What They Say: What I hear

What They Say: What I Hear

Dad, can I borrow the car?  I want to make a quick trip into town.

Dad, can I borrow the car?  I want to get into that death-trap, and travel at breakneck speed on the highway, paying no attention to the fact that there are a lot of crazy drivers out there.

Dad, any chance you will buy me a Toyota four-wheel-drive pickup truck?  Then I could haul the trash and the recycling to the dump.

Dad, any chance you will buy me a Toyota four-wheel-drive pickup truck so that I can, well, pick up chicks and show off both the truck and the chick to my friends?  It would enhance my “teacher’s kid” status, immensely.

Dad, can we watch TV for a little while?

Dad can we watch TV for the next six to eight hours, instead of filling the wood box, or working on our history day project, while at the same time requiring that the generator be gassed, oiled and fired up, by you, big guy?  That way we can develop life-long habits of sloth and degeneracy. 

Dad, I’m thinking of making some cookies to take to our classroom party.  Will you help me?

Dad, I’m thinking of making some cookies to take to our classroom party.  Rather than have me destroy the kitchen, would you just do it for me?  I’ll even give you some.

Dad, Mom says I have to ask you if I can go on the field trip to San Francisco.  We’re leaving tomorrow at 4:30AM and someone needs to take me to school then.

Dad, Mom is so angry that I waited until the last second, that she has sent me in here so that you can rattle my cage, and not require that the entire family have to be at school at 430, because I did not make arrangements to stay at a friend’s house overnight.

Dad, can we get a Nintendo 64?  All of our friends have one.

Dad, can we get a Nintendo 64?  We do not have enough distractions already to prevent our chores and school responsibilities from getting done.

Dad, when are you going to let me use a chain-saw?

Dad, when are you going to let me use a chain-saw, so that I can proceed to cause great mayhem, and bodily harm?

Dad, if you let us get a quad, we’ll be able to go out and get firewood way easier.  What do you say?

Dad, if you let us get a quad, we promise not to go up the steepest of hills, running the risk of flipping that 500 pound baby back on top of one of us.  But you know it’s going to happen at some point in time.

Dad, did you know that I love you?

Dad, did you know that I love you?

At least the important questions didn’t need translation.

"Anything Goes, But Don't Blink, You Might Miss"

“Anything Goes,

But don’t blink, You Might Miss”     [The Killers]

“I did the best I could.”  Is that statement a fact or an opinion?  A child makes that statement and believes it to be a fact; a parent hears that child say those words, and believes them to be an opinion, because the parent has seen better production in the past.

What about the arena of raising children?  How often has that refrain been submitted for public perusal?  “I did the best I could.”  And you have to believe that the person speaking, firmly trusts that those words are the truth.  Unfortunately, these things do not materialize in a manual, in black and white;  no, we’re back to shades of gray.

I have always believed that discipline, either in the classroom, with 37 eighth graders, or at home with three sons, is either the hardest task you have to deal with, or the easiest.  There does not seem to be any middle ground.  For me it has always been the easiest, because I learned early on, that one key to success in either setting, is making your expectations crystal clear.

Kids find it so easy to say, “I didn’t know we couldn’t [ride our bicycles off the shed roof; dress the dog up in Mama’s Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes; sell younger sibling’s Nintendo 64, whatever] and then proceed to try and convince you that it was all a misunderstanding.  When I was lead teacher at the middle school, I directed student council in the revision of the student handbook.  In the area of potential indiscretions that students could perform, that would merit suspension, I had them list the most common, but added the disclaimer that I had not listed all possible offenses, and that they should use common sense.

Paul and I teamed for ten years together.  Our official mantra was, “Make wise choices.”  If the students, or my own sons, knew in advance what was acceptable, and what was not, then there was no anger, and no resentment.  Parents frequently come storming down to school when they feel their children have been maligned.  But Paul and I never had that problem, because we always asked clarifying questions, and established that poor choices had been made, and therefore the referral had been earned.

Where do the shades of gray come in?  Just as the question arose today, on one of the blogging sites, about whether or not permission should be given to a nineteen-year-old, to travel four hours to attend a concert, so these types of decisions arise every day.  We were taught in the credentialing program, that teachers, on average, make 3,000 decisions every day.  Parents, too.  Shades of gray.  You have to be consistent, but you have to appreciate that different kids have different needs.

One iron-clad rule on campus, was that a student could not leave the classroom without permission, or the consequence was five steps, and suspension.  The teacher is always responsible for students in his or her care, and if one kid flies the coop, the teacher is still accountable.  Therefore, we always made that perfectly clear.  Shades of gray don’t work as well with 37 in the same classroom.

However, anyone who has either taught middle school aged kids, or raised one or more, knows that there are times when discretion is the better part of valor.  In every class I ever taught, there was always one kid, maybe two, and not always male, with whom I had a standing agreement, that if things got too overwhelming, he could go out to the big field, and run a lap.  I could supervise from my window, without seeming to, so there little chance I could lose one.

All a kid had to do on the way toward the door, was indicate that the field was his or her destination, and I would nod, giving them official sanction to try and clear out some pent up emotion, without subjecting my classroom, and those in it, to an explosion.  It was a simple arrangement, but one that proved worth its weight in gold.  There was an element of trust involved.  They trusted me to have such a contingency in place, and I trusted them not to abuse the privilege.

Kids need to have firm boundaries, but those confines need to be adjustable, to account for hard times, or confusing times, or for just being “caught in the middle.”  Having expectations for normal circumstances is all well and good, but the age cries out for anything that is not the norm.  That’s why it’s critical to have a contingency plan, to cover the unexpected romantic disaster, the rift between bff, or-perish the thought-an academic crisis with lunch times now being spent in  lunchtime detention, otherwise known as Chez Kathy.

It’s a fact that middle school-aged kids fall apart at the drop of a baseball cap, and it’s my opinion that to expect kids to behave properly under emotional duress, is not very practical.  Therefore, you have to have a bailout plan; it may not save the ship from going down, but at least it will buy you some time.  

That will allow the unfortunate one to report to detention, find that bff is already there, so making up can occur, and the two of them can work to complete the missing academic assignment.  While there, a new connection is made, and the old boyfriend is forgotten.  

“Anything goes, but don’t blink, you might miss...”

Fun Zone

Fun Zone

I worked on a little do-it-yourself project, here in the house  yesterday, and I had a lot of fun.  As I have repeatedly trumpeted, I refuse to engage in any activity, from which enjoyment cannot be derived.  I have spent too much time doing unfun things to return to that mode.  I would rather sit around creating new words in English, like “unfun,” than have to participate in an activity in which there was no room for jocularity.  To laugh is to be happy, and to be happy is to be alive. 

Last winter I added on to our home, a twenty by ten feet, two-story addition, much of which was accomplished in the rain and snow of November.  This year, of course, we have had weather more akin to SoCal, than to Northern Mendocino County, but that is OK too.  Working together, Annie and I completed almost all of the interior work last February, except for the wall upstairs, between the new sewing studio, and the quilt layout room.  I have held off, because of Annie’s desire to use the room for a little while, to determine the best possible scenario.

I thought she might want me to create a larger than four-foot doorway, so that she could roll the layout table into either room, but she decided it was good the way it was.  So yesterday, I finished up the last bit of electrical work, finished framing the second doorway, completed the sheet rock, and applied tape and the first coat of mud, working over an eight-hour period of time, to complete the undertaking.  I also took a 45 minute siesta in the late morning, and another mid-afternoon.  I nap any time I feel the need, and this helps me achieve a more moderate pace.  This is quite a different approach than I used to take. 

Frequently, “upon a time,” I would attack a project like the one yesterday, by going straight to step A, and scrounging up two lengths of two-by-four for framing in the doorway.  Then I would grab the hammer, some sixteen penny sinkers, a handsaw, and I was ready.  Of course, I would have to stop a short time later to go back out to the shop and get the level (who needs a level, right?), the framing square, the cat’s paw, a pencil, the tape measure, and the kitchen sink.

After completing step A, I would proceed to step B, with multiple trips to the workshop, time spent meandering in all directions except forward.  Of course, prior to making the trek back out to the workshop each time, there was a futile effort to get the job done with the tools on hand.  It’s hard to take time to save time. 

However, yesterday, by investing an hour to get my act together, I set the stage for a more productive, and less harried experience, thereby avoiding the unfun approach to labor.  Annie was painting from the outset, and was working around me, something she was thrilled to do, because she was seeing forward progress.  I began by taking the time to gather the things already mentioned, along with the battery-powered drill, with battery, sheetrock screws, a four-feet, by four-feet chunk of sheet rock, chalk line, wire-snips, electrical connections, friction tape, mud tray, four trowels, including the angled one for the corners, the joint compound itself, a utility knife and my water “bucket,” so as to stay hydrated.

The fact that the chunk of sheetrock was only four feet square, will tell you that the project was not huge, but I had to make a total of eight cuts, which meant measuring each time, and having to go outside to make the cuts.  We couldn’t have the carpenter spewing sheet rock dust into the rest of the house, because that would mean that later, the carpenter would have to clean up, after donning the maid’s hat.

I did not look at the clock, and simply worked methodically to get everything rounded up, so as to prevent yo-yoing back and forth to the workshop.  The next thing I did was take a siesta, to keep my mind well-rested.  Having been up for seven hours already, by the time I began gathering materials at eight-thirty, I was ready for a snooze.  

When I returned 45 minutes later, I waltzed through each step, pausing at lunchtime to heat up left-over frijoles y tortillas, mixed with some Spanish rice, lettuce, tomatoes and cheese, for one of the staples in my life, and a meal that I enjoy several times per week.  There was minimal work stoppage, and my attitude remained upbeat.  Before beginning the process of taping, I paused for another siesta.  When I hear the music in my head, it’s time for a snooze.

I wrapped it up by four-thirty, and came downstairs to clean up the mud tray and trowels, happy as a clam, though I have to tell you, it’s hard to understand just what clams have to be happy about.  I, on the other hand, had just wracked up a wheelbarrow full of good-will, from a person who knows how to balance the scale very efficiently. 

The primary difference between then and now, is a clear recognition that keeping both eyes focussed on the big picture, helps facilitate each step of the way.  By initially gathering all of the tools of the trade, I had to review each step of the project, and this allowed me to be better organized to handle each phase of the job more effectively. 

Robert always said, “Let us be happy in our work.”  I would tack on that being happy opens the door to having fun, and having fun remains a central part of my agenda. Because if I’m not having fun, then I am missing the point to life.  “Laugh and be happy, like a merry melody.”

Works for me.

No Broken Bats

No Broken Bats

As is so often the case, I take my cue from the sites I visit.  Recently, I paused at Buttered Toast Rocks, and read about schedules, especially the one in the morning.  The morning schedule is crucial because, as goes the morning, often goes the rest of the day, at least here in the country.

I am not going to prattle on about how hard teachers work, or about long hours.  Work happens.  However, it can either flow smoothly, or it can feel as though you are driving on washboard, the pace rattling the teeth in your jaw.  Therefore, it pays to take the time to examine a way to make events flow smoothly, avoiding any conflicts that may threaten to occur.

All the years we taught, Annie’s and my day began at quarter to four, when I brought her coffee in bed.  Forty-five minutes later, as the household still slept, we stormed out the front door for our walk up to Blue Rock, a forty minute round trip.  Upon returning, still in the pre-dawn darkness, Annie would shower first, because she had to dry her hair, and then it was my turn.  I would then get the first boy up for his shower, he got the second one up, and that one rousted the third.  If any one of the boys was slow getting out of bed, the next in line would pounce.  They kept each other on pace, because the last one through was usually on tepid water, so there was incentive.

He who hesitated was lost.  I made it clear that the chariot departed at six-thirty on the nose, and if you weren’t ready, you stayed home.  If you stayed home, the list of required chores was clearly posted, and there was no generator available, so therefore, no entertainment system.  Since Gameboys were not allowed into the house until the youngest was in middle school, that left few options for spending a day by yourself.

Besides the order of operations in the bathroom, the other conflict-producing setting, was the half-hour ride to school, the first half on a dirt road, the second half on the highway.  Annie and I rode in the front of our Trooper, and the three of them rode in the back.  Whose turn was it to sit in the middle?  We went by weeks, with one in the middle for a whole week, and the other two on the windows.  End of discussion.  

We had such a tight framework, that there simply was no time for arguing.  Three sons, born within thirty-eight months of each other, not fight?  Excuse me while I pause a moment to chortle.  However, in our household, violence of every form was decried, including verbal, if you will pardon the pun.  My response to an argument within my hearing, was to assign chores to the responsible miscreants.  You-fill the wood-box; you-wash the car, and if it was a hat trick (or a strike out), the third one would be out gathering kindling off the side of the hill, the consequences being carried out before even homework was attended to, upon our return home.

Consider it a two-fer: Either the the arguing ceased [within my earshot], or the chores got done.  Such a system.  I couldn’t have contrived a better one if my life depended on it.  If not my life, certainly my sanity did, the status of which was clearly dependent on a harmonious domain.  Think of it as, “Play ball with me, or I’ll break the bat over your head, metaphorically speaking.”  That was about as violent as I got: using a literary devise to make a point.

It seemed to work though, which was gratifying, because the only bats around were aluminum, so getting hit over the head with one, would definitely have resulted in a stint on the disabled list of life.

So Many Shades of Gray *

So Many Shades of Gray

The kind of person that I find the hardest to feel comfortable around, is a person who sees life, and its myriad of conditions, in terms of black and white.  Most people  know-I hope that I am not being impertinent-seem to see life as I do, in various shades of gray. Oh, there are so many shades of gray.

Take words, for example, and doesn’t that surprise you?  As a language arts teacher, one concept that I taught in conjunction with writing, was that of seeing how words with the same meaning, have such different connotations.  I did specific language activities with the students, to teach them how to recognize the importance of zeroing in on the best word for any given situation. 

Thus, for them, I would begin by showing a picture of a dog, surely a candidate for the local ugly-dog show, and a “breed” not found in any of the books dealing with pedigree.  

“What is it?” I’d ask, and jot the words on the over-head projector, so that they were clearly legible in big letters behind me.  I waited until I had listed dog, perro (middle school humor), mutt, bowser, pet, Fido, mammal, quadruped, puppy, doggie, and all other offerings.

I zeroed in on the two I had wanted in the first place and drew a circle around “dog” and “mutt,” and asked, “What’s up with this?”  I didn’t ask them, “What is the difference?”  That would have been too easy.  I just asked them to look at the two words, and tell me what they were thinking.  Immediately, a hand shot up, and I waited.  I got another, and then a bunch.  I selected a hand, based on the anticipated response.

“They’re both the same,” said Billy, smugly.  I had expected as much.

“Thank you.  Sally?”  I checked in with an ambitious young gal, who was lucky to have that quality, because there were some other significant omissions in her portfolio.  “My mom would say dog, but Daddy would say mutt.”  That was the idea, now for Roger to articulate it.  

“Dog is what you think if you are happy with your pet, and mutt is what you mutter, when you have the soapy water and cleaning rag in your hands.”  Bingo.  Though we all know that what he really meant was, “What kind of mutt does a doodie in the house?”

Here’s an easy one.  What’s the difference between a father and a dad?  Well, a dad is always a father, but a father is not always a dad.  A father clothes and feeds his sons; a dad teaches them how to play baseball, or in my case, after I blew out the ACL on my left knee, the card game of bridge.  If you know anything about bridge, then you may want to know that Casey was seven, Ben six, and Lito four, when we played our first rounds of bridge.  It was challenging for four-year-old hands, which are not big enough to glom onto a handful of cards, not to mention the intricacies of the bidding auction.  But it’s what dads do.

So I choose my words carefully because, as the Bee Gees sang in 1967, “It’s only words, but words are all I have...” to portray shades of gray.  In life nothing is quite as well-defined as we might like, so we have to paint our own canvases.  We can enrich them and suffuse them with color and vibrancy.

But with words, I have to be more creative, because words don’t come in color, only shades of gray.  So as I prepare my canvas for my daily offering, I try to make sure that my brush is aligned with my mind, and the strokes portray my thoughts precisely, so that the reader can fill in his or her own color highlights from an individual perspective, as the words settle into place on the canvas that exists in each person’s mind.  

The words are black, the canvas is white, and the views I express are going to appear in various shades of gray; and there are so many shades of gray.

Plenty of Matches

Plenty of Matches

Here’s the challenge: You are going to be leaving for an undetermined period, to a destination with lots of time, and little need for industry, and may take exactly one book with you.  One.  You can take any book on the face of the planet, but only one.  So  the challenge is to decide which book. Take your time-we’ve plenty of that.

My choice would require no time for cogitation, because my book would include all of your selections, by definition.  I would choose a dictionary.  Oh, boo.  What a let-down, say you, a veritable copout if ever there was one.

The truth of the matter is that, whereas I read with great interest the ongoing sharing of favorite titles, and the presentation of lists of books that are universally appreciated, I do not read much for pleasure these days, simply because reading got squeezed out off of my “plate,” as a result of overcrowding.

Annie says that is a byproduct of having spent a lifetime reading every genre of book written, and feeling no compunctions about re-reading favorites.  I have been presented with the classics since I was in primary school, and have spent my life feasting on the prose of Dickens, Dostoyevsky, and Zola.  I took four classes at SJSU in Shakespeare.  I had eleven classes in English, without being an English major, when I decided maybe I should apply for a minor.

On the other hand, included in those classes were four on Old English, and one on Chaucer (Middle English).  Including Shakespeare, which by the way, is written in Modern English, despite the presence of a plethora of quaint expressions that require context and/or research to comprehend, that makes nine classes dealing with English as it developed and transitioned to what it is today.

My interest has shifted from reading the music of our language, as presented by others, to orchestrating that music into my own version of how words may be arranged.  I am hopelessly ensnared by the etymology of words, by the subtle nuances distinguishing one word from another.  What IS the difference between convoluted, complex, and intricate, and how do you know when one words applies, and the other two don’t?

Alongside the obvious-who cares?-approach, is a one in which the answer to that question, is the most important aspect of the piece of writing-for me.  As nerdy as this sounds, I am perfectly content to scan the dictionary guide words, for one that piques my interest.  [I can see everyone moving away from me on the Group W bench of life-seriously?  You like to read the dictionary?  Speaking of twisted...] 

However, I always feel that words are worth the effort to get to know, so as to be able to present the best words, in the best possible order.  I hate to go back through and edit-I rarely do it.  I rely on the words that I initially chose, and hesitate to substitute a different one.  Therefore, I like to have a nice repository of available choices.

Included in my seven gifts I received at Christmas were one dictionary, one thesaurus, one book on the etymology of idioms, as they originated in different cultures, a book entitled “I Never Metaphor I Didn’t Like,”  and Sue Grafton’s “V is for Vengeance.”  Those around me know what lights my fire.  I know, it’s sad.

But at least I have plenty of matches.

Settle Down, Mister

Settle Down, Mister

I do not understand why it is so simple to find topics, about which it is easy to write.  Stuff gets lodged in my head, and I ponder it; I ruminate over the different directions an idea may lead me, and I write the words on the ever-present whiteboard in my mind.  For obvious reasons, it is a white board, and not a chalk board.  Chalk boards went out of style, when technology burst on the scene, because of the dust factor.

I often reminisce about my military service and the writing that emerged last spring.  I say quite matter-of-factly, “Oh, I have been writing that piece in my mind since 1973,” and it’s true.  It poured out of me in such a torrent, that I still wonder why it took so long.  I imagine that I can attribute it to the loosening of the grip that anxiety had over me for 80% of my life, which would encompass 100% of my adult life.

Now I write with utter abandon, preferring to take that same unapologetic attitude that I have been reading about from my fellow writers.  I can’t refer to you as bloggers, because that categorizes you, and seems to lump you into a convenient one-size-fits-all bin, for easy identification.  

Writers, on the other hand, are light and breezy one moment, and serious as a heart attack, the next.  You constantly amaze me, first of all by your acceptance of me (my cumbersome vocabulary, notwithstanding), and secondly, by the daily reminder that it’s fine and dandy that some writers get paid for doing the same thing we do, only they are called “authors,” whereas we plug along and maybe we are bloggers.  And you knock my socks off every day of my life.

So here is the notion that has been trampolining around in my brain for about-let’s see, how long have I been “blogging?”-about a month now.  With all of the warmth and support that emanates from all angles, I never stop to worry about differences of opinion, or diverse ideologies, because the premise would appear to be that all are welcome, no matter what sort of background or views a person might possess.

Is that accurate?  Am I pretty much on target?  I learned a little about your political views when a certain President, with a predilection for tomfoolery, came up in an illuminating piece of writing, accompanied by comments which also revealed various general observations. 

I have learned about religious views, with comments again shedding light on individual perspectives, with everyone appearing to either accept, or at least be respectful of, divergent approaches.  We share daily trials and tribulations, we offer advice, and we consider all factors.

If one of “us” was, for instance, a recovering Catholic, that wouldn’t matter to anyone, would it?  If a person was raised in the culture of the Catholic Church, and decided as an adult to not be a practicing Catholic, that would not brand that person as a reprehensible slime-ball, would it?

What if that person felt even stronger about such basic concepts as the Golden Rule, and and instilled such convictions as responsibility, integrity, and a reverence for all things living into the minds of his children and his students, would that then make him an OK guy with whom to communicate and share ideas?  

He is far more accepting of others’ religious convictions than the average dude, even reverential, but chooses to attend services that are conducted in the great outdoors, communicating with the burgeoning life that surrounds him, aware of all things alive and inanimate.

This is purely hypothetical, you understand, and nothing need be made of it.  I was just wondering, for no apparent reason, and with nothing really on my mind.  It’s not on my mind because it is trampolining around in my brain.  It will not desist.  I don’t know why.

As me father used to say, “Settle down, Mister.”