Sometimes Ya Gotta be Squirrelly!

In my family, I have the reputation of being, as my Dad would call it, “a little squirrelly.” What he means by that is a bit odd and unpredictable. Throughout my life my father has lovingly referred to me as squirrelly, off-kilter, twisted, or whatever word he happened to make up on the spur of the moment to describe some bizarre thing that I’ve done or said.

I wonder if I’m the way I am because that’s just who I am, or am I the way I am because I’ve been molded into the position in my family that I’ve always been expected to fill?

Either way, what I believe is that my father loves having a son who acts “squirrelly,” because there is a part of him that yearns to be squirrelly. However, a pastor is bound by duty to his congregation to keep his squirrellyness in check…no matter how hard that might be.

That being said, I’ve noticed that at times I tend to hear things differently than other people. Hearing things differently could be a somewhat hazardous thing. I mean if someone says, “Stop” but you hear, “Go.” Well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

However, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about hearing the words and inflections differently. My pastor recently preached a sermon in which he made the point that the three words, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” could have a multitude of meanings and implications depending on the inflection used to say them.

Case in point:

Just the other day, my wife and I were going to lunch at Snuffer’s, a local hamburger joint. (By the way, they have the best cheese-fries in the world, if you’re ever in Dallas) We gave the girl our names and I asked if we had time to walk across the street to pick something up. To which she replied, “Go right on ahead.”

However, what I heard was, “Go write on a head.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I heard it both ways. I knew what she meant, but I just assumed that my wife and the girl heard it both ways as well.

As it turns out…they did not!

You see I startled both my wife and the girl by grabbing her pen and moving toward my wife’s forehead as if to make a mark of some kind.

When I explained that I was only following the directions given to me by the girl, by repeating what she had said, my wife who, after 16 years, has come accustomed to me chuckled politely and started for the door. The girl however, simply stood there confused with a bewildered grin on her face as she held out her hand to for her pen.

Handing back the pen, the teacher in me sprang out and burst into a mini-lesson on homophones and inflection, but I quickly saw in her eyes that she simply wanted me to get the hell out. And with a shrug, I followed my wife.

Knowing my Dad, I’m quite sure he not only would have heard it both ways, but also would have enjoyed my little pen grabbing pantomime…because sometimes ya gotta be squirrelly.

'Tis the Season...

It’s official, school is out until 2006! January 3, 2006, to be specific. My lesson plans, along with my favorite coffee mug that I forgot to bring home, are neatly stacked on my overhead awaiting my return, and I have nothing school related to think about for 15 glorious days.

So what shall we talk about? In keeping with the season, I feel it only right to talk about love. Not just love, but rather feeling loved.

I’ve always maintained that my school is one of, if not the best school in the world. It is certainly the best school I’ve ever taught at. The principal and staff, as well as the students and parents are a cut above anything I’ve ever heard about.

But this posting is about the wonderful parents I have in my class this year.

Without their support and participation, my class, nay my school, wouldn’t be able to do half as well as they do. I have parents who come in and do anything from reading and filing, to planning parties and watching the class for two hours so I can have a special lunch out and everything in between. They really go above and beyond to help make our school great.

This Christmas season was no exception. In early December, while the teachers on my grade level were out enjoying a special lunch, the two moms who were watching my class organized the students and decorated a director’s chair with the student’s fingerprints. Remember, I know these kids…they can be a tricky crowd to control. And this is a double class, we’re talking about 40 kids! However, these moms managed to not only organize the project, and explain it to the students, but also pull it off without hitch. And I never had any idea!

I’m standing there blown away by this beautiful chair and trying to listen to 40 students who are all pointing to their fingerprint, when I was handed a small, but rather heavy, red velvet bag.

Now, there’s a shopping mall near us called North Park Mall. This mall has a thing called North Park Gold, which comes in these red velvet bags. Basically, it’s a kind of gift card that can be used in any store in the mall. However, instead of a gift card, they are gold coins with different amounts printed on them, anything from five dollars up to 100 dollars per coin.

On your birthday, the PTA gives each teacher 20 dollars in North Park Gold, which is really nice. However, the bag I received last Thursday had 95 dollars worth of gold coins.

Feeling loved is a truly wonderful thing. I’m going to enjoy the chair for quite possibly the rest of my teaching career, and the North Park Gold, well, what a fun treat! However, to me, it’s much more than the gifts I received. Yes, they are nice and very appreciated, but it’s about these people wanting to do something nice for me that really makes the difference.

These parents and I have one thing in common; we both have a soft spot in our hearts for that one special child. I love each and every one of the students in my class, and it’s nice to know that that the parents of these children can see that.

A Much Needed Break...

Today, Dallas and most of North Texas is under a Severe Weather Warning. In Dallas, it’s currently 19 degrees and there’s ice on the roads.

I woke up this morning, called the districts bad weather line, 469-593-SNOW, (I know, it’s kind of cheesy) and got the good news!

Don’t get me wrong I enjoy school, I really do. However, a break in the action is nice once in a while. I’m quite certain my students think so.

I’ll head back to school tomorrow rested and ready for the first of five more days. After that, it’s a 12-day mini-vacation, and the end of the first half of the year.

If it’s cold where you are, bundle-up, hunker down and have a great day off.

A New Tradition

Last Monday, we put our daughter on a bus. The fifth and sixth graders at our school go to Sky Ranch, a camp in Van Texas, for three days of outdoor education. Melissa and I decided to take Monday off, do some Christmas shopping and have a “Date Day.”

It was the best idea we’ve had in long time.

First, after seeing the bus off, we went back to sleep for a few hours. Second, the stores were pretty much empty, so shopping was a breeze and we got most of it finished in one day. And third, we just had a blast spending the whole day together!

At the end of the day we decided that from now on we’re taking a Monday off together every year.

I highly recommend it.

I'm trying to write...I really am!

I promise, I really am trying to write, but school can be a greedy time hog, and this year she’s hungrier than ever. I have some ideas of things to write about, and I’ve even started a couple of postings. However, between lesson plans, grading and being a husband and father, there’s not much time left in the day.

I decided that, rather than writing stories to post, I’m simply going to do a journal of sorts here online. My hope is that not only will I be able to have an “unwind” type of outlet, but I may also find a way to make some time to write.

Whether you’re a new visitor to my blog, or a regular customer, thank you for understanding the lack of recent postings and be patient as I try to figure out how to get back in the groove.

Thanks again,

TGM

A Cure for What Ails You

I’ve stumbled across a quite ingenious cure that, in theory, should fix everything from warts to cancer. Now, people have been using this cure for centuries, some with more success than others, but work or not there it seems there is always someone willing (or possibly desperate enough) to give it a try.

Here’s how it works:

Let’s suppose that a person believes he may have a fever. (I decided to start off with something fairly non-life threatening, but rest assured, this works for anything) What this person does to combat this unwanted condition is simply not take his temperature. Call it ignorance…call it denial…call it whatever you want, but the fact remains that if this person doesn’t know that he has a fever, then “POOF” like magic, he does NOT have a fever.

I know just what your thinking. “Sure, this may work for things like a simple fever, or the common cold, but how does it stand up to more serious illnesses?”

Well, I’m glad you asked that question! You see, up until recently I wouldn’t have put much stock in the “If you don’t know you have it – then you DON’T have it,” theory of medicine, but things have happened that have made a believer out of me.

I see it every day, parents who, for one reason or another, refuse to have a child tested for an ailment or condition of some kind that would be hard to deal with, if in fact the child was suffering from this ailment or condition. And mind you, these aren’t bad parents. These are usually intelligent, loving parents who want nothing less than the best for their child, but they can’t get past the fear of having a child who is labeled.

I don’t have a child with special needs, so I can’t say how I would react if I were put in this situation. Even as I’m writing this, I can see how attractive an option like "what you don't know can't hurt you," would be. I only know that you cannot look the other way forever, sooner or later something has to give.

So next time you start getting sick, just look the other way and you’ll be just fine.

Or will you?

Spacing Really Does Matter

As children learn to read and write you teach them that for words to make sense to the reader, it’s important to put spaces between the words. However, when you teach anything above first grade, you don’t really think much about the spaces between the words.

I was walking down the hall when I saw a comical reminder that spacing really does matter.

Halloween is a big deal at my school. We have a costume parade complete with teachers in costume and parents lining the halls taking pictures and videos of the big event. It really is big deal. We also have a hallway decoration contest between the classrooms, and while there isn’t any actual prize, winning is a big deal to the students.

The winning Intermediate class had an elaborate wall decorated with bats and spiders hanging from a spooky looking tree and floating ghosts that had scary messages written on them.

I walked by this board 10 times or more a day for a full week, but after my initial inspection of the work they had done, I really never paid much attention to it.

As I walked by yesterday, I was casually reading and rereading some of the ghosts’ messages when one message grabbed my attention. See if you can fix the spacing errors and decipher this ghost’s message.

"Go shits a ghost!"

Yep, spacing really does matter!

Lazy -vs- Neglect

Is a person being lazy? Or are they neglecting their child? This question has plagued teachers, if not mankind, for many years.

Part of me wants there to be a very visible, very “no-doubt-about-it” line. The kind of line that once crossed sends up flares and sets off sirens. The kind of line that leaves no question at to whether CPS should be called.

However, the more rational and sane part of me knows that a line like that can never exist. For without this lazy/neglect gray area, there would be parents who would walk right up to the line and even flirt with it without ever going over. So, as hard as it is for me to accept, this gray area may actually be protecting some children.

In the eleven years I’ve been a teacher, I’ve had to call CPS on two different occasions and it broke my heart both times. Both were cases where I suspected neglect. However, both cases, after being investigated by overworked CPS officials, were dismissed due to lack of evidence.

As a teacher, I’m required to file a report with CPS if I even suspect that there could be abuse happening in a child’s home. Abuse can be as obvious as physical abuse, or as hard to spot as neglect or emotional abuse. If, or when to call is a quandary I’m faced with every year.

So, I leave you with this question:

When does being lazy, on the part of a parent, cross the line and become neglect?

No, I haven't disappeared...

As usually happens, my school-time postings are few and far between. Clocks are an unforgiving taskmaster, and time an all too precious commodity. Between class, daily after school meetings, tutoring and simply being a husband and father, I don’t have the leisure hours to devote to writing like I do in the summers.

Even as I write this I can hear this I can hear your hateful grumblings...but I’ve heard them all before.

“Poor little teacher only gets two and a half months off…boo-hoo!”

“Must be nice to have all that free time.”

“Quit your whining you lazy bastard!”

However, I am working on something…

Blog Spam

Recently I’ve been getting LOTS of blog spam. I don’t really see the purpose of blog spam, unless of course it’s someone’s desire to be a pain in my butt. If in fact someone does have that as their desire…then they have succeeded.

Anyway, since “blog spam” is evidently done automatically by a computer and the person responsible never actually logs onto my site (a fact which only adds insult to injury) I’ve had to activate a thing called “Word Verification.”

If you leave a comment it’s a simple word you type in box to verify that a person is actually leaving the comment. I’m quite sure some smart cookie will figure out a way to get the computers to bypass this step, yet still leave a comment. However, until that day arrives this Word Verification is what I’ve got.

Cross your fingers, and let’s see if this works.

What gives Christianity a bad name?

Psychic Readings?

Not too far from our house, there is a small office complex. It is on the southwest corner at the intersection of Greenville, a very major street here in Dallas, and Royal Lane, a semi-major street. Of the 15-20 offices available for lease in this complex, only a few are every occupied at any one time. It’s small and as far as I can tell, doesn’t attract all that many customers.

My contention is that it was a poorly planned complex. If you’re traveling north on Greenville, or west on Royal, you have to drive past the complex, make a U-turn on a usually busy street and then find a spot in a parking lot that looks way too small. Like I said, it was poorly planned.

I drive by this complex usually more than once a day without really paying attention to what's happening there. Yesterday, I was sitting at the light when I noticed that a new tenant had moved in. Looking over, I had to do a double take.

PSYCHIC was all the sign above the door said. As I read the sign and looked in the window, I found myself somewhat intrigued. Big neon words in the window said, “Past, Present, Future.” There is also a neon outline of a hand, which I assume indicates palm readings.

Now, I consider myself to be a fairly open minded person. However, even I have to draw the line somewhere! And this is where I have to draw the line. Maybe it’s my Baptist upbringing, maybe it’s the fact that I’ve lived 40 years and haven’t seen anything to suggest that psychic readings are anything anymore supernatural than a kind of verbal slight-of-hand, maybe it’s just my good common sense. Whatever the reason, I don’t buy into this sort of thing.

All the same I found myself considering (if only for a moment) turning around and heading back to check this place out.

The light turned green and I drove on wondering about our new neighbors. Some of the things that popped into my mind were:

· If you’re a psychic, wouldn’t you simply be able to go to the homes of the people who want/need your help?
· What kind of guarantee does this psychic give? I mean, if this psychic reads my palm and forecasts great things in my future, what if he’s wrong?
· The sign said, “Past, Present, Future.” What in the world can you tell me about the present that I don’t already know?

But the question I had that really gave me doubts about this particular psychic’s ability to know all and see all is…

· How good of a psychic do you have to be to foretell that your future in this particular office complex isn’t all that good?

I’ll let you know as soon as our resident psychic moves out…but I don’t think I need a crystal ball to see that it won't be very long.

Now I'm the psychic!

Pee into the Jug

When I was in the third through the seventh grade my family lived in Houston. My father was the associate pastor of a fairly large church, and my family, partially due to my father’s position and partially due to the fact that we enjoyed it, was very active in all aspects of the church’s life. There was always something happening at the church that made it interesting and fun to be there. I have very fond memories of the years I spent at Tallowood Baptist church.

When I was in the sixth or seventh grade there was a person in our church, a boy I think, who had some rare form of cancer. They had consulted every specialist in the country, tried every treatment known to man, and basically left no stone unturned. However, the boy’s prognosis had not improved.

But this isn’t a story about that poor boy. I’m sad to say that several moves, and almost 30 years have erased most of what I ever knew about him. In fact, the only thing I do remember is something about a possible cure that his family needed help with from church members.

After exhausting every conventional medical avenue of hope that they had, the family turned to other, more alternative, forms of treatment. As it turned out the family discovered a treatment using a kind of medication that was extracted from urine.

That’s right…URINE!

Basically, what they asked church members to do was pee in gallon sized, plastic milk jugs, freeze it, and bring the jugs full of frozen urine to the church. Then they took them to a lab somewhere for processing.

Being the dutiful church members that we were, we volunteered to do our part. Truth be told, it was my father who volunteered the family. Now, for obvious reasons, that I don’t think I need to go into, only the male members of the family got to enjoy or endure (depending on your point of view) this fun little chapter in the lives of the Atkinson family. As I recall, the whole “pee in a jug” thing quickly lost any and all appeal for my brother and me.

I don’t remember exactly how many months we had where a trip to the bathroom involved a before and after stop at the freezer, but there were several. I also don’t remember why we didn’t ask more questions about the legitimacy of this particular line of treatment. I do, however, remember several different aspects of jug peeing that were extremely unpleasant. Some of which involve me scheming for ways to avoid it all together and some were bad things that happened.

My first plan to avoid using the jug was to simply not use the bathroom at home. I quickly deduced that if I didn’t go while I was at home, then no problem. I decided that I could just wake up in the morning, get ready for school, eat breakfast, wait for the bus, ride to school and then go to the bathroom. I had it all figured out.

However, on my very first day of trying this plan, while I didn’t officially wet my pants, suffice it to say, it was rather painful and little messy. I decided that henceforth I would have to use the jug first thing in the morning and maybe at night, but that would be it!

Another aspect of jug peeing that was quite hard to deal with had to do with my age. I was 11 to 13 years old and going through puberty. For boys going through puberty it’s very common to wake up with an erection. Having an erection only added difficulty to an already less than appealing task. I quickly learned that, thanks to gravity, you aren’t able to hold a milk jug upside down and pee into it…at least not very successfully.

My only real reprieve from the jug turned out to be anytime my parents were not at home. I remember holding it as long as I could in hopes that my Dad would have to go to the church, the store, the bank, somewhere, or anywhere!

It’s been almost 30 years since we tossed out the jug forever. My brother and I laugh until we cry about different parts of our lives and the “Pee in the Jug” chapter always seems to come up whenever the conversations turn to some of the more bizarre aspects of our childhoods.

My brother recently told me that he did some Internet research and discovered that the whole cancer cure using urine thing was pretty much a hoax. I think it was some sort of holistic kind of thing. Looking back, I wish I had asked more questions, done more research, but there was no Internet and nobody knew about urban myths. I simply trusted that my Dad wouldn’t have us peeing into a jug for no good reason. I won’t make that mistake twice!



I know RLP has even better memories of our jug peeing days…maybe he’ll post a few of his favorites. It couldn’t hurt to ask.

Inside a Third Grade Mind

I have several students who, on the outside, seem to be very typical, very run-of-the-mill kids. However, I see the occasional hint, the occasional clue that tells me life is not fun or carefree. A third grader shouldn’t have to leave school wondering if they are going to have dinner. A third grader shouldn’t have to spend time worrying how the rent will get paid. A third grader shouldn’t have to do anything but be a third grader.

Inside a Third Grade Mind

I climbed inside
A third grade mind
With no idea
What I might find

I found the most
Miraculous place
It was quite huge
Without much space

Excitement was
Most everywhere
Wild images tossed
Here and there

Fun flowing thoughts
Were all around
And happiness was
Was all I found

I realized that
I longed to find
A life like in this
Inside my mind

I strolled around
In dream-like daze
When something horrid
Met my gaze

This life that I
Had thought to be
So full of fun
And fancy-free

Turned out to be
A quite harsh place
And as for joy
I saw no trace

The fun I’d seen
Did not remain
And as I searched
I just found pain

This third grade mind
Had one hard task
For third grade pain
Is hard to mask

A Day to Remember

September 8. It’s not a date that really stands out all that much. For most of us it passes by like any regular day. However, for members of my family, if you tack 1990 to the end it suddenly becomes a day to remember.

September 8, 1990, is the day my wife and I were in the car accident that changed our lives forever. I wrote about the accident in I Lost Part of my Life and some of the issues I’ve had to learn to deal with in Closed Head Injuries and Anger.

This is the first year I can remember where, in the days preceding September 8, I didn’t think about the upcoming anniversary at all. This morning I got to school and was in the lounge reading the day's announcements when I noticed the date. The crazy thing is, I had to double-check myself to make sure I had the right date.

I've always wondered if there would ever come a day when I might be able to really thank God for an accident that nearly cost me my life. And I have to admit…I was quite sure that day would never come.

However, my life has many wonderful aspects that I do not believe would be there if not for a slick road, a left turn and a truck.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for a day to remember.

A Taste of my own Medicine

I’ve been talking with parents of my students for many years now and I hear it over and over again.

“Every time I try to help my child with his homework he says I’m not doing it the way Mr. A. does it and maybe multiplication has changed since I was in school. I just can’t get him to understand that I know what I’m doing.”

I do my best to assure them that what they are going through is normal and to just keep working with their child. However, there is a tiny little voice way back in my brain that begins to whisper...

“They’re either just too sensitive or they really are doing it wrong and just can’t admit that their child is way smarter than they are. Maybe if they had raised their child right they wouldn’t be having these problems. Perhaps you should just tell them to let their child be the tutor…maybe they’ll learn something. Go on, tell them…”

It’s only a tiny voice that I don’t really listen to, and besides it’s usually wrong…usually.

I got a taste of my own medicine yesterday…it was mighty bitter and it went down hard.

My daughter’s fifth grade class is studying latitude and longitude, one of my favorite things to teach. However, teaching third and fourth grade, I really don’t get to do much with map skills. So I was pleased as punch when M came home and said she needed some help with, “This latitude and longitude stuff!”

Of course she went to Mom first.

Now my wife is one of the smartest people I have ever met, but latitude and longitude have way too much in common with math for her to have any real interest.

I’m sitting in the other room trying to answer an email and listening to them trying to figure it out.

“Look Mom, this place is at 45 degrees, east latitude and 130 degrees north longitude.”

(If it’s been a while since you’ve studied latitude and longitude,
here’s the skinny. Lines of latitude are horizontal. Lines of longitude
are vertical. However, and this is the confusing thing for most students, latitude lines, that run east and west, are measuring distance north and south.
Longitude lines, running north and south, are measuring distance east and west.)

Being the latitude and longitude superhero that I am, I burst through the door with my cape gently flapping in the breeze.

“M, you’ve got those backwards. It’s 45 degrees NORTH latitude and 130 degrees EAST longitude.”

But I wasn’t prepared for the sucker punch.

“Dad, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Have you really ever taught this before?”

Instantly I was transformed from superhero to mild-mannered shoeshine boy and a tiny little voice began to whisper...

“You’re either just too sensitive or you really are doing it wrong and just can’t admit that your child is way smarter than you are. Maybe if you had raised your child right you wouldn’t be having these problems. Perhaps you should just let your child be the tutor…maybe you’ll learn something. Go on…”

Back in November I posted Slot Cars and Air Compressors, a story all about me and my new air compressor. I wanted to include a picture of the compressor stand that I talked about in the posting, but until now I haven't been able to add pictures to my post.

Hopefully I've figured out how to do that here.

Let me know if you can see the picture.

A Hippy on Vacation

When I was young my dad was on staff at UTEP (University of Texas El Paso). This was the late 60’s to early 70’s and the campus was overrun with what we called “hippies”. I was pretty young, but as I recall you couldn’t throw a dead monkey without hitting a longhaired, tie-dyed, bell-bottomed, bead wearing flower child. They just seemed to be everywhere.

For my friends and me these hippies were bad news. I don’t remember exactly what it was about them that was so bad, except for the fact that they were hippies. Maybe it was the rumored drug use, or the tattered unkempt appearance. Whatever the reason, hippies were not to be trusted and certainly never approached, or let alone talked with.

That was over 30 years ago, and now I see that these “hippies,” as we called them, were nothing more than young people trying desperately to find their place in this crazy world. They were free thinking, free acting, free dressing people who, through no fault of their own, were lumped together and branded with term hippy.

For the past couple of months I’ve been a hippy. I’ve been able to live my life virtually routine and responsibility free. I went to bed when I wanted to, got up when I wanted to and with the exception of a very flexible list of chore type things to be accomplished, I had nothing to do.

Tomorrow at 7:50AM the school bell rings and that all ends. For the next nine months I’ll hang-up my beads and my carefree flower-child ways. I’ll usher in a new group of students and start the new year.

I’m a hippy on vacation.

A Rude Awakening

It was one of those dreams you dream about having. You know the kind. Everything is wonderful, you can’t believe it’s your life and you never want it to end.

I’ve been living this dream for the past two months. School’s out, and with the exception of a couple of “Honey-do” type of projects that had to be completed in the Dallas heat, it’s been a perfectly wonderful summer.

However, yesterday morning at 6:25am my alarm went off. My alarm has sat silently on the bedside table since May 28, 2005. Its shrill tone neither needed nor missed. But today’s unpleasant ringing served as a harsh reminder that there are lessons that need to be planned, and children who need to be taught.

I like teaching, I really do. And with the possible exception of sitting on a beach somewhere with a cold brew in my hand, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.

After living in a prefect dream for two months, my alarm clock heartlessly sang it’s cruel song, I got up and headed for school.

The kids don’t come back for another week, but it’s work all the same.

Waking up from a truly wonderful dream is hard. It’s like finally reaching the land of Solla Sollew, on the banks of the beautiful River Wah-hoo, where they never have troubles, at least very few. But just as you begin to enjoy your newfound dream world, you’re violently pulled away from its billowy billows and soft silk and satin marshmallow-stuffed pillows, and forced back into a world of deadlines and responsibilities.

It's been a rude awakening…a rude awakening indeed.

The Smile

While standing and minding my business one day,
A man who came up yelled, “Get out of my way!”

“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” he griped as he passed,
“I can see you’re a jerk!” right back at him I sassed

Now this altercation it set the day’s mood,
Cause the people I met were just downright rude

I would hear, “Move along” or “Shut up, you big creep,”
And they’d use other words where I’d have to say, “bleep”

And my day, it was turning out really quite bad,
So I sat down and tried extra hard to be glad

I decided this rudeness I’d have to attack,
If someone was rude, I’d give a smile back

At first my idea, well, I thought it was great,
I wanted to try it and I just could not wait

Along came a man with a face that looked gruff,
I smiled, but he just looked away with a huff!

When I saw a small boy with a frown on his face,
I knew with a smile that his frown I’d erase

I thought, “Here’s the ticket, I’ll start with the young,”
But then when I smiled, he just stuck out his tongue

Then came the old lady with a long green umbrella,
As she swung it she growled, “Move over young fella!”

I felt that my smile plan in no way would work,
Each time that I smiled, I just felt like a jerk

So, I started for home with a face that was dim,
When I saw a boy smiling, and smiled back at him

I stopped and we talked about what we could do,
We decided what’s better than one smile is two

We stood there for hours and we both smiled a bunch,
Our smiles didn’t stop, not even for lunch

Some folks would get happy and then they would smile,
Others went past real stern faced, single file

At the end of the day we both felt really good,
Come back and smile more the next day…we sure would!

So when you see someone whose face has a frown,
And you’re quite sure that something has gotten them down

Look‘em right in the eye, and give‘em a grin,
And I’ll bet that a day full of smiles will begin.

Camp ...Week Three

This is week three, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping myself busy enough not to go crazy from withdrawal. However, I have been regularly checking the camp’s web site for clues to my daughter’s well being. Melissa and I have found about 20 pictures that we’ve marked for purchase at the end of camp. I guess everything’s a business.

I wrote about working my butt off with Dad, and that kept me pretty busy. Melissa and I spent last week in Santa Fe at a Bed & Breakfast called Adobe Abode. Adobe Abode is a great Bed & Breakfast that we discovered a couple of years ago and have been back several times. Andy and Bonnie, the owners, moved to Santa Fe from Dallas a few years ago to escape the rat race…what a great idea!!!

Adobe Abode is very comfortable, with wonderful breakfasts, and an easy walk to the plaza. You can walk to Canyon Road, but it’s a bit of a hike. If you’re ever going to be in Santa Fe and you need somewhere to stay, give Andy a call at Adobe Abode. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.

For us this wasn’t really a “tourist” kind of trip. With the exception of the Santa Fe Opera, which we had already bought tickets for, we didn’t have anything that we just had to do. The Opera was The Barber of Seville, which turned out to be much more fun than I would have ever expected.

I don’t mind telling you that I was not very excited about going to the opera. I mean sitting for three hours listening to people sing in Italian is not my idea of fun. I was pleasantly surprised! Not only did each person have a little 3-inch by 6-inch monitor that translated everything into English, but there was also quite a bit of comedy…who would have guessed?

While we were busy doing and seeing all kinds of great sights, we found ourselves thinking a lot about what our little one was doing. We even went to the Santa Fe public library and signed up for some Internet time. Just to check in and see what, if anything, we had missed. (We’re goofy I know!)

Time alone with Melissa really fun, and much needed. But now we’re back and Melissa’s at work. I’ve got things to do too. Errands, house cleaning, a couple of small things to fix…that kind crap, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be enough. Already I’ve seen the hints. Hints that daughter withdrawal is taking over.

If you pray, say one for me. I’ll be here in Dallas trying not to lose what’s left of my sanity.

It’s going to be a long 10 days.


Note:
Adobe Abode
Owner - Andy Duettra
505-983-3133

"I worked my butt off!"

“I worked my butt off!” is how the saying goes. But where did it come from? I’ve heard the phrase hundreds of times. Hell, I’ve even used it on occasion, but I’ve never really understood how it could have originated.

In my mind I can see this big guy and he’s out working hard. (I’m not being sexist here; I just think you have to agree that a member of the fairer sex couldn’t have come up with something like this) He’s not very literate, probably can’t even read, but he needs some kind of manly, blue collar explanation of just exactly how hard he’s been working. So why choose his butt? I mean, if you’re going to work something off wouldn’t something like “Damn, I worked my arms off,” be much more to the point?

Thanks to my Dad I now understand what was going through that big guy’s head.

My parents recently moved into a new house. They’ve been retired for a few years and decided it was time to move somewhere that would be a little more centrally located between their three children and five grandchildren. So, they built a house right outside of Austin and moved in a few weeks ago.

My dad had several projects that he needed some help with, not the least of which was flooring part of the attic. He’s got two sons, but I’m the one he calls when he needs this kind of help, and to tell the truth I enjoy doing that kind of thing. Especially with Dad.

Last Tuesday, after a host of traveling mishaps, I flew into Austin for a week of work. Dad’s idea was to, “Work my butt off!” and he did!

We built a workbench and two six-foot storage cabinets, floored a HUGE section of the attic, got three truckloads of stuff out of storage and organized the garage. We also problem solved some innovative solutions to some difficult storage issues, came up with some interesting future project ideas and laughed a lot!

After throwing several trips to Home Depot into the mix, you get a really successful, really fun “Work your butt off” kind of week.

Dad, thanks for helping me to understand what working your butt off really means…I had a lot of fun.

You know Dad, I've got some attic that needs flooring...how's your butt feeling?

The Living Stones

The other night I went to hear the Living Stones, a band some of my friends are in. This was their first paying gig! They played here in Dallas at the Lone Star Café, a little out of the way bar that specializes in cold beer and even colder food.

I really enjoyed the music, although I never did hear the Pink Floyd, Doors, or Frank Zappa that I requested. These are friends of mine from church, so I was expecting some preferential treatment, but they just kept whining about no keyboard, or something like that.

All in all, the evening was fun, if for no other reason than good music and fun people watching. I don’t frequent bars, so I’m not regularly exposed to some of the more colorful elements of our society. But this place was a full-blown color wheel!

You name’em, and they were there. I’m about talking everything from a girl in a sequined dress, (She was a bit out of place here) all the way down to folks in shorts and tank tops. At 40, I fully expected to be about the oldest person at this shindig, but I was surprised to find many senior citizens out drinking and dancing the night away. They even had a potluck dinner for some lady’s 60th birthday!

This band has five people and with the exception of the bass player, I know them all. These guys aren’t in this band at hopes of making a living. We’re talking about two lawyers and two guys with at least Masters degrees. I’m quite positive that playing in a band isn’t any of these guys’ main source of income, but that’s possibly just what makes it work.

The Living Stones are five guys with two things in common: a love for music and the desire to play. And I guess there’s some talent rolled-up in the mix somewhere.

So, if you’re ever in Dallas and you ever get a chance to hear the Living Stones play, treat yourself to cold beer and a few songs.

They may not be the best you’ve ever heard, but baby, they’ve got heart!

Shopping for Camp...still!!!

Yesterday, was our first official day as a childless couple, my wife and I spent most of they day (10:00am to 4:45pm) with my mother-in-law, shopping for purple stuff to send to our daughter at camp.

This camp has three groups, or Tribes as they call them, that each has its own color. Now, even though the girls do everything all mixed up, there are some good-spirited competitions between these three tribes. Not the least of which is an end of term war canoe race that the girls try out for and then train for the entire camp session.

Anyway, my daughter’s tribe color is purple. I didn’t think we were going to find all that much purple stuff, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Stores like Bed Bath and Beyond, among others, have everything your little heart can imagine in purple. I actually found myself considering the purchase of a purple surge protector, but was talked out of it by my wife. I knew she didn’t have any use for a purple surge protector…but what a cool thing to have!

I must say that I was a bit shocked at how much FedEx charges to mail one 20x20x12 package to south Texas. I could understand spending over $50 if it was going to some place in China, but a six hour drive shouldn’t cost that much. At least I don’t have to take it myself.

I’m learning about this whole girl’s camp thing one day at a time.

The Big Bus Adventure

We got to the bus at about 8:00am, and we weren’t the first ones there. Some of these parents wanted to make sure their girls got first pick of seats.

I’m happy to report that I did a good job maintaining my composure. However, I nearly lost it when my daughter walked up and gave me that last hug. Melissa didn’t start to tear up until the bus was pulling out. She was quite strong up until that point.

Standing there, I watched the bus pull out of the parking lot and disappear over the horizon. For me, it was a very strange and solemn kind of happiness. A kind of happiness that I’ve not experienced before. I don’t know exactly what this means. Even as I’m writing this, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.

Melissa and I left, got some breakfast and went home.

As she left for work she asked, “So, what are you going to do today?”

Confused, I paused and said, “I don’t know.”

Having nothing to do can be kind of scary.

Off to Camp...

Today begins a bold new mission into the unknown.

In about forty-five minutes, my wife and I will head to Inwood Village, a strip-shopping village here in Dallas, and put our little girl on a bus headed for camp in south Texas.

I say a new mission, because while I’ve sent her to camp for the last three summers, this is a whole new adventure for all of us. In the past she’s gone to Sky Ranch and only been gone for a week. Combine that with the fact that at Sky Ranch you take your child to camp and this becomes a whole new adventure.

I got up this morning excited, but a little apprehensive.

I mentioned that I cry easily…I wonder how well I’m going to hold up?

Frog Memories

I was born in El Paso Texas, and with the exception of a short move to Fort Worth, I lived in El Paso until the end of the second grade.

We lived in a house with a park right across the street. This park was the site of endless adventures for my brother and me. There were many times we’d be in the park, lost in play for hours. I have fond memories of my time spent in that park.

Now I don’t know how much you know about El Paso, but it’s hot and it doesn’t rain very much. I was pretty young, but I seem to remember something about the rain clouds not being able to make it over the mountains. Something like that, I think. However, the times it did rain were usually a downpour.

Rain only enhanced the fascination that this park had for my brother and me. On one end of the park there was a low area that became a pretty good-sized pond. In our imaginations, this pond became an ocean with endless possibilities for exploration.

I don’t remember what magical adventure we were in the middle of, or even exactly how we first discovered the frogs, but once we found them, they were all we could think about.

Seems El Paso was the host/breeding ground for some breed of tiny frog. These little frogs ranged anywhere from a dime to a quarter in size, and this park was a haven for millions of these tiny creatures. They would escape the west Texas heat by burrowing underground and somehow survive in the moisture that was captured deep underground after the city watered.

Anytime it rained the pond appeared in the park, and so did the frogs. You couldn’t take a step in any direction without crunching down on some poor unsuspecting little critter. My brother and I, intent on saving these amphibians from a life of “foot-traffic genocide”, decided to catch as many of them as we could and relocate them to our mother’s flower garden in the backyard. (A plan we failed to discuss with our Mom, but I’ll talk more about that later)

Using a small bucket, we headed to the park and spent the whole afternoon catching dozens of little frogs. Then we’d go back home, dump them into the flowerbed and head back to the pond for more.

I don’t know how many of these humanitarian trips we made back and forth between the pond and the garden, but there were several. You see, we weren’t just splashing around and playing in the water like all the other kids. Oh no, we were on a mission, a rescue mission and in our minds it was for real.

Now this was over 30 years ago, so thinking back, our bucket probably wasn’t really all that big, although it seemed huge at the time. I’m guessing it wouldn’t have held more than 150 to 200 little frogs. Seeing as we probably made five or six of these frog rescue trips back to the house, there were actually only somewhere between 750 to 1,200 little refugees in our garden/frog relocation camp. We went to bed, secure in the knowledge that our amphibitarian relief efforts had been a huge success.

Then things started to go wrong…

As it turns out, there were many aspects of our frog relocation project that we hadn’t actually thought about.

First: The size and capacity of our camp. While Mom’s garden seemed quite large to a first grader, it was in fact quite small. Combine that with the fact that we have five to six times the number of these small frogs in our garden as we actually have room for, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

Turns out, as is so often the case in many refugee camps, overcrowding was a major problem. During the daytime and the sweltering heat, we didn’t see many of our new neighbors. However, at night in the desert things tend to cool off. This is when our new little friends would venture out in search of food, and possibly less crowded living conditions. Whatever the reason, during the night and early morning these little guys would be all over the yard and the porch.

It wasn’t long before Mom, walking outside in bare feet, discovered our new neighbors. I don’t remember much more than the loud, ear piercing shrieks as she hopped from foot to foot, squishing dozens of our little refugees. It’s been a long time, but I remember it being quite funny for the whole family. Well, I guess not for Mom.

Next, we also failed to think about, or possibly ignored the presence of the backyard’s primary resident, Tip. Tip, our dog, was all too happy to share his yard with these little guys. Turns out they made great playmates, toys and sometimes snacks for our fun-loving puppy. On more than one occasion, I ventured outside just in time to catch Tip, tail wagging, in mid-crunch as he happily played with a new little friend.

All the trials and tribulation associated with opening your own low-rent, frog apartments aside, having a backyard full of frogs turned out to be quite fun.

However, our fascination with our new little friends soon faded and we were forced to search for new forms of entertainment with our frog friends.

Possibly our best idea, or at least the one that has stuck in my head, began with us flooding the garden, digging up as many of these unsuspecting frogs as we could, and loading them into my Dad’s water filled wheelbarrow.

Our house had a flat roof that, as well as I can remember, was covered with small stones. We’d toss a few of the now terrified frogs up on the roof and make bets on which ones would jump off first, then laugh as we tried to catch them in the wheelbarrow full of water. We’d spend the day throwing frogs and racing back and forth with the wheelbarrow. All the while having the time of our lives.

I’m not sure how many frogs we lost all together, but the body count had to be high. I don’t think it ever occurred to us that, assuming the frog survived the throw up onto a hot rock covered roof, that they might have a concussion, or be so stunned that they would either jump the wrong direction or simply sit there and cook. All the same, we threw LOTS of the poor little guys up on the roof.

If they did happen to survive the throw, and jump the right directions, and actually land in the wheelbarrow filled with water…we would cheer and throw them right back up on the roof. A fact that I’m quite sure seemed like loads of fun to us, but had to be very disheartening for the poor frogs.

I don’t remember how many different rainy days we took our bucket and went across the street to “save” these little frogs, but seeing as it didn’t rain all that often in El Paso, I don’t believe our mission ever lost its charm. There’s also no way of knowing how many frogs were dug out of their home, tossed up on a hot roof and never heard from again, but there were many.

As fondly as I remember these events, I can’t help but wonder. What were these poor frogs thinking? I mean, here you are, happy in your world when suddenly you’re ripped from the only existence you’ve ever know, transplanted to a strange place and then viciously mistreated…all in the name of charity.

I wonder…did these little frogs ever really need, or want to be helped?




.

Closed Head Injury and Anger - 2nd Draft

As the title suggests, this is the revised edition of Closed Head Injury and Anger. However, I didn’t change very much. I think most of what I needed to change had to do with word choice and voice. If you happen to have read the first draft, I would appreciate knowing if this version sounds or reads different than the first draft.



I’ve been a closed head injury survivor for almost 15 year. I wrote some about it in I Lost Part of my Life.

Technically, I’m disabled. I say technically, because I’m not physically disabled and with the exception of my speech, which isn’t really all that bad, but is eternally a thorn in my side, most days I don’t have any reason to ever even think about my head injury. Maybe I’m in denial, but who isn’t?

However, there are days that are filled to the brim with reminders. The things I’m forced to deal with, combined with the sometimes idiotic ways I deal with them, are not only reminders that I do I have a head injury, but they’re reminders that force me to face the fact that I am dealing with a lot.

I guess in many ways I’m lucky. Some survivors deal not only with the mental struggles of a head injury, but with a huge range of physical deficits as well. This is something I try to remind myself of on the hard days…but trying to convince myself that I’m lucky to only have a closed head injury is usually not all that helpful.

When you break part of your body, it heals and life goes on. When you damage part of your brain either other parts of your brain take over and learn to compensate for the skill or ability you lost, or you learn to function without that particular skill.

My head injury took all my emotions, tossed them into a blender, hit puree and poured the emotional smoothie back into my brain.

Before my head injury I had strict control over any and all of my emotions. If I didn’t want to laugh, I didn’t laugh. If I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t cry. And I decided where and when I got angry. I liked having that kind of control. It made coping with an ever-changing world child’s play.

(In “I Lost Part of my Life,” I talk about me comparing
“New Hugh” to “Old Hugh”…it looks and sounds a lot like this)

These days my emotions have me at their mercy. I can’t watch TV without uncontrollably breaking into tears over the stupidest things. (I’m talking about Tide commercials!) It’s actually become kind of a family joke to look over and see what see what new household product commercial has caused Hugh to fall to pieces.

I also find myself laughing uncontrollably at the stupidest things. Seeing as laughing sends extra air through your windpipe and, thanks to a tracheotomy, I only have one functioning vocal cord to regulate the amount of oxygen that’s coming out, suddenly laughing makes it nearly impossible for me to talk and be understood.

These two problems are a minor inconvenience at best and while I would rather not have to go through life dealing with them, I’m the only one who is truly bothered and I can deal with that.

Not so for the anger.

Difficulty with anger management is an all too common problem experienced by closed head injury survivors. I know from the countless hours I spent in Occupational and Cognitive Remediation therapy that learning to deal with anger is a huge part of living with a closed head injury.

For the past 15 years I’ve been living with a kind of time bomb inside my head and I don’t have much, if any, control over when and where it goes off.

In a nutshell, this is what happens: Something happens that doesn’t go quite the way it should. Maybe it’s something that just isn’t working like it is supposed to, or maybe it’s simply not working the way Hugh thinks it should be working. Either way, my feeling overly frustrated is the first step. Over the years I’ve learned to identify this “overly frustrated feeling” and can now usually back away from the situation and avoid anything else.

If the situation involves other people, or something I can’t easily back away from that’s when I start to feel the wave. This wave of anger starts somewhere deep down. I don’t know exactly where, but I can feel it bubbling up and it sometimes scares me. There are times I can feel the wave coming and rational thought is able to block the wave. Other times, however, the wave is either so huge, or I’m already so tired, that rational thoughts don’t even register.

I can usually feel myself losing control. I know that I’m not being rational and that the situation, whatever it may be, doesn’t need my being angry. However, simply understanding that things are moving in the wrong direction isn’t always enough to turn things around.

I feel a lot like one of those cartoon characters has an angel on one shoulder and devil on the other. Early on, in my closed head injury survivor world, the angel rarely spoke. On the few occasions in which the angel did have something to say, it was all too easy for the devil to convince me to see things his way.

Melissa and I had only been married for a year and a half when we were in the car accident that pureed my emotions. For the first few years after the accident, Melissa lovingly dealt with a husband whose mood and temper were fragile at best. On more than one occasion, her easygoing spirit helped to calm me down long before anger was able to take over.

My daughter, on the other hand, has only known life with a head injured dad.

If you’re 10 and you get hurt, you go to the doctor and you get better. For this reason, I’m not sure she truly understands the kind of injury we’re talking about, but I can see in her eyes that she loves me and just wants everything to be okay.

Having a condition that never goes away is hard for me to wrap my mind around, and I’ve been on this planet 30 years longer than she has. How can I expect her to fully understand?

Let me just say that the times I’ve “blown-up” have, in the big scheme of things, been relatively minor. There’s never any physical violence, just me being angry and ranting and raving. The only thing I’ve ever broken was a Cross pen of mine that I happen to be holding, and I was very sad. It didn’t make a mess, but it was my favorite pen.

After 15 years, several hard life lessons, the support of my family and friends combined with me turning 40, I can finally say that these days the inner me doesn’t get angry all that quick. Even though the feelings are still there, more often than not I’m able take control of my anger before it takes control of me.

However, for reasons I don’t understand, although fatigue plays a big role, there are times my head injury pops out of the closet, takes control, and my anger gets the best of me.

These days it usually only happens with my immediate family, another fact that I don’t quite understand. Maybe home is the only place I’m able to completely let my guard down…I don’t know.

My anger management, thanks to Melissa’s continued love and support, has improved significantly. After 15 years, there are times she sees the potential for trouble long before it’s an issue, and is able to help me avoid the whole situation, or at least address it calmly.

I don’t know what I’d do without my wife and daughter, they are truly a blessing in my life, head injury or not. Their love, understanding and support make my life, which can seem hard at times, all worth it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So there you have it, more than you ever wanted to know about the anger issues of a closed head injury survivor. My head injury life is an uphill battle, and as much as I hate to admit it, it always will be. I guess I’ll just keep trudging through life and learning from my mistakes as best I can.


Note:
I’ve talked about this a lot with my family, but this is the first time I’ve written about it…at least the anger part. Writing it down has caused me to think through and see things much more carefully and clearly - thanks for listening.

Packing for Waldemar

When I was a child, in the summers I went to Boy Scout camp and church camp. Each camp was a week long and lots of fun. I remember reading some stories about kids who went to camps that lasted for weeks and weeks, even all summer long. I remember wondering if these camps were real. If they were real, where are they, and how do kids get to go to them? I’m 40 and I’m finally learning all about these kinds of camps.

My daughter is going to a camp for a month in south Texas. This is a girl’s camp that started in 1926 and has been doing the same or at least a very similar program every summer for almost 80 years. Macy has been on the waiting list since she was born and this is her first year as Waldemar camper.

For me camp was a week long, and I spent more time worrying about who else was going to be there than I did about what I was taking. Packing wouldn’t start until the night before I left. I was only going to be gone for a week, how much forethought and preparation could there be?

Packing for this camp is a whole different kind of summer camp packing than I’ve ever done before. Maybe I’m slow, but I had a hard time getting the whole “4-week camp” idea through my head.

In my defense, there are two really big differences between this type of camp packing and the type of camp packing I've done.

Difference number 1: How long you’ll be gone.

For me, this was the obvious difference. When you’re packing for a week at camp and you forget something, no big deal. What can you possibly forget that you can’t easily borrow from a buddy, or simply due without for few days?

Not so for a month long camp. This is more akin to moving that it is to going to camp.

Difference number 2: The gender of the camper.

This is packing for a cute little girl, not some grubby boy.

What boys need can be packed easily into a small backpack or tote bag. Underwear, shorts, t-shirts, socks, shoes and a toothbrush are about all a boy needs for camp. To tell the truth he really doesn’t even need an outfit for each day, since he’ll probably only change about once every other day anyway.

Girls, on the other hand, need LOTS of stuff. Understand that my daughter doesn’t actually leave for camp until July 8, but we’ve been shopping for camp stuff the entire month of June! While we aren't shopping every day, finding camp stuff has been on our minds since before school was out.

It’s funny, but as foreign as this kind of camp packing is to me, I find myself really getting carried away with it. It’s all too easy for me to get caught up in the whole checking the list (Yes, we have a list!) and making sure she has the stuff laid out and ready to actually put into her trunk.

With only a week left before I put my little darling on the bus that heads from Dallas to south Texas, I find myself finally having the chance to realize that I won’t see her for a whole month. Quite possibly all the packing has been a much-needed distraction from the truth…maybe that’s how it’s designed.

I’ve got plenty of projects here and at my parent’s new house to keep my mind occupied while she’s gone, as well as some long overdue vacation time for just Melissa and me. I guess we’ll see how well I hold up.

I’ll keep you posted.

Closed Head Injury and Anger - Removed

On June 29, I posted a piece called Closed Head Injury and Anger. It was up for less than a day, didn’t have any comments yet and I don’t believe had been read by many people. (Not that anything of mine is read my huge throngs of people, but relatively speaking, not may people have viewed it yet)

Anyway, I was rereading it online, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore. I don’t know exactly want it was that stuck in my craw, but there was a vibe that I didn’t care for.

So I removed it.

I’ll keep working on it and repost it again, hopefully in the near future.

Thanks for understanding.

Hugh

Bernard's Taxi Service

We docked in St. Thomas early in the morning before anyone was awake. After a quick breakfast, we busily prepared for a day of sightseeing and shopping, but we had no idea what we were about to meet Bernard.

After taking the ship’s shuttle into downtown, we found ourselves in a sea of island natives, each struggling to make a living off naïve tourists all too willing to fork over big bucks for anything even remotely tropical looking.

There we stood, all 10 of us huddled together discussing our next move. Each voice blurting out must see locations or attractions.

That’s when Bernard approached. Bernard is a six foot black man in his late 20’s or early 30’s. He was neatly dressed, wearing glasses and an NYPD cap. He gave us all a big smile and offered to help with directions at “No Charge!”

After listening to the different places we wanted to visit, he produced a map out of nowhere and began helping us plan the day’s adventures. After giving us the Insider’s Scoop on the which beaches we would probably want to see, he made his smooth transition from Good Samaritan to Polished Businessman.

Pointing toward a row of cars and trucks with seating for up to 20 he said, “First thing you’re going to need to do is catch one of those cabs and head to Magen’s Beach. It’s one of the top 10 beaches in the world.” Then came the well-practiced pitch.

“Of course, with a group this size it’s going to cost you about 15 bucks a person each way. And that’s assuming you only want to go to that beach and straight back here. If you’d like, I could take you on a tour of the island, hit some really great spots, and take you to the beach. Later, we’ll end up back here in downtown where you can do some shopping, then I’ll take you all back to your boat. I’ll do all that for only 20 bucks a head…round trip.”

We asked him to give us a minute he nodded and politely backed off. Far enough so that it didn’t look like he was listening, but not so far the he couldn’t hear what we were saying. After a brief discussion and a group consensus that we really like Bernard, we took him up on his offer.

Oddly enough, Bernard seemed genuinely happy to show these American tourists a good time. He told us to pay him after the tour was complete, showed us where to buy some water, loaded us in the truck and we took off.

Along the way up (pretty much everything is up on these islands) he used the PA system and gave us a brief but thorough history of the island. He pointed out different landmarks we could see every now and again as we eased our way up the inclined, cut-back roads that made the serpentine path up and over to the other side of the island.

We stopped at a spot that Bernard said was one of his favorite photos spots on the whole island. As we climbed out of the truck we were face to face with an amazing view. Standing on a small cement wall that had been constructed as a kind of last chance barrier for any motorist unfamiliar with the road, we were overlooking a beautiful mountainside. It was a truly spectacular sight.

From this angle, the road we had been traveling on wasn’t even visible, but the view of the city and the port was spectacular. A lush green mountainside spotted with the occasional house. As we took pictures, Bernard pointed out different landmarks and celebrities’ homes. It was very intriguing to me that Bernard seemed to know the value of most of the homes along the tour. Maybe they were published in some kind of cab driver’s guide to the island.

It was on one of these types of stops that I noticed what was painted on the side of Bernard’s taxi. On an outside panel between two of the rows of seats it said, “Salvation is of the Jews.”

After getting back in the truck and heading off down the road, Melissa, who had also noticed the sign, and I started discussing the theological implications of such a message, as well as Bernard’s purpose for writing this on the side of his cab.

That’s when Russ, my brother-in-law, commented, “Did you see the driver’s side door?”

On the door Bernard had painted a picture of the Israeli flag and a bible.

This was a 2004 or 2005 Ford F-450, a big truck. It has a specially built, covered bed with five rows of seats that each held four to six people. It was easy to see that Bernard has some big dollars invested in his business.

As for the pictures, these weren’t stickers, or some hastily painted first grade quality, one-dimensional drawings. Both the Salvation is of the Jews sign, as well as the flag and bible were professionally done works of art. The quality reminded me of the spectacular car art you only see at car shows or in magazines.

At this point Russ entered the discussion. We tried to figure out if Bernard was Jewish, or if he was simply trying to cover all the bases for the tourists. After discussing it for a while and not coming up with any good answers, we decided to simply ask Bernard at the end of our tour. I mean, if you put that on the side of your taxi you gotta be prepared for questions.

When we got back into the city to do our last bit of shopping before heading back to the boat, I turned to Bernard and said, “I have to ask you one question.”

He gave me nod, a knowing smile and said, “Shoot!”

“The pictures on the door and the Salvation is of the Jews sign were a bit confusing for us. If you’re Jewish, then why have the bible? If you’re not Jewish, then why have all the other?”

Bernard leaned on the taxi, took off his cap and said, “I’m not Jewish, but I am an adopted Jew. You see, Jesus, my savior, he is a Jew and the bible was written by Jews. So when I made my profession of faith and joined the family of God, in a sense I became a Jew. The reason I put these symbols on my taxi is to give me chances in my everyday life to tell people just like you about my Lord and Savior.”

I don’t have to tell you that I was quite impressed with Bernard. While I did the calculations and figured out that, depending on the number of people he takes on each tour, Bernard makes somewhere between 60 and 150 dollars an hour. While that ain't chump change, I don’t think he’s in it only for the money.

Sure the money’s nice…I guess, but after watching some of the other cabbies who, if they spoke English at all, didn’t really talk with the passengers. They all seemed to be more about quantity than quality.

I like to believe that Bernard discovered along the way that being friendly and helping his customers have a good time was not only a good way of doing business, but it made his life much better.

My mother-in-law and father-in-law surprised us by paying for the whole family’s tour, tip and all. However, as he dropped us off back at the ship, Macy wanted to give him a tip that was just from her. Handing him a five-dollar bill she said, "Thank you Mr. Bernard."

He held up his hand and shook his head, “It’s all taken care of little one.”

She told him it was just from her. He smiled, gave her a hug and accepted the money.

I may never go back to St. Thomas, but if I do you’ll find me in the back of a blue cab with Salvation is of the Jews painted on the side.

Note: If you’re going to be in St. Thomas give Bernard’s Taxi Service a call. I know you’ll have a great time.

Bernard’s Taxi Service
“Breathtaking View of the Island”
Specializing in Beach Excursions and Tours of the Island
Bernard Clovis – Manager
(340) 643-0694
(340) 775-4333

Tell him Hugh sent you. He probably won’t remember me…but who knows.

Sea Legs

The Valor is the largest of Carnival's 19 ships. However, as big as she is, the constant rocking still takes a little getting used to, but I think I've finally got my "Sea Legs."

On Nassau, (I know I misspelled it) we got to swim with dolphins...it was better than I could have imagined.

I tend to lose track of what day it is during the summer months, and going on vacation only make it worse. That being said, I think it's Wednesday and we're stopping at St. Thomas today.

Just to keep you up to speed - I'm tan, I'm relaxed, and baby, I'm happy...what more do I need?

I'll keep you posted.

Cruisin' For a Good Time

My wife’s side of the family is taking a cruise together on the Carnival ship Valor. You can check it out here. We’re going to the Easter Caribbean and stopping at St. Thomas, St. Martin and Nassau. I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on anything at home, so I guess it’s a good thing school is out.

There are 10 of us in all, and we do a lot of traveling together. There are some people who I can’t imagine spending that much time with, but the 10 of us get along well and just seem to always have a great time on these kind of excursions…knock on wood!

I’ve only been on one other cruise and it was about 5 years ago. These ships have several pools, gambling, shopping, all kinds of nightly shows, more food than you can imagine and much more. I’m looking forward to just laying in the sun, reading a book and having people bring me drinks.

For Melissa’s birthday her mother gave her a dolphin adventure package on one of our stops. So at one of the ports we’ll get to pet and swim with the dolphins. Melissa loves animals, especially dolphins and this has been a dream for many years.

There’s free email and internet access on the ship so I may even post something while I’m gone…but don’t count on it.

When I get back I’ll be tan, I’ll be rested and I’ll be ready to attack my list of honey-do’s.

Bon Voyage

Summertime Misconceptions

“Man, it must be nice to have the whole summer off!”


I just finished my 11th year of teaching and I wouldn’t trade my occupation for anything in the world.

When I first got into this field I had dreams of long glorious summers filled with nothing but fun and relaxation. However, I quickly learned that my summers are not nearly as glorious and fun filled as I had imagined. Summers are simply a break.

Growing up summer was basically time off from any and all responsibility. I got to sleep late, play hard, stay out late and then sleep late again the next day.

Sure, I had to cut the yard and keep my room fairly clean, but all of that was fairly trivial. As I got into high school, I would work during the day and pick up my lazy routine each night. But summer jobs for a teenager are nothing if not easy. You go, work your assigned hours and then go home. There’s nothing to take home and think about later.

I grew up with a father who is a pastor. I knew that sometimes the phone rings in the middle of the night. I also understood that when it did, Dad was probably going to have get up and leave. You can’t be a pastor and leave your work at the office, because you’re never off duty.

In many ways teaching is like that.

Sure, I take papers and report cards home on occasion to grade and fill out, but that’s not what I’m talking about. My lessons and my class dynamics are forever in my mind. These thoughts aren’t passively filed back somewhere under Other or To-Do. Oh, no, they’re right they’re in the forefront actively taking up space.

“Man, it must be nice to have the whole summer off!” If I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times, but that’s a comment made by people who do not understand.

They do not understand that I pour myself into teaching every day.
They do not understand that I can’t just pop down to the bathroom whenever I want.
They do not understand that I can’t sit idly by while a student’s home life falls to pieces.
They do not understand that for nine months I eat, I drink, I sleep and I breathe teaching.

They do not understand.

So what are summers?

Summers are simply a break. Two months that I get to be only a husband, only a father, only a person who’s getting a much-needed break from an otherwise very hectic existence.

Summer is time for me revitalize and get ready for next year.

A Day with Alice Cooper

I’ve spent the entire day with the lyrics to the classic Alice Cooper song, “School’s Out for Summer!” running through my head. I even went so far as to sing a few bars to parents as I walked my students, their kids, to the doors this afternoon.

However, based on the semi-polite chuckles I received from frantic parents, I’m forced to conclude that these parents know all too well what they are in store for. (Although, I must admit it could have been the sound of me singing, just ask Real Live Preacher)

I won’t be thinking about, let alone setting foot in school until sometime in mid August.

So for me, School truly is out for summer, but for some of these parents...I think it’s just beginning.

Food Talk

I learned a way to talk to food,

It’s quite a handy trick
I learn before I ever eat,
Which foods will make me sick

The other day my sandwich said,
On him I should not dine
I gave him to my brother,
He got sick, but I felt fine

It seems the different kinds of foods,
Don’t always get along
The veggies feel the fruits and nuts,
Have flavors that are wrong

The apples, peaches and the pears,
Are better, so they feel
Than ones like the banana,
Who have to lose their peel

And then there is the candy,
They’re despised by all the rest,
They think they’re high and mighty,
Just cause kids like them best

I’ve discovered that you cannot trust,
The different kinds the meat,
They’ll tell you something bad is safe,
And chuckle while you eat

The dairy products think they’re great,
The others don’t see how,
That people ever stand to eat,
What comes out of a cow

And then there are the beverages,
They fight the worst you know,
It seems they all compare themselves,
To one called H2O

I don’t know why they talk to me,
Sometimes my nerves they strain,
But conversation’s bound to come,
With every hunger pain

Signs of Aging

In November I turned 40 and I wrote about it here. For me, turning 40 wasn’t all that big of a deal. I mean one day you’re 39 and then you’re one day older, but you are supposed to feel really different. I think birthdays are all a mind game.

There are signs of getting older. Signs that we look forward to and embrace with open arms. A child’s first steps, or beginning school, or graduating high school, or getting married, these are all signs that we enjoy and are truly delightful to experience.

Oh, but there are signs of aging. Signs that jump right in your face. Screaming signs that are harsh reminders that Mother Nature is not on your side. These signs force us to face the truth, whatever that truth may be.

I recently had not one, but two signs of aging.

I had to change doctors. My previous doctor was about a 45-minute drive from my house and school and even though I really liked Dr. Cook, going to see him made being sick even harder than it already was. So on the suggestion of my wife, who works at the hospital, I decided to go see Dr. Wooley.

· Sign of aging #1

My first sign of aging has nothing to do with my health, but rather my doctor. Dr. Wooley and I really hit it off. He is very personable and on my initial visit he sat down and we talked all about me. I told him all about my closed head injury and he asked all the appropriate questions.

He saw my school name badge, on which I’ve pasted a picture of Darth Vader over my picture, and we had a brief, but thorough discussion about the new Star Wars movie. His diagnosis…a simple sinus infection, for which he gave me enough sample medication to keep me from going to the pharmacy, and I was out the door.

However, the whole time I was in there with the doctor something seemed odd or different. Just something I couldn’t put my finger on. It wasn’t until about an hour later that I realized the source of my quandary. You see, for the first time in my life I’m being seen by a doctor who is younger than I am. He may not be much younger, but all the same, he is younger.

That was Monday, and I walked out of his office feeling much, much older and a little more feeble than I did walked I went in.

· Sign of aging #2

Three days later, I’m past my depression about Dr. Wooley’s apparent youth, when I had an appointment with yet another doctor, this time the eye doctor.

I think it was Bill Cosby who said that you know you’re old when you begin to tell what day it is by which doctor you went to. I’m beginning to feel like that’s true.

At the completion of my eye exam, Dr. Uzick says, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

That’s never good.

And he continued, “The good news is your eyes haven’t changed all that much since your last visit. The bad news is I can tell that in a few years you are going to need bifocals.”

“BIFOCALS??? You have got to be kidding,” was my stuttering reply.

He said that right now I’m doing okay, but he can tell that someday I’m going to need them. Turns out he learned long ago that it is better to start preparing patients well in advance of when they will actually need things like bifocals.

So there you have it. Like it or not I’m getting older. I can tell I am because the youth of America are becoming doctors and some of my parts are beginning to wear out.

To date I’ve only recognized two of these signs…but I’ll keep you posted.

WWJD

In life you meet all kinds of people. Sometimes you meet people and spend the rest of your life doing everything humanly possible to never see that person again. However, there are people who are just easy and fun to be around. People with magnetic personalities. These “magnetic” people draw others to them. I don’t know what it is, but no matter what you’re doing, it’s hard to not enjoy yourself around this type of person.

My father-in-law is a magnetic person.

I first met Don about a year and a half before I married his daughter. Melissa and I weren’t even actually dating yet when she took some of her friends to his house to just hang out before the evening’s festivities. I remember we were sitting there talking, but not really doing much of anything when he got home from work. Don hadn’t been there five minutes when things turned around. It’s been almost 20 years, and I don’t even remember what he did that was so fun, but I remember being a little sad when it was time to leave.

Some people just have that effect.

Over that past 16 years that Melissa and I have been married, I’ve learned a lot about Don and his magnetic personality. He has a wonderfully eclectic group of friends that range from multi-millionaire entrepreneurs to Cuban refugees who struggle to make ends meet, and everything in between.

I wouldn’t characterize Don as a really religious person. He is a Christian, and his relationship to God is first of all his own business, and second, none of mine. He is a member of an Episcopal church and for years sang in the choir. At times he comes to church with us.

Last Sunday Don got a call from his friend who is from Cuba. Seems this friend has been staying with a family who literally had no money for food. I don’t know the details of the situation, and I’m not sure Don does. I’m not sure Don even asked, but the kind of heart that Don has couldn’t let these people go hungry.

It would have been easy to just give them some money, or point them to one of the many social service agencies here in Dallas, but that’s not how Don works. He took the whole family, kids and all, to the store and spent a couple of hundred dollars and turned things around for this poor family.

He didn’t ask them questions about how they’re managing their money. He didn’t ask them about what they were going to do in future to ensure they wouldn’t be in this situation again. He didn’t ask them to only purchase the bare minimum. He didn’t ask them anything. He just told them to get whatever they want. The tears of a mother who wasn’t going to have to send her babies to bed hungry, was all the thanks he needed.

Don has never worn a WWJD bracelet, and I’d be surprised if he even knows what one is. But if you asked Don what Jesus would have done for this family who desperately needed help, I bet he could tell you…cause I’m quite sure he showed you.

Crash!!!

On April 18 my hard drive crashed. Luckily we were able to save most everything, however, I’ve spent the last 10 days without a computer and baby, it was not easy.

While I have a computer at school, it’s just not the same thing. How did I make it all those years without a computer? I guess it’s impossible to miss something you’ve never had.

Anyway, I’m not 100% up and running again, but it shouldn’t be too long.

I can tell you what I learned from this in one word…BACKUP!!!

(Michael G. – If you read this, give me a call…I need a new map to your house)

The Price of Fame

Being a celebrity in America must not be easy. My pastor told a story of leaving Royal Oaks Country Club after playing golf and seeing Emmit Smith. Seems Emmit was getting in his car after what must have been an extremely frustrating 18 holes when a young boy ran up asking for his autograph. Being in no mood to even scribble his name on something he angrily dismissed the boy. Fighting tears, they boy walked back to his father as Emmit burned rubber getting out of the parking lot.

My wife and I went to a black tie auction last night. Presbyterian Hospital hosted the Greer Garson Gala at the Frontiers of Flight Museum near Love Field here in Dallas. We were lucky enough to sit next to Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn.

Stick with me here, I’m making a point.

Due to M’s different positions at the hospital over the last 14 years, we’ve gone to more than our fair share of formal events. We go often enough that a couple of years ago I forked out the big bucks for a tuxedo. However, we don’t usually sit with, or really even talk to any of the celebrities. As much as I tried to deny it, sitting next to Angie Harmon, I was a bit star struck. I mean when Angie Harmon sits at your table you suddenly become very aware of where your elbows are and your posture.

I don’t know much about Jason other than that he used to play for the Giants. However, I’ve watched Angie on Law and Order and countless other shows and must say that she is every bit as gracious and elegant in real life as she appears to be on television. Both Angie and Jason are pleasant dinner companions and our evening couldn’t have been more fun.

No, being a celebrity in America must not be easy, because it has a heavy price. You owe something to your fans.

I don’t think all celebrities have figured this out, but I can name two who have.

Just Doing My Job

As a parent I look for signs. Signs that help me know that I’m doing a good job raising my child. Sometimes these signs are neon signs. They stand out proudly displaying to the world how successful you are as a parent.

Your child’s behavior in a restaurant, or how he or she relates to elderly neighbors is this type of sign. They’re bright, they’re bold and you instantly know that either your worst parenting nightmare has come true, or that you have done a good job and your child is a good person.

However, some of these signs aren’t quite so easy to see. They come camouflaged in a plethora of hard to spot disguises. It’s possible to spend most of your life watching for these elusive signs and never seeing one as plainly as I did today.

M, my daughter, is going to a four week camp this summer down in south Texas. It’s her first year to go to this particular camp and she and my wife have invited some of the other campers her age, and their mothers to our house for a kind of break the ice party. It is our desire to help her get to know some of the other campers before getting on the bus in Dallas and heading off to camp.

For most of this party, I’ll be in a meeting at church, but I should get back just in time to meet the other girls and their moms before the party is over.

M took me aside, looked me right in the eyes and said in her most pleasant voice, “Dad, when you come in don’t do anything silly that might embarrass me, okay?”

I got down on my knees, looked into her eyes and replied, “I wouldn’t dream of it, but just knowing that you feel that you needed to say that to me, is music to my ears.”

She gave me a big hug and continued getting ready for the party.

As a parent I look for signs. If you possess the potential for parental embarrassment strong enough to warrant a verbal plea for sanity from your child, rest easy baby…you’re doing your job.

Only the Good Die Young...

I met Michael my freshman year at Hardin-Simmons University. We sat next to each other in Psychology of Personal Adjustment.

I liked Michael right from the start. We both laughed at the name of the class and I don’t think a day passed that we didn’t make some kind of joke about our class that taught us how to properly think about masturbation.

Being a small campus, we’d bump into each other fairly often and would usually spend half an hour or so, once a month catching up over junk food.

Our beloved institution of higher education required four semesters of chapel in order to graduate. Our sophomore year we were randomly placed next to each other in chapel. I don’t remember much about my four semesters of chapel at H-SU, but I do remember the two of us laughing and playing around during most of our time together in chapel.

We “bumped” into each other again at seminary. For two years Michael, Tracy Ward and I were like the Three Amigos. I don’t know if they did, but I like to think that our professors would cringe at the thought of us being in their class.

Michael has written about me two times in his blog, once here and a second time here. I haven’t written about Michael at all, a fact that he reminds me of whenever he can.

Back in November, Michael made the long journey from San Antonio to Dallas for my 40th birthday party. I hadn’t seen Michael in probably 10 years and we picked up right where we left off.

Now it’s his turn to get old and I’m heading down south for a night of friends, celebration and maybe a margarita or two. Who knows, maybe Tracy will grace us with his presence as well.

I Found it...It's Mine

When I was in the fifth grade an adult friend of the family gave me a University of Texas spiral notebook. It was white with an orange longhorn picture on the front. I put my name inside the front cover and took it to school.

That same day, I came back to my desk after changing classes for math and it was gone. After searching the classroom I found it in Mike Jones’ desk. He had marked out my name and drawn pictures on the longhorn. When confronted by the teacher and myself he claimed to have found it. Never mind that he found it in my desk and it had my name on it. The twisted idea that simply finding it gave him ownership somehow made sense to Mike Jones.

Having taught elementary school for 11 years, I hear it all the time. “I found it,” is the reply all to quickly given by students who just happen to be in the possession of something that belongs to another student. I’m forever telling my students that just because you find something does not mean that it belongs to you.

I don’t think the line between finding something and stealing something is all that hard to see. Something is either yours, or it isn’t, there’s really no gray area.

Last night I left our garage open by mistake. I’ve done if before, but up until this time I’ve been lucky, if you can call it that.

This time, however, some items were missing. First, my gas powered trimmer. Now, while having to replace the trimmer is a hassle, I wasn’t really all that happy with the way it was working, so it’s not that big of a loss. However, the second item this person “found” was my air compressor, which I’ve written about here. This one hurt. I love my air compressor.

What these people do is drive through the alleys late at night looking for garages that have been accidentally left open. When they see an open garage, they dash in, “find” a few things and dash out.

I guess in the big scheme of things we were lucky. The items lost are easily replaceable and we weren’t hurt.

But I’m left with this question…

When will “I found it” stop being an acceptable excuse for stealing?