I know. I'm milking this for all it's worth. But here is the story:
So we have this pep rally at Vista del Blanco High School, where I teach, and I have been asked to participate in the balloon Popping competition. There are five members to a team. Each team member has a balloon tied to his or her leg. When the whistle sounds the teams attack one another, trying to pop all of the other team's balloons.
I lead the charge, thinking my team will follow me. There I am, in enemy territory, when I hear behind me "Pop! Pop! Pop! POP! Run Mr. O! RUN!"
I turn around and see my team has been decimated.
A smarter man would have surrendered, but I am filled with tiger blood and I attack the other team single-handedly. The desperate battle ensues. I take a step and notice there's nothing to step on.
As I go down, I think that I'm correcting myself, but I keep going down. I fall on my knee, then my arm, then my shoulder, then my upper back, and finally, the back of my head, which hits the cement.
Apparently, I stepped off the stage and into the surrounding gutter.
I didn't lose consciousness. I thought that I might be bleeding, so I felt the back of my head before I got up. It was moist, but that turned out to be sweat.
I got up as many students rushed to help me. I was a little dazed and had to catch my breath. Then I told everyone that I was alright.
I walked back to my room, clear at the other end of the campus, and went to my desk and sat down.
As I sat there, I realized that, if I were brain-injured, I probably wouldn't feel it. So I walked back to the front of the school and into the health office and asked the aide there to look at the back of my head. She told me that it was very red and that a welt was forming and that I should see a doctor.
She called in the Assistant Principal who agreed.
This is where the "system" really broke down. My only excuse for what I did was that I had just hit my head on concrete.
What should have happened was that the Admin on duty should have taken me into the health office after I fell. They should have sat me down, given me an ice pack to minimize the swelling of my brain, asked me some simple questions like what day it was and where I was to see if my brain was functioning properly, taken a statement about what happened and taken me to their Workman's Comp doctor.
None of this happened.
I asked if they meant that I should go to urgent care. They told me that I should. So, I went to my car and drove myself to MY urgent care doctor.
Half-way there, I realized what a stupid idea that was--but I was almost there, so I drove on.
When I got there, I felt pretty steady. I checked in. A doctor put me through a series of balance and coordination tests and said that I had suffered a minor concussion. He prescribed a pain-killer for the headaches that were coming my way.
The headaches and other pains have been pretty minor, but I have been taking the meds about once a day. I didn't see the Workman's Comp doctor until Friday.
She performed the same tests as the other doctor and had me x-rayed. Said that everything looked good. Gave me a prescription for inflammation. I have a follow-up on Tuesday.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Insignificant memories 2
So my students shared some of their insignificant moments today:
1. "I have three. The first is when my dad let me help him skin and butcher a bear he had killed. The second is when he let me help him slaughter a pig."
2. "The day I super-glued one of my eyes shut."
3. "My Uncle was supposed to be baby-sitting me, but invited some of my friends over and they all got drunk. They went out to the barn where the pigs were. I heard this squealing. Then they came out and built a fire and started cooking the pig they had just slaughtered. My mom came home and got really mad."
4. "When I was a little kid, I asked my mom if I could go next door to my cousin's house. She said yes. When I got there, two ladies answered the door. Nobody had told me that my cousin had moved. The two ladies made me a sandwich and let me watch TV."
1. "I have three. The first is when my dad let me help him skin and butcher a bear he had killed. The second is when he let me help him slaughter a pig."
2. "The day I super-glued one of my eyes shut."
3. "My Uncle was supposed to be baby-sitting me, but invited some of my friends over and they all got drunk. They went out to the barn where the pigs were. I heard this squealing. Then they came out and built a fire and started cooking the pig they had just slaughtered. My mom came home and got really mad."
4. "When I was a little kid, I asked my mom if I could go next door to my cousin's house. She said yes. When I got there, two ladies answered the door. Nobody had told me that my cousin had moved. The two ladies made me a sandwich and let me watch TV."
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Insignificant Memories
Today, my sophomores finished watching Act Two of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Afterwards, as a lead-in to tomorrow’s viewing of Act Three, I had them write a about a memory of an insignificant day in their lives—one that may or may not have turned out to be significant later on. I gave two examples from my own life to show them what I meant, both involving my grandpa.
Both take me back to when Grandpa and Grandma lived on a ranch. I call it a ranch—we all called it a ranch—but I don’t recall any livestock or crops. All I remember is a couple of ducks…maybe a dog. There was a house and a barn.
The first memory is about those ducks. I must have been around four. My brother Billy C got the tall white duck. I got the little green duck. I use the term “got” loosely because, after all, they belonged to Grandpa and they lived on his ranch…for awhile anyway. For that matter, I don’t know that either of the ducks liked my brother or me because they only saw us when we came visiting. We’d drive up into the yard and there they’d be, flapping their wings, quacking. I suspect they flapped and quacked even when we weren’t around.
But in our minds, they belonged to us.
Then, one day we arrived at Grandpa and Grandma’s ranch and the ducks didn’t flap or quack. They were gone. If I remember correctly, no one came up with any euphemistic story about our ducks’ fate. I’m pretty sure that Grandpa just explained that he had them slaughtered and that he and Grandma had them for dinner one night.
Poor ducks.
The second memory is of how we used to fly kites there. Billy C, our cousin Byron, and I took our kites to a field next to Grandpa’s ranch and, with the help of Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle Bill, would get them flying. Once they sailed high into the sky, we’d send them “notes.” We’d take scraps of paper and tear them halfway and scribble messages to our kites. Then, we’d each slip our note onto our kite string and watch it glide up the string, spinning all the way, until it reached our kite. It was a wide, empty field, so the kites would stay up a long time without getting caught on any trees or telephone poles.
I must be pretty close to Grandpa’s age at that time, though he seemed ancient to me. Now, when I look at pictures from those times, we all seem endlessly young.
Both take me back to when Grandpa and Grandma lived on a ranch. I call it a ranch—we all called it a ranch—but I don’t recall any livestock or crops. All I remember is a couple of ducks…maybe a dog. There was a house and a barn.
The first memory is about those ducks. I must have been around four. My brother Billy C got the tall white duck. I got the little green duck. I use the term “got” loosely because, after all, they belonged to Grandpa and they lived on his ranch…for awhile anyway. For that matter, I don’t know that either of the ducks liked my brother or me because they only saw us when we came visiting. We’d drive up into the yard and there they’d be, flapping their wings, quacking. I suspect they flapped and quacked even when we weren’t around.
But in our minds, they belonged to us.
Then, one day we arrived at Grandpa and Grandma’s ranch and the ducks didn’t flap or quack. They were gone. If I remember correctly, no one came up with any euphemistic story about our ducks’ fate. I’m pretty sure that Grandpa just explained that he had them slaughtered and that he and Grandma had them for dinner one night.
Poor ducks.
The second memory is of how we used to fly kites there. Billy C, our cousin Byron, and I took our kites to a field next to Grandpa’s ranch and, with the help of Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle Bill, would get them flying. Once they sailed high into the sky, we’d send them “notes.” We’d take scraps of paper and tear them halfway and scribble messages to our kites. Then, we’d each slip our note onto our kite string and watch it glide up the string, spinning all the way, until it reached our kite. It was a wide, empty field, so the kites would stay up a long time without getting caught on any trees or telephone poles.
I must be pretty close to Grandpa’s age at that time, though he seemed ancient to me. Now, when I look at pictures from those times, we all seem endlessly young.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Things I Saw Today
Two cats lurking around my mother's cat's food dish while my mother's cat sat under the tree, hoping they'd just leave.
Outside the grocery store, a toddler who called me Grampa. Cute kid, I thought. Later, in the store, she started one of those nuclear, screeching tantrums that shot through the store. How quickly they turn.
A tattered page from an old short story I had written.
A text from Billy C saying that Liam was on his way to PA.
My dryer full of wet clothes I thought I had dried a week ago. Ahhhh..mildew!
A student from last year walking into Wal Mart with her parents.
A bumper sticker with a picture of George Bush that said "Miss me yet?" I don't. Never will. Who would? Why?
A note from Emily asking me why I never write on her Facebook wall. I love you Emily.
Outside the grocery store, a toddler who called me Grampa. Cute kid, I thought. Later, in the store, she started one of those nuclear, screeching tantrums that shot through the store. How quickly they turn.
A tattered page from an old short story I had written.
A text from Billy C saying that Liam was on his way to PA.
My dryer full of wet clothes I thought I had dried a week ago. Ahhhh..mildew!
A student from last year walking into Wal Mart with her parents.
A bumper sticker with a picture of George Bush that said "Miss me yet?" I don't. Never will. Who would? Why?
A note from Emily asking me why I never write on her Facebook wall. I love you Emily.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Scarf
First night of the new semester back at the Writing and Reading Center at the local Community College. As I walked through the door, I first thought that we had a new Instructional Aide, but I was wrong. The lady I have always worked with was wearing a purple scarf wrapped around her head so as to cover her hair. Not an attractive scarf. And it wasn't arranged very attractively--just sort of wound around her head and held in place by a couple of bobby pins.
The last time I had seen her, before break, she had cropped her long blond hair very short--but again, it was not stylish--just short.
And now, her head was covered. Had she converted to Islam? Well, she still wore her big wooden cross around her neck. Had she become a nun? I don't think nuns wear purple. Cancer? Maybe she wore the scarf to cover hair loss. But, unlike most people I know who have gone through chemo, she seemed pretty energetic.
I thought about asking her, but changed my mind because I thought she had probably explained her reasons a hundred times to others and was either sick of explaining and just wanted to get on with normalcy or that she'd offer an explanation eventually or I would just find out through the usual information grapevine.
The last time I had seen her, before break, she had cropped her long blond hair very short--but again, it was not stylish--just short.
And now, her head was covered. Had she converted to Islam? Well, she still wore her big wooden cross around her neck. Had she become a nun? I don't think nuns wear purple. Cancer? Maybe she wore the scarf to cover hair loss. But, unlike most people I know who have gone through chemo, she seemed pretty energetic.
I thought about asking her, but changed my mind because I thought she had probably explained her reasons a hundred times to others and was either sick of explaining and just wanted to get on with normalcy or that she'd offer an explanation eventually or I would just find out through the usual information grapevine.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Last Christmas with Mom
It wasn't fun, but I'm glad I was there.
Everyone in Billy C's family was sick with that thing that was going around last year and they didn't want to expose any residents at Mom's assisted living facility, so they stayed home.
My gift to Mom was my time--money being tight, that's all I had.
So I drove through the pouring rain to Rubydoo to see her. Getting off the off-ramp, I was surprised by homeless guy sitting at the curb, holding his sign "Merry Christmas, anything will help" and scowling as the cars drove by. Also, another man stood on the island in the middle of the road, holding a sign advertising a local taco shop open for business nearby.
At Mom's, I put on a new DVD I had of the Soweto Gospel Choir for Mom to watch. I thought she'd like it more than she did. But she may have also been sad that day and, therefore, a little unresponsive.
While she watched and I listened to the choir, I tried to help her clean up the clutter of her room. She was wheelchair-bound and couldn't do much, so I did what I could and made a little more room for her.
The plan for the day was to see a movie and go out to dinner, so an attendant came and got her ready, giving her a bath and getting her dressed, while I repeatedly watched this one song that I liked on the DVD. The Soweto Gospel Choir sometimes does this weird harmonic thing where several people sing the same song at different times but somehow make it stick together. It's not exactly a round. I'm not sure what they called it. But I played this song many times because I just liked it a lot.
The rain came down hard and I hoped it wouldn't work against me. The food at this place wasn't so bad, but I didn't want to spend Christmas Day in an almost empty dining hall with silent old people who had no one to come get them. I wanted to get Mom out for a few hours.
I parked the car in the covered parking area and helped Mom get in the car, hoping that the rain would let up by the time we got to the Plaza, where we would be seeing the movie and having dinner. As we came out to the car, we had to pass a coroner's truck with a recently deceased person in a body bag waiting to be loaded up. I had noticed that someone might have died while going back and forth to Mom's room earlier.
We drove to the the Plaza and yes, the rain let up. But it was still cold as Hell.
First, I parked close to the theater and took Mom in to see "Doubt." A good film--but every few minutes, Mom would go "psssst" and ask me what had just happened. Now Mom couldn't hear very well, so, when I'd tell her what had just happened, I'd usually have to repeat it again. Louder. While other people tried to watch the movie.
After the film, we walked to the Mexican restaurant at the other end of the Plaza. The rain had stopped but a post-fog mist had settled around the shops and the cold bit at our faces. On our way, we ran into two teacher friends of mine, a couple, who were on their way to see a movie. I introduced them to Mom who told them what we had just seen and began critiquing the film for them , there in the freezing, foggy cold.
At dinner, I gave her her meds. And, as she often did, she began to zone out. Still, we had a pretty good talk.
My second gift to her was the gift of light. It was around 10 at night, and, as she always did, Mom began to dictate how we should get home. But I, as we drove down Arlington, turned down the first of the Wood streets and tuned to a radio station playing Christmas music.
"What are you doing?" she crabbed.
"I wanna show you something," I replied.
And there was the beginning of the Christmas lights. "Ooooh," she said.
And, except for the occasional "look at that house" or "those are pretty," we drove up and down the Wood streets, studying the light displays, filled with silent awe .
Everyone in Billy C's family was sick with that thing that was going around last year and they didn't want to expose any residents at Mom's assisted living facility, so they stayed home.
My gift to Mom was my time--money being tight, that's all I had.
So I drove through the pouring rain to Rubydoo to see her. Getting off the off-ramp, I was surprised by homeless guy sitting at the curb, holding his sign "Merry Christmas, anything will help" and scowling as the cars drove by. Also, another man stood on the island in the middle of the road, holding a sign advertising a local taco shop open for business nearby.
At Mom's, I put on a new DVD I had of the Soweto Gospel Choir for Mom to watch. I thought she'd like it more than she did. But she may have also been sad that day and, therefore, a little unresponsive.
While she watched and I listened to the choir, I tried to help her clean up the clutter of her room. She was wheelchair-bound and couldn't do much, so I did what I could and made a little more room for her.
The plan for the day was to see a movie and go out to dinner, so an attendant came and got her ready, giving her a bath and getting her dressed, while I repeatedly watched this one song that I liked on the DVD. The Soweto Gospel Choir sometimes does this weird harmonic thing where several people sing the same song at different times but somehow make it stick together. It's not exactly a round. I'm not sure what they called it. But I played this song many times because I just liked it a lot.
The rain came down hard and I hoped it wouldn't work against me. The food at this place wasn't so bad, but I didn't want to spend Christmas Day in an almost empty dining hall with silent old people who had no one to come get them. I wanted to get Mom out for a few hours.
I parked the car in the covered parking area and helped Mom get in the car, hoping that the rain would let up by the time we got to the Plaza, where we would be seeing the movie and having dinner. As we came out to the car, we had to pass a coroner's truck with a recently deceased person in a body bag waiting to be loaded up. I had noticed that someone might have died while going back and forth to Mom's room earlier.
We drove to the the Plaza and yes, the rain let up. But it was still cold as Hell.
First, I parked close to the theater and took Mom in to see "Doubt." A good film--but every few minutes, Mom would go "psssst" and ask me what had just happened. Now Mom couldn't hear very well, so, when I'd tell her what had just happened, I'd usually have to repeat it again. Louder. While other people tried to watch the movie.
After the film, we walked to the Mexican restaurant at the other end of the Plaza. The rain had stopped but a post-fog mist had settled around the shops and the cold bit at our faces. On our way, we ran into two teacher friends of mine, a couple, who were on their way to see a movie. I introduced them to Mom who told them what we had just seen and began critiquing the film for them , there in the freezing, foggy cold.
At dinner, I gave her her meds. And, as she often did, she began to zone out. Still, we had a pretty good talk.
My second gift to her was the gift of light. It was around 10 at night, and, as she always did, Mom began to dictate how we should get home. But I, as we drove down Arlington, turned down the first of the Wood streets and tuned to a radio station playing Christmas music.
"What are you doing?" she crabbed.
"I wanna show you something," I replied.
And there was the beginning of the Christmas lights. "Ooooh," she said.
And, except for the occasional "look at that house" or "those are pretty," we drove up and down the Wood streets, studying the light displays, filled with silent awe .
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
John Lennon's Dead
At the time, I was 26 years old, renting a little guest cottage on Larchwood Place, behind a larger house where my landlord lived. It is among my favorite places where I have lived, almost like a studio apartment, it was so small.
I worked at Montgomery Wards, managing the catalog department. A job I hated, except for the parties after work most weekend nights.
I had just gotten a cassette player/recorder for my stereo system and had started transferring my LP's to tape. My brother called me with the news late that night. I had been recording my favorite songs from the White Album. In fact, I was recording "Julia."
I made joke (which I forget), mostly out of disbelief. It gradually sunk in about how this man was a force in the world who tried to use his popularity for good in the world.
Tom Snyder, host of Tomorrow on NBC, replayed his interview with John that night. Half of the interview covered the usual Beatle stuff and was pretty interesting. The other half included John's lawyer and was about his fight to stay in the USA--not really as interesting.
Double Fantasy had been released a short time before. Immediately after his death, local record stores had jacked up the prices for his albums...and people were buying them at these inflated prices. One record store manager told a local newspaper that it was only good business to do so. Eventually with enough public outcry, record stores brought the prices back down.
Yoko asked that people stop and observe ten minutes silence on a given day. I remember reading later in a newspaper that a girl had gotten fired from her job because she tries to observe the silence while on the sales floor.
A sad time.
I worked at Montgomery Wards, managing the catalog department. A job I hated, except for the parties after work most weekend nights.
I had just gotten a cassette player/recorder for my stereo system and had started transferring my LP's to tape. My brother called me with the news late that night. I had been recording my favorite songs from the White Album. In fact, I was recording "Julia."
I made joke (which I forget), mostly out of disbelief. It gradually sunk in about how this man was a force in the world who tried to use his popularity for good in the world.
Tom Snyder, host of Tomorrow on NBC, replayed his interview with John that night. Half of the interview covered the usual Beatle stuff and was pretty interesting. The other half included John's lawyer and was about his fight to stay in the USA--not really as interesting.
Double Fantasy had been released a short time before. Immediately after his death, local record stores had jacked up the prices for his albums...and people were buying them at these inflated prices. One record store manager told a local newspaper that it was only good business to do so. Eventually with enough public outcry, record stores brought the prices back down.
Yoko asked that people stop and observe ten minutes silence on a given day. I remember reading later in a newspaper that a girl had gotten fired from her job because she tries to observe the silence while on the sales floor.
A sad time.
Friday, December 04, 2009
The Writing Runs Through It
Today at school, I had the students do a bit of SSR (Sustained Silent Reading). During past SSR's, I had been re-reading The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail, a pretty good play by Lawrence and Lee, the fellows who wrote Inherit the Wind.
I had my TA re-arranging the books on my bookshelf, filled with books that I have recycled from my personal home library. The Thoreau play had been on that bookshelf, but rather than disturb my TA's progress, I just picked up a worn paperback copy of Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It that was on top of the pile of books he was re-shelving.
As I opened it, I found an inscription: "To Jeff, with Love, Christmas 1992." There was no signature, but I knew my mother's handwriting.
This book had been among my favorites. Mike Gribble had recommended it to me a couple of years before. Mike, a producer of Spike and Mike's festival of Animation, was always recommending books to me. As an English teacher, I envied that Mike always had the time and energy to read so much.
He died in 1991 of cancer. I called his home phone, hoping to get information from Dickie Mo, his housemate, regarding the memorial service. Instead I got the answering service. From it, came Mike's voice, thanking me for my call and telling me about future Festival of Animation shows coming up.
In an odd way, it was nice to hear his voice one last time.
I have no idea how Mom picked this book as a gift for me. When I picked it to read today, I had the notion that I had bought it for myself shortly after Mike recommended it.
Apparently not.
Mom had taught me about loving literature. When my 1st grade teacher told her that I had trouble with reading, she supplied me with lots of comic books to get my interest. Then, when she determined there really was no reading problem, she kept the supply coming and gradually introduced me to more challenging fare. I graduated from Donald Duck to Superman to Classics Illustrated to, eventually, books that had few illustrations, if any.
Today, I did something with A River Runs Through It today that I rarely do with any book. I read the introduction, written by Norman Maclean. He talks about writing the book in part to hand down his life's story to his children--something Mom talked about doing, partially did, but never completed--in part due to her inability or unwillingness to master her computer and partly due to her lack of discipline when it comes to just sitting down and writing. She got some of it out, but not as much as I would have liked.
Before she got her computer (was it her 80th birthday?), I offered to let her come over and use mine--I'd teach her how to use it.
She only came over for that purpose once. She was in her late 70's at the time and could still get around pretty well, if somewhat slowly. She had the Parkinson's, but it was in the early stages, barely noticeable.
I got her set up in my office. While I did some house cleaning, she wrote, occasionally calling out for help. I then went out for Subway and when I got back, we had lunch.
We sat in my living room and she told me about her vision for this--"I see this little girl telling her story through the different houses that she lived in."
Most of these stories, the ones that I know anything about, never made it to print. Sometimes, when I was with her, she would start telling me about her family history. A lot of characters in her family.
Her Mother and Father were among the most colorful of them. Grandpa was an alcoholic and the primary reason they had to keep moving from house to house. Grandma contracted Multiple Sclerosis and was the main reason they eventually had to move in with us toward the end of their lives. Grandpa just couldn't take care of her by himself anymore.
Grandpa started collecting birds in our old pigeon coop out behind our garage. He had a couple of parakeets, a canary, a cockatiel, and a myna bird that said "Hello, Bill." He spent a lot of time in that coop with his birds. Drinking.
He was supposed to have stopped drinking. When Mom and Dad found out that he had a hidden stash back there, it was good-bye birds.
Grandma was bed-ridden. She could move her head and had only the use of her left arm. She read all of the time: books, magazines, the morning and afternoon newspapers (my job was to help her find Ann Landers).
Mom had hinted a couple of times that, before Grandma became bed-ridden, her marriage to Grandpa had been troubled--that there had been loomings of divorce. "I've seen some pretty ugly things in my life," she'd say, and stop there.
After Grandpa died, Grandma would tell me daily that he had loved me. After she died, their bedroom became our den, but the walls were still lined with her books, most of which never left the house until Mom did. The shelves reached almost to the ceiling.
Some of those books, along with other memorabilia (and even some trash) sits in my garage. I have gotten rid of a lot of Mom's stuff. But I have trouble throwing away anything with writing on it. Some of it is hers, some of it dad's, some of it Grandpa's--mostly notes and letters, none of it organized for posterity.
I have found old birthday cards Dad to Mom, Mom to Dad. Some unsent letters from Grandpa to people I never knew.
I haven't thrown this away because, it seems to me, that's where their spirits are.
Today, I even found a part of Mom's spirit on my school bookshelf.
After my last class, I walked up to the office to drop off my weekly attendance report when I ran into a former student--now a senior--waiting outside another teacher's classroom. He was reading Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, another book about another river. I stopped and asked him how he liked it. We talked for a little while about that book and books we had read in my class and which ones he liked better and about books in general.
As I left him, he shouted out "Thanks for teaching me to love literature!"
I am haunted by books and untold stories.
I had my TA re-arranging the books on my bookshelf, filled with books that I have recycled from my personal home library. The Thoreau play had been on that bookshelf, but rather than disturb my TA's progress, I just picked up a worn paperback copy of Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It that was on top of the pile of books he was re-shelving.
As I opened it, I found an inscription: "To Jeff, with Love, Christmas 1992." There was no signature, but I knew my mother's handwriting.
This book had been among my favorites. Mike Gribble had recommended it to me a couple of years before. Mike, a producer of Spike and Mike's festival of Animation, was always recommending books to me. As an English teacher, I envied that Mike always had the time and energy to read so much.
He died in 1991 of cancer. I called his home phone, hoping to get information from Dickie Mo, his housemate, regarding the memorial service. Instead I got the answering service. From it, came Mike's voice, thanking me for my call and telling me about future Festival of Animation shows coming up.
In an odd way, it was nice to hear his voice one last time.
I have no idea how Mom picked this book as a gift for me. When I picked it to read today, I had the notion that I had bought it for myself shortly after Mike recommended it.
Apparently not.
Mom had taught me about loving literature. When my 1st grade teacher told her that I had trouble with reading, she supplied me with lots of comic books to get my interest. Then, when she determined there really was no reading problem, she kept the supply coming and gradually introduced me to more challenging fare. I graduated from Donald Duck to Superman to Classics Illustrated to, eventually, books that had few illustrations, if any.
Today, I did something with A River Runs Through It today that I rarely do with any book. I read the introduction, written by Norman Maclean. He talks about writing the book in part to hand down his life's story to his children--something Mom talked about doing, partially did, but never completed--in part due to her inability or unwillingness to master her computer and partly due to her lack of discipline when it comes to just sitting down and writing. She got some of it out, but not as much as I would have liked.
Before she got her computer (was it her 80th birthday?), I offered to let her come over and use mine--I'd teach her how to use it.
She only came over for that purpose once. She was in her late 70's at the time and could still get around pretty well, if somewhat slowly. She had the Parkinson's, but it was in the early stages, barely noticeable.
I got her set up in my office. While I did some house cleaning, she wrote, occasionally calling out for help. I then went out for Subway and when I got back, we had lunch.
We sat in my living room and she told me about her vision for this--"I see this little girl telling her story through the different houses that she lived in."
Most of these stories, the ones that I know anything about, never made it to print. Sometimes, when I was with her, she would start telling me about her family history. A lot of characters in her family.
Her Mother and Father were among the most colorful of them. Grandpa was an alcoholic and the primary reason they had to keep moving from house to house. Grandma contracted Multiple Sclerosis and was the main reason they eventually had to move in with us toward the end of their lives. Grandpa just couldn't take care of her by himself anymore.
Grandpa started collecting birds in our old pigeon coop out behind our garage. He had a couple of parakeets, a canary, a cockatiel, and a myna bird that said "Hello, Bill." He spent a lot of time in that coop with his birds. Drinking.
He was supposed to have stopped drinking. When Mom and Dad found out that he had a hidden stash back there, it was good-bye birds.
Grandma was bed-ridden. She could move her head and had only the use of her left arm. She read all of the time: books, magazines, the morning and afternoon newspapers (my job was to help her find Ann Landers).
Mom had hinted a couple of times that, before Grandma became bed-ridden, her marriage to Grandpa had been troubled--that there had been loomings of divorce. "I've seen some pretty ugly things in my life," she'd say, and stop there.
After Grandpa died, Grandma would tell me daily that he had loved me. After she died, their bedroom became our den, but the walls were still lined with her books, most of which never left the house until Mom did. The shelves reached almost to the ceiling.
Some of those books, along with other memorabilia (and even some trash) sits in my garage. I have gotten rid of a lot of Mom's stuff. But I have trouble throwing away anything with writing on it. Some of it is hers, some of it dad's, some of it Grandpa's--mostly notes and letters, none of it organized for posterity.
I have found old birthday cards Dad to Mom, Mom to Dad. Some unsent letters from Grandpa to people I never knew.
I haven't thrown this away because, it seems to me, that's where their spirits are.
Today, I even found a part of Mom's spirit on my school bookshelf.
After my last class, I walked up to the office to drop off my weekly attendance report when I ran into a former student--now a senior--waiting outside another teacher's classroom. He was reading Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, another book about another river. I stopped and asked him how he liked it. We talked for a little while about that book and books we had read in my class and which ones he liked better and about books in general.
As I left him, he shouted out "Thanks for teaching me to love literature!"
I am haunted by books and untold stories.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
10 Things I Learned at Open Mike Tonight
1. No matter how unprepared you are, no how badly you need to rehearse your song, you're probably going to be much better than a guy with a puppet and a kazoo.
2. Stand-up comedy is always better when it's done by someone funny.
3. Dylan+accordion = just might work
4. Feedback happens.
5. Enthusiasm does not make up for being tone deaf.
6. Repetition usually works best in threes. But, if you're going to repeat the same word more than that, you'd better commit to it.
7. Wild Card performers are often more risky than satisfying.
8. SOME Wild Card performers are worth the wait.
9. The older folk are sometimes the best performers.
10. Some people who aren't ready to sing a deeply personal song to that special someone are often somehow ready to to sing that same deeply personal song to a large audience.
2. Stand-up comedy is always better when it's done by someone funny.
3. Dylan+accordion = just might work
4. Feedback happens.
5. Enthusiasm does not make up for being tone deaf.
6. Repetition usually works best in threes. But, if you're going to repeat the same word more than that, you'd better commit to it.
7. Wild Card performers are often more risky than satisfying.
8. SOME Wild Card performers are worth the wait.
9. The older folk are sometimes the best performers.
10. Some people who aren't ready to sing a deeply personal song to that special someone are often somehow ready to to sing that same deeply personal song to a large audience.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Last Musical Moments with Mom
Last night, Billy C and were jamming on our ukes with our friend Victor K on guitar. This was a different kind of jam for us as Victor is a talented musician. I'm not saying that we don't know other talented people, but when you say "take it, Victor," he takes it. In fact, when Billy C or I asked one another to take it, Victor usually took it. The only thing we took was credit.
We finished our set with "So Lonesome I Could Cry," with Billy C singing melody and me singing harmony. It evolved into a meditation of sorts with Vic taking solo duties as we strummed along.
At the end, we began talking about music and its spiritual essence--not the exact words Victor used, but close enough. The main point was that words couldn't really express what he felt. He told us how there was nothing like playing with friends just for the sake of playing.
It made me think of Mom's last couple of years. Do did some research on Alzheimer's and learned that musical memory is something that stays with us even as our other memories leave. Mom didn't have Alzheimer's. She had Parkinson's. But the same truth still holds--at least in her case.
I stayed with her one night at one of the facilities where she had lived. She had had a very bad day and the woman who ran this home didn't know what to do with her. So I stayed the night.
I didn't sleep much because about every half-hour or so, Mom would try to get out of her bed. At the time, she couldn't walk much and getting out of bed would have been disastrous for her. So I'd go over and take her hand and say "Mom, you don't have to get up yet." She'd say "Can I sleep for just one more hour?" I'd say "yes" and then stroke her hair as she lay back down. Eventually, she'd drift back off.
At around 3 AM, while still sleeping, she started singing. Now Mom had studied opera and had been an excellent singer in her day. She sang an aria and, considering she was lying on the bed, she sang in perfect pitch and kept perfect time, her foot tapping out the rhythm as it stuck out from under her blanket.
And she sang the whole thing. At full volume. Sublime.
A year or so later, as her disease progressed, we moved Mom into a rehab center for evaluation. Most of this time, she ate and drank very little and slept a lot. Sometimes, when awake, she would hallucinate. We would be sitting and talking (she, her bed), when she would suddenly get this look of horror on her face. She say "Don't let me go!" and I would hold her hand more tightly while the episode passed. I realized, finally, that she thought that she was walking with me and was losing her balance--that she was falling. So, when it happened again, I'd say, "It's alright, Mom. I've got you," and she'd calm down.
One day, I brought my uke by for a visit and found her asleep. I sat there for awhile, strumming a random chord progression. Lo and behold, Mom started singing with me--again, on pitch, even though my fingers traveled carelessly from chord to chord. No words, just notes. But I felt like we were talking, so I played until she came awoke and talked with me a little bit.
Soon Mom moved to hospice. We kept reminding ourselves that sometimes people go into hospice and they're still around for years.
Once in hospice, she began the three-month decline until her death. In the beginning, she'd drift in and out of consciousness. She'd be out most of the day because, at night, she would go into sundowning mode, staying too antsy to sleep. She said very little during most of my visits.
One time, again armed with my uke, I brought a fake-it book and played some songs for her, many of them hymns. I came across one I didn't know. It had a Latin title. I asked her if she knew it. She then awoke to lecture to me about an aria with a similar sounding title and then sang it to me--again in fill voice, in perfect pitch.
And then fell silent.
That was the last time she sang for me.
Now, I'm thinking of how Billy C and I used to play with our Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Erector Sets, sometimes building hybrid constructions using all three, while Mom had Madame Butterfly playing on the stereo as she did her housework. We didn't think much of it because we figured that's just what everyone's mother did.
Thanks for the music, Mom. I can hear you still.
We finished our set with "So Lonesome I Could Cry," with Billy C singing melody and me singing harmony. It evolved into a meditation of sorts with Vic taking solo duties as we strummed along.
At the end, we began talking about music and its spiritual essence--not the exact words Victor used, but close enough. The main point was that words couldn't really express what he felt. He told us how there was nothing like playing with friends just for the sake of playing.
It made me think of Mom's last couple of years. Do did some research on Alzheimer's and learned that musical memory is something that stays with us even as our other memories leave. Mom didn't have Alzheimer's. She had Parkinson's. But the same truth still holds--at least in her case.
I stayed with her one night at one of the facilities where she had lived. She had had a very bad day and the woman who ran this home didn't know what to do with her. So I stayed the night.
I didn't sleep much because about every half-hour or so, Mom would try to get out of her bed. At the time, she couldn't walk much and getting out of bed would have been disastrous for her. So I'd go over and take her hand and say "Mom, you don't have to get up yet." She'd say "Can I sleep for just one more hour?" I'd say "yes" and then stroke her hair as she lay back down. Eventually, she'd drift back off.
At around 3 AM, while still sleeping, she started singing. Now Mom had studied opera and had been an excellent singer in her day. She sang an aria and, considering she was lying on the bed, she sang in perfect pitch and kept perfect time, her foot tapping out the rhythm as it stuck out from under her blanket.
And she sang the whole thing. At full volume. Sublime.
A year or so later, as her disease progressed, we moved Mom into a rehab center for evaluation. Most of this time, she ate and drank very little and slept a lot. Sometimes, when awake, she would hallucinate. We would be sitting and talking (she, her bed), when she would suddenly get this look of horror on her face. She say "Don't let me go!" and I would hold her hand more tightly while the episode passed. I realized, finally, that she thought that she was walking with me and was losing her balance--that she was falling. So, when it happened again, I'd say, "It's alright, Mom. I've got you," and she'd calm down.
One day, I brought my uke by for a visit and found her asleep. I sat there for awhile, strumming a random chord progression. Lo and behold, Mom started singing with me--again, on pitch, even though my fingers traveled carelessly from chord to chord. No words, just notes. But I felt like we were talking, so I played until she came awoke and talked with me a little bit.
Soon Mom moved to hospice. We kept reminding ourselves that sometimes people go into hospice and they're still around for years.
Once in hospice, she began the three-month decline until her death. In the beginning, she'd drift in and out of consciousness. She'd be out most of the day because, at night, she would go into sundowning mode, staying too antsy to sleep. She said very little during most of my visits.
One time, again armed with my uke, I brought a fake-it book and played some songs for her, many of them hymns. I came across one I didn't know. It had a Latin title. I asked her if she knew it. She then awoke to lecture to me about an aria with a similar sounding title and then sang it to me--again in fill voice, in perfect pitch.
And then fell silent.
That was the last time she sang for me.
Now, I'm thinking of how Billy C and I used to play with our Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Erector Sets, sometimes building hybrid constructions using all three, while Mom had Madame Butterfly playing on the stereo as she did her housework. We didn't think much of it because we figured that's just what everyone's mother did.
Thanks for the music, Mom. I can hear you still.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A Random Act of Kindness
I have this thing called trigger finger. It causes your tendon to lock. So when I make a fist and then open it, the unaffected fingers open smoothly, but the affected fingers flick open like a switchblade. My ring finger on my right hand is not too bad. I have mostly a full range of movement, depending on how badly it's flaring up. My left birdy finger is worse. I can't easily close it all the way. When I do, it often locks pretty badly.
I demonstrated this phenomenon to my classes awhile back. I was trying out a splint to give my birdy finger a rest, so I felt I should explain it , so my students didn't think I was flipping them off. I made light of it as much as I could.
You see this thing has occurred in the past--maybe for five or so years. The first time it was pretty mild and it went away for a long time. Then it came back a couple of years later and I got a couple of cortisone shots from my doctor. It went away for about a year.
It came came back over the summer and got worse. I'd wake up in the morning and my birdy finger would be locked and would refuse to open. I'd have to massage it. During the day it was better, but could be painful at times.
And of course my left hand is the one I make chords with. It is usually flexible enough for that--but there have been a couple of times that I had trouble getting that finger to go where I wanted it to.
Anyway, today, as fourth period was starting and I was firing up my computer to take attendance, this little girl walks up to me and has this bag with the Victoria's Secret logo on it. She gives it to me and I study the logo and the look on her face--a look of compassion. I decide it's alright to see what's in the bag.
Now, aside from my concern about the logo, I'm also wondering why I'm getting a gift a week before Thanksgiving. I usually get stuff from kids just before Christmas, but not Thanksgiving.
I open the bag and there inside is a box with some kind of gloves in it. My first thought is mittens for the winter. I read the label and it says these are therapeutic gloves that encourage circulation for people with arthritis.
There's a card inside from her Mom. In her note, the mom explains that she wears these gloves mainly at night to help relieve her arthritis pain and that she thinks they might help me too. She also tells me that I can get them exchanged if they're too big.
I got big hands. No glove is too big.
As I realized what this was about, I was just a tad choked up. No tears, but that lumpish feeling you get when you realize that you could cry.
So this girl probably went home and told her mom about my trigger finger. The mom files the information somewhere and then, one day, probably while getting herself a new pair of these gloves, gets a pair for me.
God manifests himself in acts of kindness.
I demonstrated this phenomenon to my classes awhile back. I was trying out a splint to give my birdy finger a rest, so I felt I should explain it , so my students didn't think I was flipping them off. I made light of it as much as I could.
You see this thing has occurred in the past--maybe for five or so years. The first time it was pretty mild and it went away for a long time. Then it came back a couple of years later and I got a couple of cortisone shots from my doctor. It went away for about a year.
It came came back over the summer and got worse. I'd wake up in the morning and my birdy finger would be locked and would refuse to open. I'd have to massage it. During the day it was better, but could be painful at times.
And of course my left hand is the one I make chords with. It is usually flexible enough for that--but there have been a couple of times that I had trouble getting that finger to go where I wanted it to.
Anyway, today, as fourth period was starting and I was firing up my computer to take attendance, this little girl walks up to me and has this bag with the Victoria's Secret logo on it. She gives it to me and I study the logo and the look on her face--a look of compassion. I decide it's alright to see what's in the bag.
Now, aside from my concern about the logo, I'm also wondering why I'm getting a gift a week before Thanksgiving. I usually get stuff from kids just before Christmas, but not Thanksgiving.
I open the bag and there inside is a box with some kind of gloves in it. My first thought is mittens for the winter. I read the label and it says these are therapeutic gloves that encourage circulation for people with arthritis.
There's a card inside from her Mom. In her note, the mom explains that she wears these gloves mainly at night to help relieve her arthritis pain and that she thinks they might help me too. She also tells me that I can get them exchanged if they're too big.
I got big hands. No glove is too big.
As I realized what this was about, I was just a tad choked up. No tears, but that lumpish feeling you get when you realize that you could cry.
So this girl probably went home and told her mom about my trigger finger. The mom files the information somewhere and then, one day, probably while getting herself a new pair of these gloves, gets a pair for me.
God manifests himself in acts of kindness.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
10 things i saw today
In no particular order:
1. a little girl in a restaurant, a toddler, waddling around her family's table giggling, making me wish all children could be that happy all of the time.
2. Ruby and Pearl not wanting to go on a walk, but willing to practice a few commands.
3. a hawk flying over my high school's campus.
4. the listing of aspartame as one of the ingredients in my yogurt--blecch
5. an old dog toy that looked like it had been buried years ago, dug up, and then chewed up
6. a closed sign on a bike shop I had hoped would be open
7. a girl walking by who looked like one of my students but wasn't
8. two employees closing up the clothing across the street, checking one another's bags to verify no one had stolen anything
9. mom's cat sitting outside, looking through the screen of my open window, meowing to be let in
10. a hand-written sign on the corner of my street teling how I could make money while working at home
1. a little girl in a restaurant, a toddler, waddling around her family's table giggling, making me wish all children could be that happy all of the time.
2. Ruby and Pearl not wanting to go on a walk, but willing to practice a few commands.
3. a hawk flying over my high school's campus.
4. the listing of aspartame as one of the ingredients in my yogurt--blecch
5. an old dog toy that looked like it had been buried years ago, dug up, and then chewed up
6. a closed sign on a bike shop I had hoped would be open
7. a girl walking by who looked like one of my students but wasn't
8. two employees closing up the clothing across the street, checking one another's bags to verify no one had stolen anything
9. mom's cat sitting outside, looking through the screen of my open window, meowing to be let in
10. a hand-written sign on the corner of my street teling how I could make money while working at home
Friday, November 06, 2009
An Attack at School Today
Our AP sent out an e-mail that said that this muslim girl, one who wears a traditional scarf to cover her hair, was walking to class by herself. On her way, she crossed paths with five boys, whom were laughing amongst themselves, not paying her any attention. When they got close, one of them from out of nowhere, slapped the girl hard across the face. Then they ran off. She gave descriptions of them, but not very detailed as she didn't recognize them from anywhere.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Leader of the Pack
So an earlier dog-walking adventure led me to wonder what it would be like to walk both dogs together. You'll recall that, when I walked Pearl one night, two escaped neighbor dogs went with us around several blocks, walking in step with pearl like a school of fish.
I got one of those Y-shaped leashes for two dogs and gave it a try tonight with Ruby and Pearl together.
I discovered that 90 pounds, eight legs,and two heads' worth of dog is not as easy as walking 45 pounds, four legs, and one head's worth of dog. Fortunately, I'm bigger and heavier.
Getting them out of the backyard, into the house, and then out the from door was the hardest part. We've developed this ceremony where they go flat to the floor and become dead weight and I have to coax them out one way or another. Once I got them to the door, they bounced right out and, other than getting confused about being on the same leash, they were relaxed.
Once I picked the direction, they were fine on the street. Ruby (the smaller dog by about 3 pounds) took the lead, walking on the left near the curb. Pearl (the bigger dog) followed Ruby.
Once in awhile, when we paused or turned a corner, the two of them reversed positions. When that happened, they started walking into each other a little, bumping shoulders--kind of like those two guys in Stuck on You.
But they both relaxed more than previous walks and seemed to have a good time. Ruby was still the more nervous of the two, looking around when she heard a car approaching and maybe getting out of step with Pearl. But being with Pearl did calm her down.
I worried that the evening would be a tangled mess, but the pack menatlity kept things pretty orderly--except when we rounded the last corner and they sensed that we were near home. Each dogs speeds up when we get to that part of the walk and I have to pull back a little to get them to slow down. This was much harder with two dogs.
I got one of those Y-shaped leashes for two dogs and gave it a try tonight with Ruby and Pearl together.
I discovered that 90 pounds, eight legs,and two heads' worth of dog is not as easy as walking 45 pounds, four legs, and one head's worth of dog. Fortunately, I'm bigger and heavier.
Getting them out of the backyard, into the house, and then out the from door was the hardest part. We've developed this ceremony where they go flat to the floor and become dead weight and I have to coax them out one way or another. Once I got them to the door, they bounced right out and, other than getting confused about being on the same leash, they were relaxed.
Once I picked the direction, they were fine on the street. Ruby (the smaller dog by about 3 pounds) took the lead, walking on the left near the curb. Pearl (the bigger dog) followed Ruby.
Once in awhile, when we paused or turned a corner, the two of them reversed positions. When that happened, they started walking into each other a little, bumping shoulders--kind of like those two guys in Stuck on You.
But they both relaxed more than previous walks and seemed to have a good time. Ruby was still the more nervous of the two, looking around when she heard a car approaching and maybe getting out of step with Pearl. But being with Pearl did calm her down.
I worried that the evening would be a tangled mess, but the pack menatlity kept things pretty orderly--except when we rounded the last corner and they sensed that we were near home. Each dogs speeds up when we get to that part of the walk and I have to pull back a little to get them to slow down. This was much harder with two dogs.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Like a Kid on a New Bicycle
Took my bike to get tuned up today and got a bunch of gizmos put on too. I could have installed every one of them myself, but I am mechanically challenged enough that I would screw something up. The shop charged me next to nothing for the installation and I figure I helped their economy a little by letting them do it. The main thing was getting new tires. My old tires are mountain tires and I never rode this or any bike through actual mountains. The closest I ever came to that was when I used to ride my bike around the paved bike path at Lake Peru. There is one hill that you have to climb if you want to do the whole loop, but I always walked my bike up and down that.
I almost got a new helmet, but thought I'd stick with my old one for awhile.
I miss the days when I would ride without a helmet, the wind blowing through my hair--but these days, wearing a helmet is pretty important around here.
So I go to a nearby Starbuck's (I know, again) and sat and did a couple of crossword puzzles and graded a few papers.
As I walked in I found a familiar scene. It was like watching myself or an actor playing myself and an elderly woman playing my mother.
Parkinson's Disease.
A middle-aged man sitting with his elderly mother, drinking coffee and eating pastries in silence. She had the sad, drawn face my mother often wore--a symptom of Parkinson's. She was dressed up to go out--sometimes Mom would do this for the simplest trips, usually to go to the doctor.
So they sat in silence, mostly. An occasional word--the son trying to get his mother to talk. After about 20 minutes, they got up, he said "thank-you" to the barrista and headed for the door, his mother walking slowly behind him with a walker.
It reminded me of a time when I took Mom on an errand--again, probably a doctor visit. She still lived in her house at the time, but it had become more difficult. Her world had shrunk to three tiny spaces: Her bedroom, her den, and her bathroom.
Her hallways had become long journeys from one point to the next. It could take her ten minutes to get from her bedroom to her chair in the den. It could take her that long or longer to get to the bathroom when she needed to get there. And, of course, there was the trip back to her bedroom at night.
And transferring from her wheelchair took that much time as well.
She used to like to like to travel, when she was able.
A friend from her church gave her an electric wheelchair that had belonged to their mother, and that made things easier.
When we'd visit for Sunday dinner, we'd end the night by taking her to her room and setting her up so the transition from wheel chair to bed would be easy. When that became too difficult, we'd help her into bed. She would watch TV until she dozed off.
At that point, we had visiting caregivers who would help her in and out of bed during the week. But they were expensive and we could only afford a few hours a day. Eventually, of course, we had to put her in assisted living.
But back to our errand: On our way home, she asked if I would take her to Starbuck's. We went through the drive-thru window. I had asked her if she wanted to go inside, but she said she wanted to stay in the car.
We parked and she asked me to roll down the windows so she could feel the breeze. I realized that, at this point, she could no longer go outside on her own and just wanted that breeze while she was out of the house.
So we sat in silence. Once she muttered "That feels so good."
After that, when on errands, I'd ask her if she wanted to stop somewhere on the way home. And we'd sometimes go inside--but sometimes we'd stay outside with the windows down, sitting in silence as the breeze blew through my mother's hair.
I almost got a new helmet, but thought I'd stick with my old one for awhile.
I miss the days when I would ride without a helmet, the wind blowing through my hair--but these days, wearing a helmet is pretty important around here.
So I go to a nearby Starbuck's (I know, again) and sat and did a couple of crossword puzzles and graded a few papers.
As I walked in I found a familiar scene. It was like watching myself or an actor playing myself and an elderly woman playing my mother.
Parkinson's Disease.
A middle-aged man sitting with his elderly mother, drinking coffee and eating pastries in silence. She had the sad, drawn face my mother often wore--a symptom of Parkinson's. She was dressed up to go out--sometimes Mom would do this for the simplest trips, usually to go to the doctor.
So they sat in silence, mostly. An occasional word--the son trying to get his mother to talk. After about 20 minutes, they got up, he said "thank-you" to the barrista and headed for the door, his mother walking slowly behind him with a walker.
It reminded me of a time when I took Mom on an errand--again, probably a doctor visit. She still lived in her house at the time, but it had become more difficult. Her world had shrunk to three tiny spaces: Her bedroom, her den, and her bathroom.
Her hallways had become long journeys from one point to the next. It could take her ten minutes to get from her bedroom to her chair in the den. It could take her that long or longer to get to the bathroom when she needed to get there. And, of course, there was the trip back to her bedroom at night.
And transferring from her wheelchair took that much time as well.
She used to like to like to travel, when she was able.
A friend from her church gave her an electric wheelchair that had belonged to their mother, and that made things easier.
When we'd visit for Sunday dinner, we'd end the night by taking her to her room and setting her up so the transition from wheel chair to bed would be easy. When that became too difficult, we'd help her into bed. She would watch TV until she dozed off.
At that point, we had visiting caregivers who would help her in and out of bed during the week. But they were expensive and we could only afford a few hours a day. Eventually, of course, we had to put her in assisted living.
But back to our errand: On our way home, she asked if I would take her to Starbuck's. We went through the drive-thru window. I had asked her if she wanted to go inside, but she said she wanted to stay in the car.
We parked and she asked me to roll down the windows so she could feel the breeze. I realized that, at this point, she could no longer go outside on her own and just wanted that breeze while she was out of the house.
So we sat in silence. Once she muttered "That feels so good."
After that, when on errands, I'd ask her if she wanted to stop somewhere on the way home. And we'd sometimes go inside--but sometimes we'd stay outside with the windows down, sitting in silence as the breeze blew through my mother's hair.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Another WTF @ Starbuck's
So my engine light came on this week. Then it went off. Then it came on today. So I decide that I should take it to the dealer's service center, where a former student works, and get it looked at. Whenever I take my car there, I walk over to the Starbucks about two blocks away to relax read, write, or do a crossword puzzle while I wait.
So I'm wearing my wide-brimmed hat that protects me from the sun's rays. I am a little phobic about too much sun exposure, partially because of my reckless youth and partially because a medication I take makes me sensitive to sun exposure. So I wear a hat most of the time, or duck for the shade.
But, I digress.
So, in Starbucks, I place my order--a venti, iced, non-fat, chai tea latte (not a coffee drinker). As I wait for my drink, I realize the guy ahead of me is a former colleague from work for whom I did not care. I didn't want to talk to him, so I used my wide-brim hat to incognito me. I feared that I was trapped and that I wouldn't be able to get around talking to the guy.
He didn't notice me, but I did notice that he was picking up three drinks in a drink carrier: two venti ice coffees and one venti iced, non-fat chai tea latte. He carried the drinks outside and set himself up, alone, at a table. And began reading his paper and drinking his chai tea.
Meanwhie, I stood waiting for mine. After a couple of minutes, I noticed no one was making a chai tea for me. I asked about it. They apologized for the mistake and whipped one up for me. As the barristo handed me my drink, he said that he had already made one, but must have given it to another customer by mistake.
So my former colleague was sipping on MY chai tea! He ordered TWO drinks, got three, and decided to keep them all.
Nobody arrived to join him. It was just him and three beverages, one of them mine.
And he just thought it would be ok to slurp them all down.
I have no pint here. I'm just sharing the moment.
So I'm wearing my wide-brimmed hat that protects me from the sun's rays. I am a little phobic about too much sun exposure, partially because of my reckless youth and partially because a medication I take makes me sensitive to sun exposure. So I wear a hat most of the time, or duck for the shade.
But, I digress.
So, in Starbucks, I place my order--a venti, iced, non-fat, chai tea latte (not a coffee drinker). As I wait for my drink, I realize the guy ahead of me is a former colleague from work for whom I did not care. I didn't want to talk to him, so I used my wide-brim hat to incognito me. I feared that I was trapped and that I wouldn't be able to get around talking to the guy.
He didn't notice me, but I did notice that he was picking up three drinks in a drink carrier: two venti ice coffees and one venti iced, non-fat chai tea latte. He carried the drinks outside and set himself up, alone, at a table. And began reading his paper and drinking his chai tea.
Meanwhie, I stood waiting for mine. After a couple of minutes, I noticed no one was making a chai tea for me. I asked about it. They apologized for the mistake and whipped one up for me. As the barristo handed me my drink, he said that he had already made one, but must have given it to another customer by mistake.
So my former colleague was sipping on MY chai tea! He ordered TWO drinks, got three, and decided to keep them all.
Nobody arrived to join him. It was just him and three beverages, one of them mine.
And he just thought it would be ok to slurp them all down.
I have no pint here. I'm just sharing the moment.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
What Befell Me This Fall
I tripped today in a very public way.
I was at UC Riverbed with a flock of high school students who were working on research projects. Sophomores.
So my partner teacher and I are in the library working with the kids. I noticed one student on her cell phone. I go make sure she is on task. She tells me that another student called her to tell her that she and two others were lost.
A big bell tower with a Carillon stands at the center of this campus and the library is very close to it. That's what we told the students yesterday. So I tell the girl to tell them to keep heading towards the bell tower and I will wait there for them.
As I approach the bell tower, I see the three girls. I walk to them. As I do so, I have to walk down the steps at this series of shallow steps (there were only three or four) at the base of the bell tower.
I am looking at the three girls and think that I have already stepped on the last step and am now on solid ground.
These steps, by the way, are kind of wide. That is, each step is probably a yard or so in width. So it takes a couple of strides to cross each one.
So I step out on what I think is level ground and realize too late that I am stepping into air.
I am in mid-air and trying to correct myself--but quickly realize that I either am about to step on my ankle instead of my foot and that I could sprain it or worse,so I decide that I am going to have to take the fall to save my foot, so I collapse and roll. The minute my hand hits the cement, I let my arm collapse and roll onto my shoulder and over onto my back.
Then I get up and the three girls, who think I'm very ancient anyway, run over to me and ask if I'm alright. I tell them that I used to be a stunt man. I try to casually walk back to the library with them, pretending it never happened.
I feel a little bruised up and down my right side: my hand my shoulder, and my hip. But no real damage.
I was at UC Riverbed with a flock of high school students who were working on research projects. Sophomores.
So my partner teacher and I are in the library working with the kids. I noticed one student on her cell phone. I go make sure she is on task. She tells me that another student called her to tell her that she and two others were lost.
A big bell tower with a Carillon stands at the center of this campus and the library is very close to it. That's what we told the students yesterday. So I tell the girl to tell them to keep heading towards the bell tower and I will wait there for them.
As I approach the bell tower, I see the three girls. I walk to them. As I do so, I have to walk down the steps at this series of shallow steps (there were only three or four) at the base of the bell tower.
I am looking at the three girls and think that I have already stepped on the last step and am now on solid ground.
These steps, by the way, are kind of wide. That is, each step is probably a yard or so in width. So it takes a couple of strides to cross each one.
So I step out on what I think is level ground and realize too late that I am stepping into air.
I am in mid-air and trying to correct myself--but quickly realize that I either am about to step on my ankle instead of my foot and that I could sprain it or worse,so I decide that I am going to have to take the fall to save my foot, so I collapse and roll. The minute my hand hits the cement, I let my arm collapse and roll onto my shoulder and over onto my back.
Then I get up and the three girls, who think I'm very ancient anyway, run over to me and ask if I'm alright. I tell them that I used to be a stunt man. I try to casually walk back to the library with them, pretending it never happened.
I feel a little bruised up and down my right side: my hand my shoulder, and my hip. But no real damage.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Things Ruby, Pearl, and I Saw Today
A couple of places where Ruby and Pearl tried to dig under the new fence my neighbor built.
The pain in a teenage boy's heart as he stood amongst friends, among whom was his recently ex-girlfriend, whom he clearly had not gotten over.
A half-dozen kids strumming different chord progressions on their ukuleles.
A locked front door with me on the other side without my key, which I had left inside.
A window through which one could get access to my house if they wanted to.
Ruby panic at the sight of cars or people as we took our walk.
Pearl not panic so much.
A cat who really wanted to jump over two dogs to get from my living room to my bedroom.
A fast-talking woman who didn't breath between questions nor wait for answers.
Four colleagues who sit in the front row of faculty meetings but don't all seem to pick up on what is said.
The pain in a teenage boy's heart as he stood amongst friends, among whom was his recently ex-girlfriend, whom he clearly had not gotten over.
A half-dozen kids strumming different chord progressions on their ukuleles.
A locked front door with me on the other side without my key, which I had left inside.
A window through which one could get access to my house if they wanted to.
Ruby panic at the sight of cars or people as we took our walk.
Pearl not panic so much.
A cat who really wanted to jump over two dogs to get from my living room to my bedroom.
A fast-talking woman who didn't breath between questions nor wait for answers.
Four colleagues who sit in the front row of faculty meetings but don't all seem to pick up on what is said.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Random Things I Saw Today
A guy standing in a public restroom standing there talking to himself but actually talking to a guy in one of the booths.
A former student walking to class at RCC.
An ambulance driving away from my school as I was driving towards it.
A large group of punk kids loitering around a local strip mall disturbing paying customers while doing tricks on their skateboards.
My tuxedo cat chasing a cat with her tuxedo colors in opposite places, like she was wearing a white tuxedo with black socks.
Some kid jumping out of his parents car and running in front of mine as he ran to class, his image a silhouette in the glaring morning sun.
Ruby and Pearl running out of my house into my back yard and looking around as if they had never been there before.
A former student walking to class at RCC.
An ambulance driving away from my school as I was driving towards it.
A large group of punk kids loitering around a local strip mall disturbing paying customers while doing tricks on their skateboards.
My tuxedo cat chasing a cat with her tuxedo colors in opposite places, like she was wearing a white tuxedo with black socks.
Some kid jumping out of his parents car and running in front of mine as he ran to class, his image a silhouette in the glaring morning sun.
Ruby and Pearl running out of my house into my back yard and looking around as if they had never been there before.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Long Time No Blog; Walk the Dog
Maybe I'll write about some of the things that have gone on with me since the last time I blogged here. But suffice it to say I just haven't felt like blogging.
Tonight, I walked Pearl, the less trained of my two dogs. She and Ruby are both very skittish about walking. Ruby,after doing dog obedience training has become moreso. Oh, she's become more OBEDIENT. She sits, she stays, she shakes hands. Just likes going out less. I think the three incidents that happened at dog obedience school might among the reasons.
First Event: One night, about the 5th meeting, some guy who had to switch classes brought his schnauzer, a little bitch who tried to pick a fight with other dogs before she even got inside the building where we had class. Once in class, this little shit of a dog would not stop barking and growling at the other dogs. Now ALL of the dogs had some sort of barking behavior, but most of it was playful. This dog was being very aggressive. Ruby is shy enough, but this dog just made her very uncomfortable. So, for about the first half of the night, Ruby would do what I told her, but wasto upset to take treats.
Second Event: Same guy, different schnauzer. The Schnauzer was ok at first, when all of the others hadn't arrived yet. But she went crazy when the bigger dogs started showing up. Again, non-stop aggressive barking. This dog also got into a fight and bit one of the other dogs on the nose. No blood drawn, but it freaked Ruby out.
Third event: As we got out of the car, a big Ralph's delivery truck pulled up in the parking lot and, as it bounced over the speed bumps, made a huge racket that spooked Ruby.
Anyway, she passed the class, but is still a little jittery.
Back to tonight's walk, as Pearl and I left the house, I was surprised with the relative ease with which we hit the sidewalk. But, just as we got going, two strange dogs ran up to us, having escaped from their yard. I could tell by their behavior they were very friendly dogs--but my two dogs don't like to make friends very much. So I tested how Pearl might react and kept an eye on her body language and facial expressions and listened for that low rumbling growl that signals a dog's intentions.
Pearl tensed up a little, but didn't make any suspicious moves. So I tried walking a ways and the two dogs followed. Pearl was a little uncomfortable at first, but soon walked pretty freely.
Soon, they were like a dog pack, running as a herd, with me as their leader.
Every house I passed told me who the dogs belonged to, but they were wrong every time. This one kid told me he thought one of the was his dog, but couldn't tell me its name. He told me his brother who was playing down the street would know his name. His brother down the street didn't seem to know for sure whether he had a brother--let alone whether one of the dogs was his.
One guy said that the dog belonged to his next-door neighbor, but the next-door neighbor didn't recognize them.
None of this bothered me too much, because the dogs were clean, well-groomed, and very well-behaved. So we just all four of us had a very nice walk. When I got home, the neighbors across the street told me that the two dogs belonged to the house next door to them. The gate was open, the neighbors not home, so we got the two dogs back in and closed the gate.
Tonight, I walked Pearl, the less trained of my two dogs. She and Ruby are both very skittish about walking. Ruby,after doing dog obedience training has become moreso. Oh, she's become more OBEDIENT. She sits, she stays, she shakes hands. Just likes going out less. I think the three incidents that happened at dog obedience school might among the reasons.
First Event: One night, about the 5th meeting, some guy who had to switch classes brought his schnauzer, a little bitch who tried to pick a fight with other dogs before she even got inside the building where we had class. Once in class, this little shit of a dog would not stop barking and growling at the other dogs. Now ALL of the dogs had some sort of barking behavior, but most of it was playful. This dog was being very aggressive. Ruby is shy enough, but this dog just made her very uncomfortable. So, for about the first half of the night, Ruby would do what I told her, but wasto upset to take treats.
Second Event: Same guy, different schnauzer. The Schnauzer was ok at first, when all of the others hadn't arrived yet. But she went crazy when the bigger dogs started showing up. Again, non-stop aggressive barking. This dog also got into a fight and bit one of the other dogs on the nose. No blood drawn, but it freaked Ruby out.
Third event: As we got out of the car, a big Ralph's delivery truck pulled up in the parking lot and, as it bounced over the speed bumps, made a huge racket that spooked Ruby.
Anyway, she passed the class, but is still a little jittery.
Back to tonight's walk, as Pearl and I left the house, I was surprised with the relative ease with which we hit the sidewalk. But, just as we got going, two strange dogs ran up to us, having escaped from their yard. I could tell by their behavior they were very friendly dogs--but my two dogs don't like to make friends very much. So I tested how Pearl might react and kept an eye on her body language and facial expressions and listened for that low rumbling growl that signals a dog's intentions.
Pearl tensed up a little, but didn't make any suspicious moves. So I tried walking a ways and the two dogs followed. Pearl was a little uncomfortable at first, but soon walked pretty freely.
Soon, they were like a dog pack, running as a herd, with me as their leader.
Every house I passed told me who the dogs belonged to, but they were wrong every time. This one kid told me he thought one of the was his dog, but couldn't tell me its name. He told me his brother who was playing down the street would know his name. His brother down the street didn't seem to know for sure whether he had a brother--let alone whether one of the dogs was his.
One guy said that the dog belonged to his next-door neighbor, but the next-door neighbor didn't recognize them.
None of this bothered me too much, because the dogs were clean, well-groomed, and very well-behaved. So we just all four of us had a very nice walk. When I got home, the neighbors across the street told me that the two dogs belonged to the house next door to them. The gate was open, the neighbors not home, so we got the two dogs back in and closed the gate.
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