Along with a few hundred thousand of our closest friends, my family and I attended the big Fireworks Extravaganza that accompanied the seventy-fifth anniversary of the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge. When I say that we "attended," I mean that we stood along the shore some miles away and watched the bright flashes in the sky. It was, as these things go, impressive.
Why so dismissive about aerial shells and erupting volcanoes of colored sparks and flames? I suppose that at this point in my life I feel as though I've been there and done that. Not that there aren't some surprises left now and again. The ones that blow up into the shape of smiley faces or cubes are a nice addition, but they are still working with the same basic palette. Maybe that's why the folks in charge of the Golden Gate display hauled out a bunch of lasers to spice up the mix just a little.
And that was cool, but from where we were it looked a little like someone shining a flashlight up into the prevailing clouds of smoke. I do sound a little jaded, don't I? But I have stared up into the night sky enough to become familiar with the patterns and colors. There is something that keeps it fresh to me, however: The explosions. This wasn't an option for us along the shore that night, but on those occasions when we can get up close enough to hear the bang and feel the concussion, then it's all new again. As a little kid, my son loved fireworks, but hated the boom. If we were half a mile away or more, he was happy. Any closer, and my wife and I would take turns holding our hands over his ears as we all winced in anticipation of the next barrage. Maybe that's why he suggested, before we found our spot on the shore, that maybe the best way to take in the spectacle would be on YouTube. Or maybe I can just close my eyes and remember all those fireworks shows I've seen over the past fifty years.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Dubious Distinction
It's Award Season in the world of Elementary School! However, the mother of an eight-year-old Arizona girl who was presented with a "Catastrophe Award" for apparently having the most excuses for not having homework believes her child was humiliated by her teacher. "I think it's cruel and no child should be given an award like this.
It's disturbing," she said, adding that she was not aware her daughter
had a problem with homework, and that the girl had been enrolled in an
after-school homework assistance program.
Wait a second. Back up the tape. Did she say that her daughter had been enrolled in an after-school homework assistance program and she was unaware that her daughter had a problem with homework? That's a little confusing, isn't it? I'm not going to side with the teacher on this one, since an eight-year-old probably isn't going to get the layers of sarcasm that are involved in presenting such an award. He or she might get the humiliation part, which is a vein that had been mined each time that student had appeared in the morning without homework. I can relate to this, since my son has been struggling with a similar experience this past year as a freshman in high school.
He didn't got through that one alone, however. His mother and I have doubled our efforts to find the holes in his filing system and poked through his backpack on an increasingly regular basis, looking for those stray assignments or missing worksheets. Initially we cursed his teachers for not giving him the attention he deserved, and then became aware that the gap in the fence was the locus of control. He had made it all the way to fourteen without fully understanding that homework was his job, and that his teachers and parents were there to help and facilitate, but turning in papers and projects was his responsibility. Not ours. But if he brought home a Catastrophe Award for his efforts this year, I would share it with him. It's my job to get him ready for the work he's got in front of him and to get it where it belongs. I guess I would thank a third grade teacher who gave me the heads-up just so we could have had a jump on what was ahead of us. For him.
Wait a second. Back up the tape. Did she say that her daughter had been enrolled in an after-school homework assistance program and she was unaware that her daughter had a problem with homework? That's a little confusing, isn't it? I'm not going to side with the teacher on this one, since an eight-year-old probably isn't going to get the layers of sarcasm that are involved in presenting such an award. He or she might get the humiliation part, which is a vein that had been mined each time that student had appeared in the morning without homework. I can relate to this, since my son has been struggling with a similar experience this past year as a freshman in high school.
He didn't got through that one alone, however. His mother and I have doubled our efforts to find the holes in his filing system and poked through his backpack on an increasingly regular basis, looking for those stray assignments or missing worksheets. Initially we cursed his teachers for not giving him the attention he deserved, and then became aware that the gap in the fence was the locus of control. He had made it all the way to fourteen without fully understanding that homework was his job, and that his teachers and parents were there to help and facilitate, but turning in papers and projects was his responsibility. Not ours. But if he brought home a Catastrophe Award for his efforts this year, I would share it with him. It's my job to get him ready for the work he's got in front of him and to get it where it belongs. I guess I would thank a third grade teacher who gave me the heads-up just so we could have had a jump on what was ahead of us. For him.
Friday, June 01, 2012
Smoke And Mirrors
Given a chance, I would take the opportunity to vote against R.J. Reynolds and Philip Morris. Not the guys themselves, since they're not running for anything, but they are campaigning against Proposition 29 here in California. In our play, R.J. and Phil are the bad guys known as "Big Tobacco." They are the ones who oppose this suggestion by our legislature that we raise a bunch of money for cancer research by raising the taxes on buying tobacco products. The cool thing about this one is that you don't have to pay this tax if you don't smoke or chew or snort or ingest any of these products. The products that cause cancer.
Then I hear my wife's voice. The one that reminds me that the industry that is in charge of finding a cure for cancer is capable of just as much waste and corruption as our pals R.J. and Phil. She makes the argument that this cancer-curing industry has nothing to gain from eliminating their source of funding: the disease itself. It's a pretty scary conspiracy theory, but not out of the realm of possibility. If there was a cure for cancer, what would all those folks in white lab coats do? We can't afford to put all of those highly educated people out of work right now, can we?
And what about that idea that only the addicts have to pay for finding this cure? Aren't they the victims in this tragedy? It's pretty easy to sit back, without a pack-a-day habit, and suggest that the ones who are puffing away are the problem, and they somehow deserve to pick up the tab on all this science that will benefit them. Well, them and all the other people who get cancer from any number of other sources aside from tobacco. And what about taking care of them when they do get sick?
It seemed like such an easy question when the conversation started.
Then I hear my wife's voice. The one that reminds me that the industry that is in charge of finding a cure for cancer is capable of just as much waste and corruption as our pals R.J. and Phil. She makes the argument that this cancer-curing industry has nothing to gain from eliminating their source of funding: the disease itself. It's a pretty scary conspiracy theory, but not out of the realm of possibility. If there was a cure for cancer, what would all those folks in white lab coats do? We can't afford to put all of those highly educated people out of work right now, can we?
And what about that idea that only the addicts have to pay for finding this cure? Aren't they the victims in this tragedy? It's pretty easy to sit back, without a pack-a-day habit, and suggest that the ones who are puffing away are the problem, and they somehow deserve to pick up the tab on all this science that will benefit them. Well, them and all the other people who get cancer from any number of other sources aside from tobacco. And what about taking care of them when they do get sick?
It seemed like such an easy question when the conversation started.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Size Matters
So does character, but that wasn't what Mitt "Enz" Romney was talking about. He was talking about class size. He said, "The schools in the district with the smallest classroom sizes had students performing in the bottom ten percent. Just getting smaller classrooms didn't seem to be the key." There are plenty of studies that the presumptive Republican candidate can cite, but it doesn't make a lot of what we in the education biz call "sense." By the way, we call Mitterling the "presumptive nominee" not because he hasn't yet been named his party's guy, but because he makes a lot of presumptions.
Like the one he made about class size. Those low performing students that he refers to are not necessarily languishing at the bottom of whatever measure the experts choose to use because they have less than twenty kids in their classroom. It's a little like suggesting that hospital rooms cause illness since so many sick people can be found there. I hesitate to say it, because of my chosen profession, but it could be that the classrooms that contain those under-performing students might also contain under-performing teachers. Or a lack of up-to-date materials. Or an large proportion of English-language-learners.
But let's go back to that teacher question, since it's an easy enough target to access. I would hope that no one would argue that teaching one child easier than twenty. I would also allow that after a certain point, teaching ten or more kids is not that much different from teaching twenty. I can also say that there is a marked difference between teaching twenty than thirty. As long as every kid gets a textbook and a warm body at the front of the room with access to the teacher's edition of that textbook, why shouldn't we maximize our savings by getting as many kids into that room as possible? If class size doesn't matter, why not gather all the kids in the cafeteria and let one or two highly trained professionals have a whack at all three or four hundred of the little rascals?
It's not just Mitt 'n' Grits Romney that holds this belief to be true. Barack Obama's Secretary of Education, Arne Duncan has urged districts to improve efficiency by making “smartly targeted increases in class size” and spend their funds instead on “online learning, virtual schools, and other smart uses of technology.”
I understand that budget cuts are one of the pillars of education reform in our country.The focus on both party's education platform is in recruiting and hiring effective teachers and administrators. Good luck on that one if your plan is to recruit highly effective teachers and turn them loose on a room full of thirty-plus hungry and confused young minds. If things don't work out for them in those classrooms, there's always a future for them in consultancy.
Like the one he made about class size. Those low performing students that he refers to are not necessarily languishing at the bottom of whatever measure the experts choose to use because they have less than twenty kids in their classroom. It's a little like suggesting that hospital rooms cause illness since so many sick people can be found there. I hesitate to say it, because of my chosen profession, but it could be that the classrooms that contain those under-performing students might also contain under-performing teachers. Or a lack of up-to-date materials. Or an large proportion of English-language-learners.
But let's go back to that teacher question, since it's an easy enough target to access. I would hope that no one would argue that teaching one child easier than twenty. I would also allow that after a certain point, teaching ten or more kids is not that much different from teaching twenty. I can also say that there is a marked difference between teaching twenty than thirty. As long as every kid gets a textbook and a warm body at the front of the room with access to the teacher's edition of that textbook, why shouldn't we maximize our savings by getting as many kids into that room as possible? If class size doesn't matter, why not gather all the kids in the cafeteria and let one or two highly trained professionals have a whack at all three or four hundred of the little rascals?
It's not just Mitt 'n' Grits Romney that holds this belief to be true. Barack Obama's Secretary of Education, Arne Duncan has urged districts to improve efficiency by making “smartly targeted increases in class size” and spend their funds instead on “online learning, virtual schools, and other smart uses of technology.”
I understand that budget cuts are one of the pillars of education reform in our country.The focus on both party's education platform is in recruiting and hiring effective teachers and administrators. Good luck on that one if your plan is to recruit highly effective teachers and turn them loose on a room full of thirty-plus hungry and confused young minds. If things don't work out for them in those classrooms, there's always a future for them in consultancy.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Past Present
It was a scene that I was happy to witness, but left me a little sad. We stopped by my son's old preschool this past weekend. My wife and son got out and walked around a little. They sized up the little slide and the narrow walkway that lead to the front door. They looked down the hill toward the winding path that served as a Big Wheel race track for him and his little pals way back when. I watched all of this from the passenger seat, windows rolled up. I didn't get out. This wasn't my place. It was theirs.
Coincidentally, I started my teaching gig just about the same time my wife did. She did hers without a credential at my son's co-op preschool. While I was busy sorting things out at my new elementary school, the two of them were pioneering snack time and potty breaks for those who were not ready for Kindergarten. They were just over the hill from where I was working, but they could have been light years away. The days at Peter Pan always involved so much more fun than Horace Mann. I suppose that makes sense, but it pained me just a little that I didn't get to be part of the crew that kept things running alongside the rest of the volunteer parents. I spent a few Saturday afternoons putting in some sweat equity on the clean up crew and even helped install that little slide that seemed so big way back when.
But mostly I was at work while they were at school. They came and visited me on a couple of occasions, but mostly we were on separate paths. I was grateful for the opportunity to be a part of the Dads' Club at my son's elementary school. I was finally able to connect with his scholastic endeavors in a meaningful way. That is, if running the talent show and serving pancake breakfast once a year could be considered meaningful.
Now he's in high school, and the opportunities for either his mother or me to be involved in his day to day world lie squarely after the bell rings. He would much rather have us here as support on geometry homework or the occasional ride home when the bus comes too early or too late. Back in the Peter Pan days, sometimes he would ride on the back of his mother's bike to school. Those were the days.
Coincidentally, I started my teaching gig just about the same time my wife did. She did hers without a credential at my son's co-op preschool. While I was busy sorting things out at my new elementary school, the two of them were pioneering snack time and potty breaks for those who were not ready for Kindergarten. They were just over the hill from where I was working, but they could have been light years away. The days at Peter Pan always involved so much more fun than Horace Mann. I suppose that makes sense, but it pained me just a little that I didn't get to be part of the crew that kept things running alongside the rest of the volunteer parents. I spent a few Saturday afternoons putting in some sweat equity on the clean up crew and even helped install that little slide that seemed so big way back when.
But mostly I was at work while they were at school. They came and visited me on a couple of occasions, but mostly we were on separate paths. I was grateful for the opportunity to be a part of the Dads' Club at my son's elementary school. I was finally able to connect with his scholastic endeavors in a meaningful way. That is, if running the talent show and serving pancake breakfast once a year could be considered meaningful.
Now he's in high school, and the opportunities for either his mother or me to be involved in his day to day world lie squarely after the bell rings. He would much rather have us here as support on geometry homework or the occasional ride home when the bus comes too early or too late. Back in the Peter Pan days, sometimes he would ride on the back of his mother's bike to school. Those were the days.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Pick Up The Pieces
This past weekend my wife caught up on all the Transformers she had been missing when she sat down and watched "Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon." Dutiful mother that she is, she sat still for the entire two and a half hours of the latest chapter of action-figure-inspired mayhem. She winced at director Michael Bay's selection of underwear model Rosie Huntington-Whitely and her skimpy ensembles that might have made Megan Fox blush. She cringed when the space shuttle carrying the Autobots into space exploded in a scene all too reminiscent of space shuttles that have exploded in real life. But that's what you get when you sit down in front of a Michael Bay film: Things blow up.
In this case, both Washington, DC and Chicago got the Bay treatment, as Earth was once again in peril of being overrun by giant robots who double as sports cars and tractor trailer trucks. Somehow, three movies into the franchise, our government is still able to keep their existence a closely guarded secret, in spite of the way they seem to crush and destroy most everything that gets in their way. Such is the conceit of Transformers.
I wandered in and out of the room as the action took place in surround-sound. I wondered how no one had managed to snap a picture of Optimus Prime with their camera phone or grabbed a video of Bumble Bee for uploading to Youtube. Perhaps they were all too busy running for their lives as buildings crashed down around them and machines from another galaxy threatened their very existence. When the smoke cleared, the bad robots had been vanquished and the good robots needed a few parts replaced, and most of downtown Chicago lay in ruins.
That's when I came up with the idea for "Transformers 4: Damage Control," after the limited comic series from Marvel Comics. The good folks at Marvel have been tearing up New York City for fifty-plus years now, and so it makes sense that by now they've figured out that you can only knock down the Empire State Building so many times a month without somebody at least threatening some pretty nasty litigation. I would expect that even transforming robots from another galaxy might end up having to do a little community service after some of the surveillance video has been seen. There could even be a whole line of household appliances that turn into very useful robots who can put things back together just as their more boisterous counterparts tear things up. Once they put the Lincoln Monument back together, they can get to work on reassembling the Pyramid of Cheops. Actually, come to think of it, I think I saw this show back when my son was much younger. It was called "Bob The Builder." I can't wait for Michael Bay to get his hands on that one.
In this case, both Washington, DC and Chicago got the Bay treatment, as Earth was once again in peril of being overrun by giant robots who double as sports cars and tractor trailer trucks. Somehow, three movies into the franchise, our government is still able to keep their existence a closely guarded secret, in spite of the way they seem to crush and destroy most everything that gets in their way. Such is the conceit of Transformers.
I wandered in and out of the room as the action took place in surround-sound. I wondered how no one had managed to snap a picture of Optimus Prime with their camera phone or grabbed a video of Bumble Bee for uploading to Youtube. Perhaps they were all too busy running for their lives as buildings crashed down around them and machines from another galaxy threatened their very existence. When the smoke cleared, the bad robots had been vanquished and the good robots needed a few parts replaced, and most of downtown Chicago lay in ruins.
That's when I came up with the idea for "Transformers 4: Damage Control," after the limited comic series from Marvel Comics. The good folks at Marvel have been tearing up New York City for fifty-plus years now, and so it makes sense that by now they've figured out that you can only knock down the Empire State Building so many times a month without somebody at least threatening some pretty nasty litigation. I would expect that even transforming robots from another galaxy might end up having to do a little community service after some of the surveillance video has been seen. There could even be a whole line of household appliances that turn into very useful robots who can put things back together just as their more boisterous counterparts tear things up. Once they put the Lincoln Monument back together, they can get to work on reassembling the Pyramid of Cheops. Actually, come to think of it, I think I saw this show back when my son was much younger. It was called "Bob The Builder." I can't wait for Michael Bay to get his hands on that one.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Fixing A Hole Where The Rain Gets In
I can already hear my mother chuckling. She does this when she hears how I spent my days off, puttering about the house. On any given weekend, I might mow and week the lawn, or maybe attack a tree that has become too assertive in its growth, but those are tasks for the two-day weekends. This was a four-day weekend. In a move that I could finally support, my union opted to get what would have been Lincoln's Birthday attached to the traditional three-day Memorial weekend. Now I had four days. Just enough time to replace half the roof over our back porch. Hear that, mom? I found a way to stay busy.
Of course, I didn't really give myself a chance to relax, since I started demolition on the dry rot Thursday evening after I came home from school. There was sunlight, after all. "If a task is once begun, never leave it till it's done. Be the labor great or small, do it well or not at all." Or at least that's the poetic Christian view of things. I don't know about doing it well, since this is the second time I've had to repair that section of roof. The first time I did it, I went up the ladder with an eye toward getting finished, but had no particular vision. This time I was plagued for weeks in advance with measurements and possible geometry for making this process a smooth one. Like so many things about our old house, there were no standard distances between any two points, and I felt gifted by the two right angles left on the slab of roof I was able to salvage.
The night before was full of tossing and turning. In my dreams, I did the job nine times. Each time I refined my technique and materials. I didn't sleep much, but I had a solid feel for the job ahead of me by the time I got out of bed around seven. It would still be a few more hours before we could borrow a van that was large enough to carry our plywood and tar paper and shingles. And flashing. And tin snips. And nails.
It was just before noon when I started the actual construction, and the clouds confirmed what the news had intimated the night before: rain was headed our way. As my son and I toiled in the sun, we watched the weather begin to change. I hammered, he hauled things up and down the ladder, and as the sky grew completely dark, there were still a few shingles left to nail down. Then it started to rain. I didn't look up, I kept hammering. My son scurried about on the ground, putting away tools and extra materials as we raced to beat the storm.
When I was finished, so was the rain. Just enough moisture to test my resolve. My son held the ladder for me as I climbed back down. I told him we could wait a day or two to put some paint on the exposed wood. He was relieved, but I knew what I would dream of until it was complete.
Of course, I didn't really give myself a chance to relax, since I started demolition on the dry rot Thursday evening after I came home from school. There was sunlight, after all. "If a task is once begun, never leave it till it's done. Be the labor great or small, do it well or not at all." Or at least that's the poetic Christian view of things. I don't know about doing it well, since this is the second time I've had to repair that section of roof. The first time I did it, I went up the ladder with an eye toward getting finished, but had no particular vision. This time I was plagued for weeks in advance with measurements and possible geometry for making this process a smooth one. Like so many things about our old house, there were no standard distances between any two points, and I felt gifted by the two right angles left on the slab of roof I was able to salvage.
The night before was full of tossing and turning. In my dreams, I did the job nine times. Each time I refined my technique and materials. I didn't sleep much, but I had a solid feel for the job ahead of me by the time I got out of bed around seven. It would still be a few more hours before we could borrow a van that was large enough to carry our plywood and tar paper and shingles. And flashing. And tin snips. And nails.
It was just before noon when I started the actual construction, and the clouds confirmed what the news had intimated the night before: rain was headed our way. As my son and I toiled in the sun, we watched the weather begin to change. I hammered, he hauled things up and down the ladder, and as the sky grew completely dark, there were still a few shingles left to nail down. Then it started to rain. I didn't look up, I kept hammering. My son scurried about on the ground, putting away tools and extra materials as we raced to beat the storm.
When I was finished, so was the rain. Just enough moisture to test my resolve. My son held the ladder for me as I climbed back down. I told him we could wait a day or two to put some paint on the exposed wood. He was relieved, but I knew what I would dream of until it was complete.
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