Chop, Chop!

Chop, Chop!

I am cooking chicken cacciatore on Sunday, if you’d like to stop by.  I won’t continue to trumpet the reason why people might drop in, but I do have a television and a satellite hook-up, so that I can get reception on all major television “events.”  It is admittedly more appealing to guys than to women, but I also do not want to insult anyone who is a fan, especially anyone who happened to “drop” the line, “Go Niners!” on me the other day.  That is pretty cool, that an acquaintance would cheer for my team, just because I do.

Speaking of acquaintances, what is the difference between an acquaintance and a friend?  Is it time?  Is it specificity of topic or content?  If I let an elephant or two out, to wander around within clear view of others, does that make me less of an acquaintance, and more of a friend?  

In either case, I am having some friends, both male and female, join me and Annie on Sunday, for an event that commences at three-thirty (that would be Bell Springs time), and goes until probably seven or so.  Therefore, I want to be able to serve dinner.  I do not want to say to Annie, “Hey, I’m having some guys over-make some dinner.  Chop, Chop!”

Aside from the fact that I would get nothing more than an amused glance, it would go against the grain.  I learned from my father that men can cook, if they are of a mind.  I also know that when I begin with the home-canned tomatoes that I put up last fall, I am going to start out ahead of the game.  Annie includes my cacciatore with popcorn and coffee, as being a dish that she prefers my cooking to her own.  That, my friends, is a compliment, and one that I do not take lightly.

Last Saturday, when a few of my friends stopped by to watch the [event omitted], I was the one who started the barbecue with manzanita and oak, instead of charcoal, because charcoal had not been purchased.  (Ah, the perfect application of the passive voice...)  I wasn’t planning on eating anything that came off of the barbecue, but I figured that my friends would not have been here in the first place, if there were not an event on the tube, so I was happy to help out.

Not only that, but I peeled, sliced and placed into a mammoth silver bowl under water, a sack of organic Russet potatoes.  When the time came, I heated up the oil, and started cranking out batches of home-made French-fries, and for the first time in the history of the game, managed to make enough for Casey.  I was also thrilled to serve my home-canned ketchup, which came out so much better than the previous year.  I said it was my ketchup, but it is as much Annie’s, because she adds the spices and-ta da-the sugar. 

See, last year, I liked the ketchup, but it wasn’t really like the stuff I grew up with, off the shelf from Sunrize Market.  There was something not quite right.  When I asked the great dispenser of spices about it, she gave it long thought and announced that it was possible that the sugar was an issue, and she cut it in half.  Voila.  As simple as that and twice as tasty. 

So I will be dicing the onions, peppers, mushrooms, garlic, thyme, oregano and basil for the cacciatore, and browning the chicken that I will not be consuming, so as to combine and simmer on our wood-stoves, because both will be going this Sunday with the weather finally turning.

Pull up a chair, grab some of Casey’s fresh salad greens, carrots, and beets, some pasta or rice, and whatever else floats your boat, and gather around the action, while we find out whether or not the West Coast Offense can tame the East Coast Beast, the team from New York.  

It’s a tough one to call because the two teams have met already, with Cali clawing its way to a hard-fought, close victory over Eli and his teammates.  They say it can’t be done twice in one season, but I say if once was good, then twice is better.  So, with fervent apologies to anyone who might be rooting for the East Coast Beast, I must say, “Go, West Coast, all the way to Indianapolis.”

Excerpt from "Big Deal at Big Sur"

This is an excerpt from Big Deal at Big Sur, a piece I wrote about my own travels after graduation.

Big Deal at Big Sur

Mama and I had a multitude of battles, with each of us winning our share, but there was no conflict more volatile, or more controversial, than the big deal at Big Sur.  This is that tale of the one really big war that I had with Mama when I was seventeen, back in the summer of 1970.

When my friends and I first came up with the idea of going on an epic journey upon graduation, it was such a great idea, that we knew we didn’t have a chance.  Still, we hashed it over every time we got together from about February on, and as we approached June, we had managed to gain permission from our respective parents. 

We followed all of the ground rules, having decided before we left that beer did not constitute “liquor” so much as say, whiskey might have.  Today, from the standpoint of a parent, that makes no sense whatsoever, but it was our defense nonetheless.

Girls never really entered the picture, simply because there were five of us, and one guy would have had to take a backseat to the rest; we put our love lives on hold.  But a funny thing happened during the twenty-two days we were traveling. 

Though John was seeing Peggy, and I was seeing Debbie, the Red Fox, when the girls started talking about taking their own graduation trip, we didn’t think anything about it.  At some point along the way, Bill received a postcard announcing the glorious fact that they were going to meet us at Big Sur, on the last weekend of our adventure.

Say what?  How did this happen?  We literally had no control over it, as the planning had gone on during our absence.  All of the seven girls had received permission for a weekend camping trip to Plaskett Creek, closer to the San Luis Obispo side of Highway One, than the Carmel side.  What could we have done to stop them?

The subject had surfaced just before we graduated and everyone laughed at the idea of actually hooking up in Northern California somewhere, say Big Sur, and celebrating the end of our high school careers.  No one thought it would ever happen, simply because we didn’t think the girls’ parents would allow them to go unchaperoned.  There was no attempt on their part to conceal any of the facts.  In the spirit of the new age of freedom, and approaching adulthood for us all, the parents of the girls gave their permission for them to go ahead with their plans.

Debbie was a gal I had only been seeing only since the run of parties had begun the week before graduation itself.  She was actually Walt Cousineau’s brother’s girlfriend, but she was engaged in a running battle with him whether or not she should go all the way with him.  As she explained it to me, she was saving herself for marriage.

Just having this sweet young thing confiding all of this good stuff in me, made me feel as though I were the man.  The last thing, and I do mean the last thing, that I would ever have done, was to take a chance that I would somehow end up in the same category as Walt Cousineau’s brother.  

I was very innocent at the time, and I swallowed every word she said.  I have always considered this to be the most ironic aspect of the whole business.  If we had been fooling around, I would have been consumed by guilt.  But self-righteousness takes a back seat to very little, especially a critical mother.

We had a great time up there that weekend, and no one fooled around.  Heck, we had all twelve of us sleeping in a six person tent, so there would have been little chance of pulling something off, anyway.  We didn’t see the need for adult supervision, because we were all adults.  We just saw the need to have a little fun. 

However, the time came for the weekend to end.  Since we had no intention of deceiving our folks, I drove back with Debbie and one of her friends, in Debbie’s car.  I’ll never forget coming through the front door and seeing Mama standing in the middle of the living room, with the whole place a shambles.

The piano was in the middle of the room, if that gives you any indication, and everything was heaped around it, while the room was being painted or papered, or whatever was being done to it.  At our house, you didn’t move the piano away from the wall to clean.

Mama stared at me, barely acknowledging my introduction of the girls.  Sensing that all was not well on the home front, I diplomatically suggested an early departure to my two friends, and went back in to face the music, or the firing squad, it being pretty much the same thing.

Mama was pretty upset.  I guess it was probably a combination of anger, frustration and disappointment.  She’d been expecting the van to pull up, with all of those guys piling out, spewing tales of our adventures.  She probably was hoping that we would move the piano back into place.  Poor Debbie.

Instead, she indicated that I had clearly violated her trust.  I had broken the most sensitive rule of all-fraternizing with the female species.  Perish the thought.  Though I strongly maintained my innocence of any wrongdoing, and she admitted that she believed me, I was still a permanent member of Mama’s dog house.

“How long are we going to hash this out?  Why can’t you let it go?” I finally protested one night. 

“I have told you why I am upset.”

“Yes, I know.  You are worried about my reputation.  Well, I am not.”

“Your reputation?  What about my reputation?  I have to hold my head up among my friends.  You do not care.”

“I see.  Because I did nothing wrong, that means I don’t care.  It seems as though it would be the opposite. Maybe if I had done something wrong you could say I didn’t care about my reputation.”  

“You just don’t get it.  I am the laughing stock of my friends because you can’t be trusted.”

That was it.  I did not do anything wrong.  So I issued the one and only ultimatum I ever delivered.

“Either forget about stupid Big Sur, or I am so out of here.  There are a million places I could move to...”  But I was shooting blanks, and she probably knew it.  In any case the war was over, and life went on that summer peacefully.  That is, for about two days.

I had come back with a flaming red, three weeks' growth of beard, and immediately picked a fight with Augie, the manager at Sunrize market.  I was angry that he had promoted Jimmy Richardson to head box boy, as revenge for my taking off for three weeks, so I quit.  I figured I could find a job anywhere I wanted, but found that I was wrong.  Oh well, at least Mama wasn’t worried about Big Sur anymore.

We both grew a lot back then, me into adulthood, and she into a better understanding of a rapidly changing social and cultural world, outside of her home on Fellowship Street.

A Nice Ring To It *

A Nice Ring To It

I feel delight, contentment, a sense of approaching full circle and finally, a feeling of deja vu.  The San Francisco Forty-Niners, led by Alex Smith, upset the former NFL champion New Orleans Saints, Saturday afternoon, 36-32, to advance to the NFC title game, for the first time since 1997.  The victory was the result of a superior, balanced effort, on the part of the defense, special teams, and oh, by the way, Alex Smith.

No one is surprised to hear that Patrick Willis, Dashon Goldson, Justin Smith, and Aldon Smith on defense, and David Akers, Andy Lee, and Blake Costanzo, on special teams, were a huge part of the victory.  However, it may interest you to know that the much maligned Alex Smith, the much ridiculed Alex Smith also played a role in the victory, a role that no other NFL quarterback has ever performed before, not even Joe Montana, or Steve Young. 

Alex brought his team back into the lead twice in the final three minutes of the Saturday playoff game, by engineering scoring drives that resulted in touchdowns.  He scored himself, on a designed bootleg around the left side, surprising the Saints with his only intended rush of the game, and he sent a laser beam to Vernon Davis, with nine seconds remaining on the clock, to seal the deal.  Quarterbacks, including Montana and Young have come from behind countless times before, but never twice in the same playoff game, when pressure is the greatest, and there is the most to lose. 

The Niners have been able to ignore the lack of respect they have garnered from the out-of-areas media.  After all, they had yet to prove themselves in the playoff arena.  There were four quarterbacks entering this past weekend’s playoff schedule, who possess Superbowl rings, one of them having earned three rings.  None of the four is named Alex Smith. 

Alex hasn’t had the opportunity to play in the playoffs before.  He has played under three different head coaches, and astonishingly, seven different offensive coordinators, in seven seasons.  That means he has had to learn seven different play-books in seven different seasons.  Though he is a cerebral guy, that is a lot to ask of someone, and then expect that he will be able to establish any semblance of continuity, in a single season.

Alex was joined in 2006 by Vernon Davis, the same year that Frank Gore was established as the primary running back.  All it took was a head coach who had faith in him.  Mike Nolan felt that Alex lacked leadership, and Mike Singletary called the former number one draft pick “meek.”  But how fair is that?  He was never given two consecutive seasons to develop a rhythm to his offense, never given a head coach who could orchestrate all three components of a successful NFL team, to allow Alex to show his ability.

With the defense taking the ball away, and the kicking team dictating favorable field position, on both sides of the ball, Alex has stepped up to the task of providing the leadership qualities that the four ring-bearing quarterbacks possess. 

In this, his seventh season in San Francisco, he has thrown only five interceptions.  He has not thrown for more than 300 yards one time this season, accumulating 299 in the New Orleans game, and he barely topped 3,000 yards, unlike Aaron Rodgers and Drew Brees, who both threw for more than 5,000 yards, each.  But, unlike Alex, both of those quarterbacks will watch the rest of the tournament from their living room couches.

Alex said prior to the game, when asked about the disparity in yards thrown, that he did not care if he, Alex, threw for more yards than Brees, only that he outscore him. 

When the Saints went ahead with only three minutes to go, Alex delivered, and when they retook the lead with 97 seconds left, Alex once again came through.  When it was over, he had done what no other quarterback has done.  The only thing left is a ring.  

But first we have invited the New York Giants to visit.  Things worked out well in the first meeting, as the Giants’ defense shut down the Niners’ running game and Alex produced a victory.  He has to do it again to join the circle of elite quarterbacks, with a ring of his own.  There, that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

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.