I tried to help a stranger today. Mark your calendar!
There I was, driving The Pony home from school, when an approaching car stopped in the road. The driver stuck his hand out the window and motioned for me to stop. I did. Which is probably a good way to get killed in some necks of the woods. But here on the blacktop county road, in the light of day, with a cow pasture on each side and a house down a lane, I took that chance.
"Is this Battle Axe Lane?"
"Um. No. This is Backroads Byway."
"I'm trying to get to 1313 Battle Axe Lane."
"I live at 1212 Battle Axe Lane. I'm going there now, if you want to follow me. I'll go slow across the bridge."
"Let me turn around."
Let the record show that the dude looked like a city slicker. Or a real estate salesman. No flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, or overalls, or wifebeater. No hockey mask. No chainsaw. A tasteful polo shirt. I couldn't see them, but I pictured him as wearing Italian shoes.
The closer I got to my turnoff, the more I second-guessed myself. What if he was a murderer? Genius was home. He wouldn't get me today. What if he was a process server? Oh, well. Wrap up your loose ends, people.
When I hit the gravel, I put up a wall of dust. Not intentionally. That's just a happy accident that lets me feed my dust to tailgaters. I swerve back-and-forth for them. But this guy got his shiny black SUV all be-dusted with no malice from me. I pulled sideways across my driveway entrance. Both to block him, and to point him up the road. He thanked me. "I never would have found this road on my own." I had mentioned to The Pony that he looked like a guy trying to find something with GPS.
He continued, and I pulled into the garage and closed the door. The Pony carried in his school stuff. I took a few minutes to gather my things, then followed. That City Slicker was coming BACK down Battle Axe Lane! He slowed at my driveway, but didn't turn in. He went down the driveway of our neighbors across the road. Then I started to worry some more. What if he was staking out the place? Coming back after dark to slit my throat? I think he saw me petting the dogs. THREE DOGS! Ya got that, City Slicker? THREE DOGS!
Genius greeted me inside. "What was that all about? I saw you talking to that black car."
"I wasn't talking to a CAR! I gave a guy directions. He may or may not come back to kill us."
"Oh." Genius went back to his room.
I'll update you tomorrow...IF I CAN!
Unbagging the Cats 1
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Val, the Shifty, Shifty, Time-Shifter
Some parents in Backroads liked conferences a lot
But Val Thevictorian, sadly,
Did not.
Ol' Val needed me-time, for writin' and readin'
Not chattin', not waitin' for the fast-food feedin'.
She preferred to be sitting in her basement lair
In the glow of her monitor, nary a care.
A most scathingly brilliant idea took shape
In Val's odd steel-trap mind wound with silver duct tape.
"I know just what I'll do," Ol' Val chortled with glee.
"To keep up with my writing that's all about ME!
I can't do it at school with computer or pen.
Stealing time from my students? I'll not teach again!
All I need is to time-shift," Ol' Val said aloud.
"Since I can't be two places at once, and that crowd
Demands to see syllabi, and teachers, and rooms...
I will be there in person and mind, and not doomed
To while away hours, thinking what might have been.
I'll just type it up now, and I'll publish it then."
No promises made she of quality writin'.
Like casting a line when the fish are a-bitin',
Sometimes you can catch large-mouth, sometimes you'll catch perch.
Wasn't this better than being left in the lurch?
But Val Thevictorian, sadly,
Did not.
Ol' Val needed me-time, for writin' and readin'
Not chattin', not waitin' for the fast-food feedin'.
She preferred to be sitting in her basement lair
In the glow of her monitor, nary a care.
A most scathingly brilliant idea took shape
In Val's odd steel-trap mind wound with silver duct tape.
"I know just what I'll do," Ol' Val chortled with glee.
"To keep up with my writing that's all about ME!
I can't do it at school with computer or pen.
Stealing time from my students? I'll not teach again!
All I need is to time-shift," Ol' Val said aloud.
"Since I can't be two places at once, and that crowd
Demands to see syllabi, and teachers, and rooms...
I will be there in person and mind, and not doomed
To while away hours, thinking what might have been.
I'll just type it up now, and I'll publish it then."
No promises made she of quality writin'.
Like casting a line when the fish are a-bitin',
Sometimes you can catch large-mouth, sometimes you'll catch perch.
Wasn't this better than being left in the lurch?
Monday, March 19, 2012
Cutting Corners to Fill the Page
I had so much I WANTED to do this month, but life seems to have gotten in the way. Now it's parent conference time, and I have to spend two evenings this week at school. Oh, the payoff is that school is not in session on Friday. But that's the day of the science fair at the local junior college, and we always have entries. They give prize money, you know. And a scholarship. So I will be there from 7:30 until 4:00. Longer, even, than a regular school day.
Further flies in my ointment, bees in my bonnet, thorns in my side, pains in my patooty, kicks in my head, objects stuck in my craw, and rain on my parade, are the following:
Hick's knee surgery and convalescence
The Pony's recent illness and subsequent medical appointment
Tax time looming
It's not that these items aren't worthy of my attention. They are good causes. But they have kept me from doing things I'd RATHER be doing. Like whipping some submissions into shape, and actually submitting them. That loss of an hour to spring ahead did not help matters. I can do a lot in an hour. Like type up four blog posts. I'm not saying they're GOOD blog posts. But they're posts.
I could probably eliminate chair napping. But that would cut into my five hours a night. And I kind of need my rest. Only yesterday, a colleague asked if I was sick. I don't hold it against her. She's known for asking chubby women if they're pregnant, inquiring after people's dead relatives, and complimenting young girls on their Halloween costume mustaches. Which are, at times, merely a manifestation of a facial hair issue.
Something's gotta give. I'm going to broach the subject with a game of family Would You Rather. My first question? Would you rather eat off dirty plates, or wear dirty clothes?
Further flies in my ointment, bees in my bonnet, thorns in my side, pains in my patooty, kicks in my head, objects stuck in my craw, and rain on my parade, are the following:
Hick's knee surgery and convalescence
The Pony's recent illness and subsequent medical appointment
Tax time looming
It's not that these items aren't worthy of my attention. They are good causes. But they have kept me from doing things I'd RATHER be doing. Like whipping some submissions into shape, and actually submitting them. That loss of an hour to spring ahead did not help matters. I can do a lot in an hour. Like type up four blog posts. I'm not saying they're GOOD blog posts. But they're posts.
I could probably eliminate chair napping. But that would cut into my five hours a night. And I kind of need my rest. Only yesterday, a colleague asked if I was sick. I don't hold it against her. She's known for asking chubby women if they're pregnant, inquiring after people's dead relatives, and complimenting young girls on their Halloween costume mustaches. Which are, at times, merely a manifestation of a facial hair issue.
Something's gotta give. I'm going to broach the subject with a game of family Would You Rather. My first question? Would you rather eat off dirty plates, or wear dirty clothes?
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Walking the Talk
Years ago, I took a character education class that was held on the campus of a local high school. We met one evening per week, way down at the end of the main building, in an isolated kind of space, a pie-shaped classroom with doors on each side. The hallway that ran behind it contained student restrooms, and led out to the athletic fields and a parking lot. Not one that we could park in, mind you. We had to park out front and traipse through dim hallways to arrive at our classroom. Most of us found out early on that it was best to use the restrooms on the main hall, because they had doors. The ones by our classroom had no outer doors, and only one stall inside with a door. I suppose the reasoning would be to prevent clandestine activities in such a remote part of the school.
Our instructor was all gung-ho for character education. As faculty members, we were daily examples for our students. Our actions could sway them in any direction. Were we people of character? Teacher Lady lived in black and white. No gray areas for her. Like Boston Rob on Survivor, her attitude was, "If you're not with me, you're against me." No such thing as a little white lie for her. A lie is a lie, no matter how you slice it or embellish it or dress it up an parade it around for the purpose of sparing somebody's feelings. In Teacher Lady's book, any time a wife asked, "Does this dress make me look fat?" the husband needed to answer truthfully. If you saw your best friend out with a gentleman who was not her spouse, it was your duty to inform her husband.
Class time was full of just such scenarios, and discussions of how we might react, and how a person of character would react. Teachers shared stories of recent events at school, wherein they had made a conscious decision to act as a person of character. Teacher Lady was well on her way to indoctrinating her roster.
About six weeks into the course, we heard a ruckus in the hallway one evening. There was the sound of running, girls giggling, guys laughing. I assumed some student-athletes had come in after a track meet. As teachers ourselves, we strove to be good students. We tried to concentrate on Teacher Lady's lecture. Then we heard a girl squeal, "Stop! Get out! You're not supposed to be in here!" It was not in the playful manner of the previous exchanges.
Nobody went to investigate. One man even got up and closed the door on that side. Teacher Lady nodded to him. She heard it. Yet she did nothing. Which ruined her credibility for me. It was all an act. A lecture. Lip service. Even without my recent instruction in the tenets of character education, I felt that somebody needed to check on the situation. I am ashamed to say that I, too, did nothing. I've never been one to rock the boat, to stick my neck out, to upset the apple cart. But somebody should have checked! It's like we all sat there, meekly, waiting to inherit the earth.
The final nail that Teacher Lady drove into her own coffin, as far as I was concerned, was the night she rejected the subject of my required report on a person of character. I asked if Kurt Warner would be suitable. It's not like there was enough of Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa to go around. Teacher Lady waved her hand dismissively, and said that we were not here to write about sports figures. I might have imagined it, but I think I detected an eye roll, and "Pshaw!" in that little exchange.
You, Teacher Lady, are no Kurt Warner.
Our instructor was all gung-ho for character education. As faculty members, we were daily examples for our students. Our actions could sway them in any direction. Were we people of character? Teacher Lady lived in black and white. No gray areas for her. Like Boston Rob on Survivor, her attitude was, "If you're not with me, you're against me." No such thing as a little white lie for her. A lie is a lie, no matter how you slice it or embellish it or dress it up an parade it around for the purpose of sparing somebody's feelings. In Teacher Lady's book, any time a wife asked, "Does this dress make me look fat?" the husband needed to answer truthfully. If you saw your best friend out with a gentleman who was not her spouse, it was your duty to inform her husband.
Class time was full of just such scenarios, and discussions of how we might react, and how a person of character would react. Teachers shared stories of recent events at school, wherein they had made a conscious decision to act as a person of character. Teacher Lady was well on her way to indoctrinating her roster.
About six weeks into the course, we heard a ruckus in the hallway one evening. There was the sound of running, girls giggling, guys laughing. I assumed some student-athletes had come in after a track meet. As teachers ourselves, we strove to be good students. We tried to concentrate on Teacher Lady's lecture. Then we heard a girl squeal, "Stop! Get out! You're not supposed to be in here!" It was not in the playful manner of the previous exchanges.
Nobody went to investigate. One man even got up and closed the door on that side. Teacher Lady nodded to him. She heard it. Yet she did nothing. Which ruined her credibility for me. It was all an act. A lecture. Lip service. Even without my recent instruction in the tenets of character education, I felt that somebody needed to check on the situation. I am ashamed to say that I, too, did nothing. I've never been one to rock the boat, to stick my neck out, to upset the apple cart. But somebody should have checked! It's like we all sat there, meekly, waiting to inherit the earth.
The final nail that Teacher Lady drove into her own coffin, as far as I was concerned, was the night she rejected the subject of my required report on a person of character. I asked if Kurt Warner would be suitable. It's not like there was enough of Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa to go around. Teacher Lady waved her hand dismissively, and said that we were not here to write about sports figures. I might have imagined it, but I think I detected an eye roll, and "Pshaw!" in that little exchange.
You, Teacher Lady, are no Kurt Warner.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Hicks and Chicks
"Next week, we should be getting some new chicks," Hick told The Pony this evening.
No, he's not procuring sweet young things for The Pony's pleasure. He was referring to the five eggs he put under a hen that was setting. It takes twenty-one days for the chicks to hatch. Hick was a bit perturbed, because a couple days ago, he found eleven eggs under that broody hen. That means the chick-hatching will be all out of kilter. That the five will hatch, and the hen will abandon the other eggs. Hick sees that as a waste of potential chicks. Yes. He counts his chickens before they hatch.
Hick revealed his plan. He will take the chicks away from the hen so she will keep setting. I called him on it. "What are you going to do with the chicks? They need their mother. The hen always keeps the chick near her. Remember how the hens get hysterical when the chicks go in and out of the fence, and they can't get to them?"
"The hen won't even know. I'll put the chicks in the rabbit hutch. They'll be fine."
Perhaps in all his years of chicken husbandry, Hick has not noticed how the hen is protective of her chicks. How she tucks them under her body to keep them warm. How the chicks poke their heads out of random feather crevices to see what's going on. How you can't shut up a cheeping chick. It's not like we're a production line, and put chicks in separate pens with warmers, all protected from predators and the elements. Our chicks have to deal with frosty nights and hawks and cats and goat feet and dogs and whatever sets those dogs to barking all the live-long night.
I think I talked Hick into putting another broody hen on the remaining eggs as soon as the first ones hatch. I don't know how it will work out. But at least the chicks will have their adoptive momma. Who knows what kind of eggs she is setting on. It's a toss-up. At least she will have the Egghead Juniors she has been dreaming of.
I don't want to think that Hick is being heartless. Or ignorant. I'd rather think that he's doing secret research in the field of nature versus nurture. Are new chicks hatched knowing all they need to know to survive? Or do they need a mother hen to model behavior for them?
Perhaps The Pony is lucky that Hick didn't send him off with a sandwich in a paper sack as soon as he could walk, in order to seek his fortune and fend for himself.
No, he's not procuring sweet young things for The Pony's pleasure. He was referring to the five eggs he put under a hen that was setting. It takes twenty-one days for the chicks to hatch. Hick was a bit perturbed, because a couple days ago, he found eleven eggs under that broody hen. That means the chick-hatching will be all out of kilter. That the five will hatch, and the hen will abandon the other eggs. Hick sees that as a waste of potential chicks. Yes. He counts his chickens before they hatch.
Hick revealed his plan. He will take the chicks away from the hen so she will keep setting. I called him on it. "What are you going to do with the chicks? They need their mother. The hen always keeps the chick near her. Remember how the hens get hysterical when the chicks go in and out of the fence, and they can't get to them?"
"The hen won't even know. I'll put the chicks in the rabbit hutch. They'll be fine."
Perhaps in all his years of chicken husbandry, Hick has not noticed how the hen is protective of her chicks. How she tucks them under her body to keep them warm. How the chicks poke their heads out of random feather crevices to see what's going on. How you can't shut up a cheeping chick. It's not like we're a production line, and put chicks in separate pens with warmers, all protected from predators and the elements. Our chicks have to deal with frosty nights and hawks and cats and goat feet and dogs and whatever sets those dogs to barking all the live-long night.
I think I talked Hick into putting another broody hen on the remaining eggs as soon as the first ones hatch. I don't know how it will work out. But at least the chicks will have their adoptive momma. Who knows what kind of eggs she is setting on. It's a toss-up. At least she will have the Egghead Juniors she has been dreaming of.
I don't want to think that Hick is being heartless. Or ignorant. I'd rather think that he's doing secret research in the field of nature versus nurture. Are new chicks hatched knowing all they need to know to survive? Or do they need a mother hen to model behavior for them?
Perhaps The Pony is lucky that Hick didn't send him off with a sandwich in a paper sack as soon as he could walk, in order to seek his fortune and fend for himself.
Friday, March 16, 2012
I Want to Thank You, Ray Don
No. I'm not Julia Sugarbaker. And I'm not sarcastically thanking Ray Don Simpson for being that guy who is always where women gather, or try to be alone, asking if the book they're reading is any good, or if he can keep them company on the plane. Nope. But I love that speech, and especially the way Dixie Carter said, "Ray Dooonnnn."
I do, however, want to thank my commenters. Not simply for the act of commenting, but for serving up some nice, juicy fastballs for me to launch over the center field fence in batting practice. I LOOOVE responding to comments. It gives me practice for responding to students' off-the-wall observations. Like the lad who asked me yesterday if I had any education whatsoever. Well. That's not really a fair example. It was more of an Emily Litella moment, because he was actually asking if the citizens of a certain county had any education whatsoever, because their annual consumption of BTUs compared to that of the U.S. made them look like the Flintstones compared to the Jetsons. My mistake. I have trouble imagining a world where everything is not about ME.
Genius says he does not even bother to read my blog. He goes straight to the comments, because they're the best part. Oh, but if a post is about HIM, he will go back and read it. Just because. One single seventeen-year-old can't be wrong. The comments are where it's at.
They are also good practice for when I pack up my old kit bag and hit the road to seek my fortune on the stand-up comedy circuit. Practice for responses to hecklers.
Hey! Here's a Top Ten List of WHY COMMENTS ROCK:
10. They prove I have real, live readers, not just Google searchers looking for "wiener nose monkey"
9. Every day is a surprise, finding what comment format Blogger has laid out for me
8. The number of responses informs me of the suckitude level of individual posts
7. Free, unsolicited advice!
6. People reveal their dark secrets
5. I can be snotty AND sweet, kind of like a Sour Patch Kid with the sniffles
4. More chances to talk about ME
3. I can harvest scathingly brilliant ideas for future posts
2. Less filling than a regular post
1. Limitless possibilities for Seinfeld references!
Thank you. I'll be here all year.
I do, however, want to thank my commenters. Not simply for the act of commenting, but for serving up some nice, juicy fastballs for me to launch over the center field fence in batting practice. I LOOOVE responding to comments. It gives me practice for responding to students' off-the-wall observations. Like the lad who asked me yesterday if I had any education whatsoever. Well. That's not really a fair example. It was more of an Emily Litella moment, because he was actually asking if the citizens of a certain county had any education whatsoever, because their annual consumption of BTUs compared to that of the U.S. made them look like the Flintstones compared to the Jetsons. My mistake. I have trouble imagining a world where everything is not about ME.
Genius says he does not even bother to read my blog. He goes straight to the comments, because they're the best part. Oh, but if a post is about HIM, he will go back and read it. Just because. One single seventeen-year-old can't be wrong. The comments are where it's at.
They are also good practice for when I pack up my old kit bag and hit the road to seek my fortune on the stand-up comedy circuit. Practice for responses to hecklers.
Hey! Here's a Top Ten List of WHY COMMENTS ROCK:
10. They prove I have real, live readers, not just Google searchers looking for "wiener nose monkey"
9. Every day is a surprise, finding what comment format Blogger has laid out for me
8. The number of responses informs me of the suckitude level of individual posts
7. Free, unsolicited advice!
6. People reveal their dark secrets
5. I can be snotty AND sweet, kind of like a Sour Patch Kid with the sniffles
4. More chances to talk about ME
3. I can harvest scathingly brilliant ideas for future posts
2. Less filling than a regular post
1. Limitless possibilities for Seinfeld references!
Thank you. I'll be here all year.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Shuttered, Off-Kilter Window To My Soul
I have an issue.
There is a person at my lunch table who persists in staring at my shoulder throughout our conversation. Every day. No matter what the topic. No matter what I'm wearing. My shoulder.
At first, I thought I might have a piece of lint stuck to my shirt. I looked for it. Like when a person talks to you while staring at your hair. You smooth it. But this is the shoulder. I don't have hair sprouting in tufts through the cotton of my shirtsleeve. The obsession baffles me.
Am I so butt-ugly that one cannot look into my face without perishing? Am I such a huge collection of matter that one must orient herself by focusing on a certain point, lest my gravitational pull make her feel as if she is spiraling toward the center of my black hole? Did somebody sneeze and leave a booger on me? Does my sleeve have a little smart-mouth that drones on and on while one is talking to me, requiring a firm silencing with a Tide Pen? Do I have a feminine hygiene product poking out of my pocket? Did I nod off to sleep in my classroom, resulting in a student-administered, oozing tattoo of a dancing hula girl? Do I have a large mole that strains the seams of my shirtsleeve? Do my irises spin like two hypnotizing black-and-white spirals, causing one to fall under my control with the power of suggestion, lest one looks away to break the spell?
I don't get it.
There is a person at my lunch table who persists in staring at my shoulder throughout our conversation. Every day. No matter what the topic. No matter what I'm wearing. My shoulder.
At first, I thought I might have a piece of lint stuck to my shirt. I looked for it. Like when a person talks to you while staring at your hair. You smooth it. But this is the shoulder. I don't have hair sprouting in tufts through the cotton of my shirtsleeve. The obsession baffles me.
Am I so butt-ugly that one cannot look into my face without perishing? Am I such a huge collection of matter that one must orient herself by focusing on a certain point, lest my gravitational pull make her feel as if she is spiraling toward the center of my black hole? Did somebody sneeze and leave a booger on me? Does my sleeve have a little smart-mouth that drones on and on while one is talking to me, requiring a firm silencing with a Tide Pen? Do I have a feminine hygiene product poking out of my pocket? Did I nod off to sleep in my classroom, resulting in a student-administered, oozing tattoo of a dancing hula girl? Do I have a large mole that strains the seams of my shirtsleeve? Do my irises spin like two hypnotizing black-and-white spirals, causing one to fall under my control with the power of suggestion, lest one looks away to break the spell?
I don't get it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)