I wanted to post tonight because it's the last day of August, and the last thing I posted was early July upon hearing the news of my fourth grade teacher's passing.
Also, a couple of out-of-town facebook friends (one of which is a real-world relative) are telling me they can't get to my blog. So if you're a Kansas City are friend of mine and you can't read this, let me know so I can come visit and see if I can figure out the problem.
I'm experiencing the most difficult start to a school year of my entire teaching career. It's very frustrating and has little to do with the kids (although this bunch does seem to have trouble shutting up and recognizing that when I said "I need you to get quiet" thirty seconds ago, I meant for more than twenty-five seconds.
The fifth-year anniversary of my mother's death is coming up. All that means is I've been working on what I think about that. Nobody needs to send a card or anything.
Maybe I should write more often. Maybe I should do lots of things. I for sure should this be saving up to get a new compressor for my a/c here at the house.
Oh, I got my Masters in Education. I guess that's something I could have written about, eh?
I have gotten this very bad habit of thinking saying it on facebook means I've said it to the world. Not that saying it on here is like saying it to the world... if so, I would have said, "This place is a dump! I want my money back!" on here years ago.
I kid.
Anyway, I'm not doing very well at getting to sleep on time, and I'm already behind on grading. Also, I need to start a blog about my health or my attempts to improve it. I should have a poll about that.
Enjoy your September, everyone.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Goodbye, Miss Ewens
I found out today my fourth grade teacher, Miss Ewens, passed away yesterday morning (the morning of July 4th... I realize my being up so late may cause confusion as to what day is what).
I'm one of those people who holds a special place in his heart for his teachers, especially the elementary school ones. I could wax on as I am wont to do about Miss Ewens, but instead I think I'll just share some memories from fourth grade.
I remember Miss Ewens teaching us to sing "Green, Green Grass of Home", and what a sad song I thought that was.
I remember in fourth grade I had the job of checking the fire exit that was in our cloak room every morning, to make sure it was unlocked.
In fourth grade, Miss Ewens sometimes gave us story starters, and our task was to finish the stories. It was one of my favorite things to do.
In fourth grade, I got in trouble for repeating something mean someone had said to an elderly woman. Actually, I didn't get into trouble, but Miss Ewens let me know in no uncertain terms I was not to repeat such mean things (I think the phrase "you old bat" was part of the story).
In fourth grade, Johnny Joe Riechard wrote "The Best" on his reading workbook, but misspelled it, so it said "The Beast".
I think it was in fourth grade that I won the "most creative" award for my Valentines box.
It was in fourth grade that, during a discussion about a special about bigfoot that had been on television the night before, I pointed out that if we keep destroying the forests, eventually we'll know for sure if there's a bigfoot or not, because there will be no more forests for him to hide in. I remember very clearly Miss Ewens' reaction to my saying this, and I could tell it made her sad.
I'm pretty sure it was in Miss Ewens' class that we read (or she read to us) Henry and Ribsy or some other Beverly Cleary book, and I remember getting a few others through the book orders we had that year.
In fourth grade, one of the few low grades I got was in handwriting.
I can't remember what reading book(s) I used in fourth grade, but all day long since I've heard the news, I keep remembering Panorama--which I know was in the series we used, but am not sure if it was what I read in that grade. But I remember sitting with my reading group all in a circle, Miss Ewens talking with us or reading with us or assigning us parts for the play in the book.
I'm pretty sure I first got into the Danny Dunn books in fourth grade. I know I won Miss Pickerel Goes to Mars in fourth grade. I can't remember how I won it--it might have been for the most creative Valentines box. I just know sometimes Miss Ewens would have books for prizes, and we'd get to pick which one we wanted for our prize.
There's a story that I've seen forwarded around about a teacher going to heaven, and how this teacher keeps being guided past nicer and nicer houses, each time hearing "This is where people in this profession go," and the professions getting more and more important and/or noble as the story goes on, and the story ends with the teacher going to the nicest place ever.
I don't think Heaven works like that, but if it does, Miss Ewens deserves that nicest place.
Good-bye, Miss Ewens. Thank you for being my teacher.
I will always think of you when I hear "Green, Green Grass of Home".
I'm one of those people who holds a special place in his heart for his teachers, especially the elementary school ones. I could wax on as I am wont to do about Miss Ewens, but instead I think I'll just share some memories from fourth grade.
I remember Miss Ewens teaching us to sing "Green, Green Grass of Home", and what a sad song I thought that was.
I remember in fourth grade I had the job of checking the fire exit that was in our cloak room every morning, to make sure it was unlocked.
In fourth grade, Miss Ewens sometimes gave us story starters, and our task was to finish the stories. It was one of my favorite things to do.
In fourth grade, I got in trouble for repeating something mean someone had said to an elderly woman. Actually, I didn't get into trouble, but Miss Ewens let me know in no uncertain terms I was not to repeat such mean things (I think the phrase "you old bat" was part of the story).
In fourth grade, Johnny Joe Riechard wrote "The Best" on his reading workbook, but misspelled it, so it said "The Beast".
I think it was in fourth grade that I won the "most creative" award for my Valentines box.
It was in fourth grade that, during a discussion about a special about bigfoot that had been on television the night before, I pointed out that if we keep destroying the forests, eventually we'll know for sure if there's a bigfoot or not, because there will be no more forests for him to hide in. I remember very clearly Miss Ewens' reaction to my saying this, and I could tell it made her sad.
I'm pretty sure it was in Miss Ewens' class that we read (or she read to us) Henry and Ribsy or some other Beverly Cleary book, and I remember getting a few others through the book orders we had that year.
In fourth grade, one of the few low grades I got was in handwriting.
I can't remember what reading book(s) I used in fourth grade, but all day long since I've heard the news, I keep remembering Panorama--which I know was in the series we used, but am not sure if it was what I read in that grade. But I remember sitting with my reading group all in a circle, Miss Ewens talking with us or reading with us or assigning us parts for the play in the book.
I'm pretty sure I first got into the Danny Dunn books in fourth grade. I know I won Miss Pickerel Goes to Mars in fourth grade. I can't remember how I won it--it might have been for the most creative Valentines box. I just know sometimes Miss Ewens would have books for prizes, and we'd get to pick which one we wanted for our prize.
There's a story that I've seen forwarded around about a teacher going to heaven, and how this teacher keeps being guided past nicer and nicer houses, each time hearing "This is where people in this profession go," and the professions getting more and more important and/or noble as the story goes on, and the story ends with the teacher going to the nicest place ever.
I don't think Heaven works like that, but if it does, Miss Ewens deserves that nicest place.
Good-bye, Miss Ewens. Thank you for being my teacher.
 |
| Miss Ewens, 1976 |
Sunday, July 04, 2010
For Heros Proved In Liberating Strife
At some point every Independence Day, I think of Unclue Bud. It's usually a brief moment, long enough to miss an uncle I never knew, but it usually happend on this day. And Pearl Harbor Day, for some reason. He wasn't at Pearl Harbor, but if I see any flags at half mast, he comes to mind. He was going to be my topic for today's ramble, but my sister beat me to it. So I started to think about what I could write about instead...
Then I thought I'd just add to what she said. So, you might want to go back to that last paragraph and click the link to read what my sister had to say about Uncle Bud.
I've mentioned Uncle Bud several times on here, and maybe on a slow day I'll go search for those and link to them back here. Right now, I just want to add to what Ruth shared.
I didn't know a lot about Uncle Bud, or even register I had an uncle who died long before I was born. I may have been in college before I realized he died at Iwo Jima--I was never a big history buff, so it might not been until college that I actually got what "Iwo Jima" was. It's possible it was explained to me when I was younger--I say "possible" instead of "likely", as Uncle Bud wasn't a topic that came up a lot, other than when I'd see his picture at Grandma's house, or when I'd see a picture in a photo album. I just knew he died, and that was enough to make me think maybe I shouldn't ask a lot of questions.
I've mentioned before talking with Mom about him in Hardee's in Mexico, Missouri. It was just one of those conversations that stick with you (and I guess I have a lot of those, despite the fact I have many more I can't remember very clearly, but this one sticks with me in a different way). I guess it sticks with me because I finally got the courage to bring it up, or leap on something that segued into the topic of Uncle Bud.
In that conversation, Mom told me his nickname was pronounce "bood", not "bud". She never mentioned this to anyone else, and my Aunt Rachel has told me she never heard it pronounced like that. The story Mom told me was that when he was born, my aunt Deana Mae, who was very young at the time, said, "That's my boodley," instead of "That's my brother." So they called him "bood", spelled "Bud". Maybe Mom was misremembering, or maybe that nickname came and went before Aunt Rachel was born. Or maybe I've just lost it and made the whole thing up and can't remember doing so. It's a complicated universe. Anything is possible. At any rate, it's pronounced "bud" by everyone in my family now.
She told me she thought we would have got along well. When I pressed her for an explanation, she just said we both had a good sense of humor, and trailed off so I didn't hear any other explanation beyond that. We'll never know, of course.
His birthday was 9 days after mine. He would have been 41 when I was born, but only for those 9 days. About the time I'd have been old enough to start forming memories of him, he would be the age I am now. He died less than a month after his 20th birthday, so I guess it's a moot point. It's just I sometimes like to think about that other universe (or set of universes... universi?)where I knew him in person.
When I was doing some research on this a while back, I came across a scanned page that gave me more information than I had before. He was in the 28th Regiment, and his rank was PhM3C (Pharmacist's Mate, 3rd Class). It went on to explain what that rank meant in more detail, but I can't find that page now. Essentially he was attached to the Marines, but not a Marine. I can't remember if he was Army or what.
Mom told me about a man who was there when Uncle Bud died coming to visit the farm, as mentioned in Ruth's post... and Rachel told me all about it when I was over at her house one of the times I was up in Omaha since I did my online search. The two stories of how he died were completely different, but in the end it's all the same: he was shot and killed.
One of the things I found in my search for him was a reference to him in a book about Iwo Jima. That is how we all learned about him being part of the small patrol that first went up Mount Suribachi, ahead of the 40-or-so others who came up the next morning. I think about how that volunteer session went down. I wonder if my uncle figured it was climbing, and climbing was something you do in rural areas, so how hard could it be, right? You know, beyond the people trying to kill you and stuff.
Or maybe it was totally different. Whatever the case, he was gone just over a week later. But he did that. My uncle did that. Maybe it wasn't single-handedly stopping the war or saving 100 people, but it's still such an awesome thing to imagine.
Anyway, that's what I have to add about the uncle I never met. Aunt Rachel shared other stuff with me: stories of how he'd carry her back when he went to get the mail and she went with him, a textbook he had in high school... But it all just makes me wish we had the technology to at least view the past.
The title of this post is from "America the Beautiful". I love that song and wish it was our National Anthem--but nobody is consulting me on it, so I'll keep wishing. I just thought it would be an appropriate title for my contribution to this theme of "What I know about Edwin Earl "Bud" Hickerson".
Then I thought I'd just add to what she said. So, you might want to go back to that last paragraph and click the link to read what my sister had to say about Uncle Bud.
I've mentioned Uncle Bud several times on here, and maybe on a slow day I'll go search for those and link to them back here. Right now, I just want to add to what Ruth shared.
I didn't know a lot about Uncle Bud, or even register I had an uncle who died long before I was born. I may have been in college before I realized he died at Iwo Jima--I was never a big history buff, so it might not been until college that I actually got what "Iwo Jima" was. It's possible it was explained to me when I was younger--I say "possible" instead of "likely", as Uncle Bud wasn't a topic that came up a lot, other than when I'd see his picture at Grandma's house, or when I'd see a picture in a photo album. I just knew he died, and that was enough to make me think maybe I shouldn't ask a lot of questions.
I've mentioned before talking with Mom about him in Hardee's in Mexico, Missouri. It was just one of those conversations that stick with you (and I guess I have a lot of those, despite the fact I have many more I can't remember very clearly, but this one sticks with me in a different way). I guess it sticks with me because I finally got the courage to bring it up, or leap on something that segued into the topic of Uncle Bud.
In that conversation, Mom told me his nickname was pronounce "bood", not "bud". She never mentioned this to anyone else, and my Aunt Rachel has told me she never heard it pronounced like that. The story Mom told me was that when he was born, my aunt Deana Mae, who was very young at the time, said, "That's my boodley," instead of "That's my brother." So they called him "bood", spelled "Bud". Maybe Mom was misremembering, or maybe that nickname came and went before Aunt Rachel was born. Or maybe I've just lost it and made the whole thing up and can't remember doing so. It's a complicated universe. Anything is possible. At any rate, it's pronounced "bud" by everyone in my family now.
She told me she thought we would have got along well. When I pressed her for an explanation, she just said we both had a good sense of humor, and trailed off so I didn't hear any other explanation beyond that. We'll never know, of course.
His birthday was 9 days after mine. He would have been 41 when I was born, but only for those 9 days. About the time I'd have been old enough to start forming memories of him, he would be the age I am now. He died less than a month after his 20th birthday, so I guess it's a moot point. It's just I sometimes like to think about that other universe (or set of universes... universi?)where I knew him in person.
When I was doing some research on this a while back, I came across a scanned page that gave me more information than I had before. He was in the 28th Regiment, and his rank was PhM3C (Pharmacist's Mate, 3rd Class). It went on to explain what that rank meant in more detail, but I can't find that page now. Essentially he was attached to the Marines, but not a Marine. I can't remember if he was Army or what.
Mom told me about a man who was there when Uncle Bud died coming to visit the farm, as mentioned in Ruth's post... and Rachel told me all about it when I was over at her house one of the times I was up in Omaha since I did my online search. The two stories of how he died were completely different, but in the end it's all the same: he was shot and killed.
One of the things I found in my search for him was a reference to him in a book about Iwo Jima. That is how we all learned about him being part of the small patrol that first went up Mount Suribachi, ahead of the 40-or-so others who came up the next morning. I think about how that volunteer session went down. I wonder if my uncle figured it was climbing, and climbing was something you do in rural areas, so how hard could it be, right? You know, beyond the people trying to kill you and stuff.
Or maybe it was totally different. Whatever the case, he was gone just over a week later. But he did that. My uncle did that. Maybe it wasn't single-handedly stopping the war or saving 100 people, but it's still such an awesome thing to imagine.
Anyway, that's what I have to add about the uncle I never met. Aunt Rachel shared other stuff with me: stories of how he'd carry her back when he went to get the mail and she went with him, a textbook he had in high school... But it all just makes me wish we had the technology to at least view the past.
The title of this post is from "America the Beautiful". I love that song and wish it was our National Anthem--but nobody is consulting me on it, so I'll keep wishing. I just thought it would be an appropriate title for my contribution to this theme of "What I know about Edwin Earl "Bud" Hickerson".
Saturday, July 03, 2010
More Insipidness...
Yeah, that last one went on and on, didn't it? All I can say is I was way tired, and I felt it get away from me early on, but my fingers were typing on inertia and there was nothing to do but wait for them to be done.
Or something.
Anyway, I'm sure everyone is dying to know: I got the patio where I want it for now. Yes, I could go rent or buy a power washer and get it more clean, and yes, I could get a couple more chairs and another small table or two, but it will do. When I finish this post, I am going to go sit in one of those chairs and enjoy a Bud Light.
Because I can.
I have many things I want to write about, but none of them work right now. One requires a lot of math. Another I've forgotten about, but it keeps peeking its head around one of the corners in my mind, but disappearing just as I think I'm going to recognize it. And maybe there are just two things... and two isn't "many".
Whatever.
I have decided to wake up at 8:00 tomorrow. I have decided I've reached that point in old age where I think a person should wake up at 8:00 at the absolute latest. I'm afraid it's a side-effect of this whole "do something" thing.
I went to Nebraska Furniture Mart tonight (don't tell Jordan, as she is always wanting me to take her out that way for shopping, etc., and she's off at the Grand Canyon or somewhere right now). I wanted a smaller table for the... area by the kitchen that can't really be called a dining room. I want to move that big table out to the sun room. I think the sun room could make a nice little dining room. Plus, I realized today as long as I have the door open between the rest of the house and the sun room, the a/c does a great job. Sure, I'd love to get an vent in there so it still gets the heat/a.c. with the door closed, but I'm okay leaving it open.
Anyway, the NFM thing was very spur-of-the-moment. I was at K-Mart looking at little table/chair sets, trying to figure out how to budget that in, when it hit me NFM was having a big "no interest for 32 months" thing, and there I was with a NFM card! So I got in the car and headed on over, forgetting about the Garmin and arguing with myself about the quickest way to get there (not that Garmin is ever right about that, mind you) and in the end missing an exit and going a strange way I hadn't thought of as an option.
I had my window rolled down, and rolled down the passenger window a bit (with no power windows, you have to hedge your bets on how far to roll the windows you'd have to pull over to roll up).
I don't know. I got things done today, so hooray for that... and I have decided tomorrow I will be bringing homemade strawberry salsa to the annual festivities over at Patrick & Leigh's. I'm starting to think about maybe having a little garden next year.
I'm out of control. Somebody stop me!
Side note: I've got Music Choice 80's on the television as I type this, and Irene Cara's "Fame" started playing, and I got distracted thinking, "I thought that was from 1979, not the 80s." Guess what, I'm right. It even says it on the screen. Do the people who program those things not look at the date, you think? Or do they base it on when the song was in the Top 40? I'm not saying I know where it was on the charts in the 80s, I'm just trying to figure out why a song from 1979 might be considered an 80s song.
Okay, I'm distracted and rambling. I need to be up at 8:00 tomorrow. I'll have to be sure to wear my name tag at church tomorrow. Nobody is going to remember my name... or my face, since it's been so long since I've been.
Or something.
Anyway, I'm sure everyone is dying to know: I got the patio where I want it for now. Yes, I could go rent or buy a power washer and get it more clean, and yes, I could get a couple more chairs and another small table or two, but it will do. When I finish this post, I am going to go sit in one of those chairs and enjoy a Bud Light.
Because I can.
I have many things I want to write about, but none of them work right now. One requires a lot of math. Another I've forgotten about, but it keeps peeking its head around one of the corners in my mind, but disappearing just as I think I'm going to recognize it. And maybe there are just two things... and two isn't "many".
Whatever.
I have decided to wake up at 8:00 tomorrow. I have decided I've reached that point in old age where I think a person should wake up at 8:00 at the absolute latest. I'm afraid it's a side-effect of this whole "do something" thing.
I went to Nebraska Furniture Mart tonight (don't tell Jordan, as she is always wanting me to take her out that way for shopping, etc., and she's off at the Grand Canyon or somewhere right now). I wanted a smaller table for the... area by the kitchen that can't really be called a dining room. I want to move that big table out to the sun room. I think the sun room could make a nice little dining room. Plus, I realized today as long as I have the door open between the rest of the house and the sun room, the a/c does a great job. Sure, I'd love to get an vent in there so it still gets the heat/a.c. with the door closed, but I'm okay leaving it open.
Anyway, the NFM thing was very spur-of-the-moment. I was at K-Mart looking at little table/chair sets, trying to figure out how to budget that in, when it hit me NFM was having a big "no interest for 32 months" thing, and there I was with a NFM card! So I got in the car and headed on over, forgetting about the Garmin and arguing with myself about the quickest way to get there (not that Garmin is ever right about that, mind you) and in the end missing an exit and going a strange way I hadn't thought of as an option.
I had my window rolled down, and rolled down the passenger window a bit (with no power windows, you have to hedge your bets on how far to roll the windows you'd have to pull over to roll up).
I don't know. I got things done today, so hooray for that... and I have decided tomorrow I will be bringing homemade strawberry salsa to the annual festivities over at Patrick & Leigh's. I'm starting to think about maybe having a little garden next year.
I'm out of control. Somebody stop me!
Side note: I've got Music Choice 80's on the television as I type this, and Irene Cara's "Fame" started playing, and I got distracted thinking, "I thought that was from 1979, not the 80s." Guess what, I'm right. It even says it on the screen. Do the people who program those things not look at the date, you think? Or do they base it on when the song was in the Top 40? I'm not saying I know where it was on the charts in the 80s, I'm just trying to figure out why a song from 1979 might be considered an 80s song.
Okay, I'm distracted and rambling. I need to be up at 8:00 tomorrow. I'll have to be sure to wear my name tag at church tomorrow. Nobody is going to remember my name... or my face, since it's been so long since I've been.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Maybe Sloth IS A Deadly Sin!
I had a shocking epiphany today, and--despite being too tired of typing to do this--I have to share with whoever happens to read this (I already shared it with Ben, but if he reads this he'll find out again, and more power to him). However, I'll have to keep it short, as my body is not a fan of the typing right now... Nor is it a fan of the sitting at the computer. So this will probably be only 17 long boring paragraphs instead of the standard 43...
Anyway, for whatever reason I got tired of the bags of leaves that have been sitting on what I'm going to call my patio (it may very well be a patio, I just don't have the power of the names-of-bits-of-the-house-ness) since late last autumn. It's a long story, and there is a teenager involved, so you should probably be able to piece together how this came to pass.
These lovely bags of leaves have been through that very crazy winter we just had, and have soaked up all that fun rain we've had. In short: these are some gross bags of leaves.
As I was saying (or typing), I got tired of these bags sitting there (18 bags, plus what remained of the one an un-named teen tried to move to the curb for the spring clean-up trash pickup day), and had talked to Bowman about a week or so ago, and he said he had some space he needed to fill with organic-ness, and leaves fit the bill. Last night was the night. I don't have any idea why it was the night, but my brain just locked onto this task.
I had already been to the Big K or whatever it's called these days, and they didn't have the 55-gallon trash bags I wanted. I went to Lowe's that same day and found them.
I had the bags. I knew where I could take these stupid leaves. The stage was set. I guess that's why my brain got all obsessed about it.
I went outside and started bagging the bags of leaves. The original plan was to put two bags in every giant trash bag, and it would have worked great, had the bags wanted to stay in one piece when touched. Instead, they wanted to fall apart. But it still went well. All I had to do was put a trash bag over the top of one, tip the whole thing over and pick up the plastic trash bag from its top.
Not that it was a huge fun job or anything, but there was a big feeling of accomplishment with each bag.
Then I realized there were lots of leaves sort of collected and bleched together on the patio (not to mention the bottoms of all the paper bags... they sort of stayed on the patio, too). So I thought: shovel. I even had the right shovel in my head. Not one you might use to dig a whole, but what is apparently called a grain shovel. I now own one, so I know what they're called.
Now I was on a roll... On the way to the hardware store, I called Bowman to see if I could bring the leaves by sometime tomorrow. He wasn't available, so I asked his daughter to tell him to call me back. I then called Ben to see if I could borrow his truck (the one I covet so). He was super-gracious, as always.
I went to the hardware store (where Bowman called me back and said noon would work), bought the shovel (and a citronella candle, as it was damaged and on sale for cheap), and came back home to start scooping up the mess that was my patio.
I had a plan: wake up, drive to Olathe, get Ben's truck, drive back here, load up the bags of leaves, drive them to Bowman's, get the leaves out of the trash bags, take the truck back to Ben, and then come home.
But wait! How about I cut down some of these things that have been growing and acting like I want them to be there. Pretty and all, but I don't think I want a tree growling RIGHT next to the house, disappearing between the ground and my foundation.
So after all this fun and exciting work, I went inside and caught my breath... and realized the rough draft of Chapter 4 of my thesis was due the same day I was going to be doing all this leaf-hauling.
Okay, if you've been waiting for the exciting and interesting part, you've never read this blog before... but we've finally reached today in this story...
I woke up at 8:00, made a quick breakfast, headed out to get Ben's truck, and was back home with it by a little after 10:00. This was according to plan. Nineteen bags of leaves did not fit in the back of the truck. This was not according to plan.
However, I improvised.
It took me about 30 minutes to get the truck loaded up, which surprised me, as I left about 90 for the task. I came back inside and visited with some of the family members that were here at the time, then went back out to head out.
The bummer part about the trip to Bowman's was the trash bags were too noisy, so I had to roll the windows up and turn on the a.c.--I was digging the rolled-down windows thing. This was when it happened. The epiphany started with me realizing I had to have automatic windows on my next vehicle, because the lack of these is the main reason I don't drive around with the windows rolled down as much as I'd love to. The other (and major) epiphany was this: I flippin' love getting things done! I mean, I thought sitting around and watching television and doing nothing all day was the absolute best it got, but I feel way wrong about that now!
Don't get me wrong, I doubt I'm going to go crazy and start doing stuff every day (baby steps), but I was digging this whole "doing stuff, getting things done, driving with the windows rolled down" thing.
Anyway, got to Bowman's, got the leaves out of the truck and out of my life, and headed back home--yes, home... not for another load, but while I had the truck, I wanted to get some chairs for the patio.
Got the chairs and a couple of little tray-thingies, and got that all set up on the patio (which still needs some cleaning, but it coming along nicely) and returned the truck.
You gotta understand, normally by 3:00 (which is about when I got the truck back to Ben) all I've done is wake up, have breakfast, and maybe have thought about making lunch (or whatever you'd call that meal at that time of day).
Anyway, that's my stupid "short" entry. I found out I like to actually do things. Who would have believed it?
Anyway, for whatever reason I got tired of the bags of leaves that have been sitting on what I'm going to call my patio (it may very well be a patio, I just don't have the power of the names-of-bits-of-the-house-ness) since late last autumn. It's a long story, and there is a teenager involved, so you should probably be able to piece together how this came to pass.
These lovely bags of leaves have been through that very crazy winter we just had, and have soaked up all that fun rain we've had. In short: these are some gross bags of leaves.
As I was saying (or typing), I got tired of these bags sitting there (18 bags, plus what remained of the one an un-named teen tried to move to the curb for the spring clean-up trash pickup day), and had talked to Bowman about a week or so ago, and he said he had some space he needed to fill with organic-ness, and leaves fit the bill. Last night was the night. I don't have any idea why it was the night, but my brain just locked onto this task.
I had already been to the Big K or whatever it's called these days, and they didn't have the 55-gallon trash bags I wanted. I went to Lowe's that same day and found them.
I had the bags. I knew where I could take these stupid leaves. The stage was set. I guess that's why my brain got all obsessed about it.
I went outside and started bagging the bags of leaves. The original plan was to put two bags in every giant trash bag, and it would have worked great, had the bags wanted to stay in one piece when touched. Instead, they wanted to fall apart. But it still went well. All I had to do was put a trash bag over the top of one, tip the whole thing over and pick up the plastic trash bag from its top.
Not that it was a huge fun job or anything, but there was a big feeling of accomplishment with each bag.
Then I realized there were lots of leaves sort of collected and bleched together on the patio (not to mention the bottoms of all the paper bags... they sort of stayed on the patio, too). So I thought: shovel. I even had the right shovel in my head. Not one you might use to dig a whole, but what is apparently called a grain shovel. I now own one, so I know what they're called.
Now I was on a roll... On the way to the hardware store, I called Bowman to see if I could bring the leaves by sometime tomorrow. He wasn't available, so I asked his daughter to tell him to call me back. I then called Ben to see if I could borrow his truck (the one I covet so). He was super-gracious, as always.
I went to the hardware store (where Bowman called me back and said noon would work), bought the shovel (and a citronella candle, as it was damaged and on sale for cheap), and came back home to start scooping up the mess that was my patio.
I had a plan: wake up, drive to Olathe, get Ben's truck, drive back here, load up the bags of leaves, drive them to Bowman's, get the leaves out of the trash bags, take the truck back to Ben, and then come home.
But wait! How about I cut down some of these things that have been growing and acting like I want them to be there. Pretty and all, but I don't think I want a tree growling RIGHT next to the house, disappearing between the ground and my foundation.
So after all this fun and exciting work, I went inside and caught my breath... and realized the rough draft of Chapter 4 of my thesis was due the same day I was going to be doing all this leaf-hauling.
Okay, if you've been waiting for the exciting and interesting part, you've never read this blog before... but we've finally reached today in this story...
I woke up at 8:00, made a quick breakfast, headed out to get Ben's truck, and was back home with it by a little after 10:00. This was according to plan. Nineteen bags of leaves did not fit in the back of the truck. This was not according to plan.
However, I improvised.
It took me about 30 minutes to get the truck loaded up, which surprised me, as I left about 90 for the task. I came back inside and visited with some of the family members that were here at the time, then went back out to head out.
The bummer part about the trip to Bowman's was the trash bags were too noisy, so I had to roll the windows up and turn on the a.c.--I was digging the rolled-down windows thing. This was when it happened. The epiphany started with me realizing I had to have automatic windows on my next vehicle, because the lack of these is the main reason I don't drive around with the windows rolled down as much as I'd love to. The other (and major) epiphany was this: I flippin' love getting things done! I mean, I thought sitting around and watching television and doing nothing all day was the absolute best it got, but I feel way wrong about that now!
Don't get me wrong, I doubt I'm going to go crazy and start doing stuff every day (baby steps), but I was digging this whole "doing stuff, getting things done, driving with the windows rolled down" thing.
Anyway, got to Bowman's, got the leaves out of the truck and out of my life, and headed back home--yes, home... not for another load, but while I had the truck, I wanted to get some chairs for the patio.
Got the chairs and a couple of little tray-thingies, and got that all set up on the patio (which still needs some cleaning, but it coming along nicely) and returned the truck.
You gotta understand, normally by 3:00 (which is about when I got the truck back to Ben) all I've done is wake up, have breakfast, and maybe have thought about making lunch (or whatever you'd call that meal at that time of day).
Anyway, that's my stupid "short" entry. I found out I like to actually do things. Who would have believed it?
Monday, June 21, 2010
An Ordinary Thing (Like A Light Bulb)
Big, exciting news: I changed a light bulb in my car today!
I first noticed my left-turn signal blinking faster than usual the other day, and I figured I had a light out. Sure enough, when I got to where I was headed and check, no blinker working in the back.
I've been meaning to go get a bulb and replace the one that's out, but I've also kept forgetting I needed it until I was headed somewhere else.
So today, I was wanting to get out of the house, so I got in my car figuring I'd think of somewhere to go... and then I turned left.
And still I debated whether or not to take care of it right then. Really. I thought, well, I can take care of it after I go do this.
It took a moment to figure out this did not involve a this. So I turned left again to the auto parts store.
I'd like to note that I sweat something like a gallon as I did this little task. I miss nice days. We did used to have nice days once, right? Crazy hot.
Anyway, that's the big thing I did today. An ordinary thing like that.
Tonight a friend of mine is with her mother and sisters in a hospital while her father's blood pressure continues to drop. He doesn't have long, they say.
So while you go about doing your ordinary things today, if you're the prayin' kind, send up a prayer for my friend's father, that he is able to go in peace. Pray that my friend and her family can find peace as well.
You don't need names. Just tell God it's my friend and her family. She'll know who you mean.
I first noticed my left-turn signal blinking faster than usual the other day, and I figured I had a light out. Sure enough, when I got to where I was headed and check, no blinker working in the back.
I've been meaning to go get a bulb and replace the one that's out, but I've also kept forgetting I needed it until I was headed somewhere else.
So today, I was wanting to get out of the house, so I got in my car figuring I'd think of somewhere to go... and then I turned left.
And still I debated whether or not to take care of it right then. Really. I thought, well, I can take care of it after I go do this.
It took a moment to figure out this did not involve a this. So I turned left again to the auto parts store.
I'd like to note that I sweat something like a gallon as I did this little task. I miss nice days. We did used to have nice days once, right? Crazy hot.
Anyway, that's the big thing I did today. An ordinary thing like that.
Tonight a friend of mine is with her mother and sisters in a hospital while her father's blood pressure continues to drop. He doesn't have long, they say.
So while you go about doing your ordinary things today, if you're the prayin' kind, send up a prayer for my friend's father, that he is able to go in peace. Pray that my friend and her family can find peace as well.
You don't need names. Just tell God it's my friend and her family. She'll know who you mean.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
No Wonder He Wanted To Fly Like An Eagle
It's Father's Day. There's a great story there. I'm not going to share it... mostly because every time I share it with anyone, they tell me there needs to be a movie on Lifetime about it, so I'm still considering writing the script and sending it off to those folks at Lifetime.
However, I will tell you the story of my trip to Metro North Mall the other day. It was the second time I'd been there in about a week, but the first time I just drove by--I was trying to find the closest GNC (which, it turns out, is not the one at Metro North Mall... the actual closest one I could hit with a baseball if I was standing in my front yard and threw it with some small fraction of Superman's strength. I mean, like a fifth of the fraction of his strength I'd need to hit Metro North Mall with that baseball standing in the same spot in my yard... and that's not my point and it's been way too long since that open-parenthesis, eh?), and I thought it was there. The place had to have been closed--I mean, yeah, I knew the place wasn't the hoppin' spot it was in the late 80s and early 90s, but I'd expected more than the ten vehicles or so I saw parked around the place. So I didn't go in.
A few days ago, I returned and actually went in. As it turned out, I parked at the other end of the mall from where I needed to be. This worked out well, because my shocked reaction was to walk the length of the place on both floors.
Ghost. Town.
Or, you know: Ghost. Mall.
I can't remember the last time I'd been in there. I mean, I remember the last time I'd been in there, but I didn't remember what year it was. I mean, I remembered what year it was at the time I was in there last, but I cannot now remember what year it was I was last in there.
Because blogging makes my writing English good.
Anyway, the last time I'd been there, I was there for the "Go For The Grand" finals in the northland. We had some kids on our team competing, and we'd gone to watch the finals there. I remember thinking the place was kinda dead and it was kinda said... but this last time I was there? Very dead. Very sad.
You see, back in the day, there was nothing in or near Liberty. In that sentence, "back in the day" means circa August 1985 to May 1990 or so. And "nothing" means "very little to see or do that was of interest to your average college student".
Metro North Mall was where I most often went to see movies while in college. It's where Gregg Elliott and I acted out the poster for White Knights, and where Jhoneric Campbell and Jennifer Sherburne crashed an burned trying to act out the poster for Jewel of the Nile about three seconds after Gregg and I did our thing.
Jhoneric and I wrote "Toxic Mall Rats", the award winning musical (in our minds) after a visit to Metro North Mall--and we used that mall as the template for the mall in the musical. To my knowledge, no dead body was ever found in one of the fountains, and no heavy metal songstress had a concert there, and the mall never exploded, but I still feel we captured the essence of that place.
Walking around that place the other day I kept remembering what used to be in all those empty spots. There has to be no more than 20 stores there now, and I really think it's closer to 12 than 20.
The first horrible blow was seeing the total lack of Mr. Bulky's. How are you gonna have a mall without a Mr. Bulky's?
No music stores (do they exist any more?), no place to eat (unless you count Topsy's... I think those places are like the cockroaches of businesses... they can survive anywhere... Metcalf South Mall had one the last time I was in there, and it had very little else), no book store, and only one of the four "big department store" spots is occupied.
It was horrible. It really made me kinda sick to my stomach, but the emotional one, not the "O to the M to the G, I am so gonna hurl" one.
And here's the spot where I ran into that guy I knew in high school. And here is the spot where they had the Santa Train or whatever every year (and maybe they still do, but just decided not to put it out for June), and here's the spot where Spencer Gifts used to be, and here's the spot where Duff's used to be (and where I first worked as a cook)... and on and on.
I get it, I get it. We need to have the passage of time so we'll get older and realize what idiots we were in our youth or five years ago or last week or whatever applies. But man, this whole "slippin' in the future thing" can suck.
Yeah, I know, "death of another mall," big deal. It's just... wow. Death of a mall I went to often during college. I think it's just a sort of an affront to the part of me that wants to be able to say, "This happened once. We did this." Of course, those things can still be said. Just without, you know, visual aids.
However, I will tell you the story of my trip to Metro North Mall the other day. It was the second time I'd been there in about a week, but the first time I just drove by--I was trying to find the closest GNC (which, it turns out, is not the one at Metro North Mall... the actual closest one I could hit with a baseball if I was standing in my front yard and threw it with some small fraction of Superman's strength. I mean, like a fifth of the fraction of his strength I'd need to hit Metro North Mall with that baseball standing in the same spot in my yard... and that's not my point and it's been way too long since that open-parenthesis, eh?), and I thought it was there. The place had to have been closed--I mean, yeah, I knew the place wasn't the hoppin' spot it was in the late 80s and early 90s, but I'd expected more than the ten vehicles or so I saw parked around the place. So I didn't go in.
A few days ago, I returned and actually went in. As it turned out, I parked at the other end of the mall from where I needed to be. This worked out well, because my shocked reaction was to walk the length of the place on both floors.
Ghost. Town.
Or, you know: Ghost. Mall.
I can't remember the last time I'd been in there. I mean, I remember the last time I'd been in there, but I didn't remember what year it was. I mean, I remembered what year it was at the time I was in there last, but I cannot now remember what year it was I was last in there.
Because blogging makes my writing English good.
Anyway, the last time I'd been there, I was there for the "Go For The Grand" finals in the northland. We had some kids on our team competing, and we'd gone to watch the finals there. I remember thinking the place was kinda dead and it was kinda said... but this last time I was there? Very dead. Very sad.
You see, back in the day, there was nothing in or near Liberty. In that sentence, "back in the day" means circa August 1985 to May 1990 or so. And "nothing" means "very little to see or do that was of interest to your average college student".
Metro North Mall was where I most often went to see movies while in college. It's where Gregg Elliott and I acted out the poster for White Knights, and where Jhoneric Campbell and Jennifer Sherburne crashed an burned trying to act out the poster for Jewel of the Nile about three seconds after Gregg and I did our thing.
Jhoneric and I wrote "Toxic Mall Rats", the award winning musical (in our minds) after a visit to Metro North Mall--and we used that mall as the template for the mall in the musical. To my knowledge, no dead body was ever found in one of the fountains, and no heavy metal songstress had a concert there, and the mall never exploded, but I still feel we captured the essence of that place.
Walking around that place the other day I kept remembering what used to be in all those empty spots. There has to be no more than 20 stores there now, and I really think it's closer to 12 than 20.
The first horrible blow was seeing the total lack of Mr. Bulky's. How are you gonna have a mall without a Mr. Bulky's?
No music stores (do they exist any more?), no place to eat (unless you count Topsy's... I think those places are like the cockroaches of businesses... they can survive anywhere... Metcalf South Mall had one the last time I was in there, and it had very little else), no book store, and only one of the four "big department store" spots is occupied.
It was horrible. It really made me kinda sick to my stomach, but the emotional one, not the "O to the M to the G, I am so gonna hurl" one.
And here's the spot where I ran into that guy I knew in high school. And here is the spot where they had the Santa Train or whatever every year (and maybe they still do, but just decided not to put it out for June), and here's the spot where Spencer Gifts used to be, and here's the spot where Duff's used to be (and where I first worked as a cook)... and on and on.
I get it, I get it. We need to have the passage of time so we'll get older and realize what idiots we were in our youth or five years ago or last week or whatever applies. But man, this whole "slippin' in the future thing" can suck.
Yeah, I know, "death of another mall," big deal. It's just... wow. Death of a mall I went to often during college. I think it's just a sort of an affront to the part of me that wants to be able to say, "This happened once. We did this." Of course, those things can still be said. Just without, you know, visual aids.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Secret Behind The "No Fear" Thing
Before I start, there's a poll over there to the left. You probably can't read it at all. Try clicking and dragging as if you were going to copy and paste. I still haven't worked out the issues with this whole new layout thing, and at the rate I'm going, won't get around to it before I change the whole thing again.
Anyway, there's a poll. As I type this, I don't even remember what it's about. I put it up the other day, but Google was being a freak about posting it for some reason, and I just figured it would show up when it showed up, and then I'd post something about it here. I just noticed tonight it's over there.
Now, back to this post.
I have probably mentioned it sometime in the past six or so years that I've been occasionally expressing my thoughts with as many embarrassing typographical errors as possible on here, but fear plays a major part in my life. Way too much of a major part in my life. I mean, in so many ways, I so could not care less about things, but in so many ways that's a huge lie.
Shut up. You're all dichotomistic. Don't try to deny it. Or argue that "dichotomistic" isn't a word. Look up dichotomy and then just look the other way like you do when I make up other words like... well, I can't think up any examples right now, but you know it's true. All of it. Not just the bit about the word-making-up-ed-ness, but the dichotomy thing, too.
Argh. Where was I?
Oh yeah: fear in my life.
It's stupid the role fear plays and has played in my life. More stupid that I've realized it and yet it still plays a huge role. As much as I don't care what people think, I'm also there, caring what people think. As much as I don't care who I make angry, I care who I make angry.
However, I can firmly say, fear plays a huge part in my life. I can't follow with, "And yet I'm so without fear." I can't think of many times I've been without fear... and you can probably change that to "I can't think of any times", were it not for my dislike for speaking in absolutes.
So as I look back at some of the highlights of my fear-filled life (the Brad Graham incident of 1985, college selection, and a whole host of things I'm afraid to mention (see!?!?)), I realize the whole "No Fear" thing probably started because I was hogging all the fear, and people were actually running out.
Don't get me wrong, I don't cower in fear at every little thing... I'm certainly less afraid of physical pain that I should be--and less afraid of the general "what will become of me" than I should be.
Really, I had a destination in mind when I started writing this. I swear I did. I'll let you know if we end up anywhere close.
Okay, for instance, the whole "Dad" thing (see Ruth's post here). I didn't want to bring it up, because I was afraid it was going to stir up sh*t. I don't mind that Ruth did, because I trust her judgement a whole lot more than I trust my own. I figured it she was willing to bring it up, it was probably okay. Then I just kick myself for not having the guts to bring it up. I just don't trust my judgement in this arena very well. I also don't trust my instincts. Just a side note there.
I mean, yes, there are times that I am not afraid to stir things up, especially if I very very very very firmly believe something is wrong. And there really do need to be that many "very"s in front of it before I'll actually grab the spoon and start stirring...
But for the most part, I think if I knew I could feed and clothe myself, and keep myself warm, I'd go live in a cave somewhere and only come out when people needed me for something. You know, like reaching something on a high-up shelf for someone.
Also, I'd like a cave with wireless internet, but that's really optional. People think this isn't so where I'm concerned, but there were several years there I lived without cable to save money... You'd be amazed at what I can do without if I have to. Especially if it meant there's less chance of me stirring stuff up!
Anyway, my fear-filled life was on my mind tonight. For some reason it came to me after I read this old post of mine from a few years back. Maybe there's a connection. No, wait, there is a connection, but I'm not going to share it for a secret reason that rhymes with smear and leer and bier.
So, um... Happy Father's Day to my dad, in the Great Beyond. Happy Father's Day to the many dads who quasi-adopted me throughout my earlier years (Mike Couch, Tom VanSkike, Les Taylor, Kim Harris, to name a few--and forgive me if I've forgotten any).
Now I have to go back and re-read this to see if I'm really gonna post it... (fear, you know)
Oh, and I have no idea if we ended up where I thought we'd end up!
Anyway, there's a poll. As I type this, I don't even remember what it's about. I put it up the other day, but Google was being a freak about posting it for some reason, and I just figured it would show up when it showed up, and then I'd post something about it here. I just noticed tonight it's over there.
Now, back to this post.
I have probably mentioned it sometime in the past six or so years that I've been occasionally expressing my thoughts with as many embarrassing typographical errors as possible on here, but fear plays a major part in my life. Way too much of a major part in my life. I mean, in so many ways, I so could not care less about things, but in so many ways that's a huge lie.
Shut up. You're all dichotomistic. Don't try to deny it. Or argue that "dichotomistic" isn't a word. Look up dichotomy and then just look the other way like you do when I make up other words like... well, I can't think up any examples right now, but you know it's true. All of it. Not just the bit about the word-making-up-ed-ness, but the dichotomy thing, too.
Argh. Where was I?
Oh yeah: fear in my life.
It's stupid the role fear plays and has played in my life. More stupid that I've realized it and yet it still plays a huge role. As much as I don't care what people think, I'm also there, caring what people think. As much as I don't care who I make angry, I care who I make angry.
However, I can firmly say, fear plays a huge part in my life. I can't follow with, "And yet I'm so without fear." I can't think of many times I've been without fear... and you can probably change that to "I can't think of any times", were it not for my dislike for speaking in absolutes.
So as I look back at some of the highlights of my fear-filled life (the Brad Graham incident of 1985, college selection, and a whole host of things I'm afraid to mention (see!?!?)), I realize the whole "No Fear" thing probably started because I was hogging all the fear, and people were actually running out.
Don't get me wrong, I don't cower in fear at every little thing... I'm certainly less afraid of physical pain that I should be--and less afraid of the general "what will become of me" than I should be.
Really, I had a destination in mind when I started writing this. I swear I did. I'll let you know if we end up anywhere close.
Okay, for instance, the whole "Dad" thing (see Ruth's post here). I didn't want to bring it up, because I was afraid it was going to stir up sh*t. I don't mind that Ruth did, because I trust her judgement a whole lot more than I trust my own. I figured it she was willing to bring it up, it was probably okay. Then I just kick myself for not having the guts to bring it up. I just don't trust my judgement in this arena very well. I also don't trust my instincts. Just a side note there.
I mean, yes, there are times that I am not afraid to stir things up, especially if I very very very very firmly believe something is wrong. And there really do need to be that many "very"s in front of it before I'll actually grab the spoon and start stirring...
But for the most part, I think if I knew I could feed and clothe myself, and keep myself warm, I'd go live in a cave somewhere and only come out when people needed me for something. You know, like reaching something on a high-up shelf for someone.
Also, I'd like a cave with wireless internet, but that's really optional. People think this isn't so where I'm concerned, but there were several years there I lived without cable to save money... You'd be amazed at what I can do without if I have to. Especially if it meant there's less chance of me stirring stuff up!
Anyway, my fear-filled life was on my mind tonight. For some reason it came to me after I read this old post of mine from a few years back. Maybe there's a connection. No, wait, there is a connection, but I'm not going to share it for a secret reason that rhymes with smear and leer and bier.
So, um... Happy Father's Day to my dad, in the Great Beyond. Happy Father's Day to the many dads who quasi-adopted me throughout my earlier years (Mike Couch, Tom VanSkike, Les Taylor, Kim Harris, to name a few--and forgive me if I've forgotten any).
Now I have to go back and re-read this to see if I'm really gonna post it... (fear, you know)
Oh, and I have no idea if we ended up where I thought we'd end up!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
We Interrupt This Blog...
I had a quick couple of things I wanted to say, and thought I forgot one of them, but now I remember it. There is no reason for me to keep all of that in this paragraph, and yet I do.
First, I'm playing with the look of this blog. I'm not married to what it is right now, so if you hate it, give it time; it will probably change.
Second, my sister is finally blogging. There's a link in one of the side bars (currently on the right, but I might move it). Her blog is The World Needed Another Blog, which I think is a great title, and very "her". Also, she makes me sound like some sort of total j.d. in her description of her blog, so go check it out.
We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging, already in lack of progress.
First, I'm playing with the look of this blog. I'm not married to what it is right now, so if you hate it, give it time; it will probably change.
Second, my sister is finally blogging. There's a link in one of the side bars (currently on the right, but I might move it). Her blog is The World Needed Another Blog, which I think is a great title, and very "her". Also, she makes me sound like some sort of total j.d. in her description of her blog, so go check it out.
We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging, already in lack of progress.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Another Jewell Visit
Twenty-five years ago today, I came to Kansas City for the first time. It was some sort of pre-registration event for incoming freshmen at Jewell. The Kansas City part was fairly short... and may have technically been a look from a slight distance, as we came across on I-70 and then headed north on... some road or another. If I had to guess now, I'd say 435, but maybe we did the 291 thing. Whatever.
Anyway, the date has always stuck in my head, as it was such a huge thing for me. I wanted to get out of Ralls County (no offense, Ralls County) so bad at that point, and I had an audition for a scholarship that day, and it was a huge deal. The night before I'd spent what seemed like hours perusing the Hannibal Public Library looking for a 4-minute monologue piece. In those days way before the internet, I had no idea how to find such a thing in my rural home town or nearby towns' libraries. June 7, 1985 was one of the first times I heard my mom drop the f-bomb, by the way.
I came in from my fruitless trip to the library in Hannibal, and Mom asked if I found anything. If you've seen that scene with Edie McClurg from "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles", what came out of my mouth was not unlike what I said to my mom at that point. However, my rant was about living in a small town and a rural community--just equally peppered with f-bombs as the one in the movie. Mom's response was similar to the one by Edie McClurg's character: "Well, f*** it." Well, similar in that it was short and had the f-bomb in it.
So I went to my trusty Apple //c and started adapting the floor show from "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe" into a four-minute monologue. I stayed up very late working on that, and had to get up very early the next morning.
We had just gotten a handicap van (with a wheelchair lift), and I seem to recall the removal or the return of one of the swivel chairs in the back the night before. The library search, the conversation with mom, seeing the chair replacement/removal, and the hours spent in front of my computer with a paperback book beside me are the main things I remember from the day before.
I got a couple of hours sleep before we had to get up, get ready, and head for Jewell. In an ideal world, I would have slept in the van. However, I had a monologue to memorize. I'll cut to the chase on the audition: it was terrible, but luckily at that point to get a theatre scholarship at Jewell if you were male, all you had to do was be in the program.
I guess the Taylor family (sans Derek, if I remember correctly) came to our house, and we all left in the van from there. I remember Les pointing out a hotel he worked on when he was in the Kansas City area working. I still think of that whenever I drive by that place on I-70.
I don't remember a lot of time details. I know early on I had my audition, which started with a meeting with Kim and his son Kyle (well, the meeting was with Kim, and Kyle was there). Kyle was on his way into 2nd grade, and his head was shaved. I thought he had leukemia or something.
I know my appointment to set up my schedule started while I was auditioning. My mom met with Dr. Dunham for that part, and I arrived later. We were in the west cafeteria, not far from where me and mine often ate dinner every night over the next several years. Apparently Dr. Dunham found my mom entertaining enough not to shoo us away upon my arrival.
We didn't look at a lot of the campus (at least, it doesn't seem like we did... I was dead tired, so maybe I sleepwalked through it). I remember seeing Joy Mincey, because she had long black hair with a streak of red it in. This small-town boy was shocked that people would go out in daylight like that.
In honor of it being the 25th anniversary of my first visit to Jewell, I went on campus today. I took a lot of pictures of the quad, and my photo-of-myself for the day was outside the theatre. And I ran into Dr. Robinson! I was in her "Teaching Reading in the Secondary School" class in... 1989 or so. She was so excited to learn of another male middle school teacher... and I learned in the course of her conversation she has been teaching there for 31 years!
I walked around the library a bit, and went into the new-fangled Student Union. It's all very different. Blink, and 25 years pass.
Apparently, lots of other changes are on the way. The school wants to "modernize" the front of the library, so it looks more like the new Student Union front. Whatever. It's all good. I've got photos of what it used to look like.
I kept thinking how much has already changed since that day. I decided to go while I was on the other side of town, so just for fun I had the Garmin tell me how to get there. I had my phone with me. I was taking pictures with my digital camera. I wondered what that me from 25 years ago would have thought about all that, were we to bump into each other on the quad. But there were probably much more important things to share with that guy. Winning Powerball numbers, for instance...
Anyway, the date has always stuck in my head, as it was such a huge thing for me. I wanted to get out of Ralls County (no offense, Ralls County) so bad at that point, and I had an audition for a scholarship that day, and it was a huge deal. The night before I'd spent what seemed like hours perusing the Hannibal Public Library looking for a 4-minute monologue piece. In those days way before the internet, I had no idea how to find such a thing in my rural home town or nearby towns' libraries. June 7, 1985 was one of the first times I heard my mom drop the f-bomb, by the way.
I came in from my fruitless trip to the library in Hannibal, and Mom asked if I found anything. If you've seen that scene with Edie McClurg from "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles", what came out of my mouth was not unlike what I said to my mom at that point. However, my rant was about living in a small town and a rural community--just equally peppered with f-bombs as the one in the movie. Mom's response was similar to the one by Edie McClurg's character: "Well, f*** it." Well, similar in that it was short and had the f-bomb in it.
So I went to my trusty Apple //c and started adapting the floor show from "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe" into a four-minute monologue. I stayed up very late working on that, and had to get up very early the next morning.
We had just gotten a handicap van (with a wheelchair lift), and I seem to recall the removal or the return of one of the swivel chairs in the back the night before. The library search, the conversation with mom, seeing the chair replacement/removal, and the hours spent in front of my computer with a paperback book beside me are the main things I remember from the day before.
I got a couple of hours sleep before we had to get up, get ready, and head for Jewell. In an ideal world, I would have slept in the van. However, I had a monologue to memorize. I'll cut to the chase on the audition: it was terrible, but luckily at that point to get a theatre scholarship at Jewell if you were male, all you had to do was be in the program.
I guess the Taylor family (sans Derek, if I remember correctly) came to our house, and we all left in the van from there. I remember Les pointing out a hotel he worked on when he was in the Kansas City area working. I still think of that whenever I drive by that place on I-70.
I don't remember a lot of time details. I know early on I had my audition, which started with a meeting with Kim and his son Kyle (well, the meeting was with Kim, and Kyle was there). Kyle was on his way into 2nd grade, and his head was shaved. I thought he had leukemia or something.
I know my appointment to set up my schedule started while I was auditioning. My mom met with Dr. Dunham for that part, and I arrived later. We were in the west cafeteria, not far from where me and mine often ate dinner every night over the next several years. Apparently Dr. Dunham found my mom entertaining enough not to shoo us away upon my arrival.
We didn't look at a lot of the campus (at least, it doesn't seem like we did... I was dead tired, so maybe I sleepwalked through it). I remember seeing Joy Mincey, because she had long black hair with a streak of red it in. This small-town boy was shocked that people would go out in daylight like that.
In honor of it being the 25th anniversary of my first visit to Jewell, I went on campus today. I took a lot of pictures of the quad, and my photo-of-myself for the day was outside the theatre. And I ran into Dr. Robinson! I was in her "Teaching Reading in the Secondary School" class in... 1989 or so. She was so excited to learn of another male middle school teacher... and I learned in the course of her conversation she has been teaching there for 31 years!
I walked around the library a bit, and went into the new-fangled Student Union. It's all very different. Blink, and 25 years pass.
Apparently, lots of other changes are on the way. The school wants to "modernize" the front of the library, so it looks more like the new Student Union front. Whatever. It's all good. I've got photos of what it used to look like.
I kept thinking how much has already changed since that day. I decided to go while I was on the other side of town, so just for fun I had the Garmin tell me how to get there. I had my phone with me. I was taking pictures with my digital camera. I wondered what that me from 25 years ago would have thought about all that, were we to bump into each other on the quad. But there were probably much more important things to share with that guy. Winning Powerball numbers, for instance...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Consider This A Wagon Well Fallen Off Of... Or Something
Yikes! Many days have passed. Remember a couple of months ago, when I was writing daily. Those were good times, eh?
Okay, so I re-read my post about my crazy life (like two back, I think) because I got the feeling I had offended some of my commenters (and I'm going to mention at least one of you buy name, so I hope that's okay... and by name, I mean by the name I use which is your screen name or blog name or whatever... and I've gone on too long about this, haven't I?).
There was so much wrong with that last paragraph. Manchion should use it as a DOL for class tomorrow.
Anyway, I thought I should re-read the post, because I think some people took umbrage at what I said about people posting to gain readership, etc.
And I get that. I don't know if I'm going to start trying to make the pedals on this bike go backwards, but I will stop pedaling and lift my feet off the handlebars and let gravity and inertia battle it out...
I really did not mean all the people who actually SAY something, if that makes any sense. And if I was the person I meant to be when I was younger, I would go to the blog of every person who posts on here and find something positive to post on theirs. It's how I'm wired. I'm a teacher, for cryin' in a bucket! The way I discuss in my online grad school class is to find the person with the fewest responses and find SOMETHING to talk about in their initial posting. It really is how I'm wired.
However, in addition to people like Purple Cow, who actually says stuff, and Robin, who I have conversed with via comments on here and via facebook, and MANY other people who seem to be genuinely wanting to share a compliment or a thank-you (or even an opposing view, on occasion), I get some crazy spam-like comments... and if you go through, I get some comments that seem "real" until you see the similarity to so many other comments and think they are "unreal".
And the thing is, they may be real. Who knows, right?
Oh, and the blogger my brain calls "Toppo", but really it's longer than that. That person seems to be... less easily thought of as unreal.
And this Arshed person I haven't looked into yet (just meaning reading profile, checking out blog, etc., not actually, you know, LOOKING INTO like a background check or whatever), but I think is on the "Mark thinks they are real" side of things.
Not that it's some elite group everybody should want to get into. I'm just trying to lay out the map of that part of my brain for you.
Anyway, I got distracted and lost my track, which is the norm. What I'm trying to say is, after hearing from several of the people I think of as "real" (again, if I haven't mentioned you as "real", that's not to mean I don't, it just means it's late and I haven't gone through all my comments), I guess I realize I do want to take some time to read about these people.
A friend of mine in high school, who I went on and on about during many posts from early January until... I don't know how many back... I guess we have to include this one, now, too... anyway, this guy was big into the blogness. He knew people from all over, and I think he had a bit of a "no fear" attitude about it. If you knew the whole story about us, you'd see he was the poster boy for "no fear", and I was Mr. Fear 1985. So I should work on fixing that. I should go read other people's stuff. I should get to know some people, eh?
Okay, so here's my goal: I am going to read your blog--at least three entries--and comment on at least one if you comment here. If I fail to do so, then I have to prepare all of Julia C.'s recipes in a year and blog about that. Or something.
Anyway, it's late, and I've gone from silly to stupid back to silly again (but with a hint of stupid, for flavor). Good night, all.
Oh, and Brenda, I know you're real, because I've known you for nigh unto 25 years... I fell I should say that because I sense an impending comment from you...
And now that I mention it, I know all you other people I know are real too. Stop being smart-ashes.
Okay, so I re-read my post about my crazy life (like two back, I think) because I got the feeling I had offended some of my commenters (and I'm going to mention at least one of you buy name, so I hope that's okay... and by name, I mean by the name I use which is your screen name or blog name or whatever... and I've gone on too long about this, haven't I?).
There was so much wrong with that last paragraph. Manchion should use it as a DOL for class tomorrow.
Anyway, I thought I should re-read the post, because I think some people took umbrage at what I said about people posting to gain readership, etc.
And I get that. I don't know if I'm going to start trying to make the pedals on this bike go backwards, but I will stop pedaling and lift my feet off the handlebars and let gravity and inertia battle it out...
I really did not mean all the people who actually SAY something, if that makes any sense. And if I was the person I meant to be when I was younger, I would go to the blog of every person who posts on here and find something positive to post on theirs. It's how I'm wired. I'm a teacher, for cryin' in a bucket! The way I discuss in my online grad school class is to find the person with the fewest responses and find SOMETHING to talk about in their initial posting. It really is how I'm wired.
However, in addition to people like Purple Cow, who actually says stuff, and Robin, who I have conversed with via comments on here and via facebook, and MANY other people who seem to be genuinely wanting to share a compliment or a thank-you (or even an opposing view, on occasion), I get some crazy spam-like comments... and if you go through, I get some comments that seem "real" until you see the similarity to so many other comments and think they are "unreal".
And the thing is, they may be real. Who knows, right?
Oh, and the blogger my brain calls "Toppo", but really it's longer than that. That person seems to be... less easily thought of as unreal.
And this Arshed person I haven't looked into yet (just meaning reading profile, checking out blog, etc., not actually, you know, LOOKING INTO like a background check or whatever), but I think is on the "Mark thinks they are real" side of things.
Not that it's some elite group everybody should want to get into. I'm just trying to lay out the map of that part of my brain for you.
Anyway, I got distracted and lost my track, which is the norm. What I'm trying to say is, after hearing from several of the people I think of as "real" (again, if I haven't mentioned you as "real", that's not to mean I don't, it just means it's late and I haven't gone through all my comments), I guess I realize I do want to take some time to read about these people.
A friend of mine in high school, who I went on and on about during many posts from early January until... I don't know how many back... I guess we have to include this one, now, too... anyway, this guy was big into the blogness. He knew people from all over, and I think he had a bit of a "no fear" attitude about it. If you knew the whole story about us, you'd see he was the poster boy for "no fear", and I was Mr. Fear 1985. So I should work on fixing that. I should go read other people's stuff. I should get to know some people, eh?
Okay, so here's my goal: I am going to read your blog--at least three entries--and comment on at least one if you comment here. If I fail to do so, then I have to prepare all of Julia C.'s recipes in a year and blog about that. Or something.
Anyway, it's late, and I've gone from silly to stupid back to silly again (but with a hint of stupid, for flavor). Good night, all.
Oh, and Brenda, I know you're real, because I've known you for nigh unto 25 years... I fell I should say that because I sense an impending comment from you...
And now that I mention it, I know all you other people I know are real too. Stop being smart-ashes.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
As I Was Going Down The Stair
Don't read too much into this, as I have no idea what it means...
But "I feel like the man who wasn't there," keeps going through my head, and it just feels oddly appropriate. I'd love to connect it to... well, anything, really. But I'm not doing a very good job of it. I was trying to describe to myself what I felt like (I live alone, so good company for conversation isn't a staple here), and this is the phrase my brain sent me.
It's right up there with "My heart wants to sing, but it doesn't know the words," from 1989 or so. It's better than 1992's "Listen to the clear blue world," or "Welcome to the clear blue world," which my brain supplied in a dream, however.
Yeah, my brain has too much time on its hands.
Anyway, that's what I feel like right now. I just feel very... not here.
It probably doesn't help that I'm becoming more and more of a homebody. I'm home, I don't want to go out. End of story. Really. You should be here for the pep talks I give myself when I'm considering going out to a movie or to the store.
Whatever. I just thought I'd share here, because that thought is a very good reason for not writing as often as I have: I feel like the man who wasn't there.
Nobody sees me, but they wish I'd go away!
Okay, I just made myself laugh.
Also, here are some sites to check out... I need to update my link list over there, I guess. Maybe I'll just do that instead. Both would be better, I guess...
Mike Humphrey, a guy I knew in college has a column at true/slant here: http://trueslant.com/michaelhumphrey/
Brenda (she's commented on here, and I've known her since college, as well) blogs here: http://whatyoutalkin.tumblr.com/
And photoblogs here: http://thedailythousand.tumblr.com/
But "I feel like the man who wasn't there," keeps going through my head, and it just feels oddly appropriate. I'd love to connect it to... well, anything, really. But I'm not doing a very good job of it. I was trying to describe to myself what I felt like (I live alone, so good company for conversation isn't a staple here), and this is the phrase my brain sent me.
It's right up there with "My heart wants to sing, but it doesn't know the words," from 1989 or so. It's better than 1992's "Listen to the clear blue world," or "Welcome to the clear blue world," which my brain supplied in a dream, however.
Yeah, my brain has too much time on its hands.
Anyway, that's what I feel like right now. I just feel very... not here.
It probably doesn't help that I'm becoming more and more of a homebody. I'm home, I don't want to go out. End of story. Really. You should be here for the pep talks I give myself when I'm considering going out to a movie or to the store.
Whatever. I just thought I'd share here, because that thought is a very good reason for not writing as often as I have: I feel like the man who wasn't there.
Nobody sees me, but they wish I'd go away!
Okay, I just made myself laugh.
Also, here are some sites to check out... I need to update my link list over there, I guess. Maybe I'll just do that instead. Both would be better, I guess...
Mike Humphrey, a guy I knew in college has a column at true/slant here: http://trueslant.com/michaelhumphrey/
Brenda (she's commented on here, and I've known her since college, as well) blogs here: http://whatyoutalkin.tumblr.com/
And photoblogs here: http://thedailythousand.tumblr.com/
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
And I Am Back...
Okay, things got a little crazy there for a while. The last couple of weeks of class were a bit insane, and I was starting to get a little freaked out by some of the posts to my blog entries... While I love being told how people love my writing style, the similarity of the postings makes me doubt the sincerity of the sentiment... and makes me wonder if I'm in some political office and people are telling me how the "really feel" by copying and pasting e-mail content to me. It's strange.
I guess it's a way to increase readership or whatever, and that's great... but even the blogs I like to read are blogs I seldom read. Part of it is my crazy life, and the other part of it is... the rest of my crazy life, I guess.
Anyway, the facebook folks know this, but I'll share for the rest of you: I had Binx in my care for several days. I am pretty sure he's no worse for having experienced this. Jordan came over last weekend and we stayed up too late playing Super Mario Brothers Wii the night before church.
Oh, and I got an A- in that class that I was having such a frustrating time with. A smaller part of my frustration comes from the style of writing. I hate reading that sort of writing, so I loathe writing it. I don't get the style, anyway. Why do you want to make getting information such a horrible freakin' chore?
I just deleted the rest of that tirade. Gone... mourn it, yet be thankful.
So that's my life. I'll try to get back to daily posts if for no other reason than to bother people.
Oh, and I've yet to hear from the sleep study folks. I think I need to make a phone call tomorrow, eh?
I guess it's a way to increase readership or whatever, and that's great... but even the blogs I like to read are blogs I seldom read. Part of it is my crazy life, and the other part of it is... the rest of my crazy life, I guess.
Anyway, the facebook folks know this, but I'll share for the rest of you: I had Binx in my care for several days. I am pretty sure he's no worse for having experienced this. Jordan came over last weekend and we stayed up too late playing Super Mario Brothers Wii the night before church.
Oh, and I got an A- in that class that I was having such a frustrating time with. A smaller part of my frustration comes from the style of writing. I hate reading that sort of writing, so I loathe writing it. I don't get the style, anyway. Why do you want to make getting information such a horrible freakin' chore?
I just deleted the rest of that tirade. Gone... mourn it, yet be thankful.
So that's my life. I'll try to get back to daily posts if for no other reason than to bother people.
Oh, and I've yet to hear from the sleep study folks. I think I need to make a phone call tomorrow, eh?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Anybody Got Any Short'nin' Bread?
So I went to the doctor for my "Health & Wellness Visit"... which is like a physical, but with a longer name... and fewer awkward moments.
I got to finally mention all of the things I've been wanting to ask my doctor about for a while, so that was nice.
They didn't want me to eat anything for twelve hours, which is easy to do when you make the appointment for fairly early in the morning and you don't keep much in the way of food in the house. But because they asked this of me, I started wondering last night if this meant anything in particular... especially involving the digestion system... and more specifically, the end bit of it.
So I called Say, who was busy working a crazy-long day and thus didn't answer. I left her a message asking if the doctor was going to do that thing where I'd at least like a little sweet talk before he started, and said some other stuff and left it at that. I was at rehearsal, so when Say didn't call back for a while, I found Mark, who is a nurse, and asked him. He assured me it was all about blood work, not butt work.
Say confirmed this on a message she left after I called her again during the break to ask how she could abandon me in the middle of a medical emergency like this...
Imagine my discomfort this morning, then, when the nurse got out some rubber gloves and a tube of... I'm trying to think of a non-gross-sounding word for it... and I've failed, so we'll move on.
She said, "I'll get these out, just in case..." and left the room.
Now that was a fun wait. There is some mental preparation that goes into this. I mean, I hardly know the man...
Sorry for the delay that you didn't notice because it happened as I was typing this, not as you were reading it. I was just cracking myself up with all the possible next lines. I've opted to just pretend I didn't just set up a bawdy joke.
So he comes in, we go through all the questions and the awkward non-hind-end touching that goes with a "Health and Wellness Visit"... which is all above the waist, for those of you with your mind in the gutter... or at least below the waist. And I ask my questions, and he asks counter-questions, and the whole time the pair of gloves and the tube of whatever are just hanging there in the air between us, the elephant in the room, as it were. But, you know, and elephant that can hang in the air sort of thing.
Finally, he points to the items and says, "We're not going to do that today. I think they just get those out to scare people."
I sighed a big sigh of relief, and then immediately felt bad, so I said, "Don't get me wrong. I do like you, but as a friend only..."
I kid.
Anyway, nothing exciting to report. All of the little this'n'thats I was asking about were either answered with, "We can do that if you want, but you're okay if you don't" or "Losing weight and exercising will help with that", and for the most part I called all of those in the second category before I even went in to see him.
I am going to do another sleep study, even though the one 5 years ago was enough to get me on a whatchamahookey... because it was 5 years ago and I never got on a whatchamahookey.
I'm looking forward to it, however. Apparently there are many health benefits to a good night's sleep.
I got to finally mention all of the things I've been wanting to ask my doctor about for a while, so that was nice.
They didn't want me to eat anything for twelve hours, which is easy to do when you make the appointment for fairly early in the morning and you don't keep much in the way of food in the house. But because they asked this of me, I started wondering last night if this meant anything in particular... especially involving the digestion system... and more specifically, the end bit of it.
So I called Say, who was busy working a crazy-long day and thus didn't answer. I left her a message asking if the doctor was going to do that thing where I'd at least like a little sweet talk before he started, and said some other stuff and left it at that. I was at rehearsal, so when Say didn't call back for a while, I found Mark, who is a nurse, and asked him. He assured me it was all about blood work, not butt work.
Say confirmed this on a message she left after I called her again during the break to ask how she could abandon me in the middle of a medical emergency like this...
Imagine my discomfort this morning, then, when the nurse got out some rubber gloves and a tube of... I'm trying to think of a non-gross-sounding word for it... and I've failed, so we'll move on.
She said, "I'll get these out, just in case..." and left the room.
Now that was a fun wait. There is some mental preparation that goes into this. I mean, I hardly know the man...
Sorry for the delay that you didn't notice because it happened as I was typing this, not as you were reading it. I was just cracking myself up with all the possible next lines. I've opted to just pretend I didn't just set up a bawdy joke.
So he comes in, we go through all the questions and the awkward non-hind-end touching that goes with a "Health and Wellness Visit"... which is all above the waist, for those of you with your mind in the gutter... or at least below the waist. And I ask my questions, and he asks counter-questions, and the whole time the pair of gloves and the tube of whatever are just hanging there in the air between us, the elephant in the room, as it were. But, you know, and elephant that can hang in the air sort of thing.
Finally, he points to the items and says, "We're not going to do that today. I think they just get those out to scare people."
I sighed a big sigh of relief, and then immediately felt bad, so I said, "Don't get me wrong. I do like you, but as a friend only..."
I kid.
Anyway, nothing exciting to report. All of the little this'n'thats I was asking about were either answered with, "We can do that if you want, but you're okay if you don't" or "Losing weight and exercising will help with that", and for the most part I called all of those in the second category before I even went in to see him.
I am going to do another sleep study, even though the one 5 years ago was enough to get me on a whatchamahookey... because it was 5 years ago and I never got on a whatchamahookey.
I'm looking forward to it, however. Apparently there are many health benefits to a good night's sleep.
Things To Do While Killing Time Because A Website Is Down...
Actually, this is the only thing I'm going to be doing while waiting, and that's just because I thought I'd write something before I hit the sack...
Apparently there's a bad flu going around. It needs to miss me. Someone pass that along to it from me.
So I've got that 365 (and then some) Days of ME blog going on, right? But my hope was it would encourage other people with digital cameras to take pictures of me and e-mail them to me that same day--thus making me feel like the beautiful superstar supermodel I already know I am... but don't feel like, apparently.
However, the best I've managed so far is to ask people to take pictures of me with my camera. That's fun and all, but there are all these misconceptions now...
Misconception 1: I can be the only one in the shot.
Response: Nuh-uh... look at that pic of me putting Visine in Dane's eye!
Misconception 2: I don't like having my picture taken.
Response: Um... well, I used to not like it so much, but then realized people can see me when there isn't a camera pointed at me, so what's the point? Actually, I used cringe a little when I'd see myself in a photo, but you'd be amazed at how much looking at a picture of yourself every day can actually make that lessen...
I'm done with misconceptions. So there were only 2.
Anyway, I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, and I'm just certain I'll be taking blood pressure meds by the end of the day... and my mind keeps going to the list of things I have to tell the new doctor, as well as things to ask him... and then my mind goes to all the ways there are to get sick and get sicker, and I start wondering if they'll find some secret awful thing tomorrow... and then I remember about my blood pressure and try some breathing exercises...
And I keep waiting for the district site for teachers to open back up... and then the blood pressure thing comes to mind again...
Which is why I'm going to bed now.
Apparently there's a bad flu going around. It needs to miss me. Someone pass that along to it from me.
So I've got that 365 (and then some) Days of ME blog going on, right? But my hope was it would encourage other people with digital cameras to take pictures of me and e-mail them to me that same day--thus making me feel like the beautiful superstar supermodel I already know I am... but don't feel like, apparently.
However, the best I've managed so far is to ask people to take pictures of me with my camera. That's fun and all, but there are all these misconceptions now...
Misconception 1: I can be the only one in the shot.
Response: Nuh-uh... look at that pic of me putting Visine in Dane's eye!
Misconception 2: I don't like having my picture taken.
Response: Um... well, I used to not like it so much, but then realized people can see me when there isn't a camera pointed at me, so what's the point? Actually, I used cringe a little when I'd see myself in a photo, but you'd be amazed at how much looking at a picture of yourself every day can actually make that lessen...
I'm done with misconceptions. So there were only 2.
Anyway, I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, and I'm just certain I'll be taking blood pressure meds by the end of the day... and my mind keeps going to the list of things I have to tell the new doctor, as well as things to ask him... and then my mind goes to all the ways there are to get sick and get sicker, and I start wondering if they'll find some secret awful thing tomorrow... and then I remember about my blood pressure and try some breathing exercises...
And I keep waiting for the district site for teachers to open back up... and then the blood pressure thing comes to mind again...
Which is why I'm going to bed now.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Why I Should Not Be Allowed To Own Sharp Objects
I only wish I was lying about this.
I have cut myself again. And I'm not even goth. What's that about?
So, last night I broiled up some red meat for dinner... a late dinner, but dinner. As I was carrying my plate and utensils (utensils resting on the plate, mind you, a bad choice about which I have now learned my lesson) from the cooking area to the dining area, the steak knife started to fall.
My brain decided since something was falling, I had to catch it.
The knife, falling blade first, went into my thumb and kinda "bounced" out.
Remember how last time I said blood was everywhere or whatever? This time it really was. I thought I was gonna have a full-on freak-out.
About the time I was thinking maybe a trip to the emergency room was in order, I realized the bleeding had... well, not stopped, but seemed to have every intention of considering the possibility of stopping sometime before bedtime.
So then I got to clean up blood from all over the place, which is good practice should I decide to slaughter my own cattle.
On the up side, this has made me go see a doctor, which means it has made me finally make a decision about which doctor suggestion from co-workers would be the best one.
I've got a good feeling about this doctor. He may be the one. I didn't ask, but he appears to be younger than me--so, odds are, I won't have to doctor-shop again until after I'm dead.
Anyway, I just wanted to share, in case you were wondering why it looked like all my spaces were typed by my right hand.
I have cut myself again. And I'm not even goth. What's that about?
So, last night I broiled up some red meat for dinner... a late dinner, but dinner. As I was carrying my plate and utensils (utensils resting on the plate, mind you, a bad choice about which I have now learned my lesson) from the cooking area to the dining area, the steak knife started to fall.
My brain decided since something was falling, I had to catch it.
The knife, falling blade first, went into my thumb and kinda "bounced" out.
Remember how last time I said blood was everywhere or whatever? This time it really was. I thought I was gonna have a full-on freak-out.
About the time I was thinking maybe a trip to the emergency room was in order, I realized the bleeding had... well, not stopped, but seemed to have every intention of considering the possibility of stopping sometime before bedtime.
So then I got to clean up blood from all over the place, which is good practice should I decide to slaughter my own cattle.
On the up side, this has made me go see a doctor, which means it has made me finally make a decision about which doctor suggestion from co-workers would be the best one.
I've got a good feeling about this doctor. He may be the one. I didn't ask, but he appears to be younger than me--so, odds are, I won't have to doctor-shop again until after I'm dead.
Anyway, I just wanted to share, in case you were wondering why it looked like all my spaces were typed by my right hand.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
I may as well confess now: I've fallen off the walking wagon... or I've climbed on it. I don't know. I get confused about the wagon and what it means. I mean, I know if you fall off the wagon, you've started drinking again--which makes very little sense, because you'd have more balance and ability to stay on a wagon if you weren't drinking, but that's neither here nor there...
Since falling off the wagon implies something "bad", I think it'd be best to say I've fallen off the walking wagon... but being on the wagon seems to imply and absence of doing something.
Whatever. I need more people nagging me on facebook about the walking thing. Only my aunt Rachel has asked anything (and I avoided answering her, as I was convinced I'd get back on a regular schedule very soon).
I have no excuse except that the first time I missed I had a good excuse... and I think Terry Pratchett's character Sam Vimes puts it best in Thud! when he thinks, "Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses."
Anyway, whatever, I'm picking back up regularly tomorrow. There, I've typed it, so it must happen.
Barring, you know, alien attacks and whatnot.
Anyway, I've had a very full day, and should be in bed by now. I hope you're all having a wonderful time, and may the wind always be at your back, unless you're wanting to go slower. Or something.
Since falling off the wagon implies something "bad", I think it'd be best to say I've fallen off the walking wagon... but being on the wagon seems to imply and absence of doing something.
Whatever. I need more people nagging me on facebook about the walking thing. Only my aunt Rachel has asked anything (and I avoided answering her, as I was convinced I'd get back on a regular schedule very soon).
I have no excuse except that the first time I missed I had a good excuse... and I think Terry Pratchett's character Sam Vimes puts it best in Thud! when he thinks, "Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses."
Anyway, whatever, I'm picking back up regularly tomorrow. There, I've typed it, so it must happen.
Barring, you know, alien attacks and whatnot.
Anyway, I've had a very full day, and should be in bed by now. I hope you're all having a wonderful time, and may the wind always be at your back, unless you're wanting to go slower. Or something.
Wasn't It Christmas Like Just Yesterday?
In one week I'll be starting our Spring Break. What's up with that?
It seems like just a short time ago it was Winter Break and I was enjoying some sleeping-in time... and I guess it was more recent than what I'm used to since we did get that extra week of Winter Break with all the snow and crazy cold. But still, it doesn't seem like it's been however-many weeks...
I remember being very young and taking trips to Hannibal from Center. It seemed like the trip took months... or at least several hours.
And now years pass as if they're almost nothing. If I wasn't taking pictures daily, I might think nothing ever happens... as it stands, I think nothing ever happens other than me taking some pictures.
I kid.
Remember when time took forever? I remember thinking it would be forever before I was a senior in high school, about to graduate. Since graduation, I've had almost enough time to fit in two more K thru 12 school careers... May of 2011 will mark 26 years since I got out of high school.
And it seems like freakin' yesterday... while also seeming to be so far in the past it may as well have been Ancient Greece.
I find myself anticipating stuff a lot less. Is that just part of getting older? Don't get me wrong, I look forward to things, but I don't fret about having to wait for them to happen. I know they will happen, and I know the less I think about them, the less time it will seem to take between now and the event in question.
Very strange, this perception of the passage of time. Ever since I first noticed this strange "time seems to speed up as I get older" thing, I've had a theory that our perception of time is tainted by how much time we've been alive. Kids think time goes so slowly because a day is a much larger percentage of their life-to-date than it is for some 43-year-old.
This is where I could use Dane sitting next to me. He'd be able to tell me what fraction of my life today was and what fraction of Binx's life today was. I could figure it out, but it seems a shame not to have Dane do it.
Anyway, wasn't it Christmas like just yesterday? At the rate we're going, isn't Thanksgiving going to be like tomorrow?
It seems like just a short time ago it was Winter Break and I was enjoying some sleeping-in time... and I guess it was more recent than what I'm used to since we did get that extra week of Winter Break with all the snow and crazy cold. But still, it doesn't seem like it's been however-many weeks...
I remember being very young and taking trips to Hannibal from Center. It seemed like the trip took months... or at least several hours.
And now years pass as if they're almost nothing. If I wasn't taking pictures daily, I might think nothing ever happens... as it stands, I think nothing ever happens other than me taking some pictures.
I kid.
Remember when time took forever? I remember thinking it would be forever before I was a senior in high school, about to graduate. Since graduation, I've had almost enough time to fit in two more K thru 12 school careers... May of 2011 will mark 26 years since I got out of high school.
And it seems like freakin' yesterday... while also seeming to be so far in the past it may as well have been Ancient Greece.
I find myself anticipating stuff a lot less. Is that just part of getting older? Don't get me wrong, I look forward to things, but I don't fret about having to wait for them to happen. I know they will happen, and I know the less I think about them, the less time it will seem to take between now and the event in question.
Very strange, this perception of the passage of time. Ever since I first noticed this strange "time seems to speed up as I get older" thing, I've had a theory that our perception of time is tainted by how much time we've been alive. Kids think time goes so slowly because a day is a much larger percentage of their life-to-date than it is for some 43-year-old.
This is where I could use Dane sitting next to me. He'd be able to tell me what fraction of my life today was and what fraction of Binx's life today was. I could figure it out, but it seems a shame not to have Dane do it.
Anyway, wasn't it Christmas like just yesterday? At the rate we're going, isn't Thanksgiving going to be like tomorrow?
Thursday, March 04, 2010
It's Better Than Drinking Alone
I need to be clear at the beginning here: I enjoy living alone. I enjoy being alone. I can be just as lonely in a crowd of people I know and love as I can be by myself (not to say I always am lonely in a crowd of people I know and love, I'm just saying it's possible), so being by myself doesn't bother me, usually. I guess mostly because I believe in a way we're all alone on some level, even if we're with the person we love the mostest, etc., because in the end it's just us in here ("in here" being "in our own heads").
And maybe I've always been some sort of near-misanthrope, or maybe I grew into it, or maybe I just don't trust people as much as I used to... or maybe I get tired of rambling on in person and seeing the boredom on the faces of others... it's much easier to ramble here, as I don't have to watch the glazed look come over people as I type.
And I really do get irritated when I have something to do or somewhere to go... nothing major, mind you, but the major part of me just wants to stay home and... stay home.
Don't get me wrong, if you want to come by and hang out, I'm good with that. Heck, if you even suggest we go out and do something, I'm all about that, too. I guess I should clarify: if you're someone I can't stand or some major force of evil, that does not apply to you.
But "having to go somewhere" wears me out. Often, I enjoy myself when I go, but the thought of having to go somewhere is not pleasant. It's like how I feel about stand-up comedy acts. I loathe the idea of seeing one, but the experience is something I enjoy.
I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy.
Aren't you glad I said I wanted to be clear? Imagine what this would have read like if I'd started off wanting to be confusing...
So my point is: I don't mind being alone. In some ways, I crave it. I grew up in a house full of people. I sometimes think my mind feels I deserve all the alone time I can get. I love to have company over, and I love to be with friends and family... and I'm back to being all contradictory and confusing...
Who cares... the reason I started writing this was to reveal something somewhat personal about myself. The other night I had occasion to wish someone good-night at bedtime. I have done this on occasion with young'n's I was babysitting, and even with adults who had taken me in when whatever recent disaster had waltzed its way in to my life via whatever door or window I left open for it. It doesn't happen often that when I am about to go to bed I wish someone "good night" or have someone wish me something similar... and you'd think if I was going to have a big reaction to it, I would have by some point long before now.
But I had a really strange reaction to this. Maybe it was the full moon, or the planets were aligned just right, but I sort of ached. My mind flew back to being a kid with a house full of brothers and sisters, and everyone doing a Walton-esque good-night from their beds, and my brain went a little wonky, wondering two things: When was the last time I really thought about someone saying "good night" to me and me getting to wish the same in return, and how did I get to this point from growing up in a family that actually did the Walton closing scene thing (eventually we'd start wishing John Boy and Mary Ellen a good night, as well).
Anyway, the point of this post was to share I had this moment. It hasn't changed my life or made me want to be a better person or a worse person or a more open or more closed person. I just had this moment where my world spun around my head for a moment, and I did a bit of a free fall, looking at my life as if seeing it for the first time.
In other news, I hope I was able to correctly convey the whole thing about Ben & Killy without making it sound like Ben was all worried about the money. My point was Ben was left with a really horrible decision, and made what most anybody who knew the facts would consider to be the right one, but still felt awful about it (and probably still does). Ben is one of the nicest guys on the planet, and I'd hate to give anybody any idea to the contrary. If we were in a timeline where Tricia never met him, I'd be hunting him down so I could introduce her to him.
Also: I still can't find that pic of the girls with Killybutt. I had printed several pictures from that day, but I can't seem to narrow down the date or find the little memory stick or whatever that has them on it. Very frustrating.
Now, don't everybody go wishing me good night. It's not going to make me have a moment every time, and it's not like I have this burning need to wish someone "good night" or hear it from someone. I just wanted to say I had a very strange reaction to it the other night, and ask if anyone knew of a good psychologist.
And maybe I've always been some sort of near-misanthrope, or maybe I grew into it, or maybe I just don't trust people as much as I used to... or maybe I get tired of rambling on in person and seeing the boredom on the faces of others... it's much easier to ramble here, as I don't have to watch the glazed look come over people as I type.
And I really do get irritated when I have something to do or somewhere to go... nothing major, mind you, but the major part of me just wants to stay home and... stay home.
Don't get me wrong, if you want to come by and hang out, I'm good with that. Heck, if you even suggest we go out and do something, I'm all about that, too. I guess I should clarify: if you're someone I can't stand or some major force of evil, that does not apply to you.
But "having to go somewhere" wears me out. Often, I enjoy myself when I go, but the thought of having to go somewhere is not pleasant. It's like how I feel about stand-up comedy acts. I loathe the idea of seeing one, but the experience is something I enjoy.
I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy.
Aren't you glad I said I wanted to be clear? Imagine what this would have read like if I'd started off wanting to be confusing...
So my point is: I don't mind being alone. In some ways, I crave it. I grew up in a house full of people. I sometimes think my mind feels I deserve all the alone time I can get. I love to have company over, and I love to be with friends and family... and I'm back to being all contradictory and confusing...
Who cares... the reason I started writing this was to reveal something somewhat personal about myself. The other night I had occasion to wish someone good-night at bedtime. I have done this on occasion with young'n's I was babysitting, and even with adults who had taken me in when whatever recent disaster had waltzed its way in to my life via whatever door or window I left open for it. It doesn't happen often that when I am about to go to bed I wish someone "good night" or have someone wish me something similar... and you'd think if I was going to have a big reaction to it, I would have by some point long before now.
But I had a really strange reaction to this. Maybe it was the full moon, or the planets were aligned just right, but I sort of ached. My mind flew back to being a kid with a house full of brothers and sisters, and everyone doing a Walton-esque good-night from their beds, and my brain went a little wonky, wondering two things: When was the last time I really thought about someone saying "good night" to me and me getting to wish the same in return, and how did I get to this point from growing up in a family that actually did the Walton closing scene thing (eventually we'd start wishing John Boy and Mary Ellen a good night, as well).
Anyway, the point of this post was to share I had this moment. It hasn't changed my life or made me want to be a better person or a worse person or a more open or more closed person. I just had this moment where my world spun around my head for a moment, and I did a bit of a free fall, looking at my life as if seeing it for the first time.
In other news, I hope I was able to correctly convey the whole thing about Ben & Killy without making it sound like Ben was all worried about the money. My point was Ben was left with a really horrible decision, and made what most anybody who knew the facts would consider to be the right one, but still felt awful about it (and probably still does). Ben is one of the nicest guys on the planet, and I'd hate to give anybody any idea to the contrary. If we were in a timeline where Tricia never met him, I'd be hunting him down so I could introduce her to him.
Also: I still can't find that pic of the girls with Killybutt. I had printed several pictures from that day, but I can't seem to narrow down the date or find the little memory stick or whatever that has them on it. Very frustrating.
Now, don't everybody go wishing me good night. It's not going to make me have a moment every time, and it's not like I have this burning need to wish someone "good night" or hear it from someone. I just wanted to say I had a very strange reaction to it the other night, and ask if anyone knew of a good psychologist.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
When Buddy Welcomed Killian Home
Hey, sorry I haven't been writing for a while. Mostly I'm sorry to me, because I think there's about 28 of you following this via whatever BlogSpot uses, and another 30 or so via facebook, and of those, I don't know that "follow" is an appropriate word. Maybe more like, "occasionally have time to read". And it's cool. I ain't hatin'. I'm just saying I'm mostly sorry to me because I'm trying to get into the habit of writing for fun more, as I've gotten out of that habit at some point over the past 25 years or so.
Anyway, I'm writing. And be warned: this is going to be one of those long blathering posts that many of you... may or may not have read in the past and may or may not have hated.
We got Dane moved on Saturday. Cody and I drove to Ben & Tricia's around 9:00 or so to borrow Ben's truck. I'd forgotten to remind Ben I needed to borrow it, but it was all good when I got him called on the way there. He and Tricia were out, but the truck was at the house.
Cody went in the house first, as I was throwing something away, and when I got in, I saw Killian and was thankful that Killian has a good memory and had met Cody before. However, I didn't see Guinness anywhere. Like an idiot, I searched all over the house and out back, worried they'd accidentally left him outside before they went out. I asked Killian a couple of times where Guinness was, but his hearing has been a thing of the past for a while, so he basically ignored me. Also: dog.
When I first started hanging out with Ben & Tricia here in KC, the only dog they had was Buddy (or Bud Light, as all the dogs are named after alcoholic beverages... a funny tradition that I'd like to carry on with my pets, but I'd use condom brand names or something). I don't know what Buddy was. I would try to describe him to people who knew breeds, but never got the right answer. It's easier to just hope Tricia will post it on here as a comment. He was a little white furry thing with a missing paw. He was one of those little dogs who behaves as if he's a big dog.
I'm not a pet person, really. The allergy thing doesn't help. Also, the fact Patsy was all done with pets and all the fun that went with them by the time I was born (something Sara somehow got around, as I recall) meant that my main pet experience was via Shawn Couch and his dog, Cocoa.
Let us pause for a moment while I remember Cocoa. I forgot how much I loved Cocoa until this very minute.
Also, I love cocoa, but I'm not going to make any right now.
While I'm not (sorta not) a pet person, I do love a puppy or a kitten. When Ben & Tricia first got Killian, he was this cute little puppy we never should have let sit on the furniture but did anyway. Golden lab, or something... but with red hair... so golden red Irish lab? I don't remember him barking with an Irish accent, but who knows?
My favorite (sort of) Killy moment was when Ben & Tricia both had to go out of town while I was (I think) staying at their house (this would be the first of many such times, I believe... that is to say I believe it was the first, not that I believe there were many such times, as I have experienced the other such times and can count like a troll: one, two, many, lots). When I came home from... maybe the airport... I can't remember now... whatever... when I came home Killy had ripped the hell out of the family room furniture in a fit of puppy rage at being left at home.
I was all like, "Ooooooooooooooh you are in sooooooooooooooooo much trouble when they get home!"
Burn.
Killy had longer hair, so I think he sometimes caused my eyes to go a little red and irritated. But he was a big dog that didn't act like a big dog...
And my past tense is so giving away the plot, isn't it?
Turns out the last time I saw Killy was after I returned the truck to Ben & Tricia's Saturday afternoon. I don't even remember seeing him that time. I remember more asking him where Guinness was and him totally ignoring me because he couldn't hear a thing.
Sunday morning was bad for Killy, and Ben had to take him to the vet. I didn't know anything until I read Tricia's facebook saying it was a sad day. Before I could call to ask her why, she called me. Tears from her, wailing from the girls in the background... and me trying to process. And while she's talking to me, Ben called me. So once I got the plan for the burial and hung up with Tricia, I called Ben.
Ben told me more detail about the morning, and how it wasn't an easy decision, even though they would have had to have spent crazy dollars to keep him alive--and I guess that's a nice testimony to human nature: when the chips are down, money might be a factor, but it isn't the be-all and end-all... unless you're an insurance company, I guess.
So Killian went to sleep, and he was taken to the farm where Buddy was laid to rest several years ago.
The whole thing gave me an idea of writing a children's book about it, more about Killy the puppy running and running after having a dream about being old... and running into a field where his friend Buddy welcomed him home... and the adventures they have there.
I doubt I'll write it, unless someone is a great artist and would illustrate a one-off (or two-off, I guess, since there are two girls) copy for the girls. Think about it, artist types!
I know I have a great picture of the girls goofing around on the floor with Killy. Of course, I can't find the thing to save my life right now, and that's making me crazy. I'd love to be able to bring them each a copy of that picture on Sunday.
Killy (or Killybutt, as I more often called him) and I had a bond that I did my best to hide from Tricia. But she saw through it, just like she saw through my apparent distaste for Buddy (yeah, YOU try getting a baby-near-toddler Olivia to say good-bye to Buddy before he's going off to be put to sleep without tearing up a lot). Killy was a very huggable dog. And he didn't care what time you got up, as long as you let him go out before you went to bed at 4:00 in the morning.
Killybutt will be missed, and I'll be one of the main missers. I freely admit it.
Now dog-owners, go hug your dog.
Anyway, I'm writing. And be warned: this is going to be one of those long blathering posts that many of you... may or may not have read in the past and may or may not have hated.
We got Dane moved on Saturday. Cody and I drove to Ben & Tricia's around 9:00 or so to borrow Ben's truck. I'd forgotten to remind Ben I needed to borrow it, but it was all good when I got him called on the way there. He and Tricia were out, but the truck was at the house.
Cody went in the house first, as I was throwing something away, and when I got in, I saw Killian and was thankful that Killian has a good memory and had met Cody before. However, I didn't see Guinness anywhere. Like an idiot, I searched all over the house and out back, worried they'd accidentally left him outside before they went out. I asked Killian a couple of times where Guinness was, but his hearing has been a thing of the past for a while, so he basically ignored me. Also: dog.
When I first started hanging out with Ben & Tricia here in KC, the only dog they had was Buddy (or Bud Light, as all the dogs are named after alcoholic beverages... a funny tradition that I'd like to carry on with my pets, but I'd use condom brand names or something). I don't know what Buddy was. I would try to describe him to people who knew breeds, but never got the right answer. It's easier to just hope Tricia will post it on here as a comment. He was a little white furry thing with a missing paw. He was one of those little dogs who behaves as if he's a big dog.
I'm not a pet person, really. The allergy thing doesn't help. Also, the fact Patsy was all done with pets and all the fun that went with them by the time I was born (something Sara somehow got around, as I recall) meant that my main pet experience was via Shawn Couch and his dog, Cocoa.
Let us pause for a moment while I remember Cocoa. I forgot how much I loved Cocoa until this very minute.
Also, I love cocoa, but I'm not going to make any right now.
While I'm not (sorta not) a pet person, I do love a puppy or a kitten. When Ben & Tricia first got Killian, he was this cute little puppy we never should have let sit on the furniture but did anyway. Golden lab, or something... but with red hair... so golden red Irish lab? I don't remember him barking with an Irish accent, but who knows?
My favorite (sort of) Killy moment was when Ben & Tricia both had to go out of town while I was (I think) staying at their house (this would be the first of many such times, I believe... that is to say I believe it was the first, not that I believe there were many such times, as I have experienced the other such times and can count like a troll: one, two, many, lots). When I came home from... maybe the airport... I can't remember now... whatever... when I came home Killy had ripped the hell out of the family room furniture in a fit of puppy rage at being left at home.
I was all like, "Ooooooooooooooh you are in sooooooooooooooooo much trouble when they get home!"
Burn.
Killy had longer hair, so I think he sometimes caused my eyes to go a little red and irritated. But he was a big dog that didn't act like a big dog...
And my past tense is so giving away the plot, isn't it?
Turns out the last time I saw Killy was after I returned the truck to Ben & Tricia's Saturday afternoon. I don't even remember seeing him that time. I remember more asking him where Guinness was and him totally ignoring me because he couldn't hear a thing.
Sunday morning was bad for Killy, and Ben had to take him to the vet. I didn't know anything until I read Tricia's facebook saying it was a sad day. Before I could call to ask her why, she called me. Tears from her, wailing from the girls in the background... and me trying to process. And while she's talking to me, Ben called me. So once I got the plan for the burial and hung up with Tricia, I called Ben.
Ben told me more detail about the morning, and how it wasn't an easy decision, even though they would have had to have spent crazy dollars to keep him alive--and I guess that's a nice testimony to human nature: when the chips are down, money might be a factor, but it isn't the be-all and end-all... unless you're an insurance company, I guess.
So Killian went to sleep, and he was taken to the farm where Buddy was laid to rest several years ago.
The whole thing gave me an idea of writing a children's book about it, more about Killy the puppy running and running after having a dream about being old... and running into a field where his friend Buddy welcomed him home... and the adventures they have there.
I doubt I'll write it, unless someone is a great artist and would illustrate a one-off (or two-off, I guess, since there are two girls) copy for the girls. Think about it, artist types!
I know I have a great picture of the girls goofing around on the floor with Killy. Of course, I can't find the thing to save my life right now, and that's making me crazy. I'd love to be able to bring them each a copy of that picture on Sunday.
Killy (or Killybutt, as I more often called him) and I had a bond that I did my best to hide from Tricia. But she saw through it, just like she saw through my apparent distaste for Buddy (yeah, YOU try getting a baby-near-toddler Olivia to say good-bye to Buddy before he's going off to be put to sleep without tearing up a lot). Killy was a very huggable dog. And he didn't care what time you got up, as long as you let him go out before you went to bed at 4:00 in the morning.
Killybutt will be missed, and I'll be one of the main missers. I freely admit it.
Now dog-owners, go hug your dog.
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