea pig for homecoming and snow fest skits. But this year tops everything.
In the past I have . . . dressed up as Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks and lip synced the Chipmunks Christmas song (to KoKo's incredible delight), rode in on a bicycle all dressed in leather to "Leader of the Pack" with the other English teachers, played Simon Cowell twice in mock American Idol talent shows (my personal favorites), dressed up as the foreign judge for "Dancing with the Stars," put make up on another teacher in a dress up relay contest, danced with the football players, done some kind of somersault routine as part of a teacher skit, danced to YMCA with some other teachers, and a few other humiliating things that have - mercifully - slipped my mind over the years.
But yesterday I ended up accepting a part in the featured "Fear Factor" contest. In the span of ten minutes, I had to lip sync a song ("Wild Thing"), wrestle a gorilla (well, a student dressed in a gorilla costume), and eat cow tongue. Yes, you read that last part right.
Only they didn't tell us about the cow tongue part.
Contestants for "Fear Factor" were football players from each grade. Unfortunately, I was the representative from the coaching staff. Worse yet, I was selected to lead off each fear factor. So I was the first to lip sync - even though the lip sync machine wasn't working. But I improved the chorus for "Achy Breaky Heart" to a few chuckles. Then I had to sample the cow tongue, which tasted exactly as one might think. Finally, came the gorilla wrestling. One of my former players was dressed up as the gorilla. Prior to the contest, I told him what I had in mind for him. So I got him in a head lock and then did a drop and nailed him with an elbow. Finally, I yanked one of his legs back and spanked him until he cried for mercy. What they neglected to tell me was that another student - in yet another gorilla costume - was lurking just off stage. On cue, he rushed in to help and leveled me. I was no match for them after that!
Despite being somewhat of a ham, I think I'm getting too old for this stuff!
In the past I have . . . dressed up as Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks and lip synced the Chipmunks Christmas song (to KoKo's incredible delight), rode in on a bicycle all dressed in leather to "Leader of the Pack" with the other English teachers, played Simon Cowell twice in mock American Idol talent shows (my personal favorites), dressed up as the foreign judge for "Dancing with the Stars," put make up on another teacher in a dress up relay contest, danced with the football players, done some kind of somersault routine as part of a teacher skit, danced to YMCA with some other teachers, and a few other humiliating things that have - mercifully - slipped my mind over the years.
But yesterday I ended up accepting a part in the featured "Fear Factor" contest. In the span of ten minutes, I had to lip sync a song ("Wild Thing"), wrestle a gorilla (well, a student dressed in a gorilla costume), and eat cow tongue. Yes, you read that last part right.
Only they didn't tell us about the cow tongue part.
Contestants for "Fear Factor" were football players from each grade. Unfortunately, I was the representative from the coaching staff. Worse yet, I was selected to lead off each fear factor. So I was the first to lip sync - even though the lip sync machine wasn't working. But I improved the chorus for "Achy Breaky Heart" to a few chuckles. Then I had to sample the cow tongue, which tasted exactly as one might think. Finally, came the gorilla wrestling. One of my former players was dressed up as the gorilla. Prior to the contest, I told him what I had in mind for him. So I got him in a head lock and then did a drop and nailed him with an elbow. Finally, I yanked one of his legs back and spanked him until he cried for mercy. What they neglected to tell me was that another student - in yet another gorilla costume - was lurking just off stage. On cue, he rushed in to help and leveled me. I was no match for them after that!
Despite being somewhat of a ham, I think I'm getting too old for this stuff!
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Palin
I just read that Palin is defending her statement linking Obama to terrorists. Now, if I was a religious wacko who thought earth was only 4,000 year old and followed a minister who chased a supposed witch out of a village, I'd think twice about such comments.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
How can I get any blogging done when I could be
How can I get any blogging done when I could be this instead?
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