It's rainy today, kinda cool. Not really all that rainy, but, it's trying. We desparately need it, so, I'm praying.
It's been a dry summer, one of the driest since I was a kid. The summers of '76 and '77 were like this. But, today, it's trying valiently to rain.
What does this have to do with snapping turtles?
On my way back to the office after breakfast this morning, I saw what looked like a rock on the tar ahead of me. When I got closer, I realized the rock was moving. It turned out to be a small snapping turtle -- new born or about a year old, I'm not sure. Regardless, he looked tres' prehistoric. I watched him for about five minutes until he finally got into the tall grass along the side of the road.
Chances are he won't make it.
Snappers are cool, though, cool in that crocodile/alligator way -- if you're not careful, you're gonna lose a finger or an arm or a leg. It goes along with our fascination for bad boys and bad girls -- they challenge our sense of safety.
While I watched, I was joined by one of the kitchen helpers, Matt, and we started talking about snappers, and I told him of hunting turtles in the spring for making turtle soup. I also told him one of my favorite stories of my youngest sister.
We had snappers on the farm as a kid. We'd see them fairly often in the lower fields as they were finding places to lay eggs. We'd watch them, and harvest random ones. Turtle meat is pretty tasty, don'cha know? They're typically active like that when we would be working the fields. One time, when Dad, sistertroll #3, and I were picking rocks, the sistertroll almost sat on a momma snapper laying eggs.
Now, if you're getting weird images of the sistertroll, that's quite alright -- she is a troll after all -- but she just didn't run out and try and sit on snappers as they were in the middle of a field.
Dad was taking the tractor to the rock pile to dump the load we'd just picked, and the sistertroll decided to take a seat on some logs next to a drainage ditch. We'd just finished clearing off about 10 acres of land, and we were picking way more rocks than normal, so, I can't say I blame her for wanting to sit for a bit. I kept grubbing up a few rocks that Dad wanted out of the ground by the time he returned (it usually took about five minutes round trip to the rock pile). Suddenly, I heard the sistertroll let out a bloodcurdling scream and looked up just in time to see her run past me. I couldn't figure out what was going on, so, I decided to take a peek over at the log pile.
I thought maybe it was a garter snake -- most of my family doesn't do well with snakes -- but, it wasn't a snake...
Between the criss-cross mish-mash of logs there was a big ol' Mamma Snapper laying eggs. She looked up at me, popped out her eyes and hissssssssssssed like a Sleestak. I grinned, went back to grubbing out the rocks, and then, when Dad returned from the rock pile, he asked where the sistertroll was. He laughed just as hard as I wanted to when I told him, and we picked a few more loads before throwing the turtle into the loader and heading to the house for lunch.
We ate the turtle a week later.
On a side note -- I had a teacher in Middle School that looked like a Sleestak -- talked like one, too.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
On this Memorial Day
My family arrived in the U.S. at various times over the past 170 years. Great-Grampa C. brought the families of both his wives (the first having died in childbirth) in 1891 through Montreal, crossing into the states at Buffalo. Great-great Grampa M. came twenty years before that with his young bride, having left Sweden three days after the wedding. On Mom's side, we're not sure when they came over, the records having been lost in various house and church fires in the past 50 years...
Nevertheless...
Since they first came here, they realized that it is sometimes necessary to take up arms to protect the freedoms that are ours through design. I have great-uncles that fought in Cuba and the Phillipines. Others that were with Black Jack Persing chasing Pancho Villa, then, with two of his brothers (my Grampa being one of them), went to France as part of the Rainbow Division.
They all came home with different scars -- some that you could see, others that were well hidden. Grampa had mustard burns on his lungs and fought for years with the VA to get disability benefits, but there was some glitch in the paperwork that allowed the VA to continously deny him. It wasn't until five years before his death, 1966, that he finally received the benefits, along with backpay, allowing him and Gram to do well the last few years. Gram even lived off those and the survivor benefits for a number of years, but that's really not what this post is about.
Recently, I found out that two of Dad's cousins were on their way to Spain via France to join the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, but because of a busted fuel pump, missed their ship out of Duluth, and before they could get on another, the International Troops were withdrawn from the battles against Franco. Instead, they joined the Army. One, Michael Johan, fought under Patton through North Africa into Sicily, then into France. The other, Ronald, went to the South Pacific and was killed in the Phillipines, fighting over some of the same battlefields his uncle had 40 some odd years before.
My uncles, Marvin and Art Junior, Dad's older brothers, went to the Navy and Army respectively. Marvin went willingly, Junior was drafted. Dad was too young at the time, having been born in '29. A number of other uncles and a few aunts and cousins were also in the Army, Army Air Corps, and WAC's. With the exception of cousin Ronald and Uncle Marvin, all came home in one piece.
Marvin was on a ship that was hit by a Japanese torpedo. He was climbing a ladder on his way to his battle station. The force of the impact knocked him down six levels, breaking his back and hip on a rail. The VA didn't dink around with his benefits, thank God.
Dad fought in Korea, and was there with one of his good friends and hunting buddies, Clayton. They had known each other for ten years, and Clayton had also served in France as a tanker. In Korea, as a Staff Sergeant, Clayton commanded a tank.
Dad was hit by mortar shrapnal on Oct. 8, 1951, and he said it was the second most miserable moment of his life. The worst came about four years later when he barked up his leg with a chainsaw and the rest of the crew made him drive himself the 30 miles to the nearest hospital for treatment.
During Viet Nam, I had four first cousins and twelve second and third cousins that were in the Army and Air Force, and all but three served at least one tour in 'Nam. One, Mike, went over the hill, but, after talking to Grampa, turned himself back in and did time in the stockade. Another, Jay, spent three tours in special forces -- Rangers, Green Beanies, SOG Groups -- and then, when he returned to Minnesota, wasn't sure he was ready to rejoin society. On a windy June day in '74, Jay got on a northbound Grayhound and went to Ely, MN, where he homesteaded, raising and training sled dogs. It wasn't until '96 that he rejoined the family for more than Christmas supper and funerals. He's since moved back to the home farm, first living in a trailer home, then building a new house a quarter mile through the woods from the house he grew up in. He now works for another cousin doing body work, something he's enjoying and has a natural knack for.
Jeff got out of the Army and joined the National Guard. He also ended up working at the VA hospital in Minneapolis, first as a pharmacist, then as a liason officer, and finally, a division leader. He retired a few years ago so he could help his sister with her son, a young man who became a quadraplegic after diving into an above ground pool.
And then, Glen, the other I know well enough to actually write about. Glen was drafted at the time when 'Nam was winding down, and instead of going to Southeast Asia, he ended up in Colorado and Hawaii. Something happened during that time, soemthing he won't discuss, that made him a social misfit within the family. At one family reunion at his father's farm, Glen and Jeff (who are brothers) got into an argument that ended up in a thrown beer bottle, a few black eyes, and a broken nose. Jeff may have been an officer in the National Guard and served two tours in 'Nam, but, for pure fury, he couldn't handle Glen.
*****
I joined the Marines in '83 while I was still in high school. I was pretty certain I'd end up serving in the military at some point from the time I was a kid, and there was always something about the Corps that...
fascinated...
me. Maybe it's because I was told for so long that I was basically worthless. Perhaps it was because they had/have the longest, and by reports from others, the toughest initial training. Or, it might have been something to do with the fact that no one in the family before me had ever been a Marine.
Regardless, I joined the Corps. Signed the contract on April 11, 1983, and went to boot camp in September. We were on the rifle range, Edson Range at Camp Pendleton, at the end of October when I realized for the very first time that my decision could kill me. One of our Drill Instructors, Staff Sgt. Johnson, a Viet Nam vet, woke us at 2:10 a.m. to tell us that the Marine Barracks the Beirut International Airport, housing members of the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU) had just been bombed.
A few days later, he also informed us of the attack on Grenada that the 22 MAU played a role. We cheered until he chastised us with words I still remember to this day.
Staff Sgt. Johnson served three tours in Viet Nam. He had 6 Purple Hearts along with the Navy Cross. If you don't know what a Navy Cross is, well, it's the second highest award for valor you can earn in the Marine Corps (or the Navy for that matter).
I got lucky. While I was in the Corps, the closest I came to being put into harm’s way occurred in ‘85 when my unit was placed on alert after four Marines on embassy duty in Nicaragua were killed while drinking coffee in a café. We spent a week on the football field in front of the General’s Building at Camp Pendleton waiting for the word togo!! For all the bravado we displayed that week, inside, I think we were all relieved we didn’t have to get on choppers that would fly us out to the ships.
*****
I’m not a pacifist. I believe that there are times we as a country must make sacrifices to protect our country and our interests. I also believe that once committed, we need to support our Marines, soldiers, swabbies, and airmen.
I believe we also need to hold the leaders responsible for what’s done with our troops.
This morning, I listened to the account of what happened in Haditha, Iraq last November after a young Marine, Lance Cpl. Miguel Terrazas, Jr., was killed in an insurgence ambush. How the Marines, and in this case I use the term loosely, retaliated against the civilians, killing over 20. And how the family of the young warrior have been struggling with the news. Lcpl. Terrazas was from a family of Marines, and they are in denial over what was done in his name. Personally, I think everyone involved in that action needs to be held responsible.
Unfortunately, four of the main leaders won’t be. Four people who took us into this unwinnable conflict.
And it’s not just the troops that are currently serving are being screwed over by the powers that be. Last week it was announced that the records of 26 MILLION Veterans were stolen because some mid-level pogue decided to take the information home on a laptop. I can’t even express how much that angers me, especially when this information was hushed up for two weeks. I still haven’t received my letter from the VA, but I know others who have. But, what sticks deep in my craw is the fact that Bush has stated he has confidence in the head of the VA.
But, do the Veterans? Do we have confidence in the head of the VA? Do we have confidence in Bush?
Last weekend when I was home, my father, an ardent supporter of Bush, even said a few things that surprised me about Bush. The war. The current state of affairs around the world in general.
On this Memorial Day, I woke early, and I said prayers. Prayers of peace. Prayers of protection. Prayers for guidance. Prayers for my brother and sister Marines. Prayers for those that have been lost. Prayers for those that are in Harm’s Way. And prayers for us.
Peace.
Nevertheless...
Since they first came here, they realized that it is sometimes necessary to take up arms to protect the freedoms that are ours through design. I have great-uncles that fought in Cuba and the Phillipines. Others that were with Black Jack Persing chasing Pancho Villa, then, with two of his brothers (my Grampa being one of them), went to France as part of the Rainbow Division.
They all came home with different scars -- some that you could see, others that were well hidden. Grampa had mustard burns on his lungs and fought for years with the VA to get disability benefits, but there was some glitch in the paperwork that allowed the VA to continously deny him. It wasn't until five years before his death, 1966, that he finally received the benefits, along with backpay, allowing him and Gram to do well the last few years. Gram even lived off those and the survivor benefits for a number of years, but that's really not what this post is about.
Recently, I found out that two of Dad's cousins were on their way to Spain via France to join the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, but because of a busted fuel pump, missed their ship out of Duluth, and before they could get on another, the International Troops were withdrawn from the battles against Franco. Instead, they joined the Army. One, Michael Johan, fought under Patton through North Africa into Sicily, then into France. The other, Ronald, went to the South Pacific and was killed in the Phillipines, fighting over some of the same battlefields his uncle had 40 some odd years before.
My uncles, Marvin and Art Junior, Dad's older brothers, went to the Navy and Army respectively. Marvin went willingly, Junior was drafted. Dad was too young at the time, having been born in '29. A number of other uncles and a few aunts and cousins were also in the Army, Army Air Corps, and WAC's. With the exception of cousin Ronald and Uncle Marvin, all came home in one piece.
Marvin was on a ship that was hit by a Japanese torpedo. He was climbing a ladder on his way to his battle station. The force of the impact knocked him down six levels, breaking his back and hip on a rail. The VA didn't dink around with his benefits, thank God.
Dad fought in Korea, and was there with one of his good friends and hunting buddies, Clayton. They had known each other for ten years, and Clayton had also served in France as a tanker. In Korea, as a Staff Sergeant, Clayton commanded a tank.
Dad was hit by mortar shrapnal on Oct. 8, 1951, and he said it was the second most miserable moment of his life. The worst came about four years later when he barked up his leg with a chainsaw and the rest of the crew made him drive himself the 30 miles to the nearest hospital for treatment.
During Viet Nam, I had four first cousins and twelve second and third cousins that were in the Army and Air Force, and all but three served at least one tour in 'Nam. One, Mike, went over the hill, but, after talking to Grampa, turned himself back in and did time in the stockade. Another, Jay, spent three tours in special forces -- Rangers, Green Beanies, SOG Groups -- and then, when he returned to Minnesota, wasn't sure he was ready to rejoin society. On a windy June day in '74, Jay got on a northbound Grayhound and went to Ely, MN, where he homesteaded, raising and training sled dogs. It wasn't until '96 that he rejoined the family for more than Christmas supper and funerals. He's since moved back to the home farm, first living in a trailer home, then building a new house a quarter mile through the woods from the house he grew up in. He now works for another cousin doing body work, something he's enjoying and has a natural knack for.
Jeff got out of the Army and joined the National Guard. He also ended up working at the VA hospital in Minneapolis, first as a pharmacist, then as a liason officer, and finally, a division leader. He retired a few years ago so he could help his sister with her son, a young man who became a quadraplegic after diving into an above ground pool.
And then, Glen, the other I know well enough to actually write about. Glen was drafted at the time when 'Nam was winding down, and instead of going to Southeast Asia, he ended up in Colorado and Hawaii. Something happened during that time, soemthing he won't discuss, that made him a social misfit within the family. At one family reunion at his father's farm, Glen and Jeff (who are brothers) got into an argument that ended up in a thrown beer bottle, a few black eyes, and a broken nose. Jeff may have been an officer in the National Guard and served two tours in 'Nam, but, for pure fury, he couldn't handle Glen.
I joined the Marines in '83 while I was still in high school. I was pretty certain I'd end up serving in the military at some point from the time I was a kid, and there was always something about the Corps that...
fascinated...
me. Maybe it's because I was told for so long that I was basically worthless. Perhaps it was because they had/have the longest, and by reports from others, the toughest initial training. Or, it might have been something to do with the fact that no one in the family before me had ever been a Marine.
Regardless, I joined the Corps. Signed the contract on April 11, 1983, and went to boot camp in September. We were on the rifle range, Edson Range at Camp Pendleton, at the end of October when I realized for the very first time that my decision could kill me. One of our Drill Instructors, Staff Sgt. Johnson, a Viet Nam vet, woke us at 2:10 a.m. to tell us that the Marine Barracks the Beirut International Airport, housing members of the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU) had just been bombed.
"Fuckin' rat bastard drove a truck right into the building. Blew himself up to Allah. Think about that tomorrow, fucknuts, as you're puttin' rounds down range."
A few days later, he also informed us of the attack on Grenada that the 22 MAU played a role. We cheered until he chastised us with words I still remember to this day.
"Anytime a Marine is in battle it means that someone, somewhere, failed in their job to solve a problem peacefully. Anytime that we are in battle, we...you ...could die. Remember that."
Staff Sgt. Johnson served three tours in Viet Nam. He had 6 Purple Hearts along with the Navy Cross. If you don't know what a Navy Cross is, well, it's the second highest award for valor you can earn in the Marine Corps (or the Navy for that matter).
I got lucky. While I was in the Corps, the closest I came to being put into harm’s way occurred in ‘85 when my unit was placed on alert after four Marines on embassy duty in Nicaragua were killed while drinking coffee in a café. We spent a week on the football field in front of the General’s Building at Camp Pendleton waiting for the word to
I’m not a pacifist. I believe that there are times we as a country must make sacrifices to protect our country and our interests. I also believe that once committed, we need to support our Marines, soldiers, swabbies, and airmen.
I believe we also need to hold the leaders responsible for what’s done with our troops.
This morning, I listened to the account of what happened in Haditha, Iraq last November after a young Marine, Lance Cpl. Miguel Terrazas, Jr., was killed in an insurgence ambush. How the Marines, and in this case I use the term loosely, retaliated against the civilians, killing over 20. And how the family of the young warrior have been struggling with the news. Lcpl. Terrazas was from a family of Marines, and they are in denial over what was done in his name. Personally, I think everyone involved in that action needs to be held responsible.
Unfortunately, four of the main leaders won’t be. Four people who took us into this unwinnable conflict.
And it’s not just the troops that are currently serving are being screwed over by the powers that be. Last week it was announced that the records of 26 MILLION Veterans were stolen because some mid-level pogue decided to take the information home on a laptop. I can’t even express how much that angers me, especially when this information was hushed up for two weeks. I still haven’t received my letter from the VA, but I know others who have. But, what sticks deep in my craw is the fact that Bush has stated he has confidence in the head of the VA.
But, do the Veterans? Do we have confidence in the head of the VA? Do we have confidence in Bush?
Last weekend when I was home, my father, an ardent supporter of Bush, even said a few things that surprised me about Bush. The war. The current state of affairs around the world in general.
On this Memorial Day, I woke early, and I said prayers. Prayers of peace. Prayers of protection. Prayers for guidance. Prayers for my brother and sister Marines. Prayers for those that have been lost. Prayers for those that are in Harm’s Way. And prayers for us.
Peace.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Second Chances
I call my friend Tove the Queen of Second Chances. I’ve learned a lot from her in the years that I’ve known her, especially about giving people the benefit of the doubt the first time around.
I’ve worked for Tove since 1990, and over time, we’ve become friends as well as coworkers, and it’s a friendship that I cherish. We often tease each other about the fact that she keeps hiring me back to camp...
Like I said, I’ve learned a lot from her. Especially about the value of giving people a second chance. Because, you know, if you look someone in the eyes and tell them that they have let you down and outline what you expect from them ... they will often pull through.
On the other side of the coin, there’s my friend, Kerry. We’ve just finished our third year of teaching together. He taught in the local public school system for 25 years before he joined our school. He has a second chance philosophy as well. With him, however, it’s a bit different.
At the moment, I’m finishing an accelerated pre-summer Intro to Psychology class. I have 11 students enrolled, and on the very first day, I tell them what is expected.
This is the second year I’ve taught the course. Last year, I had a few difficult students, but, for the most part, it was an exciting experience. This year, for the most part, I have good students as well, but, I have one.
He’s a jock. Self-described and labeled. He told me Tuesday “you can’t expect much from me. I’m just a dumb jock.”
He missed the complete irony of his next statement ... “I need a ‘B’ in this class so I can play football.”
I can’t expect much from him...but...hmmmm...that equation doesn’t quite balance.
What brought this about was the paper he turned in on Monday. I read it, well, tried to read it, but, the first paragraph was so poorly written that I just couldn’t make heads nor tails of what he was trying to say. Because of this, I decided to have him rewrite it instead of just giving him a failing grade. Especially when I noticed that a vast majority of the paper was “borrowed” from various web sites. Three quick Google searches and I had assembled most of his paper. When I spoke with him Tuesday, I dropped a subtle hint about how I’m making a name for myself around the college as someone that has an easy time finding plagiarism.
He turned it in today. I read it. He fixed a few of the punctuation problems in the first paragraph – the only one he’d actually written, but, the rest was still cut and paste jobs straight from the Internet. I shook my head as I wrote “0/50 – F” on the paper, and made a note that he needed to come see me on a break. Didn’t matter – he was late getting to class, so, while he was making excuses about his tardiness (he still hasn’t figured out that it’s his problem that he’s missing so much information, not mine, because he’s always late), I handed him the paper.
He couldn’t figure out why I failed him. I said, “I didn’t. You failed yourself.”
Statistically speaking, he can still get the “B” he needs to play ball in the fall. Most likely ... he’ll be on the bench. We’ll have to wait until Tuesday to see....
I’ve worked for Tove since 1990, and over time, we’ve become friends as well as coworkers, and it’s a friendship that I cherish. We often tease each other about the fact that she keeps hiring me back to camp...
”Why do you keep hiring me?”
“Why do you keep applying?”
“Because you keep hiring me.”
“And I will if you keep applying.”
Like I said, I’ve learned a lot from her. Especially about the value of giving people a second chance. Because, you know, if you look someone in the eyes and tell them that they have let you down and outline what you expect from them ... they will often pull through.
On the other side of the coin, there’s my friend, Kerry. We’ve just finished our third year of teaching together. He taught in the local public school system for 25 years before he joined our school. He has a second chance philosophy as well. With him, however, it’s a bit different.
”Give ‘em enough rope and they’ll either pull themselves up...
... or hang themselves quite nicely.”
At the moment, I’m finishing an accelerated pre-summer Intro to Psychology class. I have 11 students enrolled, and on the very first day, I tell them what is expected.
1) Read your text and come to class prepared.
2) Do your own work.
3) Be prepared to move fast – this is a take-no-prisoners type course.
This is the second year I’ve taught the course. Last year, I had a few difficult students, but, for the most part, it was an exciting experience. This year, for the most part, I have good students as well, but, I have one.
He’s a jock. Self-described and labeled. He told me Tuesday “you can’t expect much from me. I’m just a dumb jock.”
He missed the complete irony of his next statement ... “I need a ‘B’ in this class so I can play football.”
I can’t expect much from him...but...hmmmm...that equation doesn’t quite balance.
What brought this about was the paper he turned in on Monday. I read it, well, tried to read it, but, the first paragraph was so poorly written that I just couldn’t make heads nor tails of what he was trying to say. Because of this, I decided to have him rewrite it instead of just giving him a failing grade. Especially when I noticed that a vast majority of the paper was “borrowed” from various web sites. Three quick Google searches and I had assembled most of his paper. When I spoke with him Tuesday, I dropped a subtle hint about how I’m making a name for myself around the college as someone that has an easy time finding plagiarism.
He turned it in today. I read it. He fixed a few of the punctuation problems in the first paragraph – the only one he’d actually written, but, the rest was still cut and paste jobs straight from the Internet. I shook my head as I wrote “0/50 – F” on the paper, and made a note that he needed to come see me on a break. Didn’t matter – he was late getting to class, so, while he was making excuses about his tardiness (he still hasn’t figured out that it’s his problem that he’s missing so much information, not mine, because he’s always late), I handed him the paper.
He couldn’t figure out why I failed him. I said, “I didn’t. You failed yourself.”
“But, I cited all the info from the web pages.”
“Yeah, but did you even write any of this except for the first and last paragraphs which are still so bad that I can’t consider it college-level work.”
“But, I cited all the info...”
“No. What you did was cut and paste all sorts of stuff straight from web pages. That’s NOT writing. All that is is assembling.”
Statistically speaking, he can still get the “B” he needs to play ball in the fall. Most likely ... he’ll be on the bench. We’ll have to wait until Tuesday to see....
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
What I thought was ordinary
The things I did as a kid that I thought of as ordinary are increasingly becoming anything but. We played in barn rafters, scooting across the doubled-up 2x12's that stretched across the open maw of the hay loft fearlessly. Our bikes we rode hard up hills and through gullies; no matter the abuse they took us faithfully where we needed to go. The price we paid was the infrequent popped inner tube. In cut-off jeans my friends and I would walk the crick – creek for those uninitiated types – our sneakers sinking into the thick loamy mud as we searched out the deep, shaded pools where northerns and bullheads lurked and the swimming was the best.
It wasn’t just play. We worked, too. Hard. It wasn’t uncommon that when my friends and I first drove our fathers’ tractors, we had to jump off the seat and balance on the clutch and brakes to bring it to a stop. Rocks were picked (anything bigger than an orange, softball, bread loaf, depending on the field), wood was hauled, snow and corn and silage and oats and manure all needed to be shoveled. And if we didn’t do it right the first time...
We did it again.
On muggy summer nights, after the work was done, we played croquet, badminton, lawn darts, horse shoes, or softball as the ice cracked after being dropped into a picture of Kool-Aid or Schwann’s 6-n-1 or nectar, whatever the hell nectar was. I asked Gramma Spears who lived up the hill what it was once, and I think I decided I really didn’t need to know after all. We’d beg Mom to let us run barefoot in the creeping Charlie that overtook our yard before I was born, and were always told ‘no! There might be nails or glass!’ And there was.
The woods were there, inviting us to get lost for days in the span of hours. We became Daniel Boone or Billy the Kid or Zeb Pike, exploring every inch of that 12 acre wood. There was the big white pine up on the north line that had been topped by a passing twister, and it was flat enough to sit upon if you dared climb that high. I did. Often. I could see for days from the top of that tree, and no one ever saw me watching the world. Or singing songs of happiness that erupted from my heart when I sat there so contentedly. I had to quit when one day, I got up there, and found the beginning of a nest. The last time I drove by, the nest was still there, but, I bet it’s a new pair of eagles up there.
The corn would start to reach high about the first of June, stretching until it the tassels would paint the sky by the end of July. Sweet corn was always planted on the outside four rows where the planter turned around, and we’d sneak out and pluck it and eat it off the stalk raw. Soon, ever supper would include fresh picked corn, shucked as it was picked, our hands sticky with corn milk, arms and jeans covered with silk. Tossing out the cobs with borer worms.
We’d race the sun all day and sneak out into the night, welcoming the cool embrace after wicked humid heat, sitting on the roof watching approaching thunder storms as they marched over the hills and fields and forests. Feeling the teasing tendrils of the first feathery cold front fingers that brought the gourmet scents of the thunderous feast soon served. The first sky tears falling from the torn clouds, Madonna weeping on us. For us.
The world slid past slow as we flowed on the current in large black inner tubes, wearing ineffective suntan lotion and feeling the deep burn as it scorched us. Not caring that we’d be lobster red for a day or three. It was worth it.
When you got old enough, the neighbor’s started coming around looking to expand their labor pool. There was hay to bale, row crops to cultivate, machinery to service and move from place to place, calves to take to the sales barn. It made us strong. It made us lean. It taught us the value of an honest day’s labor for an honest day’s pay. And we worked hard – you didn’t want it to get back to Mom and Dad that one of the neighbors thought you didn’t do quite enough. Worse than that, you didn’t want them telling the other neighbor’s not to call you.
I always had work.
Sudden rain falling on cut hay, three days off to let the sun have her way. One day up, next day racked, don’t want to put wet hay away. Stand in the loft as the heavy bales drop with a muffled thud, pack them in tight, feel the heat build. Watch for smoke. So much pressure can cause the green, wet to spontaneously combust. Better wait a bit more, lets head to the lake and wet a line, I hear the walleyes are hitting out on the reef at mile nine.
Summer days and summer daze and summer laze in the summer haze. What I thought of as ordinary was so extraordinary.
It wasn’t just play. We worked, too. Hard. It wasn’t uncommon that when my friends and I first drove our fathers’ tractors, we had to jump off the seat and balance on the clutch and brakes to bring it to a stop. Rocks were picked (anything bigger than an orange, softball, bread loaf, depending on the field), wood was hauled, snow and corn and silage and oats and manure all needed to be shoveled. And if we didn’t do it right the first time...
We did it again.
On muggy summer nights, after the work was done, we played croquet, badminton, lawn darts, horse shoes, or softball as the ice cracked after being dropped into a picture of Kool-Aid or Schwann’s 6-n-1 or nectar, whatever the hell nectar was. I asked Gramma Spears who lived up the hill what it was once, and I think I decided I really didn’t need to know after all. We’d beg Mom to let us run barefoot in the creeping Charlie that overtook our yard before I was born, and were always told ‘no! There might be nails or glass!’ And there was.
The woods were there, inviting us to get lost for days in the span of hours. We became Daniel Boone or Billy the Kid or Zeb Pike, exploring every inch of that 12 acre wood. There was the big white pine up on the north line that had been topped by a passing twister, and it was flat enough to sit upon if you dared climb that high. I did. Often. I could see for days from the top of that tree, and no one ever saw me watching the world. Or singing songs of happiness that erupted from my heart when I sat there so contentedly. I had to quit when one day, I got up there, and found the beginning of a nest. The last time I drove by, the nest was still there, but, I bet it’s a new pair of eagles up there.
The corn would start to reach high about the first of June, stretching until it the tassels would paint the sky by the end of July. Sweet corn was always planted on the outside four rows where the planter turned around, and we’d sneak out and pluck it and eat it off the stalk raw. Soon, ever supper would include fresh picked corn, shucked as it was picked, our hands sticky with corn milk, arms and jeans covered with silk. Tossing out the cobs with borer worms.
We’d race the sun all day and sneak out into the night, welcoming the cool embrace after wicked humid heat, sitting on the roof watching approaching thunder storms as they marched over the hills and fields and forests. Feeling the teasing tendrils of the first feathery cold front fingers that brought the gourmet scents of the thunderous feast soon served. The first sky tears falling from the torn clouds, Madonna weeping on us. For us.
The world slid past slow as we flowed on the current in large black inner tubes, wearing ineffective suntan lotion and feeling the deep burn as it scorched us. Not caring that we’d be lobster red for a day or three. It was worth it.
When you got old enough, the neighbor’s started coming around looking to expand their labor pool. There was hay to bale, row crops to cultivate, machinery to service and move from place to place, calves to take to the sales barn. It made us strong. It made us lean. It taught us the value of an honest day’s labor for an honest day’s pay. And we worked hard – you didn’t want it to get back to Mom and Dad that one of the neighbors thought you didn’t do quite enough. Worse than that, you didn’t want them telling the other neighbor’s not to call you.
I always had work.
Sudden rain falling on cut hay, three days off to let the sun have her way. One day up, next day racked, don’t want to put wet hay away. Stand in the loft as the heavy bales drop with a muffled thud, pack them in tight, feel the heat build. Watch for smoke. So much pressure can cause the green, wet to spontaneously combust. Better wait a bit more, lets head to the lake and wet a line, I hear the walleyes are hitting out on the reef at mile nine.
Summer days and summer daze and summer laze in the summer haze. What I thought of as ordinary was so extraordinary.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
TAG!
Kelli 'tagged' me on her blog -- the bitch. *grin* So, here I go:
Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Farm worker
2. U. S. Marine
3. Camp Counselor/Lifeguard
4. Teacher
Four movies I would watch over and over:
1. Fight Club
2. Full Metal Jacket
3. Raising Arizona
4. I'll come back to this one later
Four places I have lived:
1. On da' Farm
2. Southern Californa
3. Grand Forks
4. Telemark, Norway
Four TV shows I love to watch:
1. Monster Garage
2. American Chopper
3. South Park
4. The Sopranos
Four places I have been on vacation:
1. Norway
2. Atlanta
3. Seattle
4. Flin Flon, Manitoba
Four websites I visit daily:
1. My home page
2. Dagbladet (Norwegian news)
3. Email
4. Fun places
Four of my favorite foods:
1. Steak
2. Mashed taters
3. Ravioli
4. Swedish oven pancakes
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Bemidji
2. Home
3. Norway
4. On a road trip
Four Memorable Restaurants:
1. Hell's Kitchen, Minneapolis
2. Dick's Last Resort, Chicago
3. Patrick Dugan's Irish Joint, Atlanta
4. Murray's, St. Paul
Four friends who I have tagged that I think will respond:
1. Colleen
2. Catherine
3. Hmmmm....good question
4. ?
Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Farm worker
2. U. S. Marine
3. Camp Counselor/Lifeguard
4. Teacher
Four movies I would watch over and over:
1. Fight Club
2. Full Metal Jacket
3. Raising Arizona
4. I'll come back to this one later
Four places I have lived:
1. On da' Farm
2. Southern Californa
3. Grand Forks
4. Telemark, Norway
Four TV shows I love to watch:
1. Monster Garage
2. American Chopper
3. South Park
4. The Sopranos
Four places I have been on vacation:
1. Norway
2. Atlanta
3. Seattle
4. Flin Flon, Manitoba
Four websites I visit daily:
1. My home page
2. Dagbladet (Norwegian news)
3. Email
4. Fun places
Four of my favorite foods:
1. Steak
2. Mashed taters
3. Ravioli
4. Swedish oven pancakes
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Bemidji
2. Home
3. Norway
4. On a road trip
Four Memorable Restaurants:
1. Hell's Kitchen, Minneapolis
2. Dick's Last Resort, Chicago
3. Patrick Dugan's Irish Joint, Atlanta
4. Murray's, St. Paul
Four friends who I have tagged that I think will respond:
1. Colleen
2. Catherine
3. Hmmmm....good question
4. ?
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
It's a good thing I'm comfortable with my baldness
I was going to write about something else, but it now escapes me as I see all of my Google ads are for baldness remedies. If I weren't secure in both my femine side and the fact that I've been bald for years, I'd be way upset.
But, as it is, I think it's funny!
But, as it is, I think it's funny!
Monday, May 01, 2006
Music of my youth -- the first of a continuing series
Music has always been a big part of my life, ever since Mom took $400 from the money earned off an auction that sold off the livestock and most of the farming equipment when I was 3. Dad was sick of 20 hour days (chores at 4:30, on the road to work by 5:30, home by 5:00, then farm work until it was done), and he wanted to build up some cash for remodeling/rebuilding the house where I spent a big chunk of my life.
Anyway, Mom walked into the kitchen where Dad was counting money, counted out the $400, an over Dad's protests, walked out. I really have to wonder if he thought she was leaving. She had threatened it often throughout my childhood. I wasn't even in kindergarten and I knew that theirs wasn't the healthiest of relationships.
A few hours later, Mom came home and started rearranging the furniture in the living room. Dad kept asking her where she had been and where the money was. Mom ignored him, until finally, she said, "If I have to live on this damn farm, then I'm going to have something that's MINE!"
Dad knew when it was time just to back off.
It was also about that time we heard the rumble and bang of a delivery truck coming up the rutted track that was our driveway at the time. It was from a furniture and home electronics store in Mora, and at the sight of it, Dad almost flipped. Instead, he stormed out and went to the barn.
When the back of the truck opened, my sisters and I saw a large wooden crate. The driver and his assistant pulled it out, took out a crowbar, and pulled the lid free with the the squeak of long nails. Some, it gave birth to a RCA console stereo with AM/FM/FM stereo, turntable, and a state-of-the-art 8-track player. Once it was put in place, Mom told us that we could only touch it when she was home, and if she found us messing with it without her permission, we'd get our butts whooped.
It was a different time, wasn't it?
Anyway, the next day, Mom jumped into the car and drove to St. Cloud and went music shopping. She went to all the different record shops and bought a wide selection of albums. Johnny Cash and Johnny Mathius. Ray Charles and Etta James. Three Dog Night and James Reeves. Music, basically, from a wide selection. She also picked up a number of albums for children. A reading of "The Jungle Book" stories by Sebastian Cabott (Mr. French from "Family Affair"), The Crickets and The Chipmunks, the soundtracts to "Mary Poppins" and Disney's "The Jungle Book."
*****
A few weeks ago, while I was on the Thief River Falls campus, I slipped into the men's room. Over the urinal and over the toilet, they have those damn advertisement things (a rant about those coming in the near future! I just wanna pee when I'm in there; not be sold something!). As I was getting ready to do my bizniz, I noticed that I was being observed by Tom Jones. And as soon as I saw his picture and his name, I started singing softly (and thankfully, I was alone in the bathroom):
It's not unusual to be loved by anyone (bahda da da da dum),
It's not unusual to have fun with anyone (bahbahda da da dum),
but when I see you hanging about with anyone
It's not unusual to see me cry,
oh I wanna' die...
Mom had a thing for Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdink. She had all the albums from those early years. She played them as much as I played Johnny Cash's Live from San Quentin. (Hell, the first song I knew how to sing was Folsum Prison Blues). All I had to see was Tom and that song popped into my head. And stayed there for days. When I got back to my office, one of the people in my cluster asked a question, and my answer was:
It's not unusual to believe the things you do (bahda da da da dum)
It's not unusual to think the way you do...
She looked at me like I was possessed, and turned and walked away.
*grin*
Anyway, Mom walked into the kitchen where Dad was counting money, counted out the $400, an over Dad's protests, walked out. I really have to wonder if he thought she was leaving. She had threatened it often throughout my childhood. I wasn't even in kindergarten and I knew that theirs wasn't the healthiest of relationships.
A few hours later, Mom came home and started rearranging the furniture in the living room. Dad kept asking her where she had been and where the money was. Mom ignored him, until finally, she said, "If I have to live on this damn farm, then I'm going to have something that's MINE!"
Dad knew when it was time just to back off.
It was also about that time we heard the rumble and bang of a delivery truck coming up the rutted track that was our driveway at the time. It was from a furniture and home electronics store in Mora, and at the sight of it, Dad almost flipped. Instead, he stormed out and went to the barn.
When the back of the truck opened, my sisters and I saw a large wooden crate. The driver and his assistant pulled it out, took out a crowbar, and pulled the lid free with the the squeak of long nails. Some, it gave birth to a RCA console stereo with AM/FM/FM stereo, turntable, and a state-of-the-art 8-track player. Once it was put in place, Mom told us that we could only touch it when she was home, and if she found us messing with it without her permission, we'd get our butts whooped.
It was a different time, wasn't it?
Anyway, the next day, Mom jumped into the car and drove to St. Cloud and went music shopping. She went to all the different record shops and bought a wide selection of albums. Johnny Cash and Johnny Mathius. Ray Charles and Etta James. Three Dog Night and James Reeves. Music, basically, from a wide selection. She also picked up a number of albums for children. A reading of "The Jungle Book" stories by Sebastian Cabott (Mr. French from "Family Affair"), The Crickets and The Chipmunks, the soundtracts to "Mary Poppins" and Disney's "The Jungle Book."
A few weeks ago, while I was on the Thief River Falls campus, I slipped into the men's room. Over the urinal and over the toilet, they have those damn advertisement things (a rant about those coming in the near future! I just wanna pee when I'm in there; not be sold something!). As I was getting ready to do my bizniz, I noticed that I was being observed by Tom Jones. And as soon as I saw his picture and his name, I started singing softly (and thankfully, I was alone in the bathroom):
It's not unusual to be loved by anyone (bahda da da da dum),
It's not unusual to have fun with anyone (bahbahda da da dum),
but when I see you hanging about with anyone
It's not unusual to see me cry,
oh I wanna' die...
Mom had a thing for Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdink. She had all the albums from those early years. She played them as much as I played Johnny Cash's Live from San Quentin. (Hell, the first song I knew how to sing was Folsum Prison Blues). All I had to see was Tom and that song popped into my head. And stayed there for days. When I got back to my office, one of the people in my cluster asked a question, and my answer was:
It's not unusual to believe the things you do (bahda da da da dum)
It's not unusual to think the way you do...
She looked at me like I was possessed, and turned and walked away.
*grin*
Thursday, April 27, 2006
The Balding Bigfoot Syndrome
In class the other day, we were discussing the long term effects of taking certain medications during pregnancy. One that I was discussing was Thalidomide, which has a varient that is used to grow hair on men; Propecia. Now, my hairline has been thinning since I was 23, and I've been "bald" (typical male pattern baldness) since 30. During this discussion, one of my students raised his hand and asked;
"Do you miss your hair?"
Ummmm...hmmmm....NO! I don't miss my hair. I mean, even though it's gone on top, I still have plenty. I am, afterall, a member of the Great American Rugbacks.
Besides, I have my beard. And for a year now, I've been letting it grow out. When I needed a new picture for my new school i.d. card a few months back, I had a new picture taken. Yeah, why would I miss the hair on top of my head? (Granted, this ain't the best picture of me, but it works for the moment...)
So, yesterday, different class, and we were discussing impression formation, and I was discussing how our impressions are often formed right away, and in most cases, they'll change over time. "For instance," I said, "most likely, you're impression of me has changed." One of my students just busted out laughing. "Not really. You still remind me of an lumberjack from Oregon. Bushy beard, stocky..."
"Well," I rejoined, "we all know stocky is a polite way of saying fat." After the laughing died down, she went on to explain that now, she does have a different impression of me.
That's when one of the smart asses in the back said, "He still reminds me of Bigfoot from the Mythbuster's ads."
I don't get it. I don't sound Canadian.
"Do you miss your hair?"
Ummmm...hmmmm....NO! I don't miss my hair. I mean, even though it's gone on top, I still have plenty. I am, afterall, a member of the Great American Rugbacks.
Besides, I have my beard. And for a year now, I've been letting it grow out. When I needed a new picture for my new school i.d. card a few months back, I had a new picture taken. Yeah, why would I miss the hair on top of my head? (Granted, this ain't the best picture of me, but it works for the moment...)
So, yesterday, different class, and we were discussing impression formation, and I was discussing how our impressions are often formed right away, and in most cases, they'll change over time. "For instance," I said, "most likely, you're impression of me has changed." One of my students just busted out laughing. "Not really. You still remind me of an lumberjack from Oregon. Bushy beard, stocky..."
"Well," I rejoined, "we all know stocky is a polite way of saying fat." After the laughing died down, she went on to explain that now, she does have a different impression of me.
That's when one of the smart asses in the back said, "He still reminds me of Bigfoot from the Mythbuster's ads."
I don't get it. I don't sound Canadian.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Well, hell...
So, I slept like hell last night. Reflux sucks. Was up at 5 and didn't dare go back to sleep for a while...and when I did, I started getting nasty dreams.
It's the end of the semester. Students are stressing. I'm stressing. I'm sick of driving to TRF twice a fuckin' week. Sick of listening to students whine. And now, I'm being a fuckin' loser 'cuz I'm whining, too.
Well.
Time for an attitude change.
I think it's just because I'm tired. Too many meetings in too few days. Haven't really had time to just have a bit of fun. Good thing fishing season starts in just a few weeks. I don't have a spot picked out yet, but, I'm most likely going to be out on the water somewhere.
What really sucks is that I've had to miss so many classes this semester that I can't even call in sick today for a mental health day.
Okay...ENOUGH whining! *LOL* Later!
It's the end of the semester. Students are stressing. I'm stressing. I'm sick of driving to TRF twice a fuckin' week. Sick of listening to students whine. And now, I'm being a fuckin' loser 'cuz I'm whining, too.
Well.
Time for an attitude change.
I think it's just because I'm tired. Too many meetings in too few days. Haven't really had time to just have a bit of fun. Good thing fishing season starts in just a few weeks. I don't have a spot picked out yet, but, I'm most likely going to be out on the water somewhere.
What really sucks is that I've had to miss so many classes this semester that I can't even call in sick today for a mental health day.
Okay...ENOUGH whining! *LOL* Later!
Friday, March 31, 2006
I wrote this yesterday: Spring
I was awoken this morning by a blast of thunder that echoed through my bedroom in such a way that it sounded like there was a car crash in front of my house. It launched me out of bed, fortunitely, because my alarm was not set. Standing there without my glasses on, I couldn't really tell what was happening outside, other than it was gray. My glasses made me realize it was raining.
Thankfully, the coffee pot started when it was supposed to, and I stumbled out to the kitchen and poured myself a fine cup of Jamican Mountain Blue. I received a pound of that and a pound of another type of coffee from a coworker and her husband for my birthday, and I'll admit, it beats the living hell out of Folger's in the morning. I filled my cup after throwing a few slices of bread into the toaster, then, took my breakfast into the living room to listen to the news and check the cork.
Typically, I don't log on while there is an active storm, but, I needed to check some info for school today. As I booted up, I heard a tapping on the deck, and watched as marble sized hail fell for about three or four minutes.
It's been warm lately, warm enough so the snow pack is disappearing much faster than I thought it would. Is it just me, or is time accelerating as I'm getting older? March shouldn't almost be over. It seems like the New Year was just last week or the week before. I watched it hail as I sipped my coffee, thinking that it's almost sad that winter is over and spring has jumped into the fray.
Today is one of the days I teach on my sister campus, and I just got into my office. I'm supposed to have a student here now to take a test, but, he hasn't shown. I'll give him another ten minutes before I write him off for today. That's another story all together, however.
On the way up here, I marveled at the difference a week makes. Last week, the snow pack was heavy, pressing the canary grass to the ground and quilting the fields in white and translucent blues. But, today, the black soil is erupting, and some fields are awash in a sea of run-off water. Snow sets like ancient atolls on the oceans, decaying over time back into the cycle of life.
And death.
The ditches along the county roads I travel were flush with snow, and now, water rushes through, following the pull of gravity. Searching for the lower ground. Seeking the streams and creeks and rivers, until it finds its way to the bitch river that bursts out of her banks way too often. Luckily, we're not in much of a threat this spring, not unless we get a lot of rain in the next few weeks, but the river will rise soon. Already, upstream in Wapehton and Fargo they're discussing the degree of expected flooding, and the Minnesota govenor is flying over the valley of the Red River of the North to see what was once Lake Agassi.
Spring. Death turning towards life. Ewes giving birth to lambs. Does to fawns. Seeds to flowers and grasses and all other things green. And hopefully...to thoughts of peace.
Thankfully, the coffee pot started when it was supposed to, and I stumbled out to the kitchen and poured myself a fine cup of Jamican Mountain Blue. I received a pound of that and a pound of another type of coffee from a coworker and her husband for my birthday, and I'll admit, it beats the living hell out of Folger's in the morning. I filled my cup after throwing a few slices of bread into the toaster, then, took my breakfast into the living room to listen to the news and check the cork.
Typically, I don't log on while there is an active storm, but, I needed to check some info for school today. As I booted up, I heard a tapping on the deck, and watched as marble sized hail fell for about three or four minutes.
It's been warm lately, warm enough so the snow pack is disappearing much faster than I thought it would. Is it just me, or is time accelerating as I'm getting older? March shouldn't almost be over. It seems like the New Year was just last week or the week before. I watched it hail as I sipped my coffee, thinking that it's almost sad that winter is over and spring has jumped into the fray.
Today is one of the days I teach on my sister campus, and I just got into my office. I'm supposed to have a student here now to take a test, but, he hasn't shown. I'll give him another ten minutes before I write him off for today. That's another story all together, however.
On the way up here, I marveled at the difference a week makes. Last week, the snow pack was heavy, pressing the canary grass to the ground and quilting the fields in white and translucent blues. But, today, the black soil is erupting, and some fields are awash in a sea of run-off water. Snow sets like ancient atolls on the oceans, decaying over time back into the cycle of life.
And death.
The ditches along the county roads I travel were flush with snow, and now, water rushes through, following the pull of gravity. Searching for the lower ground. Seeking the streams and creeks and rivers, until it finds its way to the bitch river that bursts out of her banks way too often. Luckily, we're not in much of a threat this spring, not unless we get a lot of rain in the next few weeks, but the river will rise soon. Already, upstream in Wapehton and Fargo they're discussing the degree of expected flooding, and the Minnesota govenor is flying over the valley of the Red River of the North to see what was once Lake Agassi.
Spring. Death turning towards life. Ewes giving birth to lambs. Does to fawns. Seeds to flowers and grasses and all other things green. And hopefully...to thoughts of peace.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Trying something new
For as long as I've been teaching, I've required a project of some sort in my classes. I have had students doing portfolios, poster presentations, and group presentations for a few years now, but this semester, I decided to add the option of a service learning project in my Intro to Psych class.
It's one of the next big things in higher ed...along with the idea of lifelong learning, active learning, and distance learning. I typically am skeptical of those damn buzzword movements, but, decided to give my students a chance at something new this time around.
So...each student in my Intro class had the option of doing a portfolio (basically, three short papers with up to three graded rewrite chances) or the SLP. The SLP requires 24 hours of service over the course of the semester, with written reflections due after every 6 hours. I have about a 50/50 split in the class, and, was finding a bit of hesitation with the people doing the SLP actually getting out and doing the work.
So, right before Spring Break, I reminded the students that were doing the SLP about their obligations, and I finally received the first reflections last week.
And I just finished reading them.
Three students just aren't getting it. One decided to do all of her service during Spring Break. I'll be speaking with her about that. Another did two hours and quit where she was at because she "couldn't connect with the people." (I also heard through the gradevine that it caused her to be separated from her boyfriend who was doing his own SLP and having MUCH more fun.) Another student felt that I had no right to infringe upon her free time like that. I'll be talking with her, too.
But...I also have three students who get it! Reading their reflections was extremely interesting, especially because I can see that even after just a few hours of work, they understand the impact they're having -- and -- they realize they are being effected as well!
The remainder...well...they're somewhere in the middle. And, I think at least one might be falsified. I'm going to call the place he's been working at to see if he has actually showed up.
All in all...I do believe I'll be doing this again!
It's one of the next big things in higher ed...along with the idea of lifelong learning, active learning, and distance learning. I typically am skeptical of those damn buzzword movements, but, decided to give my students a chance at something new this time around.
So...each student in my Intro class had the option of doing a portfolio (basically, three short papers with up to three graded rewrite chances) or the SLP. The SLP requires 24 hours of service over the course of the semester, with written reflections due after every 6 hours. I have about a 50/50 split in the class, and, was finding a bit of hesitation with the people doing the SLP actually getting out and doing the work.
So, right before Spring Break, I reminded the students that were doing the SLP about their obligations, and I finally received the first reflections last week.
And I just finished reading them.
Three students just aren't getting it. One decided to do all of her service during Spring Break. I'll be speaking with her about that. Another did two hours and quit where she was at because she "couldn't connect with the people." (I also heard through the gradevine that it caused her to be separated from her boyfriend who was doing his own SLP and having MUCH more fun.) Another student felt that I had no right to infringe upon her free time like that. I'll be talking with her, too.
But...I also have three students who get it! Reading their reflections was extremely interesting, especially because I can see that even after just a few hours of work, they understand the impact they're having -- and -- they realize they are being effected as well!
The remainder...well...they're somewhere in the middle. And, I think at least one might be falsified. I'm going to call the place he's been working at to see if he has actually showed up.
All in all...I do believe I'll be doing this again!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Spam mail topic lines
I love looking through my SPAM folder. I love looking for the found poetry that you can find in the topic lines. Sure, there are a lot of them that deal with the size of my penis, places to get cheap Viagra, and the ability to get a second mortgage for my house.
Well...
I'm happy with my penis size (even if the girls don't become envious). Haven't had any problems with getting an erection (like you really wanted to know that, right, Kelli?). And, hell, I rent.
Yesterday, I opened my SPAM folder, and I saw what has to be one of the best, and yet, most disturbing lines.
Paul could smell frying skin, burning fat. excuse me I'd like She folded the towel bas as he...
With a little reworking, I got this:
Paul could smell frying skin, buring fat. "Excuse me, I'd like her," she said.
I don't know why, but it just seemed like wickedly fun statement. It...tickles me immensely. Perhaps I have a bit of cannibal hidden deep inside me.
Well...
I'm happy with my penis size (even if the girls don't become envious). Haven't had any problems with getting an erection (like you really wanted to know that, right, Kelli?). And, hell, I rent.
Yesterday, I opened my SPAM folder, and I saw what has to be one of the best, and yet, most disturbing lines.
With a little reworking, I got this:
I don't know why, but it just seemed like wickedly fun statement. It...tickles me immensely. Perhaps I have a bit of cannibal hidden deep inside me.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Unhip as hell and like it that way
I just had to return a call to a student who is missing class today. Typically, I don't return such calls since it is stated on my syllabus that if they miss class, it's their responsibility to find out what they missed, but, I had a moment of weakness.
First, it's a long distance call, which means I have to dig up my long distance access number. Then, my phone decides to give me fits -- I have one dead number and two that are on life support. When I push those numbers, they either connect only half the time, or, don't connect at all. So, I find out who I need to see to swap out phones, go get the new one, and then, call the student.
And get her voice mail.
I can't understand half of it because she's talking like she has a sack of marbles in her mouth. The parts I can understand are filled with hip hop slang, which just doesn't fit this chick's persona. I don't know if she is actually a person that lives that lifestyle, or if she's just trying to be funny.
The thing that really got to me, though, was her sign off. Yup, the good ol' "peace out."
Does anyone even say that anymore? I mean, hell, I know I'm unhip as hell, but, shit, even I know that term is off the radar! Yo!
Huey Lewis might be hip to be square, but, I'm just unhip as hell and I'll live that way happily.
First, it's a long distance call, which means I have to dig up my long distance access number. Then, my phone decides to give me fits -- I have one dead number and two that are on life support. When I push those numbers, they either connect only half the time, or, don't connect at all. So, I find out who I need to see to swap out phones, go get the new one, and then, call the student.
And get her voice mail.
I can't understand half of it because she's talking like she has a sack of marbles in her mouth. The parts I can understand are filled with hip hop slang, which just doesn't fit this chick's persona. I don't know if she is actually a person that lives that lifestyle, or if she's just trying to be funny.
The thing that really got to me, though, was her sign off. Yup, the good ol' "peace out."
Does anyone even say that anymore? I mean, hell, I know I'm unhip as hell, but, shit, even I know that term is off the radar! Yo!
Huey Lewis might be hip to be square, but, I'm just unhip as hell and I'll live that way happily.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Touch 'em all, Kirby Puckett!
He gave me hope. He showed me that you don't have to be a cookie cutter of everyone else to excel. He lead by example, and was always an ambassador of the game.
I've been a Twins fan as long as I can remember. I went to my first game when I was three with my Grampa Bowen. We watched as Harmon Killibrew parked one out of the old Met Stadium that day, and I watched as Rod Carew stole second and third on consecutive pitches. And Tony Oliva...such a sweet, sweet swing.
I was hooked.
I even cheered the Twins in the late 70's when there were basically a farm team for the Yankees (fuck you, Steinbrenner).
But, then, there was 80's. Herbie and Kirby and Gaetti and Gagne and Chili and Dan "The Man" Gladden and Sweet Music Frankie Viola...watching as they came together and started putting their magic together...
I use to love hearing the announcer say "Up to bat for the Minnesota Twins, Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirby Puckett!"
1987 was my last year in the Corps. I was on the way home that September night when the Twins clinched the division, hearing the news in a motel in West Layfette, Indiana. Then...watching the team beat the Cards in seven games in the two weeks after Mom died. They were a welcome distraction for the family after losing Mom.
Kirby was my favorite. Watching those legs pump, coil, and leap, stealing homeruns the way Torii Hunter does now. He was an everyman with a boyish smile.
I got to meet him one year on the Twin's Caravan; an event where they travel around Minnesota and the surronding areas, giving back to the fans. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed watching him, and he was very modest as he said 'thank you.'
I remember one interview he gave where, when asked what he was going to do after he retired, and he said that he wanted to move back to Chicago and open a custom car wash.
Part of me believes he was serious. Another part of me says...well...he was funnin' all of us.
Touch 'em all, Kirby, touch 'em all.
I've been a Twins fan as long as I can remember. I went to my first game when I was three with my Grampa Bowen. We watched as Harmon Killibrew parked one out of the old Met Stadium that day, and I watched as Rod Carew stole second and third on consecutive pitches. And Tony Oliva...such a sweet, sweet swing.
I was hooked.
I even cheered the Twins in the late 70's when there were basically a farm team for the Yankees (fuck you, Steinbrenner).
But, then, there was 80's. Herbie and Kirby and Gaetti and Gagne and Chili and Dan "The Man" Gladden and Sweet Music Frankie Viola...watching as they came together and started putting their magic together...
I use to love hearing the announcer say "Up to bat for the Minnesota Twins, Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirby Puckett!"
1987 was my last year in the Corps. I was on the way home that September night when the Twins clinched the division, hearing the news in a motel in West Layfette, Indiana. Then...watching the team beat the Cards in seven games in the two weeks after Mom died. They were a welcome distraction for the family after losing Mom.
Kirby was my favorite. Watching those legs pump, coil, and leap, stealing homeruns the way Torii Hunter does now. He was an everyman with a boyish smile.
I got to meet him one year on the Twin's Caravan; an event where they travel around Minnesota and the surronding areas, giving back to the fans. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed watching him, and he was very modest as he said 'thank you.'
I remember one interview he gave where, when asked what he was going to do after he retired, and he said that he wanted to move back to Chicago and open a custom car wash.
Part of me believes he was serious. Another part of me says...well...he was funnin' all of us.
Touch 'em all, Kirby, touch 'em all.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Irony
I stopped at a local resturant for supper on the way home tonight, and decided to read papers while I was there. Nice place, good food, great character.
As I was reading, I got a cup of chianti, and opened the folder for the next paper. It was a paper on the evils of alcohol. I sighed, mainly because it's a persuasive paper, but the paper that is required is to be a research based paper.
I talked with her about this on the first draft. She's a smart kid, but extremely opininated. I could explain her behavior in a number of ways, but, I won't, mainly because it's not fair to her. But, I have a feeling that when I talk with her the next time, it might not go down very well.
I wonder if she'll pray for me when this is all over.
As I was reading, I got a cup of chianti, and opened the folder for the next paper. It was a paper on the evils of alcohol. I sighed, mainly because it's a persuasive paper, but the paper that is required is to be a research based paper.
I talked with her about this on the first draft. She's a smart kid, but extremely opininated. I could explain her behavior in a number of ways, but, I won't, mainly because it's not fair to her. But, I have a feeling that when I talk with her the next time, it might not go down very well.
I wonder if she'll pray for me when this is all over.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Whiteboards and chalkboards and smartboards, oh my.
In the lecture bowl in my alma mater's psyc building, we had those chalkboards on rails. The ones where you have three boards that you can write on, and when you're done with one, you push it up out of the way, and you have your tabula rasa. It was great during certain lectures because you could show progress over the course of a class; very helpful in classes like Stats or History and Systems.
I found out on Monday that they finally replaced them with whiteboards. And instead of two sets of three, they just have whiteboards screwed to the walls. I sighed softly, nostagically, because I haven't had a chance to write on a chalkboard in years. I miss the feel of caulk dust on my fingers, the smell of fresh chalk when a new box is opened...
Damn, I'm a nerd...
Chalkboards are slowly going extinct.
*****
I remember the first time I saw a whiteboard. It was in the lab section of my Intro to Computers class back in the fall of '88. When we walked into the lab I can remember noticing that there weren't any chalkboards, and I thought, "how weird is that? Classroom without boards...(in psychology, we call that a violation of the set schema). It bothered me that we were going to be in this lab without chalk boards; and then, the teacher came in, pulled out a marker and started writing on the freakin' wall! I went from a violation-of-a-set-schema to a what-the-flippin'-fuck situation!
It was amazing. At least I thought at the time.
For a long time, more and more whiteboards migrated into classrooms; they even replaced chalkboards in a few prof's offices in the psych building, as well as the smaller classrooms in the basement of the building.
*****
A few years back now, I was on the sister campus, and we were in a room where they had what I called at the time a 'whiteboard on steroids'. After plugging a cord into a computer, you could interact with the computer via the whiteboard. If you pushed a button on the side of the board, whatever you wrote on the board with a dry-erase marker would also be recorded on the computer! Flippin' amazing! I turned to my provost and said "I want one in my classroom!" We do have a smartboard on our campus now, but, it's in the room we typically use for meetings. I'd still like to use it, but, I can't fit 40 students into that room comfortably.
*****
I miss chalkboards. And I know quite a few of the profs over at my alma mater will miss the boards on slides. Dr. A. would use them with panache and flair, pausing at the dramatic moments and would flip that board to the top of the slides with a thunderous "BANG" and while we were still watching it, he'd be furiously writing on the next.
Now that's style.
I found out on Monday that they finally replaced them with whiteboards. And instead of two sets of three, they just have whiteboards screwed to the walls. I sighed softly, nostagically, because I haven't had a chance to write on a chalkboard in years. I miss the feel of caulk dust on my fingers, the smell of fresh chalk when a new box is opened...
Damn, I'm a nerd...
Chalkboards are slowly going extinct.
I remember the first time I saw a whiteboard. It was in the lab section of my Intro to Computers class back in the fall of '88. When we walked into the lab I can remember noticing that there weren't any chalkboards, and I thought, "how weird is that? Classroom without boards...(in psychology, we call that a violation of the set schema). It bothered me that we were going to be in this lab without chalk boards; and then, the teacher came in, pulled out a marker and started writing on the freakin' wall! I went from a violation-of-a-set-schema to a what-the-flippin'-fuck situation!
It was amazing. At least I thought at the time.
For a long time, more and more whiteboards migrated into classrooms; they even replaced chalkboards in a few prof's offices in the psych building, as well as the smaller classrooms in the basement of the building.
A few years back now, I was on the sister campus, and we were in a room where they had what I called at the time a 'whiteboard on steroids'. After plugging a cord into a computer, you could interact with the computer via the whiteboard. If you pushed a button on the side of the board, whatever you wrote on the board with a dry-erase marker would also be recorded on the computer! Flippin' amazing! I turned to my provost and said "I want one in my classroom!" We do have a smartboard on our campus now, but, it's in the room we typically use for meetings. I'd still like to use it, but, I can't fit 40 students into that room comfortably.
I miss chalkboards. And I know quite a few of the profs over at my alma mater will miss the boards on slides. Dr. A. would use them with panache and flair, pausing at the dramatic moments and would flip that board to the top of the slides with a thunderous "BANG" and while we were still watching it, he'd be furiously writing on the next.
Now that's style.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Is it just me, or is this bloody odd?
I couldn't sleep this morning, so, I got up and was flipping through the channels, and Biography was doing a show on Muhammed Ali -- and it was actually aimed at kids (hell, it was even called Biography For Kids and they had flipped the 's' around and all that happy, happy horseshit). Ali has always been an interest of mine, so, I was watching it, and then, the commericals came on.
Mutual funds. Car insurance. Health insurance. Viagra. Celais.
Christ, I wonder who the marketing genius working at Biography is. If it is indeed to be marketed at kids, then, perhaps they should market towards kids; if the show is for adults, then, don't say it's for kids.
It's one of those mornings in which I was happy that I didn't have a kid. I could just see it; "Daddy, what's erection disorder?" "Well, son, it's where Dad can't get a chubby when he and your mother wanna do the Wild Thang."
Mutual funds. Car insurance. Health insurance. Viagra. Celais.
Christ, I wonder who the marketing genius working at Biography is. If it is indeed to be marketed at kids, then, perhaps they should market towards kids; if the show is for adults, then, don't say it's for kids.
It's one of those mornings in which I was happy that I didn't have a kid. I could just see it; "Daddy, what's erection disorder?" "Well, son, it's where Dad can't get a chubby when he and your mother wanna do the Wild Thang."
Sunday, February 12, 2006
I've become allergic to time
About a year ago, I started getting rashes on my wrist around my watch. I'd take off my watch, put on a little hydrocortisone, and the rash would disappear.
But, last Labor Day, I was helping my sister, and that weekend, the rash became worse. Everytime I put the watch back on, the itching became worse, until finally, I had to take the watch completely off.
Kerry saw the rash. "You're allergic to your watch."
I didn't believe him, but, when the rash didn't clear up after a few weeks, and the next time I was in getting doctoring, I asked about it. My doctor looked at my wrist; "Allergy. Quit wearing your watch."
For a while, I wore my watch on my right wrist until I noticed that I was getting a rash there as well. And as a person who is very locked in time, it has become hard to adjust to.
Kerry has helped, however. He gave me a very nice Christmas present; a Colibri pocket watch. Mine is similar to this one in the way the style of the case, but it's gold and doesn't have the Dolan Bullock logo. I love the watch, and have it with me most everywhere I go now.
I'd love to find an old Elgin like my grandfather gave me when I was 14. I had the watch for a long time, up until the Flood of '97 claimed it. I've been searching for a replacement for a long, long time, and as of yet, haven't found one.
I'm allergic to time, and I'm okay with that.
But, last Labor Day, I was helping my sister, and that weekend, the rash became worse. Everytime I put the watch back on, the itching became worse, until finally, I had to take the watch completely off.
Kerry saw the rash. "You're allergic to your watch."
I didn't believe him, but, when the rash didn't clear up after a few weeks, and the next time I was in getting doctoring, I asked about it. My doctor looked at my wrist; "Allergy. Quit wearing your watch."
For a while, I wore my watch on my right wrist until I noticed that I was getting a rash there as well. And as a person who is very locked in time, it has become hard to adjust to.
Kerry has helped, however. He gave me a very nice Christmas present; a Colibri pocket watch. Mine is similar to this one in the way the style of the case, but it's gold and doesn't have the Dolan Bullock logo. I love the watch, and have it with me most everywhere I go now.
I'd love to find an old Elgin like my grandfather gave me when I was 14. I had the watch for a long time, up until the Flood of '97 claimed it. I've been searching for a replacement for a long, long time, and as of yet, haven't found one.
I'm allergic to time, and I'm okay with that.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Two other quick notes
1) Currently I have three projects I'm developing; I'm working on a fund-raiser for camp to build a summer kitchen during the sumemr of 2009, planning a trip around Minnesota that I'm going to Minnesota 10 Miles at a Time, and doing archival research into the area of Academic Dishonesty. I'm considering doing blogs on the summer kitchen and AD stuff, too.
2) Kelli -- when you read this...get off your ASS and put something on your damn blog! :)
2) Kelli -- when you read this...get off your ASS and put something on your damn blog! :)
Stories
I've told stories since I was a kid. I don't know where they come from, they've always just flowed from me. I enjoy it, always have. And I enjoy finding new people to tell stories to.
Maybe that's why I tell stories when I teach. I enjoy history, almost as much as I enjoy psychology. For a short while, I considered becoming a historian -- but what can you do as a historian? Become an administrator at some school? (Jeff, if you see this, ya know I'm just funnin' ya.) I tell stories to help my students make connections.
There are other stories I tell as well. I tell stories of my family, of growing up, of my adventures and misadventures, all that stuff. I also make stuff up, just because it's the only way I can give a life to the voices in my head. Hell, if I don't, they'll come out in different ways and I'll end up in a psych ward on a 72 hold as they try and figure me out.
Not too long ago, my good compadre Kerry asked why, when asked a question, I tell stories to get to the answer. I told him, "Well, it's like this...I come from a long line of bullshit artists..."
He stopped me and told me that I was selling myself short. I also like that he told me that he enjoys that about me; and that he learns a great deal, not just of me, but of other things as well. I challenge him, he said, to think about things in a manner he's not had to do often. Something he enjoys a lot.
Stories.
I've got stories. Many of them true, some filled with half-truths and shades of lies, and others...well...others that are all straight from the depth of my story fount. And stories shall continue to fill my space here.
Maybe that's why I tell stories when I teach. I enjoy history, almost as much as I enjoy psychology. For a short while, I considered becoming a historian -- but what can you do as a historian? Become an administrator at some school? (Jeff, if you see this, ya know I'm just funnin' ya.) I tell stories to help my students make connections.
There are other stories I tell as well. I tell stories of my family, of growing up, of my adventures and misadventures, all that stuff. I also make stuff up, just because it's the only way I can give a life to the voices in my head. Hell, if I don't, they'll come out in different ways and I'll end up in a psych ward on a 72 hold as they try and figure me out.
Not too long ago, my good compadre Kerry asked why, when asked a question, I tell stories to get to the answer. I told him, "Well, it's like this...I come from a long line of bullshit artists..."
He stopped me and told me that I was selling myself short. I also like that he told me that he enjoys that about me; and that he learns a great deal, not just of me, but of other things as well. I challenge him, he said, to think about things in a manner he's not had to do often. Something he enjoys a lot.
Stories.
I've got stories. Many of them true, some filled with half-truths and shades of lies, and others...well...others that are all straight from the depth of my story fount. And stories shall continue to fill my space here.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Ads By Google
I decided a few months ago to sign up for the Ads by Google stuff because as I was bouncing around, I saw some pretty cool random ads that were posted by Google. I haven't had many up to now, though the other night I did have some funky Barbie and Ken links.
Tonight, though, I bounced through and I wasn't going to make a post until I saw that on the top of my window, there are ads for Bambi, Marine Corps, Bambi 2 Movie, and Bambi II DVD.
I don't know why, but that tickles me as much as some of the subject headings I get on my SPAM mail. Those are some of the best found poetry I've seen in a long while.
Tonight, though, I bounced through and I wasn't going to make a post until I saw that on the top of my window, there are ads for Bambi, Marine Corps, Bambi 2 Movie, and Bambi II DVD.
I don't know why, but that tickles me as much as some of the subject headings I get on my SPAM mail. Those are some of the best found poetry I've seen in a long while.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
As I take a break from grading tonight (and right before I go back to it)
About a week ago, I caught a commercial for Disney's new straight-to-video movie, Bambi II, and I got this...really
sick...
feeling...
and all I could think was "WHY?"
Of course, we know the answer is M-O-N-E-Y (which is, if you haven't heard, a great song by Lyle Lovett). And of course, I bet old Walt is rolling in his grave thinking "Why the flippin' hell didn't I think of this when I was alive?"
Anyway, as I watched that commercial for the 30th time, I suddenly remembered when the first time I saw the original Bambi, which I'll get back to in a moment. I just remembered one other thing I want to mention before I go on to that.
My friend, Kerry, is one of the two most anti-Disney people I know. The first is my mother-in-law who hated the company because of the old Ellen DeGeneres show, ya know, being that Ellen is a lesbian and all. I doubt my m-i-l ever even watched the show; "we just don't need those people on the t.v." Kerry, though, has a pretty good reason why he doesn't have a lot respect for the Mouse people. "They anthropomorphize animals, making hunters and fishermen evil. Oh, please don't hurt the poor little bunny! He looks like Thumper!" There are a lot of other reasons he's not big into Disney, but that's the one I always like to tweak him with from time to time.
Okay, so back to my other story...
I didn't see Bambi until I was 19 and in the Marines. One Saturday, my buddy Mike and I were walking by the base theater on the 29 Palms Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center. Now that's a mouthful, isn't it? As we were walking by, we noticed that the Saturday matinee was Bambi. I chuckled, fessed up to having never seen it, and Mike laughed. "Let's go!"
So, we went.
As did about 100 other young Marines...
And...about 100 young wives and children.
Can ya see where I'm going here? Good, I knew you did.
Mike and I got our seats in a section with a bunch of other Jarheads, and we watched, laughing at the parts we were to laugh at, cheering where we were supposed to cheer, doing just what we were supposed to do. Yup, nothing like watching a bunch of America's finest watching a kid's movie on a Saturday afternoon...
But, you know, there's that classic part. The part Kerry gets all up in arms about (*ahem* no pun intended). The part where kids scream in terror...
The part where the hunters shoot...
Bambi's mother.
See, someone wasn't thinking very clearly. They should not have let 100 young Leathernecks into a matinee with 100 young wives and their children.
Because while they were all crying about Bambi's mother being shoot...
We were...
Well...
Cheering the hunter's well placed shot.
There were loud, thunderous "Ooo-RAH's" and "Get SOME!" and "Yeah, BABY!" cheers echoing off the walls...
*****
The following Wednesday, every unit at the 29 Palms MCAGCC had a meeting with the troops where the CO came out and read a message from the base Commanding General. The message said, in short, that from that day forward and until further notice, the early matinees at the base theater would be for families only. The second matinee would be open to anyone.
It seems that as soon as the movie was over, the Commanding General's phone started ringing. And it rang all day Saturday. And Sunday. And Monday...hell, the incident even made it into the base newspaper.
After our major read the order, he folded it up and placed it in his pocket, and looked around the Company A of the School Battalion (I was going to Electronic Tech 1 school at the time), and he grinned at us. "Yup. My wife and sons were there Saturday. Knew I shoulda went...but...if I woulda cheered with you.
"Of course, I wouldn'a got any sugar from the wife for a while, but, dammit, it woulda been worth it."
*****
Alrighty, then, I'm going back to grading...
sick...
feeling...
and all I could think was "WHY?"
Of course, we know the answer is M-O-N-E-Y (which is, if you haven't heard, a great song by Lyle Lovett). And of course, I bet old Walt is rolling in his grave thinking "Why the flippin' hell didn't I think of this when I was alive?"
Anyway, as I watched that commercial for the 30th time, I suddenly remembered when the first time I saw the original Bambi, which I'll get back to in a moment. I just remembered one other thing I want to mention before I go on to that.
My friend, Kerry, is one of the two most anti-Disney people I know. The first is my mother-in-law who hated the company because of the old Ellen DeGeneres show, ya know, being that Ellen is a lesbian and all. I doubt my m-i-l ever even watched the show; "we just don't need those people on the t.v." Kerry, though, has a pretty good reason why he doesn't have a lot respect for the Mouse people. "They anthropomorphize animals, making hunters and fishermen evil. Oh, please don't hurt the poor little bunny! He looks like Thumper!" There are a lot of other reasons he's not big into Disney, but that's the one I always like to tweak him with from time to time.
Okay, so back to my other story...
I didn't see Bambi until I was 19 and in the Marines. One Saturday, my buddy Mike and I were walking by the base theater on the 29 Palms Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center. Now that's a mouthful, isn't it? As we were walking by, we noticed that the Saturday matinee was Bambi. I chuckled, fessed up to having never seen it, and Mike laughed. "Let's go!"
So, we went.
As did about 100 other young Marines...
And...about 100 young wives and children.
Can ya see where I'm going here? Good, I knew you did.
Mike and I got our seats in a section with a bunch of other Jarheads, and we watched, laughing at the parts we were to laugh at, cheering where we were supposed to cheer, doing just what we were supposed to do. Yup, nothing like watching a bunch of America's finest watching a kid's movie on a Saturday afternoon...
But, you know, there's that classic part. The part Kerry gets all up in arms about (*ahem* no pun intended). The part where kids scream in terror...
The part where the hunters shoot...
Bambi's mother.
See, someone wasn't thinking very clearly. They should not have let 100 young Leathernecks into a matinee with 100 young wives and their children.
Because while they were all crying about Bambi's mother being shoot...
We were...
Well...
Cheering the hunter's well placed shot.
There were loud, thunderous "Ooo-RAH's" and "Get SOME!" and "Yeah, BABY!" cheers echoing off the walls...
The following Wednesday, every unit at the 29 Palms MCAGCC had a meeting with the troops where the CO came out and read a message from the base Commanding General. The message said, in short, that from that day forward and until further notice, the early matinees at the base theater would be for families only. The second matinee would be open to anyone.
It seems that as soon as the movie was over, the Commanding General's phone started ringing. And it rang all day Saturday. And Sunday. And Monday...hell, the incident even made it into the base newspaper.
After our major read the order, he folded it up and placed it in his pocket, and looked around the Company A of the School Battalion (I was going to Electronic Tech 1 school at the time), and he grinned at us. "Yup. My wife and sons were there Saturday. Knew I shoulda went...but...if I woulda cheered with you.
"Of course, I wouldn'a got any sugar from the wife for a while, but, dammit, it woulda been worth it."
Alrighty, then, I'm going back to grading...
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Highway 1
Minnesota is a bit screwy when it comes to numbering highways. For the most part, it follows that conventions of odd-numbered highways go north-south and even-numbered highways go east-west. Yet, Highway 23, which goes through my hometown, runs across the state at about 45 degree angle, but, at the start and finish, it runs more north-south over east-west. Highway 11, along the most northern tier of the state, also runs east-west. I could go on and on, however, that's not the point of this post...
Highway 1 stretches across the northern tier as well, stretching from Oslo, MN on the North Dakota border (from downtown Oslo to the Red River of the North it's less than a quarter mile) to Illgen City on the shores of Lake Superior. It goes through Thief River Falls, snakes around the bottom of Red Lake, then bounces around through Northome, Cook, Tower, Ely, Finland, and a bunch of other smaller towns before ending up going into the basin in a small town between Silver Bay and Little Marias. I find it interesting that two of the Scandinavian countries are connected by a highway such as this.
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time on 1 between Alvarado and Thief River. It's a stretch of about 35 miles in total, and it's like no where else I've ever been. It's extremely flat, as I've stated before, but, it's more than that. The idea of saying it's lunar is both over-used and incorrect; it's ...
Something else altogether.
It's similar to the Canadian prairie going into Winnipeg ...
But that's not it, either.
It's almost as if, when making the world, by the time God got to this part of the world, He felt like he was starting to repeat Himself and thus, lost the creative spark and just left it with full intention of coming back later to finish it. I can see it on His Palm Pilot now:
Week 20: Finish Aggassi and Steppes areas after figuring out what's happening in the orchard; A & E got some 'splainin' to do.
He got busy; I drive through the land God forgot.
*****
Tuesday through Thursday last week, the temps were hovering around freezing, we had strong winds and snow. Thursday as I was coming home from Thief River and after I passed through Warren, I felt like I had driven into a wall. My friend, Michelle, who makes the same drive every day, calls it driving in a snow globe. At times, I couldn't see the front of my car, and three times, I had my letter of resignation written in my head. I made it back safely (but not without peril), and if the temps hadn't dropped from 28 to 10 (-15 with the wind chill), I would have kissed the ground.
It was calmer on Friday, and I went to Thief River with another collegue. He had a meeting up there, and I wanted to do a little research. The computers in our campus library are messed up at the moment, and instead of fighting with them, it was just easier to do it there. We took backroads up there, but, they were a bit too icy to travel comfortably. On the way back, we took 1 to Alvarado, taking 220 south to home, and since I wasn't driving, I got to observe the wind sculptures in the ditches and on the farms.
One of the pleasures we get for living in an area God forgot to decorate is that in the winter, we get paybacks with temporary art that shifts in a hard wind or under a brillant sun, made of pristine white and sapphire blue shadows. Deer were everywhere, eating after the storm, and ravens and crows were doing their work on the hapless deer that tried to shoot the moon and race that car, or pickup, or semi that glides along the tarmac ribbon, stretching from Oslo to Illgin City, two towns on opposite ends of the state. Two towns in two different worlds.
Such is the state I travel.
Highway 1 stretches across the northern tier as well, stretching from Oslo, MN on the North Dakota border (from downtown Oslo to the Red River of the North it's less than a quarter mile) to Illgen City on the shores of Lake Superior. It goes through Thief River Falls, snakes around the bottom of Red Lake, then bounces around through Northome, Cook, Tower, Ely, Finland, and a bunch of other smaller towns before ending up going into the basin in a small town between Silver Bay and Little Marias. I find it interesting that two of the Scandinavian countries are connected by a highway such as this.
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time on 1 between Alvarado and Thief River. It's a stretch of about 35 miles in total, and it's like no where else I've ever been. It's extremely flat, as I've stated before, but, it's more than that. The idea of saying it's lunar is both over-used and incorrect; it's ...
Something else altogether.
It's similar to the Canadian prairie going into Winnipeg ...
But that's not it, either.
It's almost as if, when making the world, by the time God got to this part of the world, He felt like he was starting to repeat Himself and thus, lost the creative spark and just left it with full intention of coming back later to finish it. I can see it on His Palm Pilot now:
Week 20: Finish Aggassi and Steppes areas after figuring out what's happening in the orchard; A & E got some 'splainin' to do.
He got busy; I drive through the land God forgot.
Tuesday through Thursday last week, the temps were hovering around freezing, we had strong winds and snow. Thursday as I was coming home from Thief River and after I passed through Warren, I felt like I had driven into a wall. My friend, Michelle, who makes the same drive every day, calls it driving in a snow globe. At times, I couldn't see the front of my car, and three times, I had my letter of resignation written in my head. I made it back safely (but not without peril), and if the temps hadn't dropped from 28 to 10 (-15 with the wind chill), I would have kissed the ground.
It was calmer on Friday, and I went to Thief River with another collegue. He had a meeting up there, and I wanted to do a little research. The computers in our campus library are messed up at the moment, and instead of fighting with them, it was just easier to do it there. We took backroads up there, but, they were a bit too icy to travel comfortably. On the way back, we took 1 to Alvarado, taking 220 south to home, and since I wasn't driving, I got to observe the wind sculptures in the ditches and on the farms.
One of the pleasures we get for living in an area God forgot to decorate is that in the winter, we get paybacks with temporary art that shifts in a hard wind or under a brillant sun, made of pristine white and sapphire blue shadows. Deer were everywhere, eating after the storm, and ravens and crows were doing their work on the hapless deer that tried to shoot the moon and race that car, or pickup, or semi that glides along the tarmac ribbon, stretching from Oslo to Illgin City, two towns on opposite ends of the state. Two towns in two different worlds.
Such is the state I travel.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Do you trust your cat?
I often refer to my cat Meisha as “The Barbie Killer,” and unless you’ve heard me discuss that aspect of her in the past, you might wonder just what the hell that’s all about.
My first wife, Crystal, was a photographer with an outstanding and creative eye. Hopefully soon, I’ll be able to get her website back up and running, but, for right now, if you haven’t seen her photos, you’ll have to trust me. Hell, she could even make me look good ... and that’s just not easy.
For one of her classes, Crys decided to do a project that involved Barbie dolls. I’m not sure why the doll needed to be painted white, perhaps to get it to show up better on the black and white film stock, again, I just don’t know. She also was going to cut the doll into pieces. So, with a very sharp scissors, she carefully cut a foot off here, a leg in half there, continuing until the doll was in pieces all over the table.
To get the dolls, we raided every second hand store in three cities, eventually getting about 15 that fit the bill. One of the problems with dolls like that, however, is that the plastic begins to change as it ages, making it almost impossible to cut cleanly. As the scissors would make the cut, the plastic would fail, and suddenly, it looked as if there were a major hangnail stuck to the side of the body part. And Crystal, being the artistic perfectionist, would get extremely frustrated and toss the doll to the side and start cutting on another. In one afternoon, she painted, cut, and rejected each of those 15 dolls. On our next swoop through the second-hand stores, we found eight more dolls, and it was in this batch that she got the correct doll...
...and...Meisha earned her nomme de guerre...The Barbie Killer.
Crys was busy carefully cutting the third doll apart, and it ended up being the one that worked out. While she was touching up the paint, she knocked one of the other Barbies to the floor, and since we were both busy with something else, neither of us picked it up at that moment. I was in the living room working on a lesson plan, Crys was working on the prop, when we both heard a very loud, very dry “pop.”
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’ know,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “Okay, I’m gonna shoot now.” Crys flipped on the flood and spot lights, adjusting them, and picked up the camera. I started hearing the click snick ratchet of the camera, and then heard Crys tell Meisha to go away. I looked over, and as Crys was lining up her shots, Meisha started climbing Crystal’s leg to see what she was missing. As she bounced off Crys’ leg, it caused Crys to jitter the camera.
“Why don’t you use the tripod?” I suggested.
“We can’t. The assignment is for us to take artistic closeups freehand. No other supports than our body.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, but its good for me to learn how to do this.” She laughed, then kicked Meisha away again.
About a minute later, Crys looked at the exposure record and saw there was one or two pictures left on the roll. Meisha was standing against her leg still, so, Crys turned, focused fast, and snapped a picture of the cat.
It was the best picture on the entire roll.
After loading a new roll of film, Crys started firing off more shots. Suddenly, I catch something flying through the air in my peripheral vision. A moment later, now looking up, I see what had flown by. It was the head of a Barbie, liberated from its body. And Meisha was grabbing it by the hair in her mouth and flipping it high into the air. I looked into the dining room, under the table Crystal was using for her studio, and I saw the body. Lying there. Discarded.
The “pop” we heard earlier was the head being pulled free. The head was the huntress’ reward.
*****
Crys died about a year later, and that Barbie head was still one of Meisha’s favorite toys. I run into it in random places around the house, and at first, that was a bit unsettling. The worst, however, happened a few months after Crys died.
I was lying in bed, having just hit the snooze for the second time, when Meisha jumped into bed and sat in the middle of my back. I half rolled to look at her and to tell her that the food she was looking for would be in the bowl in just a few minutes. What I saw wasn’t my sweet and innocent kitty.
I saw a floating Barbie head.
Meisha is in the Kitty Mafia.
I didn’t have to be told a second time. I got the cat her food.
My first wife, Crystal, was a photographer with an outstanding and creative eye. Hopefully soon, I’ll be able to get her website back up and running, but, for right now, if you haven’t seen her photos, you’ll have to trust me. Hell, she could even make me look good ... and that’s just not easy.
For one of her classes, Crys decided to do a project that involved Barbie dolls. I’m not sure why the doll needed to be painted white, perhaps to get it to show up better on the black and white film stock, again, I just don’t know. She also was going to cut the doll into pieces. So, with a very sharp scissors, she carefully cut a foot off here, a leg in half there, continuing until the doll was in pieces all over the table.
To get the dolls, we raided every second hand store in three cities, eventually getting about 15 that fit the bill. One of the problems with dolls like that, however, is that the plastic begins to change as it ages, making it almost impossible to cut cleanly. As the scissors would make the cut, the plastic would fail, and suddenly, it looked as if there were a major hangnail stuck to the side of the body part. And Crystal, being the artistic perfectionist, would get extremely frustrated and toss the doll to the side and start cutting on another. In one afternoon, she painted, cut, and rejected each of those 15 dolls. On our next swoop through the second-hand stores, we found eight more dolls, and it was in this batch that she got the correct doll...
...and...Meisha earned her nomme de guerre...The Barbie Killer.
Crys was busy carefully cutting the third doll apart, and it ended up being the one that worked out. While she was touching up the paint, she knocked one of the other Barbies to the floor, and since we were both busy with something else, neither of us picked it up at that moment. I was in the living room working on a lesson plan, Crys was working on the prop, when we both heard a very loud, very dry “pop.”
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’ know,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “Okay, I’m gonna shoot now.” Crys flipped on the flood and spot lights, adjusting them, and picked up the camera. I started hearing the click snick ratchet of the camera, and then heard Crys tell Meisha to go away. I looked over, and as Crys was lining up her shots, Meisha started climbing Crystal’s leg to see what she was missing. As she bounced off Crys’ leg, it caused Crys to jitter the camera.
“Why don’t you use the tripod?” I suggested.
“We can’t. The assignment is for us to take artistic closeups freehand. No other supports than our body.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, but its good for me to learn how to do this.” She laughed, then kicked Meisha away again.
About a minute later, Crys looked at the exposure record and saw there was one or two pictures left on the roll. Meisha was standing against her leg still, so, Crys turned, focused fast, and snapped a picture of the cat.
It was the best picture on the entire roll.
After loading a new roll of film, Crys started firing off more shots. Suddenly, I catch something flying through the air in my peripheral vision. A moment later, now looking up, I see what had flown by. It was the head of a Barbie, liberated from its body. And Meisha was grabbing it by the hair in her mouth and flipping it high into the air. I looked into the dining room, under the table Crystal was using for her studio, and I saw the body. Lying there. Discarded.
The “pop” we heard earlier was the head being pulled free. The head was the huntress’ reward.
Crys died about a year later, and that Barbie head was still one of Meisha’s favorite toys. I run into it in random places around the house, and at first, that was a bit unsettling. The worst, however, happened a few months after Crys died.
I was lying in bed, having just hit the snooze for the second time, when Meisha jumped into bed and sat in the middle of my back. I half rolled to look at her and to tell her that the food she was looking for would be in the bowl in just a few minutes. What I saw wasn’t my sweet and innocent kitty.
I saw a floating Barbie head.
Meisha is in the Kitty Mafia.
I didn’t have to be told a second time. I got the cat her food.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Everyday Adventures Into the Sublime
It was an adventurous couple of days this past week when a few coworkers and myself had to go to the Twin Cities for a work–related event. We headed down on Tuesday, having our first meeting on Wednesday quite early in the day. Typically, with breaks, it usually only takes about six hours to get down there...
But...
Tuesday was anything but an ordinary day!
A little after midnight, the winds picked up and were blowing right around 30 miles per hour with blasts up to 45. It was also very warm, hovering right around freezing. When I hit the road to go to my coworker’s house (Kate was driving), there were drifts over ice. She lives on the outskirts of a small town about 10 miles east of where I live, and there are some serious curves right before you get to that town. As I was going around the first, the snow was deep and looked like pie crust dough when you’re first cutting the shortening into the flour. If I were going faster or hadn’t been paying attention, I would have ended up in the ditch along with the two cars already there.
Kate and I discussed if we should wait at her place, which we did for about an hour when it cleared a bit. The first part of our trip, down to the Fargo-Moorhead area, usually only takes about an hour. Tuesday, it was closer to an hour and a half. The first 30 miles, the roads were icy and covered with pillow drifts. After that, it cleared and was good driving. We picked up Pat at the local Dairy Queen, then, headed out to I-94 heading east.
Not a lot of traffic on the freeway. Just a few semis and us. We didn’t really think it was strange until we got about fifteen miles into Minnesota and the roads started turning crappy again. Mega-crappy! We had a good track, though, just like we were a bit behind a snow plow. But, as we got closer to Rothsay, the road got worse. We counted four semis in the ditch on the eastbound lane, including one that was facing the direction it was coming from. At one point, I said to Kate, “It’s almost like the freeway is closed and we aren’t supposed to be out here.”
It was closed.
We weren’t supposed to be out there!
We pulled into Fergus Falls for lunch, and while we were there, we found out that the freeway was closed from Valley City, ND to Osakis, MN, some 150 miles. We got on the I-94 at one of the few entrances that weren’t barricaded. Mainly, it was the west bound lanes that were closed, primarily because of the semis that were in the ditch.
The nasty weather wasn’t the only excitement in Fegus that day. The Bank of America was held up that morning at 10 a.m. during the worst of the storm. The visibility was so limited that no one even knew what the get-away vehicle looked like. I haven’t heard any more about it, and haven’t had time to look for info, either.
By three p.m., the road was opened again, and though the next fifty miles were still pretty nasty, we made pretty good time. Shortly after Alexandria, MN, the road opened up. Except for the heavy traffic, it was pretty easy driving all the way to Bloomington.
The hotel we stayed at was right near the Mega Maul and the airport. I’ve been to the airport many times, but never to the Maul. I just had no desire to go there. Kate and Pat, however, thought that we should go to Bubba Gumps for supper. Since I was outnumbered and didn’t have my own wheels, I went along.
I liked Bubba Gumps. Haven’t had good seafood in a long time, and though it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, it was a damn sight better than what you get at Dead Mobster. Our waitress, Rachel, was a hoot. Now, if you’ve never been to a Bubba Gumps, one of the things the wait staff does is ask trivia questions from the movie Forrest Gump. We did pretty good, but, then, I missed a fairly easy question. I told Rachel that she needed to be nice to us, and told her about the trip upon the closed freeway all the way down to Fergus.
“What kinda name is Fergus Falls anyway,” she asked.
“I think it was named after a Scottish man with halitosis.”
“Could be, could be.”
“I think it’s funny,” I continued, “a friend of mine in Pennsylvania thinks it’s a weird name. This coming from a woman that lives in a state with towns named Intercourse and Blue Balls.”
“Hey! I’ve been there!,” Rachel said.
“Oh?” I replied without missing a beat. “Which one?”
Rachel was, I must say, a very witty and articulate young lady. But, when posed with that question, she stopped, her mouth dropped open, and she turned bright red.
I did ask it in all innocence.
It wasn’t much later that we headed back to the hotel, and I was in bed not much later. I was completely whooped from the day, and Wednesday was going to be a long, busy day as well.
I think I would have slept later if the guy in the next room didn’t have a bit of OCD. He must have taken at least eight showers through the course of the night.
Now, like I said, Wednesday was busy. I called one of my good friends once we got done, however, and Per and I decided to go out to one of his favorite places in St. Paul for supper. He picked me up, we had a beer at the hotel, went to the restaurant and met up with another guy, Thor Truls. I’ve known these guys since they were 10. Amazing. It was really good to talk with them, and I would have loved to be out longer with them, but, I needed to be up early again on Thursday as well. Per dropped me off at the hotel, and again, I was in bed fairly early.
I don’t know if I had the same or different neighbors. All I know was that they were very vocal. Uncle Willy Shakespeare would have said they were busy making the beast with two backs. They started at 11:30 or so, and finished at around 2:30. I’ve gotta admire stamina like that. At one point, I was tempted to call them and ask if they needed me to come and tag-in. I was also tempted to call and give them some encouragement. I wonder how they would have reacted if I yelled “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”
Anyway...it was an adventurous trip. I can’t wait for my next trip to the Cities.
But...
Tuesday was anything but an ordinary day!
A little after midnight, the winds picked up and were blowing right around 30 miles per hour with blasts up to 45. It was also very warm, hovering right around freezing. When I hit the road to go to my coworker’s house (Kate was driving), there were drifts over ice. She lives on the outskirts of a small town about 10 miles east of where I live, and there are some serious curves right before you get to that town. As I was going around the first, the snow was deep and looked like pie crust dough when you’re first cutting the shortening into the flour. If I were going faster or hadn’t been paying attention, I would have ended up in the ditch along with the two cars already there.
Kate and I discussed if we should wait at her place, which we did for about an hour when it cleared a bit. The first part of our trip, down to the Fargo-Moorhead area, usually only takes about an hour. Tuesday, it was closer to an hour and a half. The first 30 miles, the roads were icy and covered with pillow drifts. After that, it cleared and was good driving. We picked up Pat at the local Dairy Queen, then, headed out to I-94 heading east.
Not a lot of traffic on the freeway. Just a few semis and us. We didn’t really think it was strange until we got about fifteen miles into Minnesota and the roads started turning crappy again. Mega-crappy! We had a good track, though, just like we were a bit behind a snow plow. But, as we got closer to Rothsay, the road got worse. We counted four semis in the ditch on the eastbound lane, including one that was facing the direction it was coming from. At one point, I said to Kate, “It’s almost like the freeway is closed and we aren’t supposed to be out here.”
It was closed.
We weren’t supposed to be out there!
We pulled into Fergus Falls for lunch, and while we were there, we found out that the freeway was closed from Valley City, ND to Osakis, MN, some 150 miles. We got on the I-94 at one of the few entrances that weren’t barricaded. Mainly, it was the west bound lanes that were closed, primarily because of the semis that were in the ditch.
The nasty weather wasn’t the only excitement in Fegus that day. The Bank of America was held up that morning at 10 a.m. during the worst of the storm. The visibility was so limited that no one even knew what the get-away vehicle looked like. I haven’t heard any more about it, and haven’t had time to look for info, either.
By three p.m., the road was opened again, and though the next fifty miles were still pretty nasty, we made pretty good time. Shortly after Alexandria, MN, the road opened up. Except for the heavy traffic, it was pretty easy driving all the way to Bloomington.
The hotel we stayed at was right near the Mega Maul and the airport. I’ve been to the airport many times, but never to the Maul. I just had no desire to go there. Kate and Pat, however, thought that we should go to Bubba Gumps for supper. Since I was outnumbered and didn’t have my own wheels, I went along.
I liked Bubba Gumps. Haven’t had good seafood in a long time, and though it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, it was a damn sight better than what you get at Dead Mobster. Our waitress, Rachel, was a hoot. Now, if you’ve never been to a Bubba Gumps, one of the things the wait staff does is ask trivia questions from the movie Forrest Gump. We did pretty good, but, then, I missed a fairly easy question. I told Rachel that she needed to be nice to us, and told her about the trip upon the closed freeway all the way down to Fergus.
“What kinda name is Fergus Falls anyway,” she asked.
“I think it was named after a Scottish man with halitosis.”
“Could be, could be.”
“I think it’s funny,” I continued, “a friend of mine in Pennsylvania thinks it’s a weird name. This coming from a woman that lives in a state with towns named Intercourse and Blue Balls.”
“Hey! I’ve been there!,” Rachel said.
“Oh?” I replied without missing a beat. “Which one?”
Rachel was, I must say, a very witty and articulate young lady. But, when posed with that question, she stopped, her mouth dropped open, and she turned bright red.
I did ask it in all innocence.
It wasn’t much later that we headed back to the hotel, and I was in bed not much later. I was completely whooped from the day, and Wednesday was going to be a long, busy day as well.
I think I would have slept later if the guy in the next room didn’t have a bit of OCD. He must have taken at least eight showers through the course of the night.
Now, like I said, Wednesday was busy. I called one of my good friends once we got done, however, and Per and I decided to go out to one of his favorite places in St. Paul for supper. He picked me up, we had a beer at the hotel, went to the restaurant and met up with another guy, Thor Truls. I’ve known these guys since they were 10. Amazing. It was really good to talk with them, and I would have loved to be out longer with them, but, I needed to be up early again on Thursday as well. Per dropped me off at the hotel, and again, I was in bed fairly early.
I don’t know if I had the same or different neighbors. All I know was that they were very vocal. Uncle Willy Shakespeare would have said they were busy making the beast with two backs. They started at 11:30 or so, and finished at around 2:30. I’ve gotta admire stamina like that. At one point, I was tempted to call them and ask if they needed me to come and tag-in. I was also tempted to call and give them some encouragement. I wonder how they would have reacted if I yelled “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”
Anyway...it was an adventurous trip. I can’t wait for my next trip to the Cities.
Cats
I got home from work yesterday totally wiped out from the week. It was extremely busy, and I just needed a nap. Now, I have two cats, and typically, Meisha the Barbie Killer meets me at the top of the steps when I come in, and she wasn't there. After my nap she still wasn't anywhere to be found, and I was getting nervous. It wasn't until three hours later that I found her. She was sleeping on a high bookshelf, and when she got up to stretch, she pushed a bunch of books off the shelf.
I've had both my cats since 2000/2001. Meisha is older, Sydni is MUCH larger, but, I have a feeling they are about the same age. Meisha has always been quite the character, whereas Sydni is more of a lump. Meisha is the one that I can almost always guarantee to be getting into something.
So, after I found her last night, she was very happy and rolling all over me. This is typical for her -- do something silly or stupid, get 'rescued,' then thank me for hours upon hours.
This morning, when I woke up, I heard this soft mewing. I got out of bed, walked around and finally heard her under the dresser. I had to take everything off the top and then pull it out from the wall.
I haven't been able to get rid of her since.
I've had both my cats since 2000/2001. Meisha is older, Sydni is MUCH larger, but, I have a feeling they are about the same age. Meisha has always been quite the character, whereas Sydni is more of a lump. Meisha is the one that I can almost always guarantee to be getting into something.
So, after I found her last night, she was very happy and rolling all over me. This is typical for her -- do something silly or stupid, get 'rescued,' then thank me for hours upon hours.
This morning, when I woke up, I heard this soft mewing. I got out of bed, walked around and finally heard her under the dresser. I had to take everything off the top and then pull it out from the wall.
I haven't been able to get rid of her since.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Packing
There is an art to packing. Dad can fit a lifetime of stuff into a weekend's worth of bags, something that has always amazed me. I did learn how to pack the trunk of a car for a trip to the cabin for the weekend, with all the suitcases for a family of six, the cooler, and the worms for fishing.
Trips to the cabin. That's slowly becoming something of the past in Minnesota. Many lakes have been over-developed with "lake homes," monster homes that crowd in too close to the shore and create more problems then they are truely worth. The lake I summer on, for instance, has four miles of undeveloped shoreline, and I heard not too long ago, some people in that area would love to buy it from the camp system so they could develop it as well. Oy.
Our cabin was on a small lake in central Minnesota, northeast of Brainard about 30 miles. We were on the edge of the Whitefish chain, a group of lakes that were connected by a river, allowing you to go a helluva a long way on the interwater routes. I know people that got lost more than once because they didn't know how to read their maps and find their way home. Our lake didn't directly connect into that chain, but, we use to go out on it quite often. Unlike the bigger lakes in Minnesota, most of the Whitefish chain are fairly narrow and deep , meaning that even when the winds are heavy, the lakes don't roll and roil.
Leech and Mille Lacs, on the other hand, are big shallow basins. In the summers, when the breeze builds to a gust, you soon see breakers, long, long breakers working their way across the lake, often breaking at an angle against the shore, spilling across sand and rocks.
I've walked the shore of both of those lakes, hunting lake polished agates. On our lake, and even the Whitefish chain, you didn't often find agates. Even on Mille Lacs and Leech you don't find a lot of agates. But, it's still to hunt for them. When we were kids, living on the shores of the lakes over the weekends of the summers, gypsies going north and south on Fridays and Sundays, treasures packed in the trunk of the car.
Trips to the cabin. That's slowly becoming something of the past in Minnesota. Many lakes have been over-developed with "lake homes," monster homes that crowd in too close to the shore and create more problems then they are truely worth. The lake I summer on, for instance, has four miles of undeveloped shoreline, and I heard not too long ago, some people in that area would love to buy it from the camp system so they could develop it as well. Oy.
Our cabin was on a small lake in central Minnesota, northeast of Brainard about 30 miles. We were on the edge of the Whitefish chain, a group of lakes that were connected by a river, allowing you to go a helluva a long way on the interwater routes. I know people that got lost more than once because they didn't know how to read their maps and find their way home. Our lake didn't directly connect into that chain, but, we use to go out on it quite often. Unlike the bigger lakes in Minnesota, most of the Whitefish chain are fairly narrow and deep , meaning that even when the winds are heavy, the lakes don't roll and roil.
Leech and Mille Lacs, on the other hand, are big shallow basins. In the summers, when the breeze builds to a gust, you soon see breakers, long, long breakers working their way across the lake, often breaking at an angle against the shore, spilling across sand and rocks.
I've walked the shore of both of those lakes, hunting lake polished agates. On our lake, and even the Whitefish chain, you didn't often find agates. Even on Mille Lacs and Leech you don't find a lot of agates. But, it's still to hunt for them. When we were kids, living on the shores of the lakes over the weekends of the summers, gypsies going north and south on Fridays and Sundays, treasures packed in the trunk of the car.
Books on Tape
I've never done books on tape before, but, this semester, I'm driving a lot and I'm wondering if I might not give it a try. I'm just not sure what books I'd take with me. I'm also afraid that if I got the wrong reader, I might fall asleep on the commute. Or, I might do like a friend of mine and get so caught up in the book that he forgot where he was going and ended up at the Canadian border, and hour north of town.
When I'm driving, I listen to music or NPR. In Minnesota, there are relatively few areas of the state that is not blanketed by NPR, so, if you know your route well, you can surf from one server to the next as you go down the highway. One of the weak areas is around the area my sisters all live. Just a shade out of range for Minneapolis and St. Cloud, out of the Brainard and Duluth skips, it becomes a very fuzzy signal. I'm hoping that they'll boost the transmitter power on one of the stations, or perhaps set up a new relay in the area.
Anyway, I might try a taped book soon. I just don't know which ones I'd try. I'm not sure the types of books I gravitate towards are offered on tape except by special order. That, and I love the act of reading too much.
If you have a recommendation of a good book on tape, let me know.
When I'm driving, I listen to music or NPR. In Minnesota, there are relatively few areas of the state that is not blanketed by NPR, so, if you know your route well, you can surf from one server to the next as you go down the highway. One of the weak areas is around the area my sisters all live. Just a shade out of range for Minneapolis and St. Cloud, out of the Brainard and Duluth skips, it becomes a very fuzzy signal. I'm hoping that they'll boost the transmitter power on one of the stations, or perhaps set up a new relay in the area.
Anyway, I might try a taped book soon. I just don't know which ones I'd try. I'm not sure the types of books I gravitate towards are offered on tape except by special order. That, and I love the act of reading too much.
If you have a recommendation of a good book on tape, let me know.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
And have I mentioned...
Billy Mayes, the guy that shills all those Oxy Clean type products on cable, is really obnoxious? Shut the fuck up already, Billy! We hear you!
Snow
I woke later than normal this morning, and heard pebbles against the window glass. Aften putting on my glasses, I pulled back the blinds and looked out. It looked like snow, but, since they weren't flakes but little round dots, I knew that it was freezing rain. I hate freezing rain. The roads are slick enough around town, we don't need them to get worse.
By noon, it had changed over to a light snow without any wind. It's so peaceful outside when that occurs, and I became mesmerized by it. A bit later, I headed out to a birthday party for the children of my good friends, and even though it was pretty crisp outside, it didn't feel that bad. The cold was sort of soft, something that doesn't happen often. The streets, as I feared, were a little slick, but not so bad that I was overly concerned.
After the party, I met up with a few friends for supper. When we got to the cafe, it was still that soft cold, and the snow had quite falling hours before. We laughed hard and caught up on a lot of stuff, and at one point were joined by the brother of one of the guys with me. I knew him as well from years ago, and we spent quite a bit of time catching up. I told him about Crystal, school, teaching, and all of that; he told me of living and working construction for 15 years and two marriages, going from motel to motel, living on the road 320 days of the year. He also said that he's thinking of going back to school in the fall, and most likely, enrolling at my school. "I'm sick of working in the weather on days like this," Shane stated, pointing over his shoulder with his often hammered thumb.
As we were chatting, his cell chirped, and after answering, asked if we wanted to head up the road to Manvel (about 10 miles nort' of us) for a wild game feed. We all thought, hey, why not? We paid our tabs, wrapped up to face the great outdoors, and when I stepped outside, realized how nasty it was outside. The wind was blowing hard, the snow and frozen rain pellets polishing the ice already coating the tarmac. I looked to Shane, shook his hand, and begged off for the night. "I think I need to sit this one out, mi amigo, but, I'll look for you again now that I know you're back in town." He laughed and nodded, saying that he'll look me up as well.
I got home, my drive slightly drifted and unmarked by tire prints. It's amazing what the wind carries with it.
By noon, it had changed over to a light snow without any wind. It's so peaceful outside when that occurs, and I became mesmerized by it. A bit later, I headed out to a birthday party for the children of my good friends, and even though it was pretty crisp outside, it didn't feel that bad. The cold was sort of soft, something that doesn't happen often. The streets, as I feared, were a little slick, but not so bad that I was overly concerned.
After the party, I met up with a few friends for supper. When we got to the cafe, it was still that soft cold, and the snow had quite falling hours before. We laughed hard and caught up on a lot of stuff, and at one point were joined by the brother of one of the guys with me. I knew him as well from years ago, and we spent quite a bit of time catching up. I told him about Crystal, school, teaching, and all of that; he told me of living and working construction for 15 years and two marriages, going from motel to motel, living on the road 320 days of the year. He also said that he's thinking of going back to school in the fall, and most likely, enrolling at my school. "I'm sick of working in the weather on days like this," Shane stated, pointing over his shoulder with his often hammered thumb.
As we were chatting, his cell chirped, and after answering, asked if we wanted to head up the road to Manvel (about 10 miles nort' of us) for a wild game feed. We all thought, hey, why not? We paid our tabs, wrapped up to face the great outdoors, and when I stepped outside, realized how nasty it was outside. The wind was blowing hard, the snow and frozen rain pellets polishing the ice already coating the tarmac. I looked to Shane, shook his hand, and begged off for the night. "I think I need to sit this one out, mi amigo, but, I'll look for you again now that I know you're back in town." He laughed and nodded, saying that he'll look me up as well.
I got home, my drive slightly drifted and unmarked by tire prints. It's amazing what the wind carries with it.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Rest Easy, Brother Wilson
I often forget that my early musical education was not of the norm. Mom and Dad both had diverse tastes in music, and it spread to my eldest sister and myself. We're musical gypsies, she and I.
watching a show on ants on the Discovery Channel, and amazed at the African siafu ants and thinking how flippin' nasty those little bastards are...
Anyway, on my way through the valley tonight on my way home from the sister campus, I heard the news that Wilson Pickett died today of a heart attack. "Oh, man," I thought, "that sucks." When I got back to my campus, I stopped in to M.'s office and asked if she heard about the death of Brother Wilson.
"Who?"
"Wilson Pickett. Ya know, the singer?"
"I have no idea who that is."
"Yeah, you do. Wilson Picket. Ya know, Land of a 1000 Dances? Funky Broadway? In the Midnight Hour?"
"Oh, yeah! I know that one! What else did he sing?"
"Mustang Sally was one of his other big hits."
"My brother sings that at karioke."
"Yeah. I have, too."
"Well, my brother is better."
M. likes to tease me, so, I took that in good stride. Anyway, I went over to another friend's office and asked if he had heard about Brother Wilson.
Six of my coworkers had never heard of Wilson Pickett.
When I got home tonight, I called my sister. She hadn't heard yet, and when I told her, her first reaction was "Guess it's time to watch The Commitments." I chuckled 'cuz I watched that movie just a few weeks ago, but, I'll be watching it again over the weekend, and singing along with all of the Wilson Pickett songs.
Peace to you, Brother Wilson.
watching a show on ants on the Discovery Channel, and amazed at the African siafu ants and thinking how flippin' nasty those little bastards are...
Anyway, on my way through the valley tonight on my way home from the sister campus, I heard the news that Wilson Pickett died today of a heart attack. "Oh, man," I thought, "that sucks." When I got back to my campus, I stopped in to M.'s office and asked if she heard about the death of Brother Wilson.
"Who?"
"Wilson Pickett. Ya know, the singer?"
"I have no idea who that is."
"Yeah, you do. Wilson Picket. Ya know, Land of a 1000 Dances? Funky Broadway? In the Midnight Hour?"
"Oh, yeah! I know that one! What else did he sing?"
"Mustang Sally was one of his other big hits."
"My brother sings that at karioke."
"Yeah. I have, too."
"Well, my brother is better."
M. likes to tease me, so, I took that in good stride. Anyway, I went over to another friend's office and asked if he had heard about Brother Wilson.
Six of my coworkers had never heard of Wilson Pickett.
When I got home tonight, I called my sister. She hadn't heard yet, and when I told her, her first reaction was "Guess it's time to watch The Commitments." I chuckled 'cuz I watched that movie just a few weeks ago, but, I'll be watching it again over the weekend, and singing along with all of the Wilson Pickett songs.
Peace to you, Brother Wilson.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Driving the valley
This semester, I travel to the other campus in our college two days a week. I'm teaching two classes there while one of the other psych profs is on sabbatical. If I could drive straight there, it would be about thirty-five, maybe forty miles. Depending upon the roads I'm forced to take, the drive can go be between 52 and 65 miles. Today, because of the road conditions, I had to take one of the longer routes.
See, I live in a valley. Closest mountains are a thousand miles to the west of me, though there are some pretty big hills about 400 miles to the east and west. The valley that I live in is that of a river, the Red River of the North, a bitch of a river that likes to push out of the banks every few years to disrupt the lives of the people that live near her. Eras in the valley are recorded by the floods; '97, '79, '56 and '57, and so on. They are also tabulated by blizzards, though we haven't had a real good one in a few years. Back in '97, however, well, we had a lot that year.
We had a light snow last night, and winds today caused the roads to get a bit slick. Now, I know that a light snow and some wind doesn't make a big difference in some places in the world, but, they have something that we don't. Topography. Yup, it's pretty damn flat here, and because it's flat, the wind doesn't have much to get in it's way. Lots of farmers plant windbreaks, rows of trees on the edges of fields, that knock it down a bit, but, there are many stretches along my route that the windbreaks are miles away from the road. Ditches drift and fill, often becoming flush with the road by midwinter. These are normal ditches, either; they are über ditches, some that are 20 to 30 feet deep and 50 to 60 feet wide.
As I was driving, I started out taking my normal route, and by the time I got to one of the small towns where I make a decision, I looked forward and saw nothing but white. The road was completely covered with snow and ice. I looked at the clock and made a fast calculation, and decided to take the long way. For me, that means backtracking, because the road that I turned onto angles northwest, and I was heading northeast. I know, it seems like a petty thing, but, I was shaving it close to get to class on time as it was, and the backtracking adds almost ten miles to my journey. Better safe than sorry, though.
A few miles along the way, I turned back to the east. There is a small town there, and as I got to the edge, the valley opens. It's the high valley there, meaning that I'm not too far from the edge of prehistoric Lake Aggassi (A-gas-si), which after the last ice age covered much of this area, leaving some of the most fertile land in the world as it drained. It still looks flat as a table, but, if you know what to look for, you can see changes that occur. One of them is the broken forest lands. We call it the prairie-to-pine zone, and it was once bordered by a vast oak savannah that ran from north of Winnipeg to the Gulf of Mexico. I kept moving along, drinking in the surroundings when I could, mainly because even the state highway I was on was snow covered and icy and spots.
I'm not a native to this area of the state, and it's taken me a long time to see the beauty of extremely open spaces. I don't care that there are tree lines and windbreaks ... it's still OPEN compared to where I grew up. I think the fact that I can see so much sky makes me feel almost claustrophobic. I am starting to enjoy it, though, but, I yearn for the day when I can once again live surrounded by trees and topography.
See, I live in a valley. Closest mountains are a thousand miles to the west of me, though there are some pretty big hills about 400 miles to the east and west. The valley that I live in is that of a river, the Red River of the North, a bitch of a river that likes to push out of the banks every few years to disrupt the lives of the people that live near her. Eras in the valley are recorded by the floods; '97, '79, '56 and '57, and so on. They are also tabulated by blizzards, though we haven't had a real good one in a few years. Back in '97, however, well, we had a lot that year.
We had a light snow last night, and winds today caused the roads to get a bit slick. Now, I know that a light snow and some wind doesn't make a big difference in some places in the world, but, they have something that we don't. Topography. Yup, it's pretty damn flat here, and because it's flat, the wind doesn't have much to get in it's way. Lots of farmers plant windbreaks, rows of trees on the edges of fields, that knock it down a bit, but, there are many stretches along my route that the windbreaks are miles away from the road. Ditches drift and fill, often becoming flush with the road by midwinter. These are normal ditches, either; they are über ditches, some that are 20 to 30 feet deep and 50 to 60 feet wide.
As I was driving, I started out taking my normal route, and by the time I got to one of the small towns where I make a decision, I looked forward and saw nothing but white. The road was completely covered with snow and ice. I looked at the clock and made a fast calculation, and decided to take the long way. For me, that means backtracking, because the road that I turned onto angles northwest, and I was heading northeast. I know, it seems like a petty thing, but, I was shaving it close to get to class on time as it was, and the backtracking adds almost ten miles to my journey. Better safe than sorry, though.
A few miles along the way, I turned back to the east. There is a small town there, and as I got to the edge, the valley opens. It's the high valley there, meaning that I'm not too far from the edge of prehistoric Lake Aggassi (A-gas-si), which after the last ice age covered much of this area, leaving some of the most fertile land in the world as it drained. It still looks flat as a table, but, if you know what to look for, you can see changes that occur. One of them is the broken forest lands. We call it the prairie-to-pine zone, and it was once bordered by a vast oak savannah that ran from north of Winnipeg to the Gulf of Mexico. I kept moving along, drinking in the surroundings when I could, mainly because even the state highway I was on was snow covered and icy and spots.
I'm not a native to this area of the state, and it's taken me a long time to see the beauty of extremely open spaces. I don't care that there are tree lines and windbreaks ... it's still OPEN compared to where I grew up. I think the fact that I can see so much sky makes me feel almost claustrophobic. I am starting to enjoy it, though, but, I yearn for the day when I can once again live surrounded by trees and topography.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
With friends like this...
I've got a rather strange group of friends. I wrote about J. in the previous post, but, something that I read earlier today reminded me of my friend Otto.
I met Otto at camp years ago. As a matter of fact, it was the first year for both of us. We were both a couple of long haired and bearded guys, and we had a pretty bizarre take on things. We even did a few things that were groundbreaking at the time and we're still using them in the program now some 17 years later.
But, it was some of the things Otto did away from camp that I really remember him for. At the time, Otto was living down the road from me in Fargo. He lived on the third floor of an apartment building. He had another good friend that lived on the first floor who was a philosophy and religion major. Often, the building would be visited by members of various religious groups that are often labeled as cults. Otto's friend would invite them in and talk with them, arguing the ideas and dogma, then would say, "Well, I'm not interested in joining your organization at the time, however, I have a friend upstairs that might be." The guy would give them Otto's apartment number, send them on their way, then call Otto and tell him they were coming.
I should tell you that Otto's hair came down to his waist. He had and has a goatee. He's about 5'7" and around 230 pounds. After getting the call, Otto would wait at the door for them. When they'd ring the doorbell, he'd fling the door open and spread his arms wide and yell in a rapturous voice "Take me, sweet Jesus, take me!"
Did I mention that he would do this in the nude?
It didn't take long before the various groups quit coming around.
One weekend we were off from camp, and were driving around. Otto was riding shotgun, and suddenly yells at me to stop the car. I pull over on the shoulder and he jumps out and runs into the woods. Now, this is of course after we'd had a few beers, so I thought he was going out to get rid of the beer. Instead, he returns with two short sticks.
"Otto, what the hell...?" I asked, getting out of the car and watching him as he came up the ditch. I watched as he walked over to a road killed raccoon that was fat with bloat, and he flipped him the raccoon up onto his feet. The grimace on the raccoon's dead face caused us both to roll with laughter. What was even more funny to us was the fact that the raccoon stayed that way for at least three days before the carrion eaters finally took him away from the roadside.
The last year Otto worked, we were cabin partners. That meant that we were responsible for taking care of a bunch of kids. One of the highlights of that summer, though, came when one night at a staff party. Otto and I were told that we needed to come up with something for the rest of the staff, something to 'entertain' them. We're both big fans of Bob Dylan, and so, we decided to sing one of our camp songs a la Dylan. So, that night, we got to the party, and it came our time, and we stood up and put on our Wayfarer's. At that point, we we knocked everyone dead. We sang our hearts out, and everyone that wasn't in shock, laughed. Now, when we have reunions, Otto and I are asked for an encore.
I was one of the groomsmen at his wedding. We had a blast, especially right before the dance started when all the people from camp gathered around him and his new bride and toasted them with shots of Aquavit. We ended up doing this about six times, making sure that we got it right. Oy. Afterwards, Otto and I grabbed the microphone and started singing. Hey, we thought it was funny, as did all of the Norwegians.
I get to see Otto from time to time now, especially at camp reunion stuff, and we typically end up singing together. Yeah, we still enjoy ourselves.
Even if no one else appreciates us. *grin*
I met Otto at camp years ago. As a matter of fact, it was the first year for both of us. We were both a couple of long haired and bearded guys, and we had a pretty bizarre take on things. We even did a few things that were groundbreaking at the time and we're still using them in the program now some 17 years later.
But, it was some of the things Otto did away from camp that I really remember him for. At the time, Otto was living down the road from me in Fargo. He lived on the third floor of an apartment building. He had another good friend that lived on the first floor who was a philosophy and religion major. Often, the building would be visited by members of various religious groups that are often labeled as cults. Otto's friend would invite them in and talk with them, arguing the ideas and dogma, then would say, "Well, I'm not interested in joining your organization at the time, however, I have a friend upstairs that might be." The guy would give them Otto's apartment number, send them on their way, then call Otto and tell him they were coming.
I should tell you that Otto's hair came down to his waist. He had and has a goatee. He's about 5'7" and around 230 pounds. After getting the call, Otto would wait at the door for them. When they'd ring the doorbell, he'd fling the door open and spread his arms wide and yell in a rapturous voice "Take me, sweet Jesus, take me!"
Did I mention that he would do this in the nude?
It didn't take long before the various groups quit coming around.
One weekend we were off from camp, and were driving around. Otto was riding shotgun, and suddenly yells at me to stop the car. I pull over on the shoulder and he jumps out and runs into the woods. Now, this is of course after we'd had a few beers, so I thought he was going out to get rid of the beer. Instead, he returns with two short sticks.
"Otto, what the hell...?" I asked, getting out of the car and watching him as he came up the ditch. I watched as he walked over to a road killed raccoon that was fat with bloat, and he flipped him the raccoon up onto his feet. The grimace on the raccoon's dead face caused us both to roll with laughter. What was even more funny to us was the fact that the raccoon stayed that way for at least three days before the carrion eaters finally took him away from the roadside.
The last year Otto worked, we were cabin partners. That meant that we were responsible for taking care of a bunch of kids. One of the highlights of that summer, though, came when one night at a staff party. Otto and I were told that we needed to come up with something for the rest of the staff, something to 'entertain' them. We're both big fans of Bob Dylan, and so, we decided to sing one of our camp songs a la Dylan. So, that night, we got to the party, and it came our time, and we stood up and put on our Wayfarer's. At that point, we we knocked everyone dead. We sang our hearts out, and everyone that wasn't in shock, laughed. Now, when we have reunions, Otto and I are asked for an encore.
I was one of the groomsmen at his wedding. We had a blast, especially right before the dance started when all the people from camp gathered around him and his new bride and toasted them with shots of Aquavit. We ended up doing this about six times, making sure that we got it right. Oy. Afterwards, Otto and I grabbed the microphone and started singing. Hey, we thought it was funny, as did all of the Norwegians.
I get to see Otto from time to time now, especially at camp reunion stuff, and we typically end up singing together. Yeah, we still enjoy ourselves.
Even if no one else appreciates us. *grin*
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Dwarf and Elfhole
My office partner and I are enjoying our second year of sharing our digs -- not just the office space, but also the insults and cuts that are cast often between two good friends. J. is a former high school teacher that started working with me about three years ago, and last year, he and I started sharing an office. Its not the office we're in currently, and that's a completely different post altogether.
About a year ago, I decided that I wanted to grow my beard out. I first started growing a beard when I was 17, shaved it while I was in the Marines, and as soon as I could after I got out of the Corps, started growing it again. Once before, I let it just go like I am now, and that's when I was in Norway. It got pretty big and bushy then, but, I clipped it back before I came home. Since then, up until a year ago, I kept it pretty closely trimmed. A year ago, though, I decided, fuck it, it's time to have some fun with the facial hair.
J. was one of the first to notice, too. Around my birthday, he looked at me, and said, "your beard bigger?"
"Yup."
"Cool."
Now, J. is a bit over a decade my senior, and is one of those men that can't really grow facial hair. When he starts to tease me, then, I know its purely from jealously. Other people kid me about it, too, and I take it all in good stride. For example, the college provost's administrative assistant refers to me as the burly man. Another coworker asked if I was working on becoming a part-time Santa. Yeah, with the grades I gave a lot of his students, ho ho ho, motherfucker. *heh*
So, last February, J. and I got hoodwinked into going to a conference down in the Twin Cities with another coworker, B. We took B.'s ride, and I drove from Grand Forks to Clear Lake, MN. At that point, J. took over, and he looked at me and said, "okay, you need to tell me how to get to this place. You're my navigator."
Without missing a beat, I snapped back, "And you're the wind beneath my wings."
J. had to pull to the shoulder of the Interstate because he was laughing so hard. B. proclaimed that exchange the theme for the weekend.
After spending so much time together in the office, it became natural for us to start completing each other's sentences. We both enjoy breaking into the random song from time to time, the scary thing is that we often break into the same song at the same time. Others have noticed. One day, in the hall, we bumped hard and grabbed each other so we wouldn't fall (we were both called by different people at the same time), and we did a nice little hop polka in the hall, arguing as to who was the lead.
But, it was the trip in November that sealed it. Now, J. and I have done a lot of work outside of school together as well. He helped me build my bed, and I'm helping him build a new computer desk for his home office. My table saw is living in his garage right now until my garage gets a little decluttered. Anyway, we headed to a workshop about three hours from home, and on the way there, the roads were horrendous. They were halfway between sucky and shitty, and J. was driving about 45 miles an hour. Now, I forget just what he said to me, but I fired a quip right back at him. He looked over at me and said, in a voice laced heavily with insult, a single word.
"Dwarf."
J. had been saying for a few weeks how I looked like an extra from Lord of the Rings. Then, it was more like Gimli himself that I resembled. I find the greatest in humor when he makes these comments, and without batting an eyelash, I replied.
"Elfhole."
We spent five minutes on the shoulder of I-29 until he quite laughing enough to trust his driving.
*grin*
I'm good like that.
About a year ago, I decided that I wanted to grow my beard out. I first started growing a beard when I was 17, shaved it while I was in the Marines, and as soon as I could after I got out of the Corps, started growing it again. Once before, I let it just go like I am now, and that's when I was in Norway. It got pretty big and bushy then, but, I clipped it back before I came home. Since then, up until a year ago, I kept it pretty closely trimmed. A year ago, though, I decided, fuck it, it's time to have some fun with the facial hair.
J. was one of the first to notice, too. Around my birthday, he looked at me, and said, "your beard bigger?"
"Yup."
"Cool."
Now, J. is a bit over a decade my senior, and is one of those men that can't really grow facial hair. When he starts to tease me, then, I know its purely from jealously. Other people kid me about it, too, and I take it all in good stride. For example, the college provost's administrative assistant refers to me as the burly man. Another coworker asked if I was working on becoming a part-time Santa. Yeah, with the grades I gave a lot of his students, ho ho ho, motherfucker. *heh*
So, last February, J. and I got hoodwinked into going to a conference down in the Twin Cities with another coworker, B. We took B.'s ride, and I drove from Grand Forks to Clear Lake, MN. At that point, J. took over, and he looked at me and said, "okay, you need to tell me how to get to this place. You're my navigator."
Without missing a beat, I snapped back, "And you're the wind beneath my wings."
J. had to pull to the shoulder of the Interstate because he was laughing so hard. B. proclaimed that exchange the theme for the weekend.
After spending so much time together in the office, it became natural for us to start completing each other's sentences. We both enjoy breaking into the random song from time to time, the scary thing is that we often break into the same song at the same time. Others have noticed. One day, in the hall, we bumped hard and grabbed each other so we wouldn't fall (we were both called by different people at the same time), and we did a nice little hop polka in the hall, arguing as to who was the lead.
But, it was the trip in November that sealed it. Now, J. and I have done a lot of work outside of school together as well. He helped me build my bed, and I'm helping him build a new computer desk for his home office. My table saw is living in his garage right now until my garage gets a little decluttered. Anyway, we headed to a workshop about three hours from home, and on the way there, the roads were horrendous. They were halfway between sucky and shitty, and J. was driving about 45 miles an hour. Now, I forget just what he said to me, but I fired a quip right back at him. He looked over at me and said, in a voice laced heavily with insult, a single word.
"Dwarf."
J. had been saying for a few weeks how I looked like an extra from Lord of the Rings. Then, it was more like Gimli himself that I resembled. I find the greatest in humor when he makes these comments, and without batting an eyelash, I replied.
"Elfhole."
We spent five minutes on the shoulder of I-29 until he quite laughing enough to trust his driving.
*grin*
I'm good like that.
Restless
When I feel crappy, I get restless. I look around the house and I think ... "I should do something..." Today, I'm feeling crappy, and after taking three or four naps (I lost count), I started to think to myself ...
Bookshelves.
See, I like books. I have a lot of books. LOTS of books. Downstairs, I have two floor to ceiling five shelf book shelves and a fold-up bookshelf which are all full. I also have one of those fold-up bookshelves upstairs, too, and I still don't have enough shelves. So, I start looking around the bedroom. The next thing I realize is I don't have enough room in my dresser, either. I do a little measuring, and realize that the dresser downstairs will fit in my bedroom, I just need to pull the main dresser over a few inches. That'll solve another problem as well, which is that the t.v. is too low so I can't see more than the top 1/3 of the screen. So, I disconnect a few cables, move the T.V., VCR, and cable box over to the bed, pull the main dresser over, and then, go down and get the other dresser. Reset up the T.V. and all that, and then, hang some shelves.
I can only find four brackets after I get the strips screwed to the wall, and I think, screw it, two shelves for today will be good enough. I gathered up my stray books, feeling like a cowboy on the spring roundup looking for unbranded calves, and got them on the shelves. By this time, I was sweating out the poisons of whatever it is that's effecting me.
I'm still feeling restless and I'm trying to decide what the next step will be. Since I'm getting a new couch this weekend, I could break down the futon and take it downstairs and then bring my Laz-E-Boy up. Hell, I may even move the bookshelf that's upstairs and redo my corner office.
Or, I could put a hit out on Billy Mays, that goddam yeller on the Oxy-Clean and Kaboom cleaner commericals. Why does that fuckin' weanie need to yell all the goddam time?
Yeah. We'll see what happens.
Bookshelves.
See, I like books. I have a lot of books. LOTS of books. Downstairs, I have two floor to ceiling five shelf book shelves and a fold-up bookshelf which are all full. I also have one of those fold-up bookshelves upstairs, too, and I still don't have enough shelves. So, I start looking around the bedroom. The next thing I realize is I don't have enough room in my dresser, either. I do a little measuring, and realize that the dresser downstairs will fit in my bedroom, I just need to pull the main dresser over a few inches. That'll solve another problem as well, which is that the t.v. is too low so I can't see more than the top 1/3 of the screen. So, I disconnect a few cables, move the T.V., VCR, and cable box over to the bed, pull the main dresser over, and then, go down and get the other dresser. Reset up the T.V. and all that, and then, hang some shelves.
I can only find four brackets after I get the strips screwed to the wall, and I think, screw it, two shelves for today will be good enough. I gathered up my stray books, feeling like a cowboy on the spring roundup looking for unbranded calves, and got them on the shelves. By this time, I was sweating out the poisons of whatever it is that's effecting me.
I'm still feeling restless and I'm trying to decide what the next step will be. Since I'm getting a new couch this weekend, I could break down the futon and take it downstairs and then bring my Laz-E-Boy up. Hell, I may even move the bookshelf that's upstairs and redo my corner office.
Or, I could put a hit out on Billy Mays, that goddam yeller on the Oxy-Clean and Kaboom cleaner commericals. Why does that fuckin' weanie need to yell all the goddam time?
Yeah. We'll see what happens.
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Moray Moon
It has been too long since I've seen the moon, and tonight, it's hanging in the sky like a large white eye, watching over the valley as we go through this damn warning spell. January and we're thawing. Warm enough to make me wonder why the moon isn't melting as well. Go figure.
But, I need to admit that the thaw is good for one thing. Last night when I arrived home, I looked at the ground outside the garage door, and I found the ring I lost a bit over a month ago. I was pissed at the time because that thing cost me a tish over $100 and I love the ring. I looked through the car, the house, all the pockets and my briefcase, and dammit, even through the grocery bags I brought home that night. My worst fear was that I lost it in one of those bags and then sent it out with the recycling.
One of my neighbors was out tonight when I got home. I like chatting with him because he's quite the character. He was on the corner looking up at the moon, and he was singing "That's Amore" loud enough for the entire block to hear.
When the moon hits your eye
like a big pizza pie
that's amore...
I went over and sang a bit with him, than added my verse
When that fish bites you leg
with teeth big as an egg
That's a moray.
Heh. Ed the neighbor thought it was funny.
Anyway, Ed and I were chatting, and he said, "hey, gotta tell ya, I really appreciate when ya put out your recycling. That's the only way I can remember which day the recycling pick up is." I laughed and said that it wasn't a problem, looked up at the moon, then sang my way back into the house...
...that's a moray...
But, I need to admit that the thaw is good for one thing. Last night when I arrived home, I looked at the ground outside the garage door, and I found the ring I lost a bit over a month ago. I was pissed at the time because that thing cost me a tish over $100 and I love the ring. I looked through the car, the house, all the pockets and my briefcase, and dammit, even through the grocery bags I brought home that night. My worst fear was that I lost it in one of those bags and then sent it out with the recycling.
One of my neighbors was out tonight when I got home. I like chatting with him because he's quite the character. He was on the corner looking up at the moon, and he was singing "That's Amore" loud enough for the entire block to hear.
When the moon hits your eye
like a big pizza pie
that's amore...
I went over and sang a bit with him, than added my verse
When that fish bites you leg
with teeth big as an egg
That's a moray.
Heh. Ed the neighbor thought it was funny.
Anyway, Ed and I were chatting, and he said, "hey, gotta tell ya, I really appreciate when ya put out your recycling. That's the only way I can remember which day the recycling pick up is." I laughed and said that it wasn't a problem, looked up at the moon, then sang my way back into the house...
...that's a moray...
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