When it comes to change, I'm not a big fan. I understand it's inevitable. But I am always relieved when everyone understands that there is a time and place for spontaneity. I went to the elementary school down the street from my house. I walked there, just like my older brother did. Even though we managed not to have any of the same teachers, I took some comfort when someone at the school would say, "Oh, I remember your brother." I felt like a legacy.
That's how I felt when it came time to head up the hill to junior high. I was literally following in my brother's footsteps. This is where I found myself in a number of different classrooms where my brother had sat, same gym, same auditorium, same hallways. We might even have had the same locker at some point. Knowing that he had gone before and warmed it up for me took some of the fear out of seventh grade, in spite of all his admonitions about how terrifying it would be.
It was toward the end of that year that the school district announced that they would be changing the boundary for junior high enrollment. By moving that line just a little to the north, I found myself suddenly cast into the position of attending Casey Junior High. I was a Centennial Cyclone, not a Casey Cub. Never mind that my mother had once attended Casey, I had followed a rather fierce indoctrination against her alma mater spurred on almost entirely by my older brother. Leaving Centennial and all the familiarity with the facility and all my friends was unthinkable. My parents did me the solid of writing an exception letter that got me what I wanted: permission to finish out my junior high career as a Cyclone.
Meanwhile my younger brother, who had followed along in two older brothers' wake through that same elementary school, was preparing for his seventh grade year. His friends were headed to Casey, and he didn't look back. His interest was in continuity with his peers more than clinging to some vague sense of tradition. His colors would be blue and white, instead of the green and white favored by his brothers. He didn't need any exception. He was ready to go.
For those three years, it never occurred to me what a trifle all of this was. Separated by just a couple miles, these two schools were no doubt capable of giving any of us virtually the same education, or my parents never would have allowed it to happen. Only now do I feel just a little embarrassed by the way my younger brother's willingness to roll with the changes that came his way while I dug in my heels and refused to alter my trajectory the tiniest bit. What made him so relaxed and flexible?
Maybe it comes from being the youngest. You get a chance to look at things coming down the lane just a little longer, making it easier not to flinch when the curves start to show up. Or maybe the difference between blue and green, hard and soft C, and junior highs in general weren't really that big a deal after all. Thank goodness we all ended up at Boulder High instead of Fairview.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
No One Can Eat Just One
I've already blown my chance to eat just one Lay's potato chip. It was several hundred bags ago, I would expect, that I missed that opportunity to show freakish self-restraint. I have, on occasion, made a point to eat just one chip and then give the rest of them away to whatever voracious crew I find myself with at the time. I do this because I have been told by someone that I can't. It makes little or no sense to me why this should ever happen, but living in the land of the free, I feel compelled to test the advertiser's assertion.
A very similar feeling has come over me in the past few days. This one is connected to television as well, and it concerns "Breaking Bad." Since "must-see-TV" is more or less a thing of the past, this AMC series would be filed in the "I figured you'd be watching this since everyone else seems to be-TV." My wife and I had put off tuning in to the story of Walter White, the high school chemistry teacher who chooses a very interesting way to respond to his cancer diagnosis. It was going to be a weekly commitment, and we were already immersed in another AMC series about zombies. Taking on a whole new cast of characters and their problems seemed like too much of a burden. We had already lived through the demise of "Northern Exposure" and "ER" together. In both cases, our initial emotional and time investments were eventually stretched to their limits, along with our patience. Why would we want to take on the story of a methamphetamine cook and his criminal cronies?
Because, as it turns out, everyone was right. My wife and I gave Walter White a chance, and wouldn't you know it? It turns out that Walt's show is every bit as addictive as the drug that he makes in RVs, secret labs, and tented homes. We started burning through episodes, sometimes two or three a day. We stuck our fingers in our ears and refused to listen to anyone who wanted to give us spoilers as the broadcast run of the series finished up. We kept plugging away, on evenings, on weekends. Finally we found ourselves rounding the bend: season five. It was when we were just a few shows into this final stretch that we discovered that Netflix would not be able to deliver us the final eight episodes for some time. We were hours away from completion, but direct access was limited. We could pay Amazon a dollar-ninety-nine for each episode. Not a bad use of our allowance, but since we were already paying to have Netflix stream our choice of extra TV into our living room, could we just wait? Or could we surrender to all the chatter out there in pop culture land and let the spoilers land where they may?
Or maybe we could just stop watching. Fifty-four out of sixty-two episodes, we could probably make some pretty educated guesses about how things turned out. Or we could start watching "Game of Thrones."
A very similar feeling has come over me in the past few days. This one is connected to television as well, and it concerns "Breaking Bad." Since "must-see-TV" is more or less a thing of the past, this AMC series would be filed in the "I figured you'd be watching this since everyone else seems to be-TV." My wife and I had put off tuning in to the story of Walter White, the high school chemistry teacher who chooses a very interesting way to respond to his cancer diagnosis. It was going to be a weekly commitment, and we were already immersed in another AMC series about zombies. Taking on a whole new cast of characters and their problems seemed like too much of a burden. We had already lived through the demise of "Northern Exposure" and "ER" together. In both cases, our initial emotional and time investments were eventually stretched to their limits, along with our patience. Why would we want to take on the story of a methamphetamine cook and his criminal cronies?
Because, as it turns out, everyone was right. My wife and I gave Walter White a chance, and wouldn't you know it? It turns out that Walt's show is every bit as addictive as the drug that he makes in RVs, secret labs, and tented homes. We started burning through episodes, sometimes two or three a day. We stuck our fingers in our ears and refused to listen to anyone who wanted to give us spoilers as the broadcast run of the series finished up. We kept plugging away, on evenings, on weekends. Finally we found ourselves rounding the bend: season five. It was when we were just a few shows into this final stretch that we discovered that Netflix would not be able to deliver us the final eight episodes for some time. We were hours away from completion, but direct access was limited. We could pay Amazon a dollar-ninety-nine for each episode. Not a bad use of our allowance, but since we were already paying to have Netflix stream our choice of extra TV into our living room, could we just wait? Or could we surrender to all the chatter out there in pop culture land and let the spoilers land where they may?
Or maybe we could just stop watching. Fifty-four out of sixty-two episodes, we could probably make some pretty educated guesses about how things turned out. Or we could start watching "Game of Thrones."
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Table Rasa
I'm thankful for tables. Like the round one in the kitchen where I grew up. It was big enough for four of us and a highchair: three boys, mom and dad. Later we grew into an oval, and the circular one we had sat at for so many moons moved downstairs to become the basis of a great many forts. That oval served us long and well. It gave us an extra place in addition to the five of us. A place for a guest. Friends and eventually girlfriends who came to share a brunch or a dinner with us. On Sunday nights a great many of us would crowd around to savor my father's hot fudge sundaes.
A couple times a year we would drag ourselves into the dining room for a family dinner, the kind with real silver and cloth napkins. My mother wanted us to behave differently around the big wooden table with a leaf in the middle, but when our cousins showed up it usually disintegrated into the same raucous chatfest that the five of us enjoyed with an additional seven voices. When the kids disappeared downstairs to watch TV, the grownups spread out and the Cold Duck flowed. I remember the sound of my mom and her cousin Gail snorting and cackling into the night. That was one fun table. And at the end of all those tables sat our dog, Rupert, waiting for his turn to eat. If he felt that we were running a little long, he would get up from his spot next to my mother's chair and give her what-for until she surrendered to his hunger pangs.
When I moved out and lived in a series of apartments, I tended to skip the dining room and head straight to the coffee table. That was the best surface for TV dinners and frozen pizza. I spent my bachelor years hunched over plastic trays, forgetting any of the manners I was taught but avoided at my parents' tables.
When I moved out to California, I was introduced to another oval, smaller than the one that kept my brothers and I fed. This one was just big enough for a young couple starting out, and when we had a few extra guests, we moved them to the living room where we ate buffet style. That table was where we served our first turkey together. It's where we had romantic dinners and not-so-romantic ones. It's the table we moved into our new house and made room for our own high chair. We have crowded a great many boys around that table for sleepover late-night snacks and morning-after breakfasts. At the end of this table we found our dog, Maddie. She waited just a little more patiently than Rupert did, but she knew when we were done it was her turn to feast.
This year we upgraded to a larger table, more of a rectangle, with high back chairs. It's our "grown-up table." It's big enough to get even more hungry mouths crowded around it, and as the years go by I suppose we can look forward to a new generation of high chairs and chatty children. And I'll be thankful for the chance to sit down with them and listen to the laughter.
A couple times a year we would drag ourselves into the dining room for a family dinner, the kind with real silver and cloth napkins. My mother wanted us to behave differently around the big wooden table with a leaf in the middle, but when our cousins showed up it usually disintegrated into the same raucous chatfest that the five of us enjoyed with an additional seven voices. When the kids disappeared downstairs to watch TV, the grownups spread out and the Cold Duck flowed. I remember the sound of my mom and her cousin Gail snorting and cackling into the night. That was one fun table. And at the end of all those tables sat our dog, Rupert, waiting for his turn to eat. If he felt that we were running a little long, he would get up from his spot next to my mother's chair and give her what-for until she surrendered to his hunger pangs.
When I moved out and lived in a series of apartments, I tended to skip the dining room and head straight to the coffee table. That was the best surface for TV dinners and frozen pizza. I spent my bachelor years hunched over plastic trays, forgetting any of the manners I was taught but avoided at my parents' tables.
When I moved out to California, I was introduced to another oval, smaller than the one that kept my brothers and I fed. This one was just big enough for a young couple starting out, and when we had a few extra guests, we moved them to the living room where we ate buffet style. That table was where we served our first turkey together. It's where we had romantic dinners and not-so-romantic ones. It's the table we moved into our new house and made room for our own high chair. We have crowded a great many boys around that table for sleepover late-night snacks and morning-after breakfasts. At the end of this table we found our dog, Maddie. She waited just a little more patiently than Rupert did, but she knew when we were done it was her turn to feast.
This year we upgraded to a larger table, more of a rectangle, with high back chairs. It's our "grown-up table." It's big enough to get even more hungry mouths crowded around it, and as the years go by I suppose we can look forward to a new generation of high chairs and chatty children. And I'll be thankful for the chance to sit down with them and listen to the laughter.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Big Adventure
Over the weekend, my wife and I went out for some exercise. I ran over to Lake Merritt, where I met her and we walked around the rest of the lake together. On the way over the streets and sidewalks, I was alone with my thoughts, as usual. Once I came over the last hill and started to run around the path next to the water, searching out my wife's form in the distance, I became distracted. Distracted by dogs. It seemed that everyone had a dog but me. I looked left and right, and straight ahead. Everyone seemed to have a furry friend at the end of a leash. It reminded me of all the times I had made this same trip. I would leave the house in advance of my wife and child. They would put our dog in the back of the car and drive over to the lake. I expected to find the three of them not too far from the spot at which they had unloaded. In the earliest days, there was a stroller and a leash. Later there was no stroller, but then there were water bottles and sometimes a toy car or robot that needed to make the trip as well. I was fortunate in that I was only responsible for getting myself over the hill. All I had to do was keep running until we ran into one another.
On this day, my son did not make the trip. He was spending the weekend with some friends. No stroller. No toys. Our dog did not make the trip. She was gone too. To a better place. No leash was necessary. At least not for my wife and I. As we made our way around that heart-shaped body of briny water, I kept being distracted by all the dogs that weren't mine. I felt a little like Pee-Wee Herman when he got his bike stolen. As the reality of his loss begins to sink in, Pee-Wee suddenly feels surrounded by people on bikes: big, small, short, tall, even remote control. Everyone has a bike but Pee-Wee.
That's how I felt without my dog. When I saw my wife strolling toward me in the distance, I was greeted by her smile. It was a treat, as was the rest of our walk around the lake. And I tried not to notice all those dogs.
On this day, my son did not make the trip. He was spending the weekend with some friends. No stroller. No toys. Our dog did not make the trip. She was gone too. To a better place. No leash was necessary. At least not for my wife and I. As we made our way around that heart-shaped body of briny water, I kept being distracted by all the dogs that weren't mine. I felt a little like Pee-Wee Herman when he got his bike stolen. As the reality of his loss begins to sink in, Pee-Wee suddenly feels surrounded by people on bikes: big, small, short, tall, even remote control. Everyone has a bike but Pee-Wee.
That's how I felt without my dog. When I saw my wife strolling toward me in the distance, I was greeted by her smile. It was a treat, as was the rest of our walk around the lake. And I tried not to notice all those dogs.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Break Time
Seventeen years into my teaching career, and I still marvel at times at the number of days off we are afforded. When I used to run a warehouse, we worked when UPS worked, and sometimes a little bit more because that would keep us ready for the next onslaught of shipping and receiving. Teaching is different. It requires so much more interpersonal relationships: students, parents, other teachers, anxious volunteers who want to contribute their time but have little or no idea about how to interact with children. When the holidays show up, and there are a lot of them, they somehow seem completely appropriate even if I still harbor a secret shame in taking them while the rest of the planet seems to be gearing up for Black Friday, or whatever the next big thing is. I'm at home, recharging my emotional batteries, because teachers can't have a bad day.
This was true long before the advent of social media and cell phone video, but these two technological advances have made teaching a much more stressful occupation. To this end I submit the case of the Pre-Kindergarten teacher at the B.U.I.L.D. Academy in Buffalo, New York. The teacher sent home a letter which read, in part, “Several children in Pre-K ages 3-4 are coming to school (sometimes daily) with soiled, stained, or dirty clothes. Some give off unpleasant smells and some appear unclean and unkept.” The teacher went on asking that parents address the matter as, “It is a health and safety concern. It also makes it difficult for me to be close to them or even want to touch them. Enough said.” There was a blank at the bottom of the page for parents to sign the note and return it, stating their compliance. Horrible, right?
The parent section of my brain is shocked by this, and saddened. I would be stomping into the principal's office at this moment to demand satisfaction. If I was a parent at this particular school. Thanks to Al Gore's Internet, everyone with any sort of axe to grind about public education across this great land of ours can now feel free to jump on the angry villager bandwagon. Outrage is easy. Understanding is hard. I did, just recently, spend the day with a group of Pre-Kindergarten students at our school when we didn't get a substitute for their teacher at the last minute. Most of the time I experience four and five-year-olds, I see them for fifty minutes at a time and send them back to their classroom, proud of the way I kept my calm demeanor as I moved quickly from one plaintive cry of "Mister Caven" to the next. Before an hour is up, so is much of my patience. The day I spent in our Pre-K class was an early dismissal day, and I still found myself wondering if I could maintain my polite and professional composure after the thousandth time I was asked if a child could "use it" or the millionth time I reminded my young charges to please keep their hands to themselves. It takes a very special soul to deal with a room full of proto-humans. Most of mine were quite well-behaved and I can't say that I noticed any particular smell or hygiene issues while I was there. But I know that they do come up, and that's why I have nothing but empathy for those who choose to teach your youngest students.
Can I imagine writing a note home like the one from Buffalo? No. But I can imagine sending a letter to some of the guys I used to manage at the warehouse. Some of them were rank.
This was true long before the advent of social media and cell phone video, but these two technological advances have made teaching a much more stressful occupation. To this end I submit the case of the Pre-Kindergarten teacher at the B.U.I.L.D. Academy in Buffalo, New York. The teacher sent home a letter which read, in part, “Several children in Pre-K ages 3-4 are coming to school (sometimes daily) with soiled, stained, or dirty clothes. Some give off unpleasant smells and some appear unclean and unkept.” The teacher went on asking that parents address the matter as, “It is a health and safety concern. It also makes it difficult for me to be close to them or even want to touch them. Enough said.” There was a blank at the bottom of the page for parents to sign the note and return it, stating their compliance. Horrible, right?
The parent section of my brain is shocked by this, and saddened. I would be stomping into the principal's office at this moment to demand satisfaction. If I was a parent at this particular school. Thanks to Al Gore's Internet, everyone with any sort of axe to grind about public education across this great land of ours can now feel free to jump on the angry villager bandwagon. Outrage is easy. Understanding is hard. I did, just recently, spend the day with a group of Pre-Kindergarten students at our school when we didn't get a substitute for their teacher at the last minute. Most of the time I experience four and five-year-olds, I see them for fifty minutes at a time and send them back to their classroom, proud of the way I kept my calm demeanor as I moved quickly from one plaintive cry of "Mister Caven" to the next. Before an hour is up, so is much of my patience. The day I spent in our Pre-K class was an early dismissal day, and I still found myself wondering if I could maintain my polite and professional composure after the thousandth time I was asked if a child could "use it" or the millionth time I reminded my young charges to please keep their hands to themselves. It takes a very special soul to deal with a room full of proto-humans. Most of mine were quite well-behaved and I can't say that I noticed any particular smell or hygiene issues while I was there. But I know that they do come up, and that's why I have nothing but empathy for those who choose to teach your youngest students.
Can I imagine writing a note home like the one from Buffalo? No. But I can imagine sending a letter to some of the guys I used to manage at the warehouse. Some of them were rank.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Wedded Bliss - ish
There was a comedian, I wish I could remember who it was but time has a way of shaving off attributions, who once suggested that nothing says "I'm getting my life together" like carving a fresh swastika in your forehead. This very funny person was referring to Charles Manson's approach to his upcoming parole hearing. That was many years ago, and Charlie is still doing time up the road from us in San Quentin. He is seventy-nine years old and will almost surely die in prison, but that doesn't mean things aren't looking up for everybody's favorite Beatles revisionist.
Chuck M.'s in love. Or to be more precise, someone's in love with Chuck. "Star," as she was named by the convicted killer, is a twenty-five-year-old girl who has spent the last six years pining for the mastermind behind the Tate-Labianca murders. Visiting him is just part of her plan to become the number one fan of Charles Manson. She maintains a number of pro-Manson websites, as well as carving an X on her forehead. Ah, young love. Young love with a nearly eighty-year-old nutjob who won't ever take a breath outside prison walls. It's enough to make you wretch. Unless you happen to be Star.
“I’ll tell you straight up, Charlie and I are going to get married,” she told Rolling Stone. “When that will be, we don’t know. But I take it very seriously. Charlie is my husband. Charlie told me to tell you this. We haven’t told anybody about that.”
It won't be the first time Charlie's been married. He tied the knot with Rosalie Willis back in 1954. That one didn't last because he ended up in jail for stealing cars. While he was out for a couple of years he got married again to Leona "Candy" Stevens in 1958. Back in stir, Charlie must have considered his relationship status, because when next he found himself on the other side of the bars, he chose to avail himself of a great many delicate flowers: Leslie, Susan, Patricia, and a whole host of other pretty young things who just wanted to tune in, drop out and commit murder. Sharing a common interest is vital to the success of any relationship, which is why it's probably a good thing that Star seems to have her mind set on just one: Charlie.
Again, it's just great to see a guy getting his life turned around with the help of his lady love.
Chuck M.'s in love. Or to be more precise, someone's in love with Chuck. "Star," as she was named by the convicted killer, is a twenty-five-year-old girl who has spent the last six years pining for the mastermind behind the Tate-Labianca murders. Visiting him is just part of her plan to become the number one fan of Charles Manson. She maintains a number of pro-Manson websites, as well as carving an X on her forehead. Ah, young love. Young love with a nearly eighty-year-old nutjob who won't ever take a breath outside prison walls. It's enough to make you wretch. Unless you happen to be Star.
“I’ll tell you straight up, Charlie and I are going to get married,” she told Rolling Stone. “When that will be, we don’t know. But I take it very seriously. Charlie is my husband. Charlie told me to tell you this. We haven’t told anybody about that.”
It won't be the first time Charlie's been married. He tied the knot with Rosalie Willis back in 1954. That one didn't last because he ended up in jail for stealing cars. While he was out for a couple of years he got married again to Leona "Candy" Stevens in 1958. Back in stir, Charlie must have considered his relationship status, because when next he found himself on the other side of the bars, he chose to avail himself of a great many delicate flowers: Leslie, Susan, Patricia, and a whole host of other pretty young things who just wanted to tune in, drop out and commit murder. Sharing a common interest is vital to the success of any relationship, which is why it's probably a good thing that Star seems to have her mind set on just one: Charlie.
Again, it's just great to see a guy getting his life turned around with the help of his lady love.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Master's Thesis On Slavery
This past Wednesday, Sarah Palin cancelled a scheduled interview with NBC's Matt
Lauer following MSNBC host Martin Bashir's suggestion that she deserved
a graphic punishment for comments made about slavery. The suggestion for that punishment was way out of line for a news commentator to make about a potential interview subject, but perhaps in line with punishments that might have been handed out in the days of slavery. Days that with which perhaps former governor and former sportscaster Palin might not be familiar.
Speaking about the United States increasing debt to China, she said: "When that note comes due -- and this isn't racist...but it's going to be like slavery when that note is due. We are going to be beholden to a foreign master." I'm pretty sure that most people would have let that one slide on by without the "and this isn't racist" parenthetical. Who could possibly be a better judge than Ms. Palin as to what is or is not racist? Well, maybe Mister Bashir, an Englishman by birth and a Pakistani by blood living and working in the United States. He may, at one time or another, have encountered racism.
He may also have a sense of the history of the world, which has included many different instances of slavery based on race. Bashir does seem to share a certain flair for public speaking that might compare favorably to that of Ms. Palin, considering they both had to apologize for their most recent fusillade of words. His apology: "Upon reflection, I so wish that I had been more thoughtful, more considerate, more compassionate, but I was not and what I said is now a matter of public record." Hers went like this: "I apologize for not being clearer in my response, thus opening the door to critical media that does what it does best in ginning up controversy." Only hers wasn't about the slavery comment. Hers was an apology for comments she made about Pope Francis. In that apology, she also mentioned this: " I was reminding viewers that we need to do our own homework on news subjects, and I hadn't done mine yet on the Pope's recent comments as reported by the media." Perhaps Ms. Palin can work the diary of Thomas Thistlewood into that hectic reading schedule of hers.
Speaking about the United States increasing debt to China, she said: "When that note comes due -- and this isn't racist...but it's going to be like slavery when that note is due. We are going to be beholden to a foreign master." I'm pretty sure that most people would have let that one slide on by without the "and this isn't racist" parenthetical. Who could possibly be a better judge than Ms. Palin as to what is or is not racist? Well, maybe Mister Bashir, an Englishman by birth and a Pakistani by blood living and working in the United States. He may, at one time or another, have encountered racism.
He may also have a sense of the history of the world, which has included many different instances of slavery based on race. Bashir does seem to share a certain flair for public speaking that might compare favorably to that of Ms. Palin, considering they both had to apologize for their most recent fusillade of words. His apology: "Upon reflection, I so wish that I had been more thoughtful, more considerate, more compassionate, but I was not and what I said is now a matter of public record." Hers went like this: "I apologize for not being clearer in my response, thus opening the door to critical media that does what it does best in ginning up controversy." Only hers wasn't about the slavery comment. Hers was an apology for comments she made about Pope Francis. In that apology, she also mentioned this: " I was reminding viewers that we need to do our own homework on news subjects, and I hadn't done mine yet on the Pope's recent comments as reported by the media." Perhaps Ms. Palin can work the diary of Thomas Thistlewood into that hectic reading schedule of hers.
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