The calender says it’s April, but it looks like November outside. It’s a cold, snowy, windy, and gray day, and it’s just supposed to get worse. We’re actually in a storm watch right now - a winter storm watch. Possibility of 6 inches of snow in the area.
And it’s April 2nd. Go figure.
It’s definitely a case of wanting to be here. I really would like to be in another part of the country, but, I’m also in a situation where I LOVE my job. If I didn’t, I’d have moved years ago.
But as much as I love winter, I’m ready for spring. Maybe it’s because today is the season opener for baseball (Go TWINS!), or maybe it’s just because I’m sick of death brown and grays filling the environment. It’s time for thunderstorms.
Not blizzards.
On the other hand, we do need and will take moisture of any type right now. We’re still feeling the effects of last year’s drought, and I’ll be happy if the lakes get somewhere close to normal.
Stay warm. And dry.
Monday, April 02, 2007
My First Car
This came as part of a Playskool two-story garage. I think there were three or four cars in all. This is all that survives.
When I was 4 or 5, I got a Fisher Price garage that was three stories, with the maintenance bay on the ground level (along with a gas pump), and parking on the second and third levels. there was an elevator that would take cars to the top level, and then, the car would get kicked out and it would fly down the outside ramp. I think that might be at my sister's, and if it is, I'm going to get some pictures of it the next time I'm home.
Back to this car --
It's a coupe, maybe a late model Studebacker (sp?), and after I took this picture yesterday, I realized...I've owned a LOT of blue cars.
When I was 4 or 5, I got a Fisher Price garage that was three stories, with the maintenance bay on the ground level (along with a gas pump), and parking on the second and third levels. there was an elevator that would take cars to the top level, and then, the car would get kicked out and it would fly down the outside ramp. I think that might be at my sister's, and if it is, I'm going to get some pictures of it the next time I'm home.
Back to this car --
It's a coupe, maybe a late model Studebacker (sp?), and after I took this picture yesterday, I realized...I've owned a LOT of blue cars.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
There are just things we can't control
I always find it interesting that people like to try and control things that outside their powers. I'll admit it, I am guilty of this as well. I try to get my students to think and not accept what I tell them at face value (ya know, to challenge ideas that are presented to them). I try to make light bend as I capture it. I try to get my family to accept that I'm not the same person that they think I was as a kid. I try to keep my cat from helping me type.
Why do we try and tame the forces that are outside our control? I think, in my case, it's because I have this urge to fix stuff, even when it either can't be fixed or isn't broken. I consider it a charming fault of mine. Heh.
I worry about people, and I worry what my friends think of me. Why? I have no idea. But, overall, I'm happy with who I am. I just have to remember, sometimes it makes no sense to try and change the things I can't control.
Peace.
Why do we try and tame the forces that are outside our control? I think, in my case, it's because I have this urge to fix stuff, even when it either can't be fixed or isn't broken. I consider it a charming fault of mine. Heh.
I worry about people, and I worry what my friends think of me. Why? I have no idea. But, overall, I'm happy with who I am. I just have to remember, sometimes it makes no sense to try and change the things I can't control.
Peace.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Walter
Walter longed for the days when he could drink his Sarsaparilla at home. For now, he had to settle for western Dakota.
Out of all the pictures Crys and I found, this is one of my favorites. I can't find the one I thought was the best; but, one of these days, I might just stumble upon it.
Out of all the pictures Crys and I found, this is one of my favorites. I can't find the one I thought was the best; but, one of these days, I might just stumble upon it.
Alice
I love making up stories to the pictures when one isn't known...
When she wasn't working at the brothel, Alice often sat around contemplating the works of Madam Curie.
So, I really don't know who this woman is, but, it's all fun. *grin*
When she wasn't working at the brothel, Alice often sat around contemplating the works of Madam Curie.
So, I really don't know who this woman is, but, it's all fun. *grin*
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Missing Duck
Crystal and I use to go to rummage sales and swap meets. One time, we came across a box filled with old photos. This was one of our favorites, and this little story was on the back.
found on the back of the photo
Johnny's pet duck that
dissappeared (sic) a few weeks
ago. We think some one
had a duck dinner. In
a way we are glad it is
gone as it dirtiet (sic) up
Myra's front walk and a
$1.00 worth of food did not
last long. Of course J. B.
did feel very bad.
found on the back of the photo
Johnny's pet duck that
dissappeared (sic) a few weeks
ago. We think some one
had a duck dinner. In
a way we are glad it is
gone as it dirtiet (sic) up
Myra's front walk and a
$1.00 worth of food did not
last long. Of course J. B.
did feel very bad.
Please, don't bury me
I was out taking pictures on Saturday night, and stopped at this little roadside cemetery north of one of the outlying communities near home. Lot's of great stones out there, and lots of interesting sight lines.
And, it's by a river with two bridges close to each other. YATZEE!
As I walked to the river, singing of course, "Take me to the river/wash me in the water," I noticed these two grave markers sticking up out of the water, and the some changed to John Prine's Please Don't Bury Me.
Please don't bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I'd druther have "em" cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get "em" out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose
I have a weird sense of humor. *grin*
And, it's by a river with two bridges close to each other. YATZEE!
As I walked to the river, singing of course, "Take me to the river/wash me in the water," I noticed these two grave markers sticking up out of the water, and the some changed to John Prine's Please Don't Bury Me.
Please don't bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I'd druther have "em" cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get "em" out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose
I have a weird sense of humor. *grin*
Friday, August 18, 2006
Snapping Turtles
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.
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.
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.
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