New Car

In the 24 years that I have been driving I’ve owned, and co-owned ten cars. My first has always been my favorite, and she was a 1974 Chevrolet Camaro, and I bought her in 1981. I loved driving my Camaro, and any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. In 1983 Chevrolet came out with Camaro’s third body style and, in my opinion, the Camaro has never been the same. However, Chevy may still pull a classic Camaro shaped rabbit out of its hat one of these days. Who knows?

I’ve never owned a vehicle that even came close to bringing me the joy that my Camaro did. Maybe it was the first car mystique. Maybe it was the 350 cubic inches with the Holly 4 bbl carburetor. Maybe it was the rear tires that would burn rubber and smoke with only a mere tap on the accelerator. (A fact that caused me to purchase more than my fair share of tires for that baby) Whatever the reason, I really enjoyed just being behind the wheel and driving somewhere…anywhere, it didn’t matter why and I didn’t care. A joy that I have never experienced since.

I wrecked my Camaro in 1983, two days before graduating from high school. My first love gone, I was sure I’d never enjoy driving the same way again.

Monday, December 27, 2004 was driving’s first real spark for me in 21 years. With the help of my father-in-law, who is possibly the world’s best car shopper, I purchased a 2005 Chevrolet Trailblazer, and while I’ve owned about eight cars since my beloved Camaro, she is only my second true auto love.

When I climb behind the wheel I’m magically transported back to a time when any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. There’s no first car mystique, no 350 cubic inches, no 4 bbl carburetor and certainly no smoking tires, but the feeling’s back all the same.

It’s been a long time, but I think I’d better head to the store for a Coke or some Tic-Tacs, or whatever. There’s bound to be something at the store I really need.

Maybe I’ll figure it out on the way.

Dirk the Jerk

My wife asked me why all my stories and poems had to be so dark and violent. I really wasn’t even aware that they all seemed to be flowing in that direction. So I set out to change things…and the result was 'Dirk the Jerk.'

Dirk the Jerk

There’s a boy at my school and his name is Dirk,
And there’s a good reason his name rhymes with jerk

Almost every morning, he punches me hard,
And because I’m not skinny, he calls me “Fat Lard”

At recess, it’s kick ball on almost all days,
Dirk goofs up our games in lots of mean ways

One day, he ran over and stole my new ball,
And laughed as he booted it over the wall

Next, Dirk came out early and stole all the bases,
Then stood back and laughed while making mean faces

Lunchtime for the jerk is especially fun,
He poured chocolate milk on my hamburger bun

Sitting down without looking was one big mistake,
Cause stuck to my pants, was the Jerk’s piece of cake

I decided I that would watch out from now on,
That the days of Dirk picking on me were all gone

So the next day, at recess I hid in the trees,
I squatted real low and got down on my knees

I thought, “I’ll watch for Dirk and see where he’s playing
Then far, far from Dirk and his friends I’ll be staying”

You couldn’t miss Dirk as he bolted outside,
I was so very glad I’d decided to hide

At first, I saw just what I thought that I would,
Dirk running around being up to no good

Then suddenly, truth, it became crystal clear,
And of Dirk the jerk, I no longer had fear

I watched Dirk pick on kids and oh, there were many,
But as for Dirk’s friends, well, he didn’t have any

I watched Dirk all recess, though it wasn’t fun,
When it ended, I knew something had to be done

If I didn't have friends, I just might be mean too,
So I gave it some thought and I knew what to do

The very next day, I picked Dirk for my team,
I just smiled as, “NOT HIM!” I heard everyone scream

Dirk played the whole game and we all had a blast,
When the recess bell rang, Dirk came over at last

And he seemed really sad that our fun had to end,
But his smile said it all…cause now Dirk has a friend

Go-Cart Memories

Every boy deserves to have an uncle who’s bigger than life. An uncle who rides wheelies on motorcycles. An uncle who drives a racecar and has a room full of trophies to prove it. An uncle who can build anything. An uncle who dreams big and makes those dreams come true.

For me that was Uncle Van Ray. Uncle Van Ray is my mother’s younger brother and he did all those things and more. He lived near my grandparents so going to see them meant going to see him. A fact that made the almost 15 hour drive from El Paso to Livingston (northeast of Houston) a little bit easier for a young boy to handle.

It was always fun to discover the latest incredible invention or project Uncle Van Ray was working on. In many ways it was like having Caractacus Potts, the dad from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, for an uncle. Except that Uncle Van Ray’s inventions worked.

Some of the larger-than-life things I remember Uncle Van Ray building are: a racecar, a jeep, countless deer hunting stands, both battery and solar powered deer feeders, remote control racecars (I mean he designed and built the whole car), a racetrack for driving the remote control cars on and of course my go-cart.

I was in about the fifth grade when Uncle Van Ray invited me to come to his house and build a go-cart. For me, this was a dream come true. Not only did I get to spend a couple of weeks with this man whose life and abilities seemed magical to me, but I got to work right along side him and bring home a go-cart. It was a win, win, win situation.

I had always been in awe of, as well as a little afraid of, Uncle Van Ray’s shop. To a wide-eyed, young, impressionable boy with a love of anything mechanical, it’s metal walls and massive awnings only added mystery to it’s already haunted castle appearance.

Before this invitation, I had only managed to sneak the occasional glimpse into this, the Disney World of workshops. This time, my trip to the Mechanical Magic Kingdom would be much more than a few stolen glances as the massive doors slid closed, I would be working side by side with Walt himself. I was more than just a spectator, I was in the game.

Inside his workshop, there were more power tools than I had ever dreamed of before. Along with a huge assortment of toolboxes, workbenches, and every sort of mechanical “do-dad” you could imagine hanging on the walls. The main room housed several different sizes and kinds of floor saws, drill presses, a metal lathe, a welder, a cutting torch, and a couple of machines I had never heard of.

The back room had my uncle’s collection of wood and metal salvaged from who knows where that he used to create his incredible inventions. At different times throughout the go-cart building adventure, Uncle Van Ray would disappear into the back room and emerge with an odd assortment of metal pieces that he would craft into some specialized element for one of the go-cart’s intricate parts.

I arrived to find the basic frame of the go-cart already welded together. The raw, tarnished metal lay flat on the floor and we got to work measuring and marking the various pieces that we needed.

During the day, while Uncle Van Ray was at work, my grandfather and I would fish, run errands and organize the materials for the evenings visit to the go-cart factory. We didn’t do much, if any, of the work until Uncle Van Ray got home.

I don’t remember there being any kind of blueprints or plans for the go-cart, but I’m sure there were. Even if my uncle only had them in his head, which I doubt, I can only imagine how detailed they must have been.

This was the 1970’s. The only go-carts my friends or I had ever seen were the ones with a 3-horse power engine and six-inch diameter lawn mower wheels. While they looked fun, they were nothing compared to the monster go-cart we built.

It was huge. It had a chrome steering wheel with black cushioned handgrips, a roll bar, a 5-horse power engine, and 13-inch diameter off-road tires. We painted it metallic blue and it looked more like a miniature racecar than a go-cart.

Time and a head injury have erased many of my memories of those days, but I’ll never forget my first ride on that go-cart. Uncle Van Ray pushed me out of the workshop onto the awning-covered carport and the engine roared to life with only a single pull. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I hit the gas and made a 300-yard blurry blue loop around my grandfather’s house and back up to the workshop.

After I got back we cleaned up the workshop, but I couldn’t get my mind or my eyes off my new toy. After what felt like a lifetime, but was really only about five minutes, Uncle Van Ray told me I’d better go make sure she was still running right. For the next two days that go-cart only stopped if it got dark, or I really had to go to the bathroom.

I had never spent that much one-on-one time with Uncle Van Ray before this go-cart adventure and I really never have since. I’m not sure that Uncle Van Ray was prepared for the number of questions I had about everything. And I had a million. But Uncle Van Ray took the time to make his nephew’s dreams come true and, possibly unknowingly, sparked a kind of mechanical "Do-it-your-selfism" in the life of a young boy.

He taught me how to see a completed project from the beginning and then build what you see, a skill I would pull off the shelf and use countless times throughout my life.

I like to believe I taught him a thing or two about relating to a young boy, a skill he would pull off the shelf and use years later when his grandsons was born. At least that’s what I like to believe.

I still have that go-cart, although it has gone to live with my cousin and his two boys down on their few acres near Waco. I’m sure Blue loves his new foster family and I have an open invitation to come ride whenever I want.

Just like in the old days, I look forward to driving at full throttle until I run out of gas, or really have to go to the bathroom, whichever comes first. Maybe I’ll do just that next summer.

Thanks Uncle Van Ray for being wild, being crazy, and being creative. But most of all, thanks for making a difference in the life of your young nephew.

Writer's Frustration

I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
It doesn’t care if I ever rhyme again
Rhyming is fun
And fun suggests enjoyment
And this isn’t enjoyment
This is therapy
Therapy is hard work
Hard work is something you endure
But to endure it takes desire
I’m not sure if I desire to endure
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today

Slot Cars and Air Compressors

In life, there are some things that just come naturally. For me these have always been the mechanical type things. I spent hours as a child taking apart and rebuilding my toys, especially the electronic kind. I think I was kind of like that kid that lived next door to Woody and Buzz in the movie Toy Story, but without the explosives.

My personal favorite was my slot car track. I quickly discovered that I could not only take apart and rearrange the track, but the cars as well. My slot car inventory was organized into three distinct groups, each securely kept in it’s own plastic Parkay butter bowl garage/workshop.

· Group 1: New Cars – These were the cars (usually not more that two at any one time) that I still liked the way they were. I left these alone, because didn’t want to take the chance of messing up a good thing.

· Group 2: Redesigned Cars – These were all the cars that I had owned long enough to get bored with. I would take them apart, mix and match the pieces and by some twist of fate, get them to run again. A few of these cars were now actually faster than before, but more often than not they ran slow and pretty rough.

· Group 3: The Parts Pile – This was all the extra tires, magnets, connectors, plastic body shells, and all the other leftover pieces that did not yet have a place among my collection of Redesigned Cars. It always seemed odd to me that while the first two groups stayed pretty much the same size this group was forever growing.

These days I don’t have a slot car track, but I still have a love of, as well as my knack for, anything mechanical. That’s why a couple of years ago I asked for an air compressor for Christmas.

"What in the world does he want with an air compressor?” This was the reply from my father-in-law.

In my mind I had, and still have, visions of spectacular woodworking projects that I could accomplish if I only had a tool as compact and versatile as an air compressor. Not to mention the plethora of auto and household types of maintenance and chores that could quite obviously be completed much more quickly and easily.

Quickly sensing that mine was an uphill battle, I seized each and every opportunity I had to enlighten the unbelievers in my family and help them see the benefits of my owning what I had begun referring to as, ‘The Mother of all Power Tools.’

But Christmas came and there was no air compressor shaped package under the tree.

A little disheartened, but not defeated, I set my sights on the following Christmas. And this time I had a full year to educate and lure supporters from the dark side of the power tool force.

After a year of some subtle and some not so subtle hint dropping I not only got my air compressor, but two nail guns to boot.

We’re going on one year of life with an air compressor and while it’s come in handy for countless repairs around the house, so far I’ve only actually used the compressor and nail guns to build one thing…a stand for the air compressor itself to set upon.

This is no rinky-dink, scrap wood stand that I hastily threw together one day after downing a few brews. Oh no, I used a t-square and all my high school mechanical drawing knowledge to draft the top, front, and right side views. I had all the measurements and knew exactly how much lumber to buy. For structural stability, as well as storage, I added a shelf on the bottom to hold my nail guns. It has a drawer to hold all the different blower attachments and a hook on the side for coiling the air hose. I even designed the top with a set of three 45-degree corner mounts to secure the compressor’s tripod stand. Then I primed it and painted it flat black.

It’s very nice. In fact, it’s so nice that my father, who got an air compressor about the same time I got mine, had me help him build one. My Dad’s, not being the prototype, actually turned out a little bit better than mine.

I’m not sure what became of my slot car wrecking yard. However, it’s not hard to imagine how three butter bowls filled with an odd assortment of car parts could have been confused with unwanted junk and tossed into the trash pile by mistake. It probably happened long after I had left home.

However, as I put the finishing touches on my compressor stand, stood back to inspect my work and couldn’t help but think about that little boy who spent all those hours with his slot car track.

In some ways I’m still that same little boy who dismantled all those slot cars, only now my toys are bigger and come equipped with two nail guns.


I had planned to attach a picture of the compressor stand, but I haven't had the time to figure out how to do that yet. I'll post the picture later.

Bear's Lesson

I started writing children’s picture stories a few years ago after attending a district required reading staff development. At one point during the class, our instructor read us a story similar to this. I don’t remember exactly what the point was for reading this book. Some lesson idea, I suppose. I don’t even remember the title.

Anyway, the story was about a wolf who comes across some barnyard animals that are reading. The animals end up teaching the wolf to read, they all become friends and live happily ever after.

I heard the story and I was very disappointed. You see, I felt that the story should have had a much different ending. I went straight home and wrote my first rhyming children's picture story. However, seeing as I can’t draw anything more than stick people and I don’t even do that very well, you’ll have to create the pictures in your mind.

Enjoy


Bear's Lesson

I know of a sheep, a chicken and pig,
When I met these guys, my life it changed big

You see, I’m a bear and what I have to say,
Is I eat all these creatures on most every day

The problem begins with me walking along,
When all of a sudden, I heard a strange song

The music was odd, though it had a good beat,
And the voices I heard, to my ears, were a treat

Then I saw it, a kind of old broken down shack,
It was three shades of red with a wobbly smoke stack

Quick up to the window, I did softly creep,
The first thing I saw was this rather large sheep

I sat there just dreaming of having sheep stew,
When a squatty, plump pig waddled into my view

Well now the night’s meal was almost complete
I’d have mutton stew, then the other white meat

But nothing compares to me seeing the chicken,
I became Pavlov’s dog, as my chops I was lickin’

Without thinking longer, I knocked down the door,
I raised both my arms and let out a loud, “ROAR!”

In the past, well, each roar was just loads of fun,
Cause all over the place my new dinner would run

I’d have a real blast chasing down the night’s feast,
And I wouldn’t stop ‘til I’d gulped down each beast

But these new taste treats didn’t follow that rule,
I stood with arms raised, feeling much like a fool

My actions, it seemed, they had one small hitch,
Pig said, “My good fellow, your roar was off pitch”

Pig showed me a seat, and bewildered I sat,
When sheep spoke up and said, “Not to mention, you’re flat”

“We could give you lessons,” the nice chicken said,
I smiled really big and nodded my head

I went to that shack for six weeks, twice a day,
For they taught about music in more that one way

I learned that I sing in what’s known as bass,
That’s why, when I roar, it shakes up the place

My teachers, they said that for me solo’s best,
For I tend to be loud and drown out all the rest

And that’s when the lesson I’d learned, it hit big,
I had three new friends…sheep, chicken and pig

See, they didn’t think that I was all scary,
Just because I am loud, big, mean and hairy

No, they took the time to help out a bear,
The fact is, we’re different, but they didn’t care

So when my last lesson had come to an end,
I stuck out my paw and said “Bye” to each friend

I turned to the door, but then I looked back,
And grabbed that fat chicken for a last good-bye snack

Sheep and pig stared in fear as I started to chew,
Coughing feathers, I said, “Guys, it's just what bears do”

Strange Thought Box

I found a box
Inside my head
Where strange thoughts lurk
Until they’re said

It is a dark
And dreary place
Most thoughts in here
I should erase

It’s not a place
I often go
Strange thoughts
Are hard to overthrow

But there are times
I must admit
That in this box
I like to sit

I wallow in
The day’s dark mood
And find strange peace
In solitude

These thoughts you see
They aren’t all bad
The truth be known
Some make me glad

For they can do
The hardest task
My darkest fears
Sometimes they mask

This box I have
It is not new
Inside your head
You’ll find one too

Sorry Big Bird

I think it was somewhere between second and third grade that I lost my fascination with Sesame Street. I don’t remember exactly what caused me to stop watching. Maybe I gave in to peer pressure, maybe I had other things to do. Maybe I just outgrew it. Who knows. For whatever reason I stopped watching Sesame Street until after I became a parent.

Being an elementary school teacher, I see hints most every day that Sesame Street is alive and doing well. Everything from the songs I hear students singing on the way to recess, to pictures of Elmo on t-shirts and lunchboxes.

However, by the time students get into third and fourth grade they’ve all but forgotten about the loveable cast from the PBS neighborhood, or simply changed channels to watch a flashy band of spacemen defeat unbelievable villains with the help of an amazing laser-light show and some wild pyrotechnics.

At least I thought they had forgotten.

My school is broken down into three student populations. We have Primary, which is kindergarten to second grade. Next is Intermediate, which is third and fourth grade. At the top of the food chain are the fifth and sixth graders known as Upper.

In case you haven’t been in a classroom since you were a student, school is different these days, at least in my classroom. We don’t have rows of desks with the teacher’s desk up at the front and a podium for the teacher to lecture behind. We have tables and chairs with students working in different locations all around the classroom at their own pace. And my school takes great pride in the very “Montessori-ish” way in which it runs.

Because of the way the school operates we don’t really have problems with kids passing notes in school. I mean why pass a note when you could just go over and talk to the person.

A few years ago when I taught in Upper, there was a young Upper teacher, Ms. G. She was fresh out of college, full of energy and very cute. She was a popular teacher at my school with students and faculty members alike, but it wasn’t hard to tell that her biggest fans were the fifth and sixth grade boys.

This was one of the few times in my entire teaching career I actually intercepted a note in mid pass. I was walking between the tables on my way to help a student, when a boy, who wasn’t trying to hide his actions at all, thrust a note across the aisle I was walking in without looking back. The boy he was trying so desperately to communicate with wasn’t really paying attention, so the note passers hand, along with the note, sat waving like a flag on a windy day.

I grabbed the note, shoved it in my pocket, told the boys to get back to work and went on to help the other student.

I was in the lounge for lunch when I stuck my hand in my pocket and found the note again. Curious to discover what piece of business was so important that it had to be discussed on a scrap of paper during class, I opened the note.

It said something like this:

- Did you see Ms. G. today?

- Yes I did! And I liked what I saw…A LOT!

(The next line changed the way I would see Sesame Street forever.)

- Thanks to her I’ve had a Big Bird all day!

I laughed as I read the note aloud to everyone in the lounge.

Then I shook my head and said, “Sorry Big Bird.”



Note: I never discussed the note with either boy. I'm sure they hope that I didn’t read the note and that it just got thrown away. And I wonder how long they watched for the sign. The sign that means the difference between a note that had been thoughtlessly cast aside and a note that had not only been read, but shown to Ms. G.

Those boys are in high school now and part of me hopes they still wonder about whatever happened to that note. I think about that day and laugh out loud…because so did Ms. G.

Mike the Singer

About my poems:
I started writing poems a few years ago. My first poem was ‘Mickey the Muck’, which I posted a week or so ago. Some of my poems are silly, some are happy, some are sad and some are gross, but they are all a bit bizarre. So read and enjoy.

Now Mike was a guy
And he loved to sing
And Mike, he would sing
About most anything

Seems his focus was people
On every occasion
And he’d sing about folks
Of most any persuasion

One day, his songs told
Of a guy on a Harley
Whose clothes were a mess
And his face, it was gnarly

By the look of this guy
You could tell he chewed nails
And I’m certain he’d broke
Out of quite a few jails

Without thought for his safety
Mike started his song
And at first the guy sat there
Like nothing was wrong

When Mike got to the part
About a gross nasty smell
The biker guy looked
Like things weren’t going well

The biker guy stared
With a twitch in his eye
And he seemed to be thinking
Of ways Mike could die

When the song turned to baldness
The guy lost his cool
From a bag he produced
A quite strange looking tool

As he headed toward Mike
People started to hide
But the guy dropped his tool
He sat down, and he cried

See, Mike’s song didn’t change
Not even one part
But he touched that mean biker dude
Deep in his heart

The biker got up
Wiped his face with a sigh
Then he drove that weird tool
Right straight through Mike’s left eye

The biker was touched
That’s all I can say
And Mike learned
A valuable lesson that day

You can’t sing about bikers
Without one single care
That is, not unless
You’ve an eye, you can spare

I lost part of my life.

After my brother’s wedding, the whole family, extended family and all, spent a few days in Corpus Christi. We played on the beach, hung out at the pool and just had fun with relatives we hadn’t seen in quite a while. I went offshore fishing one night with a couple of cousins. The boat took us a couple of miles off the coast, just far enough to make it legal to sell beer on the boat. We spent the next three hours with our lines in the water, drinking beer and laughing.

Unlike my cousins and I, who paid the extra dollar to use the boat’s equipment, the guy next to me had brought his own rod. Now this guy had some serious cash invested in his fishing gear.

We had been out for about two hours and the guy with the expensive fishing gear had downed more beer than the three of us combined, maybe that was to blame. Whatever the reason, one minute he’s holding this rod that’s worth more than my car (It was 1985 and I had a 1977 Monte Carlo) and the next minute we’re all watching it vanish into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. All he could do is stand there and mourn, because as the boat’s bait guy put it, “Baby, it ain’t coming back!”

It’s very frustrating to me to lose anything. I’ve been known to search desperately on my hands and knees, for longer that a sane person should, to find a single screw that I’ve dropped in the garage.

I really hate losing stuff.

Imagine, if you will, how a person with such an intense dislike for losing things feels when he loses something really valuable and has no possible hope of ever retrieving the missing item.

In 1990, my wife and I were headed to friend’s house for dinner, when I turned left in front of a pick-up truck. In the blink of an eye two months of my life, along with several of my personality traits, sank to the ocean’s floor and I’ve spent the better part of 14 years standing and mourning.

I suffered a closed head injury and was in a coma for a month. I spent three months after the coma as an inpatient at Dallas Rehabilitation Institute (DRI) and the next eight months in outpatient rehabilitation therapy.

In life, everybody has to do things that aren’t exactly what they want to do. And while they may not be happy about what they’re doing, they are doing something

From the third month to the end of my outpatient stint at DRI, while I didn’t necessarily want to be there, I do have memories of being there. I was doing something. I have memories both enjoyable and frustrating. I have memories of daily physical and occupational therapy sessions. I have memories of people and events, both good and bad. And I have memories of physical and mental struggles. Life was going. Life was happening.

Not so for the month I spent at Parkland Hospital and my first month at DRI. Those days are not there and never will be. The doctor told me that there was so much brain swelling and so little brain activity, that it wasn’t like being asleep. I was closer to being dead. At least brain dead.

Early on, I found myself longing to know what was happening while I was out. Not in the whole world, just in my world. I know from the countless cards and letters my family saved for me that people were concerned and praying for me. I know that my family felt scared and helpless as they waited on pins and needles, praying the doctor’s next report would be good news.

I’ve heard all the stories and I lived through the hardest part of the rehabilitation. But that can’t be all. I was gone for two months. I know there’s more. There’s got to be more. Doesn’t there?

I wore out my wife and family long ago asking questions about what people were doing and thinking. I want to know moods. I want to see faces. I want to understand. I want to be able to remember.

Part of me feels like I’m being selfish. The people I’m questioning, they don’t want to remember. They don’t want to relive September 8, 1990. Remembering pain isn’t easy or fun. I can’t even imagine how painful the whole experience must have been.

I can’t even imagine and I guess that’s the problem.

My brother printed me a copy of the journal he kept during the whole ordeal. I’ve read it a thousand times in hopes of having some kind of revelation. And while it helped I still want more.

After spending the last 14 years on my hands and knees, I’ve all but abandoned my desperate search for clues to my life’s missing parts. You see, life doesn’t slow down and wait for people to play catch-up. You’re expected to keep trudging along, and fill in the gaps as best as you can. And I found that as time wears on, people’s memories of those events aren’t very detailed or reliable anymore.

Today there is a before accident or “Old Hugh” and an after accident or “New Hugh.” There was a time when most of my memories were of the Old Hugh. I still had crisp clear memories of Old Hugh and I forced myself to live in his shadow.

I spent more time than I probably should have comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh. Comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh was hard, because New Hugh never seemed to be able to measure up. He was never quite as quick, never quite as smart, just never quite as good.

As time moves on I find myself losing touch with the Old Hugh. There was a time when New Hugh’s voice, which was affected not only by the brain injury, but also by vocal cord trauma due to a tracheotomy, sounded very strange to me. And while I still don’t like how new Hugh’s voice sounds, these days hearing a recording of Old Hugh’s voice is what sounds strange. It’s like hearing a voice you recognize, but just can’t put a face to.

These days I find that the Old Hugh is becoming harder and harder to find. I’m not sure, but I think the dividing line between the two Hughs has become so blurred that after 14 years it has become hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

New Hugh is a nice guy too. In many ways he is very much the same as Old Hugh. But there are still times that I really miss Old Hugh. It’s mostly things only my wife or I would notice.

Old Hugh visits me sometimes in my dreams. He’s still happy, carefree and young. Living his life like nothing can hurt him. He speaks clearly and his words pour out polished with never even the hint of effort. But sooner or later I awake and find that my speech is still labored and a little choppy.

No matter how badly I might want to, I know I'll never be able to dive into the murky depths and retrieve Old Hugh, because baby, he ain’t coming back.

Where did she go?

I recently cleaned out one of the closets in my house. I knew it was going to be hard work and I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I had no idea that it was going to be one of the most emotionally painful experiences of my entire life.

You see it was my daughter’s toy closet. It was packed full of all kinds of stuff we hadn’t seen, let alone played with, for who knows how long.

At first, it was going quite well and it seemed I had over possibly over estimated the amount of time and effort the job was going to require. Little did I know that my heart was about to be smashed to bits.

We had three piles. There was the keep pile, the give to cousin Ashlyn pile, and the donate pile.

My misery all began when I pulled the huge Barbie box out and Macy said in a loud clear voice, “Ashlyn!”

“No, this is all your Barbie stuff,” was my stuttering reply.

“Don’t want ‘em,” she said.

And the dagger sunk into my heart.

Where did she go? This little girl who I rocked, played with and read to. What was happening to my world?

Thinking back I realized that my world was changing. The signs have been popping up in different places for quite some time now, but I hadn’t seen them. Maybe my heart just wouldn’t let me see them.

There was, "I should probably shop for clothes with Mom from now on." And then, "Get out Dad! I’m changing!"

Then came the morning I heard an unfamiliar alarm clock go off and she got up on her own. Waking her up has always been my job. I like my job. But for too long I had just been taking it for granted.

I’ve tried my best to ignore these evil hints at reality.

I think we all do it. Ignore reality. Especially painful reality. I’m a firm believer that if you just ignore it long enough it will go away. But usually reality is just extra painful when it finally comes crashing down.

Ever since my closet cleaning nightmare, my life has become an emotional roller coaster. I’m forced to stand-by and helplessly watch my little girl grow up.

I do not want to go to the land of pre-teen girls…not yet. I want my little girl, who seems so big these days, to slow down and be daddy’s little girl. If only for a while.

This quote from the Real Live Preacher is my prayer:

“Gracious and loving Heavenly Father, please do not send me to Nineveh today. I’ll gladly go tomorrow, or better yet, some unspecified day in the future, but not today. I will not get on the boat bound for Tarshish, but neither am I ready to leave these shores. I plan to do your bidding, eventually, but if you try to drag me onto this ship, I will make a terrible scene. I will shout and cry aloud. My fingernails will rip ugly furrows into the dock.”

The Big Day!

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. 6:27 AM. My mind was working to wrap itself around what that meant.

Is it early, or am I late? What day is it? Do I have school? Should I get up, or do I have some more time?

It’s the same process for me most every day. I am a very deep sleeper.

But this morning was a little different. As my eyes started to close again for a few brief moments of morning slumber, a new and different thought popped into my head.

Hugh, you’re 40.

Lying there I tried to feel different, I really did. I wanted to be alive with a new understanding of life’s great truths. I wanted to suddenly know what it means to be a “Grown-up.” I wanted to feel 40.

I’ve been awake and 40 now for about half an hour…still no big change.

Is it possible that everything I’ve been waiting to happen is all a farce? Could it all be some big political smokescreen designed to keep all of the adults who are under 40 in line?

I’ll keep you posted.


Note: I’m still younger than RLP.

Mickey the Muck

There once was a juggler named Mickey the Muck,
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck

He would juggle 10 swords with eyes closed and one handed,
When sword number 8, in his left foot it landed

Mickey kept right on juggling though he’d lost all five toes,
When sword number 6 took off part of his nose

But Mickey kept juggling, and continued to smile,
When his pinky came loose and fell into the pile

Muck had chopped off his pinky with sword number two,
He said, “I’ll stick it back on using tape and school glue”

Mickey didn’t stop juggling, though pieces were missing,
Then the crowd started grumbling, booing and hissing

The Muck knew he had one act that would save the show,
He pulled out 5 chain saws, and started to throw

Well Mickey’s last act was exciting to see,
The first chain saw hit just above the left knee

The crowd cleared back, some ducked and got low,
When his right arm came off just below the elbow

Poor Mickey, he knew that his act it was dying,
But to the Muck’s credit, those chain saws kept flying

It was just about then Mickey started to slip,
Cause he’d lost his left thumb and opposable grip

With his last toss he threw those 5 saws extra high,
He took a big bow, then looked up with a sigh

There once was a juggler named Mickey the Muck,
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck

About Mickey’s last act, many times it’s been said,
“Mickey could have been great, but he just lost his head!”

Working in the Yard

I had to cut the yard yesterday. I had let it go thinking I would cut it later. But later it rained. So I waited. By then the week had come and between school, my daughter’s piano lessons, faculty meetings, and going to my parent’s house in Marshall for the weekend I ended up waiting almost three weeks to cut my damn grass. My yard was a mess.

I enjoy doing yard work. I’m not sure why, but I really do. Maybe it’s the fact that I work hard and when I’m done I can see the results right then. There are no three chances to pass, no waiting three to five months for the results and no forming of a committee to study diagnostics of the situation. When you are finished you can look around and see that you have done a good job. I don’t know, maybe that’s it.

In my neighborhood, lawn work is a lost art. People either are too old, too busy or just too apathetic to do their own yard. I rarely see anyone out cutting his or her own yard. Most people pay to have it done. And that’s okay. Don’t get me wrong. If I had the money to pay someone, I probably would. But I think I’d miss it. I hope I would.

What’s considered yard work these days is landscaping. Planting flowers and stuff like that. Landscaping is equally hard work. I’ve done it, I know. But there is something a little less artsy, a little less Come on sorority sisters, let’s plant these flowers! about cutting the grass, your own grass, it feels totally different. It’s very rewarding.

So there I am, with my new John Deere, gas powered trimmer, its three-horse power engine at full throttle, sweating like a large fifth grader after recess, mercilessly attacking the dangling sprigs of Saint Augustine that happen to be poking onto the sidewalk. And loving every minute of it!

I paused for a moment, to inspect my work. That’s when my neighbor from across the street, who I was unaware was also doing his yard, called over.

Tear it up man! That’s quite a machine you got there.

I’m not sure if all men are this way, although I pray we are and act as though my prayers have been answered, but for me, a chance to talk about and show off a new yard toy is situation you just don’t pass up. For me it’s right up there with getting the chance to see the Beatles live in concert. You stop whatever you’re doing and just do it.

So, of course, I stopped and showed off my toy.

We discussed the line weight, the oil and gas mixture and all the attachment options. We compared the various styles and brands. (Although, when you’re holding a John Deere, you don’t mention much else) I let him give it a spin and then he made all the appropriate comments about, and was sufficiently impressed with its power. And we both got back to work.

The whole conversation took about four minutes. Any longer would have just been too long.

When I finished I yelled to him across the street.

Here we are, working in the yard, talking about tools, sweating…I even wiped my nose on my shirt, damn-it! It doesn’t get any more manly than this. If I had a beer, I’d be in heaven!

We both laughed and I walked inside for that beer

Dancing Joe

Moss Haven Elementary, where I teach, is located in a Dallas residential neighborhood. It isn’t on any major streets and even on school days, traffic isn’t all that bad. However, wisely adhering to the advice of everyone’s grandmother, the school decided to be better safe than sorry and hire a crossing guard.

I’ve been at MHE for six years and in that small amount of time we’ve had more crossing guards than I can count.

My first three years at MHE the life expectancy of a crossing guard was about two months. I’m not sure about where you are, but in Dallas the job of crossing guard is not a very coveted position. We had guards who showed up late and left early. We had guards who fought with and swore like sailors at parents. And we had guards that would just sit in their car, look both ways and wave for the kids to cross the street.

All that changed when Joe came on-board. Joe loves his job. I don’t know what Joe’s last name is. I’m not sure anyone does, but along the way someone started calling him “Dancing Joe” and it stuck. Dancing Joe is his name, because dancing is what he does.

He spins and moon walks and plays his stop sign like a guitar and tips his hat to every child he walks across the street. He recognizes every student, knows most by name, is genuinely happy to see each one and they all love him.

Joe lives about a mile from school and walks each day. Hot or cold or rain or shine, whatever the weather, Dancing Joe is always there faithfully doing his job. He’s never tardy and stays extra late.

“I just want to make sure even the kids who woke up late get across that street safely,” is what he once told me. And I have no doubt that he means it.

I discovered that Joe is a veteran. I have no idea how long, or in what branch of the military Joe served, but if his dedication to his crossing guard duties is any indication, he was one good soldier.

I’ve spent time talking with Joe. He’s a really nice guy and it’s easy to see why the kids all love him. However, it’s not hard to tell by his speech and the level of his conversations that Joe is somewhat mentally challenged. I don’t want to know the details behind Joe’s mental condition. In my mind I imagine a man who was injured while selflessly serving his country. I don’t know if that’s the case, but I like my little imagined scenario and I don’t plan on asking for anything more.

Dancing Joe has been the MHE crossing guard for the last three years and he’ll probably be helping kids cross the street long after I’m gone.

I wonder which of life’s great secrets one needs to know in order to love doing a job that nobody else wants?

Maybe I’ll ask Dancing Joe.

Green Army Man

In a place where the sun
Doesn’t reach anymore
Sits a green plastic soldier
Who’s ready for war

With canteen and pistol
Molded onto to his side
He’s ever-alert
No desire to hide

With bazooka at ready
Waiting on bended knee
He peers through the scope
With nothing to see

His comrades were moved
Quite a long time ago
He was left and forgotten
Or at least he thinks so

‘Til commander returns
He’ll remain at his post
But it’s the not knowing
That gets him the most

The seasons they come
And the seasons they go
It’s hot or it’s cold
But he doesn’t know

On guard, ever waiting
He sits motion free
In the crook of a branch
On a withered oak tree

Poised and patiently waiting
For something to blast
He wonders how long
His war’s gonna last

Bunny the Dove – Part Two

I just assumed that after Bunnies two chicks had “flown the coop,” we’d have our porch back. I cleaned the bird poop off the brick column, and there was plenty. Washed off the porch, and said good-bye to porch-birds forever.


That was three nests, or broods, or litters, or whatever in the hell you want to call them ago and I still can’t get the dove shit off the porch. Bunny decided that our porch, with its nice big awning for shade and wind blocking was perfect location for her dove farm.

For three seasons she returned, laid her eggs and made a huge mess on our porch. One day she wouldn’t be there and the next day she would. I always assumed it was the same bird, because after that first season she didn’t spooked quite so easily.

Bunny and I had several strange adventures.

There was the time, to get more on her level, I slowly pulled a chair up close and tried to use my new digital camera and get a close up of Bunny. Every movement I made was laboriously slow. I didn’t think that the camera’s sound would be enough to frighten Bunny and I was right.

I took three shots and then quickly viewed them without moving anything but my index finger, which was hidden from Bunny's view by the camera. I decided they were too dark and needed flash. In a blink of an eye I learned that pictures without flash – okay, pictures with flash – not okay.

Stop your laughing.

Sure, with hindsight anyone could tell you that a sudden bright flash of light would scare an already wary bird. But I was in my own little Bunny photo world. There could have been a plane crash 10 feet away and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Not only did the flash scare loads of crap out of Bunny, it also blinded her. She takes off frantically trying to get away from this bizarre intruder who she can no longer see. I, on the other hand, am trying to not get hit by a scared shitless bird, not fall off a now teetering flimsy porch chair, and figure out how to save my new digital camera if and when I do fall.

The whole incident only lasted a few brief seconds, but it seemed like slow motion. As the chair started to twist and bend I jumped off hoping to smash my back against the wall about three feet away. I thought if I could hit the wall, pull my camera into my chest and slide down onto my butt, then my camera would be okay.

It worked like a charm. It also hurt like hell.

Somewhere in all the confusion Bunny got off the porch and I didn’t see her again the rest of the day.

We had many similar adventures involving my daughter, pets or lawn equipment. Over time I got used to Bunny being there. I began to enjoy having a dove for a pet.

After Bunny’s last batch of chicks she flew off she hasn’t returned. That was a couple of years ago. I still haven’t cleaned her nest off the perch. I don’t know when I will.

Part of me knows that between hunters, other animal predators and the short lifespan of mourning doves she’s probably not coming back.

But there is part of me that believes in the child who struggles with every new concept, it’s the same part that believes my daughter really does still believe in Santa Claus. It’s that same part of me that clings desperately to the dream that Bunny will come back someday.

Sometimes you’ve just got to believe.

Bunny the Dove - Part One

A mourning dove has made our back porch its home now for a few years. It’s a fairly large porch with three brick columns, each with a small ledge that is about eight inches by four inches. This ledge is where she decided to build her nest. We decided to call her Bunny after her first brood hatched on Easter morning.

When Bunny first perched on our porch, us opening the door would literally scare the crap out of her. She would flap around the porch, smashing her head into the ceiling and pooping until she finally hit so hard it would knock her low enough to clear the awning. I’d say we played a game of Porch-Bird Limbo once a day for a week to 10 days. The day came, however, that she just decided to not fly away. Maybe one day she realized that we had never really bothered her and that we meant her no harm. Maybe she just got tired of bashing her head and decided that nothing we might do could possibly be that painful or humiliating. Maybe she suffered a closed head injury and no longer had the ability to determine that something might be dangerous. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Bunny became part of the family. We never fed her, although we discussed it on more than one occasion. My contention was that feeding her might only make her stay once the eggs had hatched. A scenario I did not want.

See, she was fun to watch, get up close pictures of and watch through the window. I already had a dog, two cats, a fish and a tarantula. I didn’t need or want a bird too.

I hadn’t done anything more that hunt mourning dove until Bunny adopted us and our porch. Now, don’t get all upset about the whole hunting thing. Due to a lack of opportunity, I haven’t hunted in years. And I assure you, when I was hunting, more birds were killed by lightning than by shotgun blasts from me. All the same, about the only thing I knew about mourning doves is how they look and how they taste.

I just assumed that after Bunnies two chicks had “flown the coop,” we’d have our porch back. I cleaned the bird poop off the brick column, and there was plenty. Washed off the porch, and said good-bye to porch-birds forever.

But it was not to be.

Dayton

I gazed with intense curiosity as Dayton cheerfully did her job. She stood there smiling and jabbering continuously about nothing. She had a carefree, aged appearance. Weathered face with toothless smile, cracked rugged hands, and a scar next to tired eyes spoke volumes. There she was, checking my groceries, this person whose physical appearance told stories of years external and internal abuse. Too timid to ask, I stood yearning for a hint, a clue into this one’s seemingly dark life.

At first it was just a blur of color. Upon second glance, I noticed bright purple nail polish. It seemed so out of character for a person every bit my mother’s age. As she checked my last few items I looked deeply into the face of this person. Suddenly, the clues I desired were all too apparent, all too sad.

Through wrinkled skin and lived in eyes, I got a glimpse of a younger person. Purple nails, a girlish hair bobble, and youthful colloquialisms began painting a much different picture.

Standing there I witnessed a metamorphosis. Like a butterfly emerging from chrysalis, this woman, who was, at first old and happy, slowly transformed into a young girl forever trapped in an overused shell.

Then I saw her. You know the one. She or sometimes he sits in my class each day. Possibly a little unruly, but all too easily overlooked.

Standing there paying more than her weekly wages for my few trivial luxuries. I felt guilty. Not for having more. For sometimes not noticing, not paying attention.

I wondered, when Dayton was a child, did anyone take the time to care?

About Me

I'm not actually a third grader, although I am in the third grade. I teach third grade and consequently spend much of my time immersed in a childish culture. My class is a multiage class. It is filled with third and forth graders from every walk of life. I think being given the opportunity to see life through the eyes of an eight or nine-year-old child is an amazing gift.

What makes my being a teacher a bit ironic is that fact that I didn't enjoy school very much. It wasn't until the fifth grade when I had Mr. Turner at Shadow Oaks Elementary in Houston Texas that I began to enjoy being at school.

I remember that every kid in forth grade wanted Mr. Turner. Maybe it was the novelty of having a man. Maybe it was the fact that every fifth grader I knew thought he was great. I really don't know. But for whatever reason I wanted to be in Mr. Turner's class. Mr. Turner turned out to not only be a great teacher, but a great teacher for me. He was able to relate to me on a child's level and also teach things in a way that just made sense to me. I remember the time I called him Dad by mistake. He just tussled my hair, smiled and never said a thing about it.

When I decided to go into teaching I couldn't help but think I wanted to be a teacher like Mr. Turner.



I'm not sure what I'll post here. My thoughts. My daily happenings. My poetry.