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
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Friday, November 26, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2004
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 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
Thursday, November 18, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
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.”
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.”
Saturday, November 13, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
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!”
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!”
Saturday, November 06, 2004
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
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
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
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.
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.
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