Denny

I am often pleasantly surprised by the reappearance of former students of mine. Whether it is at school when they pop by to pick up a younger sibling or in the aisles of Target where we are all searching for a bargain. It's always interesting and confounding to see how voices change and bodies grow. They usually have me at a distinct advantage since I haven't changed much beyond the fringe of hair around my temples has become mostly gray. They are all grown up.
I have a fond memory or two to share with most of the kids who stop by, even if I have to pad the exchange a little by asking about how their grades are, or who they still see from the old gang from elementary school. It's nice of them to remember me, but there is only one kid that I still look for: Denny.
In my first year of teaching, I was sitting at an Apple II GS, trying to figure out what the previous computer lab teacher might have left as a password, when I turned to my right and found him standing there. "Whatcha doin?" he asked.
At the time, I didn't have the management skills to question him about his whereabouts. I told him I was trying to get the computer to work. He nodded and waited for me to return to work. "Did you know it was boxes like this that made the dinosaurs in 'Jurassic Park?'"
"You can make dinosaurs with that?" He continued to stare, intent on seeing what I might make the box on the table do next. Immediately I felt embarrassed that all I was managing was a few clicks and a beep that told me that I wouldn't be using that machine anytime soon.
We were both surprised when his third grade teacher stuck her head in my door and exclaimed, "Denny! Leave Mister Caven alone. He's got work to do. You should be at recess!" So we bid a quick farewell, and I looked forward to the moment when he would come back with his class and I had the whole lab up and running. We might not be designing computer graphic dinosaurs, but maybe we could draw one in KidPix.
As I gained my sea legs as a teacher, Denny continued his interest in what I had to offer. He was one of the first kids to take me up on my early morning chess challenge. I had a number of chess boards in my closet, and I told kids who came before school that if they wanted to learn how to play chess, I would teach them. Denny was there nearly every morning. Eventually, he became familiar enough with the basics that I could get his help with other kids, setting up the board and explaining how it wasn't like checkers, and each piece had its own special way of moving. I also told them all that anyone who beat Mister Caven could keep the board. Every kid who ever heard this immediately took it to heart and challenged me abruptly. Denny was the only one who made a point of making it a regular part of his week. Not every day, but we had a game once or twice a week, and he kept me thinking as I walked around the room, preparing for the upcoming day, returning to make my move and then walking away again while he pondered his strategy.
He came back in fourth grade. He came back in fifth, and he noticed that I had a book: "Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess."
"Is that how you beat me?"
I told him there were no secrets, and he was welcome to take a look. We didn't play that day as he pored over the diagrams inside. When the bell rang, I told him he could borrow the book. He thanked me and left to start his day. As the rest of the year went on, I saw Denny less and less. Fifth grade required more of his attention, both academically and socially, but he still found time to drop by once a week or so for a game. One day I realized that I hadn't seen my Bobby Fischer book for a month or so, I asked Denny if he had lost it.
"I haven't finished reading it," he complained.
Reading it? If he was serious about reading all three hundred and fifty-two pages, I wasn't going to stop him. Weeks passed, and in the spring of 1999, Denny beat me. I could make an excuse about how I was busy turning on the computers in the lab or checking attendance or some other adult preoccupation, but the truth was, he caught me in a six-move checkmate. I looked at the board, and he smiled.
"I guess this is mine." It would be impossible to say who was more proud.
After that, Denny didn't come by as often. He had made his mark. He told some of his friends they should check out Mister Caven's Chess Club. After he was promoted to middle school, I waited to hear about how he had taken all those other sixth graders by storm, but he was done. I heard he had moved away. I wondered if he might come back to visit.
I wonder if he's still playing.

Esteemed Compliments

Mr. Emmanuel Akwasi, Branch Manager of the International Commercial Bank Takoradi Branch in Ghana, wrote me today to let me know of yet another of what seems to be a very unfortunate series of circumstances. As a family man, I was immediately struck by the fact that he mentioned that he was happily married with three children twice in as many paragraphs, but then our paths began to diverge. He spun a tale of twelve and a half million dollars and offered me a chance to be part of some illicit scheme to share in part of this windfall. Sure, a little extra cash around the holidays would be a welcome relief, but all of this international intrigue leaves me just a little cold. What if I had to travel to Ghana to pick up this wad of bills? I hate to travel and dealing with strangers always makes me nervous. Still, just one percent of all that money would drop one hundred thousand dollars into my account. So very tempting.
But in real life, I just crushed it into the spam file and deleted it with the offers for natural enhancement and the opportunity to meet attractive Russian women. Odd how those two things tend to show up in the same e-mail flurry. Odd, again, that this particular ruse continues to swirl about Al Gore's Internet years after they first appeared years ago. Like info-mercials for the Shake Weight, they seem to linger. Somebody must buy this stuff. Not me.
My wife, on the other hand, just might. To be fair, she is a pretty savvy consumer and is the one who introduced me to Snopes.com way back when I was new to the cyber jungles myself. Still, when something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Unless it's happening to you. She was trying to sell a dresser set that my son has long since outgrown, and having little to no success at various garage and rummage sales, decided to take her chances online.
That's when the creeps came out. One in particular was very excited and pleased to offer her a chance to sell her merchandise, and in a very awkwardly written reply, this potential buyer began to spin a tale of woe and confusion that made the time and effort my wife was putting into the transaction seem ridiculous. Several different attempts were made to send a check, but never for the purchase price alone. She was asked to deposit the funds, then remit the difference back to a third party. Not the party of the first part, since they had recently experienced what was described as "a very fatal accident."
Somewhere along the line, I caught wind of all of this, and attempted in my husbandly way to talk her down out of her tree. After a few days of negotiation, I began to understand that my wife understood the scam, and was happily playing along, without the expectation of making a penny off the experience. The dressers are still in our basement, and my wife has had an amusing week or two dangling herself in front of the cyberscum as a potential victim, knowing that at any moment she could simply hit delete and get on with her life. That's not how she wanted to play it. She loves to travel. And if you've got a big check that needs to be cashed, she's open to negotiation.

Drives Me Crazy

You don't have to walk very far these days to find yourself bumping into outrage. Whether it's moral or philosophical, there's always something truly annoying right there on the horizon, even out here in sunny California. With all our vast resources and potential, we still find ourselves fumbling around in the metaphorical dark.
Now we get word from Sacramento that our state's lawmakers, amidst a flurry of budget cuts covering everything from welfare-to-work programs to the AIDS prevention office, have saved their cars. More to the point: California taxpayers will be paying for their legislators to drive around the Golden state in style. The rides in question are not Ford Focus Sedans. We will be buying Cadillacs, and a hybrid Lexus or two. I suppose we could congratulate the representatives who chose the green alternative, but green really is the issue. The long green. The tall cash. The program that provides wheels for the idjits who can't seem to pass a budget on time will cost us in the neighborhood of five million dollars this year. As a state that is some six billion dollars in the red, this probably seems like an inconsequential sum, but as another great Californian once said, "It ain't the size that's in question here. It's the principle."
Does it make more sense to provide legislators with monthly passes on Caltrain? Should we encourage carpooling from Bakersfield? Better yet, why not ask them to pick up the tab on their transportation out of the ninety-five thousand dollar a year salary that we are already paying? Since we're also paying a one hundred seventy-three dollar per diem for mileage, do we really have to buy them cars to use it up?
The good news, if there is any, is that the Governator and his hydrogen powered Humvee drive recklessly off into the sunset we return to our past: Jerry Brown will be looking to get his hands on the 1974 Plymouth Satellite he drove back in his first term as governor. That's one sweet ride.

How Many Days Of Christmas?

There is an eternal debate in my household about when Christmas starts. I understand that the actual date never shifts, but depending where December twenty-fifth falls during the week can make a big impact on my holiday state of mind. Part of the confusion stems from the fact that the outside lights go up on the day after Thanksgiving. This is true no matter how far back in November Turkey Day gets pushed. We are still out there stringing bulbs in a tryptophan haze on the Friday that is traditionally known as "Black."
That's when the countdown begins. I know that my wife would like to have the tree up in the living room that day as well, but I'm not ready for all that foliage. I prefer to have a few days to warm up to the notion of Tannenbaums. The rest of the planet may be rushing about with Douglas Firs strapped to the top of their sedans, but I will hold out as long as I can until I am forced to go down to the basement and haul up our nylon-umbrella-technology "tree." Something about staring at all that glittering festiveness leaves me feeling less than cheery. It feels like an obligation. It is probably because I know that just as soon as I feel comfortable with the whole idea, it will be time to haul the boxes back up the stairs and reverse the process.
Something about having a six foot tall reminder of the season next to the television that will spout Christmas themed programming and commercials for six solid weeks seems redundant. Maybe if we put the tree up in the kitchen it wouldn't seem so redundant. Outside, there is plenty of room for all the merriness to dissipate somewhat.
Eventually I surrender my my Grinchy ways and find myself at a mall, all decked out with boughs of holly. This past weekend as I watched shoppers rush home with their treasures, my family was serenaded by "apprentice toy soldiers from the North Pole." The three uniformed musical theatre fanatics performed a medley of Christmas tunes that won me over, as I stood in the shadow of Emeryville's shopping cart tree. All of this Glee-inspired cheer pushed me over the edge and before noon the next day our own halls were officially decked. It might be a stretch to say that my heart grew three sizes that day, but now I can share the living room with our twinkling artificial pine.

Turn Out The Lights

Don Meredith picked Monday to toss his last forward pass: into the Great Beyond. No other games scheduled. As an old-timer, it would be nice to say that I remember his playing days with the Dallas Cowboys. I don't. I remember his extremely casual presence in the broadcast booth of Monday Night Football. He was the swig of gin that accompanied the very dry vermouth that was Howard Cossell in that martini. He kept the game from becoming too serious. It was a game for Don. That's why he walked away from the Cowboys back in 1968. It wasn't fun anymore. When Howard Cossell left the broadcast team in 1983, Dandy Don only stuck around one more year. Without Howard's toupee to ridicule, there wasn't much reason to be there.
Just up the road from Santa Fe, where Don passed away, things were becoming very serious for Josh McDaniels. As wunderkind of the NFL last year, he led the Denver Broncos to six straight wins to start his first season as head coach. For a month and a half, he could do no wrong. Then all of that changed. On Monday afternoon, Josh was relieved of his duties. This came just a few days after the owner's dreaded "vote of confidence." Pat Bowlen had said that he wasn't interested in making any coaching changes until the season was over. After losing to the Kansas City Chiefs, the Broncos were eliminated from playoff contention. The season was, effectively, over. There was no reason to prolong the suffering.
And so the search for a new coach begins. One of the prime candidates for the job will no doubt be Jon Gruden. Jon is currently hanging around the broadcast booth of Monday Night Football, auditioning for a job by complaining about the way other teams are being coached. Whether he ends up in Denver or not, Josh McDaniels could save himself some anxiety by sharpening up his singing voice and prepare himself for a season or two high above the action as part of the Monday Night team. All together now: "Turn out the lights, the party's over. They say that all good things must end. Let's call it a night the party's over and tomorrow starts the same old thing again."

Way To Go, Einstein

Portfolio.com just released a list of their two hundred brainiest cities in America. Having spent some time there, I was unsurprised to find Boulder, Colorado at the top of that list. Having one's home town selected as the smartest spot in the nation certainly does something to one's self-esteem. The effect I experienced was a brief period of pride, then polite chagrin. When I lived in Boulder, I didn't pal around with a lot of rocket scientists. My neighbors were not constructing their own nuclear reactors in their garages. The kids I went to school with had decent verbal skills, but there was no Proust Reading Competitions at lunch time. Though there was some discussion of it, I never knew anyone who actually got their very own Mensa belt buckle.
The truth is, I ran into my share of stupid people in Boulder. To be completely honest, from time to time, I was one of those stupid people in Boulder. Some of the worst decisions of my young life were made inside those city limits. It was there that I built and fired my own Polish cannon, and suffered the mildly unpleasant impact of a tennis ball returning from its point of origin at the speed of its muzzle velocity less a little wind resistance, on my forehead. It was in one of the many scenic parks there that I made the drug and alcohol impacted bad choice of jumping out of a swing and into the night, landing daintily on one leg, then collapsing in a heap as the ligaments in that leg succumbed to the impact.
I was hit by a car in Boulder. Not once, but twice. I had more than my share of youthful misadventures and collisions in motor vehicles that I was driving. I suspect that if you asked my parents if I were some kind of poster boy for the educated mass that is Boulder, Colorado, it would have difficult for them to recommend me on any given day. Yes, I graduated from high school, and received a degree from the University just up the hill, but I don't know how much I actively contributed to the city's overall "brainpower index."
Maybe there's something flawed about the survey. After all, Washington D.C. came in third.

Don't Ask

It was raining one day after school. The group of kids who stay late for our reading program all wanted to go outside. "No, I'm sorry," I explained, "It's raining."
After a few moments of staring blankly out into the downpour, at least three of our best and brightest announced, "No it's not." Faced with the blank indifference of precipitation, they chose to crib from Mythbuster Adam Savage, effectively announcing, "I reject your reality and substitute my own."
Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on our students, after all our nation's leaders are perfectly capable of doing exactly the same thing on a regular basis. One particular shining star in this firmament is John "I Picked Who?" McCain. The Pentagon released a report last week, which surveyed members from every branch of the military, and concluded that allowing gays to serve openly would not have long-lasting negative consequences on the military. Senator John disagreed. "What I want to know and what it is that Congress' duty to determine is not can our armed forces implement a repeal of this law, but whether the law should be repealed," McCain said. "Unfortunately, that key issue was not the focus of this study. It is, however, the fundamental question that must be answered by Congress -- not by the president or the courts, but by Congress."
Apparently, Mister McCain disagrees with another expert in the field: Himself. "The day that the leadership of the military comes to me and says, 'Senator, we ought to change the policy,' then I think we ought to consider seriously changing it," He said in October 2006 to an audience of Iowa State University students. He also disagrees with his wife, who appears in public service announcements for the organization NOH8, and said "Government treats the (gay) community like second-class citizens" and does not give young people hope.
Sorry, military. You're going to have to wait until John McCain gets the answer he wants.
My suggestion is this: Don't ask John McCain.