I love this time of year when the snow falls gently, when the light is muted by the clouds and the low-lying sun. A few moments ago, the new snow had this yellow, sodium vapor light yellow, sliding over it, but, since somewhere west of here, the horizon is eating the sun, it's now a gunmetal blue.
God, I enjoy snow.
When I was watching Flight of the Pheonix last week, there were many scenes of the wind snaking over the dunes, pulling streams along with it, and it reminded me of the snow drifts. It'll make me happy today, though, if the wind doesn't kick up since I'm supposed to hit the road tomorrow.
The sun's still drifting lower, as is the snow, and the streets are quiet. That's good. I'm not big on driving when there's a lot of nuts out on the road and there's a heavy coating of snow.
Peace to everyone on this peacefully snowy day.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Friday, December 24, 2004
Ronnie
At school, Ronnie and I weren't really friends. As a matter of fact, he was a bully, and I was one of his targets. But, on the weekends, well, that was a different story all together. His grandparents lived on the other end of our short road, and if my family wasn't doing anything over the weekend, I'd go over to their place on Saturday and spend the day there. They belonged to our church, and Mr. M. was a very nice and decent man. Mrs. M. was a shrew.
They were an old couple, and the farm had been homesteaded by Mr. M's grandfather in the late 1880's. It was one of the oldest farmsteads in the county that had stayed within a single family. Mr. and Mrs. M were members of our church, and, they were packrats. Dad said it was a result of living through the Great Depression, and I could see that. At the time I didn't understand it, but, I could see it.
Ronnie was a year older than me, but he had a growth hormone defiency, causing his growth to always be behind others. His younger brother, Mark, was four years younger than him, and was always a few inches taller. Even with the injections he got once a month, his growth was always stunted.
I think that's what made him mean.
Because he was always the smallest in his class, it was expected that he had other problems as well. His classmates typically picked him last for teams, and he was often the target for dodgeball. It made him a scrapper. He would fight anyone with no regard to his own pain, no regard to the wounds he received. During one month in second grade he had perpetual black eyes. Just as one healed, the other would be bruised. As such, he started looking for targets for his bullying behavior. I was one of them.
I soon learned to become invisible around him.
He was my tormenter all through my first grade year. Ronnie's classroom was in a different part of the school. Our school at the time was a bit weird. Our school distract had just consolidated many of the small country schools, and even though we had a new high school, it wasn't large enough to hold all of the students. Our elementary school was also too small to hold all of the elementary students, so, to solve this lack of space issue, the old high school building was made into both an overflow for the elementary and high school students that couldn't fit in the newer schools. Ronnie and I were in that overflow.
After a year of perpetual turmoil, my educational experience was further outsourced and I was sent to another school within our district in a small town that was about five miles east of my home town. Thankfully, Ronnie didn't make that journey with me. In second and third grade, I was out at that school, at which point, I came back to the main elementary school.
That was the year that our school district reorganized, and our junior high was dissolved, and we had a middle school. At the elementary school, it was just K-4, for grades 5-8 we went up the hill to the Middle School (which had been the same school I went to for first grade), and from 9-12, we were in the High School, which was just over the lawn from the elementary school. With this realignment came a long-term solution to the over crowding of our school.
And, it also lead to the renewal of my association with Ronnie.
It was a Friday afternoon in late October. We had shut down our cabin for the year, and Dad was working so I knew if we were going grouse hunting, it wouldn't be until Sunday. That meant I'd have nothing to do on Saturday other than run around out in the woods. No problem, I'd spent many Saturday's doing that. I was lost in those thoughts when I looked up and saw Ronnie get on the bus.
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice as he walked the narrow aisle, hoping he wouldn't sit next to me. It wasn't until he found a seat in a different part of the bus that I realized I was holding my breath. Questions flooded my mind. Why was he on my bus? What was he doing here? Where was he going? Did he just get on the wrong bus? I kept a wary eye on him, doing nothing to draw his direct attention to me.
We were about halfway through my part of the trip when I noticed that he was crying. Not hard, mind you, but he definitely had tears leaking. While he was looking out the window, and timing it carefully so I got him right after he wiped his eyes, I leaned over and asked, "Is your name Ronnie?"
He turned, flinching as if I were going to hit him. When he realized I wasn't a threat, and he nodded that he was.
"Why are you on this bus?"
"I'm going to my grandparents."
"Oh. Who are they?" He told me, and I asked where they lived. When he told me, I told him that I lived only a mile north of there. I asked him why he was going to his grandparents, and he said that his mother wanted him to go and help them on their farm, getting it ready for winter. He didn't want to go. They never let him do anything to help, saying he was too small.
We talked the rest of the way home, and then, he asked if I wanted to come over the next day. I thought about it for a little bit, then said I'd ask my mom when got home.
That night, I did ask Mom, and she said it was fine. Ronnie called that night and I told him I'd be over the next day. So, I did. I rode my Huffy three speed over to his grandparent's farm.
For the next three years, in the fall of the year, I'd spend many of my weekends with Ronnie at his grandparents. We did a lot of things over there, too.
Yesterday, I started thinking about Ronnie. I was in the backyard, splitting wood for the fireplace, and then, came in and had some tomato soup for supper. As I sat down to eat my soup, I realized that I was with Ronnie when I first split wood, and his grandmother typically would make us tomato soup for luch. The things you remember, eh?
Today, I got online and checked the hometown newspaper. Ronnie is in there. Local business man turned bad. He had inheirted the farm when his grandfather died about 10 years ago, and he had his own used car dealership in town.
Guess he wasn't making enough money selling cars and running the farm. He was busted last weekend cooking meth in the barn where we use to feed the calves and curry brush the ponies.
Interesting twists.
They were an old couple, and the farm had been homesteaded by Mr. M's grandfather in the late 1880's. It was one of the oldest farmsteads in the county that had stayed within a single family. Mr. and Mrs. M were members of our church, and, they were packrats. Dad said it was a result of living through the Great Depression, and I could see that. At the time I didn't understand it, but, I could see it.
Ronnie was a year older than me, but he had a growth hormone defiency, causing his growth to always be behind others. His younger brother, Mark, was four years younger than him, and was always a few inches taller. Even with the injections he got once a month, his growth was always stunted.
I think that's what made him mean.
Because he was always the smallest in his class, it was expected that he had other problems as well. His classmates typically picked him last for teams, and he was often the target for dodgeball. It made him a scrapper. He would fight anyone with no regard to his own pain, no regard to the wounds he received. During one month in second grade he had perpetual black eyes. Just as one healed, the other would be bruised. As such, he started looking for targets for his bullying behavior. I was one of them.
I soon learned to become invisible around him.
He was my tormenter all through my first grade year. Ronnie's classroom was in a different part of the school. Our school at the time was a bit weird. Our school distract had just consolidated many of the small country schools, and even though we had a new high school, it wasn't large enough to hold all of the students. Our elementary school was also too small to hold all of the elementary students, so, to solve this lack of space issue, the old high school building was made into both an overflow for the elementary and high school students that couldn't fit in the newer schools. Ronnie and I were in that overflow.
After a year of perpetual turmoil, my educational experience was further outsourced and I was sent to another school within our district in a small town that was about five miles east of my home town. Thankfully, Ronnie didn't make that journey with me. In second and third grade, I was out at that school, at which point, I came back to the main elementary school.
That was the year that our school district reorganized, and our junior high was dissolved, and we had a middle school. At the elementary school, it was just K-4, for grades 5-8 we went up the hill to the Middle School (which had been the same school I went to for first grade), and from 9-12, we were in the High School, which was just over the lawn from the elementary school. With this realignment came a long-term solution to the over crowding of our school.
And, it also lead to the renewal of my association with Ronnie.
It was a Friday afternoon in late October. We had shut down our cabin for the year, and Dad was working so I knew if we were going grouse hunting, it wouldn't be until Sunday. That meant I'd have nothing to do on Saturday other than run around out in the woods. No problem, I'd spent many Saturday's doing that. I was lost in those thoughts when I looked up and saw Ronnie get on the bus.
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice as he walked the narrow aisle, hoping he wouldn't sit next to me. It wasn't until he found a seat in a different part of the bus that I realized I was holding my breath. Questions flooded my mind. Why was he on my bus? What was he doing here? Where was he going? Did he just get on the wrong bus? I kept a wary eye on him, doing nothing to draw his direct attention to me.
We were about halfway through my part of the trip when I noticed that he was crying. Not hard, mind you, but he definitely had tears leaking. While he was looking out the window, and timing it carefully so I got him right after he wiped his eyes, I leaned over and asked, "Is your name Ronnie?"
He turned, flinching as if I were going to hit him. When he realized I wasn't a threat, and he nodded that he was.
"Why are you on this bus?"
"I'm going to my grandparents."
"Oh. Who are they?" He told me, and I asked where they lived. When he told me, I told him that I lived only a mile north of there. I asked him why he was going to his grandparents, and he said that his mother wanted him to go and help them on their farm, getting it ready for winter. He didn't want to go. They never let him do anything to help, saying he was too small.
We talked the rest of the way home, and then, he asked if I wanted to come over the next day. I thought about it for a little bit, then said I'd ask my mom when got home.
That night, I did ask Mom, and she said it was fine. Ronnie called that night and I told him I'd be over the next day. So, I did. I rode my Huffy three speed over to his grandparent's farm.
For the next three years, in the fall of the year, I'd spend many of my weekends with Ronnie at his grandparents. We did a lot of things over there, too.
Yesterday, I started thinking about Ronnie. I was in the backyard, splitting wood for the fireplace, and then, came in and had some tomato soup for supper. As I sat down to eat my soup, I realized that I was with Ronnie when I first split wood, and his grandmother typically would make us tomato soup for luch. The things you remember, eh?
Today, I got online and checked the hometown newspaper. Ronnie is in there. Local business man turned bad. He had inheirted the farm when his grandfather died about 10 years ago, and he had his own used car dealership in town.
Guess he wasn't making enough money selling cars and running the farm. He was busted last weekend cooking meth in the barn where we use to feed the calves and curry brush the ponies.
Interesting twists.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Oy. I can't wait. Something else for my students to write about as a "valid" science
EVP--Electronic Voice Phenomena--I just can't wait. Hell, I'm surprised I haven't received a paper or two on this topic already. After all, it's a new way to "talk with the dead."
I wouldn't mind speaking with a few dead people from time to time--my wife, my mother, my grandmother...Hell, Grampa Art would be fun to get to know, too...
And it's not like I don't believe in ghosts--I don't disbelieve in them--but, this...this EVP crap is a puesdo-science wrapped in the trappings of empircism just waiting to be discovered by the unwashed and not so educated to grab up and try and convince others that this is a "true" science and we have the "proof."
Of course, some would argue the same about psychology. But, most psychologists will at least claim that we can't truly prove anything is "true", but we can prove things false. *heh*
But...you decide. http://www.aaevp.com/
I wouldn't mind speaking with a few dead people from time to time--my wife, my mother, my grandmother...Hell, Grampa Art would be fun to get to know, too...
And it's not like I don't believe in ghosts--I don't disbelieve in them--but, this...this EVP crap is a puesdo-science wrapped in the trappings of empircism just waiting to be discovered by the unwashed and not so educated to grab up and try and convince others that this is a "true" science and we have the "proof."
Of course, some would argue the same about psychology. But, most psychologists will at least claim that we can't truly prove anything is "true", but we can prove things false. *heh*
But...you decide. http://www.aaevp.com/
Friday, December 17, 2004
The Barbie Killer and Used Pipe Cleaners
I smoke a pipe. Have for years. And along the way, of course, I've had to clean them. I have six or seven pipes that I rotate through, with three that I really enjoy smoking.
Now, the Barbie Killer doesn't enjoy being around me while I smoke..but..when I pull out the pipe cleaners, she starts going nuts. God forbid I set a used one down and pick up another when she's around...the little snit will steal them and play with them. It's like they're an alternative form of catnip.
Last night, I cleaned one of my pipes, and I could have sworn that I threw all three of the cleaners away.
It must have been just one.
I woke this morning with one in bed.
Just now, I found the other inside one of my boots.
And the little spasmatic fought me for it. *LOL* I won.
*grin*
Then again, I am bigger than she is.
Now, the Barbie Killer doesn't enjoy being around me while I smoke..but..when I pull out the pipe cleaners, she starts going nuts. God forbid I set a used one down and pick up another when she's around...the little snit will steal them and play with them. It's like they're an alternative form of catnip.
Last night, I cleaned one of my pipes, and I could have sworn that I threw all three of the cleaners away.
It must have been just one.
I woke this morning with one in bed.
Just now, I found the other inside one of my boots.
And the little spasmatic fought me for it. *LOL* I won.
*grin*
Then again, I am bigger than she is.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
A picture I wish I could have taken
Our school has a front end loader that is used, amongst other things, for snow removal. Our beast is about 15 years old and is often prone to breakdown at the wrong time.
Like, for instance, this past week. Our grounds-keeper, Shane, was clearing the parking lot and suddenly...something went awry! As he said, it went chunk chunk chunk CLUNK, and then died where it stood for a few days.
Yesterday, as I was returning to school after a short lunch break, there was a sight to see--the repair company was there to pick up the loader (without the bucket), and they had it up on a lowboy trailer.
Along with another loader, sans bucket. They were both were on the trailer. And the way they were arranged, well, let's just say this...
I now know where Bobcats come from. *grin*
Like, for instance, this past week. Our grounds-keeper, Shane, was clearing the parking lot and suddenly...something went awry! As he said, it went chunk chunk chunk CLUNK, and then died where it stood for a few days.
Yesterday, as I was returning to school after a short lunch break, there was a sight to see--the repair company was there to pick up the loader (without the bucket), and they had it up on a lowboy trailer.
Along with another loader, sans bucket. They were both were on the trailer. And the way they were arranged, well, let's just say this...
I now know where Bobcats come from. *grin*
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Tests
I'm giving three final exams today, back to back to back. One class is almost completed with their exam, and then another joins them in about 20 minutes.
I remember taking finals when I was an undergrad and how much stress I felt with each of those exams. I think the worst was College Algerbra, followed by Psychological Statistics. Oh, and Biology 102 gave me an ulcer.
I also remember that the further I went in my college career, the easier the tests became. I took Clinical Methods my third year in grad school, which wasn't part of my program so I had to petition the instructor to allow me to get in. She was pretty cool about it, and I think the other students were a bit freaked by my presence. I often showed up about 20 minutes late to class (mainly because I was teaching another course on the other side of campus), and was always prepared with my readings. When it got to the final, an essay exam scheduled for four hours, I came in, sat down, got the exam, and started writing.
My fellow students, however, started talking as soon as the instructor left the room. (This was very common in my grad program--the professors felt they could trust us). "Can you believe this?" one guy asked. "How many of these questions are we supposed to answer?" They bitched and complained for the first half hour as I kept writting. I was one in just over two and a half hours, and most of the other students were still on the third (of 20) questions. I packed up, grabbed my test, and the unbelieving student looked at me and said "Oh, I supposed you're done already."
"Yup," I replied, "I don't believe in wasting time like some people I know." With that, I left and headed up to the professor's office to drop off the exam. I also informed her of what happened after she left, and she asked if I would pop back in at the four hour mark. I didn't have anything planned, so I told her I would.
At the four hour mark, I returned to the class, and the prof walked in and slid my test over to me--already graded with a 98% mark on the cover sheet. She went around the room and polled the rest of the students, who were all sitting there with their maws wide open. "How far are you?," she asked every one of them. Their answers varied from five questions to tweleve questions completed, and she nodded her head.
"Okay. Turn them in."
It was so quiet you could hear their thoughts ricochetted through their craniums.
"I'm serious. Turn them in."
They started passing the tests in, and the prof collected them. Looked through the papers. Then, looked at the students. "This is not satisfactory. If you had spent the first 30 minutes working instead of talking, most of you'd be done by now. I'll give you one more hour, and whatever is finished at that point is it."
She left the stack of papers at the head of the table, invited me over to the union for coffee, and left them to hang themselves with the rope they wove on their own.
Years later, I ran into two of the other students from that class. They asked about that exam and if I had told the prof about them talking. That's when I told them what the prof told me over coffee. "I knew they were discussing the questions, but I decided not to say anything. You're telling me, and also doing as well as you did, is what made me decide that they needed to have a bit of fear added to the mix." Three people in the class were close to failing, and one person did...but...he only had eight questions answered at the end of five hours.
Anyway, my students are waiting for the exam...and I have a feeling most of them will pass the test. That is a good feeling.
Peace.
I remember taking finals when I was an undergrad and how much stress I felt with each of those exams. I think the worst was College Algerbra, followed by Psychological Statistics. Oh, and Biology 102 gave me an ulcer.
I also remember that the further I went in my college career, the easier the tests became. I took Clinical Methods my third year in grad school, which wasn't part of my program so I had to petition the instructor to allow me to get in. She was pretty cool about it, and I think the other students were a bit freaked by my presence. I often showed up about 20 minutes late to class (mainly because I was teaching another course on the other side of campus), and was always prepared with my readings. When it got to the final, an essay exam scheduled for four hours, I came in, sat down, got the exam, and started writing.
My fellow students, however, started talking as soon as the instructor left the room. (This was very common in my grad program--the professors felt they could trust us). "Can you believe this?" one guy asked. "How many of these questions are we supposed to answer?" They bitched and complained for the first half hour as I kept writting. I was one in just over two and a half hours, and most of the other students were still on the third (of 20) questions. I packed up, grabbed my test, and the unbelieving student looked at me and said "Oh, I supposed you're done already."
"Yup," I replied, "I don't believe in wasting time like some people I know." With that, I left and headed up to the professor's office to drop off the exam. I also informed her of what happened after she left, and she asked if I would pop back in at the four hour mark. I didn't have anything planned, so I told her I would.
At the four hour mark, I returned to the class, and the prof walked in and slid my test over to me--already graded with a 98% mark on the cover sheet. She went around the room and polled the rest of the students, who were all sitting there with their maws wide open. "How far are you?," she asked every one of them. Their answers varied from five questions to tweleve questions completed, and she nodded her head.
"Okay. Turn them in."
It was so quiet you could hear their thoughts ricochetted through their craniums.
"I'm serious. Turn them in."
They started passing the tests in, and the prof collected them. Looked through the papers. Then, looked at the students. "This is not satisfactory. If you had spent the first 30 minutes working instead of talking, most of you'd be done by now. I'll give you one more hour, and whatever is finished at that point is it."
She left the stack of papers at the head of the table, invited me over to the union for coffee, and left them to hang themselves with the rope they wove on their own.
Years later, I ran into two of the other students from that class. They asked about that exam and if I had told the prof about them talking. That's when I told them what the prof told me over coffee. "I knew they were discussing the questions, but I decided not to say anything. You're telling me, and also doing as well as you did, is what made me decide that they needed to have a bit of fear added to the mix." Three people in the class were close to failing, and one person did...but...he only had eight questions answered at the end of five hours.
Anyway, my students are waiting for the exam...and I have a feeling most of them will pass the test. That is a good feeling.
Peace.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Sundogs
I wish I would have taken my camera with me this morning. As I turned to the east under the clear blue sky, I saw the sun was rising over the prairie flanked by her hounds. The sundogs were out, crisp and bright.
I know the physics involved with this phenomenon...how they are formed by the reflections and refractions of light through the prismatic crystals of ice vapor in the air...but...there is something so...primodal about seeing the sundogs floating in the sky, the focal points as bright as the sun.
There is a dose of aboriginal blood in my heritage, an arctic people that lived with the land and the weather for tens of thousands of years. There is a story of the sundogs and how they are hunters for the sun...going out and finding the food the sun needs to survive. Because of this, the people believes that when the sundogs are out its a good time to both hunt and watch for animal hunters.
Today, I think, I'll not so much hunt, but, I'll be at peace and wary of my students since they're on a hunt of their own...
Peace.
I know the physics involved with this phenomenon...how they are formed by the reflections and refractions of light through the prismatic crystals of ice vapor in the air...but...there is something so...primodal about seeing the sundogs floating in the sky, the focal points as bright as the sun.
There is a dose of aboriginal blood in my heritage, an arctic people that lived with the land and the weather for tens of thousands of years. There is a story of the sundogs and how they are hunters for the sun...going out and finding the food the sun needs to survive. Because of this, the people believes that when the sundogs are out its a good time to both hunt and watch for animal hunters.
Today, I think, I'll not so much hunt, but, I'll be at peace and wary of my students since they're on a hunt of their own...
Peace.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Stormy Days and Cats
I love living where I do. I really do. The wind blows hard, and right now, there are reports of trucks being blown off the roads. Great. Right now, we have a lot of sleet, and the windows are rattling in their frames.
And what are the cats doing?
One is curled up next to me, trying to get, I swear, inside my skin for extra warmth. The other is curled up on a heat vent right next to the sliding patio door. It was damn funny the last time the furnace kicked on...she jumped a mile!
That's not hyperbole, either. I measured it. *grin*
Good day to stay inside, though I need to head out for just a little bit to pick up a few things. But, other than that...I'm staying in.
Peace.
And what are the cats doing?
One is curled up next to me, trying to get, I swear, inside my skin for extra warmth. The other is curled up on a heat vent right next to the sliding patio door. It was damn funny the last time the furnace kicked on...she jumped a mile!
That's not hyperbole, either. I measured it. *grin*
Good day to stay inside, though I need to head out for just a little bit to pick up a few things. But, other than that...I'm staying in.
Peace.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Fishing Through Holes
I looked through the paper this morning and found that the ice report for the local lakes wasn’t as good as it was last week. We haven’t had cold enough temps, especially at night, to get the ice factory going. Most of the local lakes have less than 5 inches of ice, which is my lower limit for going out on a lake. Hell, I really don’t feel safe until there’s at least 8 inches, so, I can wait a while longer.
But, we’ve had more snow. Not so much that when the wind blows we get decent drifts, but, we’ve got snow. And just as fast as it gets covered with tracks, a new layer falls and recoats the ground with the pristine white powder.
This weekend I’m going to get my ice fishing gear out and loaded into the truck so, if I choose to go, I can on a moments notice. I might even have to go out and refill the propane tank. As I told one of my friends–I refuse to fish in the cold. So, I’ll look at my rattle reels, my rods and reels, my lures, batteries, and all that.
It’ll all be good.
But, we’ve had more snow. Not so much that when the wind blows we get decent drifts, but, we’ve got snow. And just as fast as it gets covered with tracks, a new layer falls and recoats the ground with the pristine white powder.
This weekend I’m going to get my ice fishing gear out and loaded into the truck so, if I choose to go, I can on a moments notice. I might even have to go out and refill the propane tank. As I told one of my friends–I refuse to fish in the cold. So, I’ll look at my rattle reels, my rods and reels, my lures, batteries, and all that.
It’ll all be good.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
The people you meet while cleaning ferret cages
So, Sunday, between papers (which I'm finally done with!), I decided it was time to pretty much dismantle the entire ferret cage and clean it from top to bottom. I had it all apart, cleaned, scrubbed, and had all the litter switched and had the cage back together. Woo! Was it warm after all that work! (Of course, I also had to fend myself off from the fuzzbutts wondering just what I was doing with their home! Roscoe the Inquisitive was living up to his name that afternoon!)
Anyway, there I am, wearing nothing but a pair of sleeping pants and an old flannel shirt, and getting ready to take the old litter and poop out to the garbage. Now, typically, I'd just run out to the garbage barefoot--but, it's Decemeber in the nort'land, and I'd have frozen my feet to the cement. We can't be having that now, can we?!? So, I'm standing on the landing, getting ready to pull my boots on...
And the doorbell rings.
Huh. I'm not expecting anyone...so, I button my shirt one more button, and look out the window. There's two guys on the stoop. And they look...familiar.
It took me a moment to realize that it's Rob and Mike--two members of the local Kingdom Hall. That's right, Jehovah's Witnesses coming to save me!
Now, I haven't seen Rob and Mike (not their real names!) in about a year...not since they stopped by my old place on the south side of town and I invited them in for coffee, cookies, and a perusal of my fine collection of porn...they...smiled...and backed away...
So...I fling the door open and grin...
Mind you...I hadn't taken a shower...I had a serious case of CPAP hair...sweaty...a forest of unruly chest hair sticking out of my mostly unbuttoned and very worn flannel shirt...dark blue sleeping pants with little polar bears on them...and barefoot...
"Rob! Mike!," I say cheerfully with a twisted grin and mischievious twinkle in my eye. They see me and start to back away...their smiles going from legitimate to plastic Ken-doll smiles as they see me...and remember me. "How ya guys doin'? Hey! Got any copies of The Watchtower? I need a few copies! Oh, could you do me a favor?" I handed Rob the garbage bag filled with ferret poop and ferret litter. "Could you toss this in the garbage can behind you there?" Without uttering a word or protest, Rob took the bag and dropped it into the garbage...and...I shut and locked the door behind them as I shouted..."Merry Christmas!"
Rob and Mike. I've gotta admit. They're polite. After they tossed the bag of litter, they walked on back to their car.
But they forgot to leave me a copy of The Watchtower.
Anyway, there I am, wearing nothing but a pair of sleeping pants and an old flannel shirt, and getting ready to take the old litter and poop out to the garbage. Now, typically, I'd just run out to the garbage barefoot--but, it's Decemeber in the nort'land, and I'd have frozen my feet to the cement. We can't be having that now, can we?!? So, I'm standing on the landing, getting ready to pull my boots on...
And the doorbell rings.
Huh. I'm not expecting anyone...so, I button my shirt one more button, and look out the window. There's two guys on the stoop. And they look...familiar.
It took me a moment to realize that it's Rob and Mike--two members of the local Kingdom Hall. That's right, Jehovah's Witnesses coming to save me!
Now, I haven't seen Rob and Mike (not their real names!) in about a year...not since they stopped by my old place on the south side of town and I invited them in for coffee, cookies, and a perusal of my fine collection of porn...they...smiled...and backed away...
So...I fling the door open and grin...
Mind you...I hadn't taken a shower...I had a serious case of CPAP hair...sweaty...a forest of unruly chest hair sticking out of my mostly unbuttoned and very worn flannel shirt...dark blue sleeping pants with little polar bears on them...and barefoot...
"Rob! Mike!," I say cheerfully with a twisted grin and mischievious twinkle in my eye. They see me and start to back away...their smiles going from legitimate to plastic Ken-doll smiles as they see me...and remember me. "How ya guys doin'? Hey! Got any copies of The Watchtower? I need a few copies! Oh, could you do me a favor?" I handed Rob the garbage bag filled with ferret poop and ferret litter. "Could you toss this in the garbage can behind you there?" Without uttering a word or protest, Rob took the bag and dropped it into the garbage...and...I shut and locked the door behind them as I shouted..."Merry Christmas!"
Rob and Mike. I've gotta admit. They're polite. After they tossed the bag of litter, they walked on back to their car.
But they forgot to leave me a copy of The Watchtower.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Sometimes, you just gotta say it like it is
Both classes had wake up calls today...I told my first class that many of them did way below par work on their portfolios, and no, they couldn't rewrite them...why they couldn't write them correctly the first time is the question...
The second class I chewed out because tonight, they were being fucking RUDE! I was trying to show a video clip and wasn't able to plug the sound patchcord into my computer because it was too short, and my computer isn't that loud...and there was a bunch in the back of the class yammering away...and I heard two say "What movie is this?" "Oh, I don't know. Most likely something stupid that doesn't pertain to the class anyway!" So, I stopped the movie, looked at that corner of the class and ripped into them...told them there would be questions on the exam from the movie...told them that their behavior was inexcusable...told them that if they didn't care about the movie they could get out, but I would not tolerate them making it so the other people who WANT to learn couldn't...
Then...it was the first of the group presentations...and I had a bunch of people packing up to leave! HOW FUCKING RUDE!!! I told them basically that class wasn't over, and that they would exhibit the same courtesies to the group tonight that they expected when they were presenting on Wednesday...so...the group starts presenting...and half way through...someone's cell rings...grrrrrrrrrrrr....
After the presentation was over, I got up, and I don't think that pocket in the back of the class had figured out I was grumpy yet...so, as I'm trying to tell them what we needed to do on Wednesday, they were packing up and talking. So...I stopped talking and STARED at them...and that normally works...but not tonight...so...I got their attention...
"Ya know. I'm not in the best mood right now. I'm pretty goddam GRUMPY. I want to get this information out to you, but if you don't SHUT UP back there you're all going to be in a sink or swim situation."
They shut up.
So, I told them how it would work on Wednesday, and then, I told them...."In the syllabus, it states that when you come into class you are to turn off your cell phones or set them to buzz. I haven't enforced that often this semester, because I figure I can deal with you being rude to me. But, on Wednesday, they will be TURNED OFF. No if, and's, or buts about it. If a cell rings on Wednesday at any time, it will be noted on your eval sheet and I will take points off. So--keep the things in your car or your locker or turn the damn things off because I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOUR RUDE BEHAVIOR TO YOUR CLASSMATES WHEN THEY ARE UP HERE DOING THEIR PRESENTATIONS.
"And, if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the dean."
So....anyway...I'm a bit grumpy at the moment. grrrr.
The second class I chewed out because tonight, they were being fucking RUDE! I was trying to show a video clip and wasn't able to plug the sound patchcord into my computer because it was too short, and my computer isn't that loud...and there was a bunch in the back of the class yammering away...and I heard two say "What movie is this?" "Oh, I don't know. Most likely something stupid that doesn't pertain to the class anyway!" So, I stopped the movie, looked at that corner of the class and ripped into them...told them there would be questions on the exam from the movie...told them that their behavior was inexcusable...told them that if they didn't care about the movie they could get out, but I would not tolerate them making it so the other people who WANT to learn couldn't...
Then...it was the first of the group presentations...and I had a bunch of people packing up to leave! HOW FUCKING RUDE!!! I told them basically that class wasn't over, and that they would exhibit the same courtesies to the group tonight that they expected when they were presenting on Wednesday...so...the group starts presenting...and half way through...someone's cell rings...grrrrrrrrrrrr....
After the presentation was over, I got up, and I don't think that pocket in the back of the class had figured out I was grumpy yet...so, as I'm trying to tell them what we needed to do on Wednesday, they were packing up and talking. So...I stopped talking and STARED at them...and that normally works...but not tonight...so...I got their attention...
"Ya know. I'm not in the best mood right now. I'm pretty goddam GRUMPY. I want to get this information out to you, but if you don't SHUT UP back there you're all going to be in a sink or swim situation."
They shut up.
So, I told them how it would work on Wednesday, and then, I told them...."In the syllabus, it states that when you come into class you are to turn off your cell phones or set them to buzz. I haven't enforced that often this semester, because I figure I can deal with you being rude to me. But, on Wednesday, they will be TURNED OFF. No if, and's, or buts about it. If a cell rings on Wednesday at any time, it will be noted on your eval sheet and I will take points off. So--keep the things in your car or your locker or turn the damn things off because I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOUR RUDE BEHAVIOR TO YOUR CLASSMATES WHEN THEY ARE UP HERE DOING THEIR PRESENTATIONS.
"And, if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the dean."
So....anyway...I'm a bit grumpy at the moment. grrrr.
What happened to good students?
So...I got to the last paper I was going to read before going to bed...and it read really well...too well...not a single mistake...not even a missed comma or anything...
The student included her sources in the text.
First paragraph of her paper and first paragraph of her source are WORD FOR WORD the same.
Yup.
She's failing.
And, she's going to be reported after I have a discussion with her.
Oh, and after I make copies of EVERYTHING she's turned in this semester.
I'm going to bed...
The student included her sources in the text.
First paragraph of her paper and first paragraph of her source are WORD FOR WORD the same.
Yup.
She's failing.
And, she's going to be reported after I have a discussion with her.
Oh, and after I make copies of EVERYTHING she's turned in this semester.
I'm going to bed...
Sunday, December 05, 2004
The Best Line I've Read In Any of My Students' Papers
"When a child is conceived, a father decides the sex of the baby."
Hmmmmm...interesting.
I didn't realize we could make that decision. I thought it was on a cellular level.
Hmmmmm...interesting.
I didn't realize we could make that decision. I thought it was on a cellular level.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Ice
I admit it. I have a thing about ice. Especially ice that covers lakes. It gives me a thrill that is akin to sexual excitement. I love the feel of the stiff water under my feet as I walk across it--and I enjoy the fact that it gets thick enough for me to drive my truck on in the middle part of winter.
I know. I'm not quite normal. I go out into the middle of lakes on the flexible sheet just so I can punch holes through the skin of the lake and try to find the fish that are beneath the surface. It's a joy that people who grew up south of the ice line just don't understand.
I don't understand surfing. Heh. We're even.
Ice is forming on the lakes, iridescent blue of captured moonlight, and soon, it'll be thick enough for me to go out and bore my holes and wet my lines.
Lordy, I can't wait.
I know. I'm not quite normal. I go out into the middle of lakes on the flexible sheet just so I can punch holes through the skin of the lake and try to find the fish that are beneath the surface. It's a joy that people who grew up south of the ice line just don't understand.
I don't understand surfing. Heh. We're even.
Ice is forming on the lakes, iridescent blue of captured moonlight, and soon, it'll be thick enough for me to go out and bore my holes and wet my lines.
Lordy, I can't wait.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Ice on the River, part 2
I slept in a bit this morning--first time in a while--just felt like I deserved it. Anyway, when I went into the kitchen and looked out the window, I found my world covered in a blanket of white.
Deep inside, I smiled happily. Snow. Think, lovely, fluffy snow.
It fell last night while I was sleeping, and unlike most times when it snows, it fell silently. No wind howling outside. No creaks of the house because it was cold and settling. Just...silence. I spent 20 mintues pushing the fluffy stuff off the drive and sidewalks, brushed off the cars, and was ready to go...
So, today, when I went over the bridge, I looked down at the river, and the ice was open in places, the leeds dark against the crisp white. And as quickly as I saw it, I was past.
I love snows like this, uniform and trackless, crisp virgin white. I know that by the time I go home tonight, most of it will have dulled from the shit dropping out of the air, and someone will have taken their snowmobile across the open fields.
But, I still have the memory of the unsullied snow...the leeds...the peace that fel with the snow.
Deep inside, I smiled happily. Snow. Think, lovely, fluffy snow.
It fell last night while I was sleeping, and unlike most times when it snows, it fell silently. No wind howling outside. No creaks of the house because it was cold and settling. Just...silence. I spent 20 mintues pushing the fluffy stuff off the drive and sidewalks, brushed off the cars, and was ready to go...
So, today, when I went over the bridge, I looked down at the river, and the ice was open in places, the leeds dark against the crisp white. And as quickly as I saw it, I was past.
I love snows like this, uniform and trackless, crisp virgin white. I know that by the time I go home tonight, most of it will have dulled from the shit dropping out of the air, and someone will have taken their snowmobile across the open fields.
But, I still have the memory of the unsullied snow...the leeds...the peace that fel with the snow.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Ice on the River
I drive over a bridge every morning on my way to work, and I check the river each morning. It's a habit stemming from a flood that took everything from me a few years back. I have this compulsion now to keep an eye on that river.
The past few days there was been a skim of ice on the water that's usually gone by the time I go home at night. Daytime temps and the force of the water is too much for it to get much of a hold.
This morning, however, the ice was a bit more...
Substantial.
No where near thick enough to support someone's weight. No where hard enough to be considered true winter ice. But...it's coming.
Winter.
Winter will wrap us in a coat of wooly snow and shift and dance around us. The ice will through thick and hard until its a troll's toenail. Snow with transfix us with its hypnotic glare that makes us feel the warmth in the cold.
Ice on the river. Cold in my bones. Peace around us, waiting to be found.
The past few days there was been a skim of ice on the water that's usually gone by the time I go home at night. Daytime temps and the force of the water is too much for it to get much of a hold.
This morning, however, the ice was a bit more...
Substantial.
No where near thick enough to support someone's weight. No where hard enough to be considered true winter ice. But...it's coming.
Winter.
Winter will wrap us in a coat of wooly snow and shift and dance around us. The ice will through thick and hard until its a troll's toenail. Snow with transfix us with its hypnotic glare that makes us feel the warmth in the cold.
Ice on the river. Cold in my bones. Peace around us, waiting to be found.
Making the news in a boat
I'm listening to an interview on NPR with Tom Brokaw as he gets ready to retire from NBC Evening News. I've never really watched him, he wasn't my favorite. I mean, after Cronkite, you know, you just can't really measure up to that level.
But something in one of his answers made me perk an ear. When asked what he is going to do with his time, and he gave the normal things like write more, etc....but...he also wants to improve his skills as a sailor.
Cronkite wanted to spend more time sailing when he retired back in '81.
I have just learned how to sail this past spring, and I want to develop my skills even more. I want to have the chance to skipper a boat on one of the larger lakes, perhaps one of the Great Lakes.
I doubt, however, I'd make the news by doing so.
Peace.
But something in one of his answers made me perk an ear. When asked what he is going to do with his time, and he gave the normal things like write more, etc....but...he also wants to improve his skills as a sailor.
Cronkite wanted to spend more time sailing when he retired back in '81.
I have just learned how to sail this past spring, and I want to develop my skills even more. I want to have the chance to skipper a boat on one of the larger lakes, perhaps one of the Great Lakes.
I doubt, however, I'd make the news by doing so.
Peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
