The Whole Story

I decided to take this multipart saga and put all in one easy to access and read account of my days in the explosive business. I’ve been meaning to do this for several months now. However, it wasn’t until I was telling someone about my frictional impact explosives story and how to find it, that I decided to bite the bullet and get it done.

I found myself saying things like, “I pretty sure it starts back in November of 2004, but then you have to start at the bottom and work your way back up and at some point you’ll need to switch to December to finish all five parts.”

I enjoyed rereading them as I edited and put them all together. I also decided that the last chapter or part needed to be cut in half, so now there are six parts instead of five. As it turns out, putting them all together wasn’t as big a pain as I thought it would be.

If you’re never read this before, I hope you enjoy the story. If you’ve seen this before, but decide to reread it, I hope you enjoy it again.


Frictional Impact Explosives –
The Whole Story


Part 1:
Frictional Impact Explosives

When I was a junior in college my brother was working his way through seminary. During his seminary career my brother had many different jobs. I didn’t say “odd” jobs, but I assure you they were.

I don’t know exactly how he found the job at some kind of book shipping warehouse and I don’t even care. All I know is they had hundreds of different books, all waiting to be boxed up and shipped, but the only one I know anything about is a small eight to ten page pamphlet called, Frictional Impact Explosives.

My roommate Dan and I had spent more time and money on different kind of fireworks throughout our college years than we should have. We had even gone so far as to make some of our own, but when the Frictional Impact Explosives pamphlet arrived at our door we were as giddy as schoolgirls on prom night and couldn’t wait to get started.

Our giddiness, however, soon turned to depression as we realized that two of the four ingredients needed to make these little goodies were not easily available to the general public. The two easily attainable ingredients were water and rice. (The rice was simply used as an absorbing agent for the water) We already had an abundance of both of these items at our house. The other two were chemicals, whose names I can’t remember, but wouldn’t publish here if I could, and were going to be a bit harder to get our hands on.

Neither of us were science majors, but we had both had been in and around the science building enough to know the general layout of the building. There were four science lab classrooms on the second floor. This part of the building has a long hall going east and west on the north side of the building and a matching hall on the south side of the building. Between these two halls were the four science lab classrooms, two on the north side and two on the south side. Smashed between the two north classes and the two south classes, like the cream filling in an Oreo, was a chemical storage room that ran the length of the rooms. Although we had never seen inside the chemical storage room, we knew it the answer to our frictional impact quandary.

At this point we had two big problems to solve.

One: How do we get into the science building after dark?
Two: After we are in the science building, how do we get through the locked classroom doors and the locked chemical storage room doors?

As for getting in the building, that didn’t take us long. Using a game of night disk golf for cover, we circled the building in search of its weak link. What we found was a lone window that was semi-secluded in a sunken atrium area that was designed as a kind of professor’s lunch/smoking area.

The atrium was on the back of the building, shaded by trees and unlit at night. This window wasn’t like the rest of the windows on the first floor. This window had shaded glass like you would see on a shower door. If this were in fact a bathroom window, then it would be easy to get in and unlock the window during the day. We marked this window as a possible bathroom window on our map of the building, scouted the rest of the building and finished our disk golf game.

The next day we went into building, found the bathroom and unlocked the window. It was beginning to seem like child’s play as our frictional impact dreams took one giant step towards fruition.

That night we set our alarm clocks for 3:00 am. We dressed in camouflage and black, and snuck in science building through the bathroom window. We slowly made our way up to the science lab classrooms and were pleasantly surprised to find the classroom doors unlocked. However, just as we suspected, all four doors to the chemical storage room were locked tight.

Working around cars as much as I had in my life, I had used clothes hangers and even a special tool I’d made to jimmy locked car doors and free stranded keys for friends. But these bad-boys were locked tight. We tried everything we could think, but it quickly became apparent that our frictional impact dreams were behind locked doors.

Or so it seemed…


Part 2:
Up and Over

A few days later, I was sitting in class when I noticed something about the ceiling. It was one of those ceilings with the big white square ceiling tiles. You know the ones, every school, of every district, of every city, of every state has the exact same ones. What grabbed my attention on this particular day was a missing tile. Now a missing tile in the ceiling of a classroom was nothing new, except that this particular tile just happened to be right next to the wall.

Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole, over the wall and dropping down onto the other side.

Our chemical storage room problem was solved!

After class, I found Dan and filled him in on my ceiling tile discovery. On our way home we made a brief, but thorough, detour through the science building to make a casual inspection of the ceiling tiles. After confirming that the building had the same tiles, and checking to be sure the bathroom window was still unlocked, which it was, we hurried home to organize the evening’s plans.

Using our first mission as a guide, we again set our clocks for 3:00 am. We packed a flashlight, measuring spoons, two jars with lids, scissors and some duct tape in a backpack. Then spent the next few hours finalizing our plans.

The lab classrooms were each about 60-feet x 30-feet. The entrance to the rooms was about in the middle of the long wall. The door to the chemical storage room was on the opposite wall straight across from the entrance. The front of each classroom was at one of the short ends of the room and had the lectern, the professor’s workstation and a pull down screen for slides and movies.

There were rows of workstations with black countertops evenly spaced the length of the room. There were also blacktop workstations built the length of the two long walls, as well as, on the short back wall of the classroom. The only breaks in the countertops that lined the walls were at the door into the classroom and the door into the chemical supply room. We planned to get in the building and the classroom just as we had before, use the workstations against the walls for platforms, remove a ceiling tile and then up and over.

We tucked our floor plans and diagrams into the backpack and tried to get some sleep.

The clocks went off, but we really weren’t asleep. We got up, grabbed the backpack and our disk golf gear and headed out the door. Getting in the building and up to the second floor went without a hitch. That’s when we encountered our next problem.
Up until this point, neither of us had noticed a shelf that circled the room above the workstations about a foot below the ceiling. This shelf housed different kinds of science paraphernalia along with several old science experiments.

We were at first a little disheartened by the discovery of this shelf. It was going to be pretty hard to get over this shelf and through the ceiling tile without breaking something.

To us it was imperative that we be invisible. If we could pull this off without anyone ever even suspecting that unwanted guests had been in the chemical supply room, it would make multiple trips possible, thereby granting us an inexhaustible supply of chemicals. This shelf also presented the possibility that there were similar shelves on the other side of the wall as well, a problem we had failed to plan for.

Attempting to improvise, we sat there discussing what to do next. Then a second unsettling thought occurred to us. It was quite possible that there were boxes, file cabinets or who knows what else stacked against the walls on the inside the storage room. We would be able to look down, but it might not be possible to avoid making a gigantic mess. Suddenly we had a high probability of an unsuccessful mission, and I was beginning to feel more like Inspector Clouseau than James Bond.

We were on the verge of giving it up for the night when one of us noticed that not only did the workstations stop at the doors, but the high shelf stopped as well. In a flash, James Bond was back and the quest was on again.

Balancing on the edges of the workstations with feet propped against the doorframe, we carefully removed the ceiling tile next to the wall that was right above the door. With the tile off, we climbed up and perched ourselves on the wall between the two ceilings. Then we carefully removed the tile above the door on the inside, went over the wall and into the chemical storage room. Up and Over!

The chemical supply room didn’t have any windows, so as long as the doors were closed we could turn the lights on and take our time.

The supply room had row after row of floor to ceiling shelves, each packed with every kind of chemical you could imagine. We quickly discovered that the chemicals were in alphabetical order and finding the ones we needed couldn’t have been easier.

As we were getting our jars out of the backpack we noticed a workroom down at one end. We found bottles, beakers, scales, lids, labels and surgical gloves. Now, it only seemed right that these chemicals should be placed, stored and labeled in their proper containers…so we helped ourselves. Working quickly, but carefully we put on surgical gloves, and gathered the needed chemicals.

The first thing we noticed was that the school had several containers of each chemical. Our first impulse was to take a whole bottle of each, but if we did our “Invisible Thief” theory would be wasted. With the huge amount of chemicals in this lab we were fairly sure that nobody was using any one chemical on a regular basis. If this were true, then a little bit of one chemical missing out of a few bottles would not attract any attention. With each chemical, we took a small amount out of each of the bottles. Small enough so as not to look oddly low, but large enough to give us a good supply to work with at home. We corked the bottles, labeled them and stored them safely in the backpack. We then placed the bottles back on the shelves exactly as we had found them.

As we were getting ready to scale the wall and go back through our hole in the ceiling, we discovered that the door was only locked on the outside, some kind of fire law I guess. This made our exit much easier. We replace the ceiling tiles, took few pairs of surgical gloves and turned off the lights as we walked out the door. We then slowly made our way down the back stairs and out the building.

We got home and went to work on our first batch.


Part 3:
The Big Bang

I’m not sure what time is was, but it had to be late. I don’t think we ever even thought about time. Our minds were focused on one thing and one thing only.

We carefully set up our chemical lab on a coffee table in the living room and worked about an hour making three dime sized little goodies. We wrapped them in wax paper with twisted ends, which made them look like little pieces of cheep Halloween candy. After we finished, we padded a WWII munitions box with toilet paper and carefully placed our creations inside. Then we cleaned up the lab, and fell asleep watching TV.

I don’t remember who woke up first, or even how long we had been asleep, but we sat staring down at three little wax paper blobs nestled safely their toilet paper home, discussing our next move.

We were like parents gazing down at their new baby in awe and wonder. We couldn’t believe that we had made such wonderful little things and that they were ours to take care of, at least until we tried to blow them up.

Our big concern was that they hadn’t had enough time to dry, and that trying to use one prematurely might ruin it. So we decided to wait a couple of hours. However, it didn’t take long for our will power to crumble and we decided if we tried one and it didn’t work, we would just go get it and keep waiting. Besides, if we ruined this one, we had two more as well as the makings for quite a few.

It was cold outside and I put on my jacket and shoes, so I could quickly run out and retrieve anything that failed to combust. At this point we still didn’t have much faith in our frictional impact explosives pamphlet. I mean, you mix two chemicals together with some water and rice and it’s supposed to explode? We were still unbelievers.

Dan carefully lifted the smallest of the three little treasures out of the box. Gingerly cupping it in his hand, we carefully moved to the front porch and he lobbed it out onto the driveway.

Sadly, I don’t remember much about the next few moments. I’m not sure exactly what has clouded or possibly clogged my memory. Maybe it was the deafening sound. Maybe it was the miniature mushroom cloud. Maybe it was the two excited and terrified boys awkwardly stumbling over each other as fell back into the house. Whatever it was, the next thing I remember is sitting in a now dark room, peeking through closed curtains and waiting for the police to show up.

And so we sat. Waiting silently. Listening intently for sirens, neighbors, or any commotion at all from outside.

But there was nothing.

Somehow we had managed to create a fairly significant explosion in a residential neighborhood and nobody noticed or cared. What had we done to deserve this?

Minds racing, we began a verbal reenactment of our first Big Bang, each of us reliving every detail as if the other had not been present. Somewhat automatically, we also began setting our lab up again. Then we got to work making more of our little toys.

It was somewhere in the process that we had the idea for our next test. We decided that to throw another of our babies out into the street from the front door was just asking for trouble. However, if we threw it over the house, from the backyard to the front, then we wouldn’t be seen.

I don’t remember who threw this one, but I do remember being disappointed at the lack of an explosion. Cautiously, we went out to search for our bomb.

We had two theories: One, It landed in the grass and it was too soft of a landing to create the explosion. In which case, we would simply retrieve it and throw it a second time. Two, it wasn’t dry yet and would have to be thrown again later.

We went out and searched, but couldn’t find it anywhere. After searching the entire yard, the driveway and the street without any luck, we headed back into the house. We were a little concerned, for a moment or two, but then returned to our lab. We worked for a while and created half a dozen or so new explosives. Each ranging is size from a pencil eraser to dime-sized ball.

As we cleaned up, we discussed what we were going to do with our new toys. Sure, mushroom clouds and loud noises were fun, but that would only satisfy our mischievous hunger for a short time. It wouldn’t be long before, not unlike a drug addict, we would be hunting for new ways to get a bigger and better demolitions fix.

Then it happened.

Matt, a friend of ours, decided to make an unannounced visit. Now, unannounced visits were more than okay, they were commonplace for us. We didn’t live far from campus and people were always dropping by just to hang out. As he was pulling up, there was this loud explosion. We both jumped up and rushed to the window. Matt was sitting in his car nervously looking around.

It didn’t take us long to figure out that our over the house little gem had landed in the street wet and become a kind of landmine. It sat in the street and dried. Then Matt had run over it with his car.

He ran to the door doing little serpentine, zigzag moves and shouting about someone taking pot shots at him from who knows where. We ushered him in and calmed him down by claiming not to have heard anything and changing the subject.

Later, after Matt had gone, we laughed until we cried about poor Matt’s confusion over being shot at. I’m not sure if I ever told Matt about what really happened. Maybe someday I should, because we owe him a lot.

You see, unknowingly, Matt helped us feed our addiction. Now, we not only had explosives…we had a plan.


Part 4:
Booby Traps and Big Mama

It didn’t take us long to dream up several different fun booby trap scenarios.

Our first, and possibly our best, idea was to put together a huge assortment of tiny landmines. Then, under the cover of night and while they were still wet, we’d toss our little bursts of excitement around campus in some of the high foot traffic areas. (Due to the potential for echo, stairwells were a personal favorite.) They’d have all night to dry and the next morning some poor, unsuspecting pedestrian would get a rather startling wake-up call.

Our next idea was to tie a 20 to 30-foot piece of string to one of the above-mentioned landmines. Once again, while they were still wet, we’d toss them up on roofs or awnings with the string hanging down. The next morning, when some curious passerby came wandering along and pulled the string, BAM! Our only concern was the chance that the now airborne package might land on someone’s head. I wish I could say that our concern was due to some kind of higher moral dedication to keeping the general public safe. However, as I recall, it was more a desire not to get caught. Although, after testing this idea, it became apparent that it didn’t take more than a wee bit movement to create sufficient friction to ignite the package and they would usually detonate long before getting near the edge. So this too became a workable plan.

Over the next few months we came up with quite a few different plans all of which, at the time, seemed like great ideas. I’m not sure how many different little bundles of fun we made, but there were quite a few. My only regret is that I never stuck around to long enough, or got back to the scene early enough, to experience the fun of the actual explosions.

After a while, our fascination with these little bombs began to dwindle. After you’ve heard countless explosions and seen equally as many tiny mushroom clouds, the fun starts to stagnate.

That’s when we had the idea for Big Mama.

Big Mama was the mother of all the frictional impact explosives we had made so far, and Mama, was she BIG!

Using a razor blade, we made an incision in the side of a tennis ball and spooned in the wet mixture. In the interest of chemical conservation, as well as to make sure the water had somewhere to go, we layered Big Mama with healthy supply of rice. Once complete, we parked her in safely in the munitions box with an extra layer or two of toilet paper. Just to be safe.

We really didn’t give much thought to how, or by whom this would be thrown, launched, dropped, or otherwise given flight to. We were living in the moment and seeing as the D-day for Big Mama was several days away at best it didn’t matter yet.

We also didn’t give much thought to how dangerous Big Mama might be. Based on the success of each of our previous home chem-lab experiments, (at least the ones we actually watched) we probably should have been a bit more wary. But we were young and we were immortal and we were stupid.

By this time we fancied ourselves as quite the frictional impact explosives experts. Being experts, it was our professional opinion that if we didn’t wait long enough for her to be dry all the way through, while she would probably blow up, the glorious explosion we were looking forward to would be far less spectacular than what we desired.

The days passed like years as we waited for Big Mama to mature. Unlike all of her predecessors who were packaged in wax paper, a somewhat porous container, the tennis ball she was in was, except for the slit cut by us, quite airtight.

We waited. And then just for good measure, we waited some more.

Waiting for over a week to play with a new toy gives you nothing, if not time to ponder. As the days passed, it seemed that something similar to good sense started to worm its way into our thoughts. The more we thought about it, we began to have visions of ways Big Mama could turn out to be a big disaster. Not the least of which was the two of us getting injured or caught.

Our original plan was to come up with some semi-safe way to detonate Big Mama on campus. After our thought-provoked revelations, we decided that our plan needed to change. And we decided to take her out to a back road somewhere, toss her down the road and just see what we see.

Not quite as spectacular a plan as we had originally had our hearts set on, but our only other option was soaking Big Mama in water and dismantling her.

Roads like we wanted were all too common around our university and it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get ourselves pretty far out of town. We pulled over and carefully lifted the munitions box out of the car.

Paco opened the munitions box and with my arm outstretched, I carefully reached in. We really had no idea how fragile Big Mama was going to be, and I was afraid of grabbing it too tightly and setting it off in my hand. I was also afraid of holding it too loosely and dropping it on my foot. As luck would have it, I was able to gently roll it off of the toilet paper padding and into my hand. Then, cradling it gently in my hand with my arm extended and my elbow locked I made a grenade type toss about 20 yards down the road.

The explosion was incredible.

The sound was more than just a loud explosion it was awesome. It was a delayed sound like I had only experienced while watching movies in science class. The kind where you first see a completely silent burst of light and then, just as you begin to wonder about why there’s no sound, the sound hits and echoes through your entire body.

The mushroom cloud was at least ten feet tall, its canopied top had a diameter of four to five feet. It was easily a hundred times the size of anything we had made so far. And it didn’t quickly dissipate into the air like the small ones. Oh no, it slowly drifted off into the darkening sky.

Stupefied by what we had accomplished, we stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Remembering to breath again, I suddenly gasped for breath as we both ran to the point of impact.

Staring down at the spot where Big Mama had met the road, I couldn’t help but think it looked beautiful. The force of the explosion had embedded bits of tennis ball into the asphalt and created a sunburst pattern with shades of blues and reds mixed in.

Standing there mesmerized by all that had just transpired, suddenly we started being pelted with tiny bits of falling tennis ball. Standing in a tennis ball downpour, I began to have a whole new kind of respect for the power that this stuff had. We weren’t just playing with a bunch of Black Cat firecrackers that we picked up at some roadside stand these were explosives…and they were for real.

The drive home was silent. The ride seemed longer this time, both of us trying to wrap our minds around this new truth about what we were doing. When we finally spoke, we agreed that Big Mama had been fun to make and an intriguing learning experience, but we vowed to never make anything anywhere near that big again.


Part 5:
The Big Mistake(s)

What I didn’t tell you earlier, because it seemed a bit off topic, is that when we made our first visit to the chemical supply room to procure the needed chemicals, we also happened to leave with some additional chemicals that weren’t needed for the Frictional Impact Explosives.

You see, the pamphlet that had the recipe for the explosives also had a couple of other recipes that we thought looked interesting. Besides the explosives, what caught our attention was a recipe for smoke bombs. The smoke bomb recipe seemed more like it might actually work than the other. We decided that it would be nice consolation prize if in fact the main focus of our adventure turned out to be a dud.

I don’t recall much about these, because we really never paid much attention to them after the explosives worked so well. But we had the chemicals at our house, although we quickly forgot about them once the explosives became a reality.

When we came across these chemicals, that we had all but forgot about for several months, we decided that would give the smoke bombs a try. Without using any of our newfound “Big Mama” wisdom regarding the size of our toys, we quickly got to work preparing a gigantic smoke bomb.

Unlike the explosives that had to dry overnight, these babies were ready in an instant. We took it out in the backyard and lit the fuse.

In a matter of seconds our entire backyard was full of greenish-blue smoke. It was so dense that we couldn’t see more that a foot in any direction. Once again, the results were quite impressive. This pamphlet was turning out to be a goldmine.

Seeing as we had used all the chemicals we had on hand to build this one smoke bomb, (I told you it was big) we decided to make a second trip that very night to the chemical supply room to get some more.

This is the point at which our careers as outlaw chemists make a 180-degree turn in the wrong direction. You see, up until this point all of our somewhat shady maneuvers were well thought out and planned with meticulous detail. This mission, however, had several poorly planned elements, as well as, more than its fair share of stupid heat-of-the-moment decisions. For the sake of this story we’ll call them all mistakes.

(Mistake #1)
Call it pride, call it arrogance, call it stupidity, call it whatever you like, but we decided that we didn’t need to wait until the wee hours of the morning to make our chemical run. Oh no, we decided that we could easily sneak into the building at about 10:30 that evening.

Having checked the bathroom every time we were in the science building, we were quite certain that the window in the bathroom would still be unlocked. We packed a bag with the empty chemical containers needed to make the smoke bombs and not the frictional impact explosives. This decision would turn out to be the only good decision we made the entire evening. Then we waited for 10:30.

We entered the building without a hitch and quickly made our way to the second floor. Heading down toward the science classrooms we were passing a second stairwell when down below we heard the sound of jingling keys. It was one of the school’s graduate student security guards. For the most part what they did was make rounds through each of the buildings making sure doors were locked.

The guard looked up and saw two students standing at the top of the stairs glaring down.

(Mistake #2)
We took off running down the hall and around a corner that led into an area of the building that was unfamiliar to either of us. It turned out to be a row of locked offices, a pair of bathrooms and a dead end.

(Mistake #3)
Panicking, we slid into the men’s room.

(Mistake #4)
Realizing that even if the window would unlock, we were on the second floor and staying put meant getting caught for sure, we decided to stash the backpack behind a trashcan, run out past the guard, down the stairs and out the building. Based on the rather large waistline of the security guard, we were both quite sure we could easily outrun him.

We stashed the backpack, peeked cautiously out the bathroom door and took off toward the nearest stairs. It worked like a charm and the guard didn’t even have time to turn around, much less follow us.

We had gotten away again…or so we thought.

Safe at home, we set our clock for 3:00 am, intending to head back and retrieve the backpack and put an end to the night’s fiasco.

However, it wasn’t our clock that woke us up at about midnight, it was the phone.


Part 6:
The End of an Era

Seems the university police had found a backpack in the science building with a name on it, and the chief of police wanted to know if we had time to come have a conversation with him down at the campus police station.

Now there’s a good reason why our university’s police chief was nicknamed Barney Fife. Among other things, this guy was running across the court at a basketball game to break up a fight between spectators when his gun fell out of his holster. If that’s not bad enough, he didn’t even notice that it had happened and a second fight broke out between students who were trying to grab the guy’s gun. It was no big shock that Barney wasn’t taken all that seriously as a law enforcement officer by the students.

All the same, we were terrified.

We told him we’d be there in 15 minutes, but Barney insisted on picking us up. I had never been to, let alone seen the university police station, but as we pulled up in front I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

As it turned out, the police chief and his one deputy were pretty low in the pecking order when it came to office assignments. The university had an old house that used to be the president’s home back in the 1920’s. Being stuck in that old house would be just about the worst location on the entire campus. However, Barney would have given his single bullet to be in the old president’s home. You see, even old textbook storage ranked higher than the sheriff and his posse, because they were stationed, not in the actual house, but out back in the dilapidated old garage.

We walked in and an officer showed us to some chairs and pulled the garage door down with a crash. I felt like I was stuck in a really bad movie, as we just sat there waiting for someone to say something…anything.

The chief took a seat behind his desk, and shuffling though a huge stack of papers he produced a five by seven inch note card. Looking up he said, “I just want to make sure I get this right.”

Clearing his throat he read the card, “You have the right to remain silent, anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” and we both snapped to attention.

I’m sure he read the rest but I don’t remember anything more.

When I finally regained my mental composure, he was firing off questions about the contents of the backpack and what we were doing in the science building.

Turns out that the university had been searching, rather unsuccessfully, for the person or persons responsible for leaving tiny bombs, as he called them, all around campus. It evidently had not taken the science department long to determine the ingredients being used to make the explosives, but they had no idea where the culprits were getting the chemicals from, since as far as they could tell, no unauthorized personnel had been in the chemical supply room. (Invisible Thieves Theory)

I don’t remember much about the actual interrogation, seeing as my mind was still spinning from having just been read my rights. I know it was a lengthy discussion, in which we both quite scared and said maybe all of five words.

After what felt like an eternity, we were told not to leave town and that we would be contacted after the science department had determined if the chemicals we had in our backpack were the ones being used to make the bombs. (Which of course they weren’t since we hadn’t brought those containers with us)

The deputy took us home and we immediately washed all the remaining frictional impact explosives chemicals down the drain, got rid of the containers, and burned the pamphlet. We were sad to see it go, because it was the end of an era…a frictional impact era.


Note:
We were contacted about a week later and told that, due to a lack of evidence, nothing more was going to be done regarding the chemicals we had, but we were sternly warned not to be in any building after hours without permission. A warning that took seriously and heeded for the rest of our time at the university…well, kind of.

Chauffeuring, not such a bad gig...

I took the day off from school and took a volunteer position as a chauffer. “An odd choice of professions,” you may be thinking to yourself. However, my temporary job as a chauffer was both an honor and a pleasure.

Melissa, my wife, works in the foundation of a hospital here in Dallas. The foundation had some seats at a luncheon where former President and First Lady, George and Barbara Bush were the keynote speakers. Melissa invited Ebby Halliday, a friend of the Bush family and the queen of Dallas real estate to attend the luncheon as her guest.

Now, in case you aren’t from Dallas, or are not in real estate, Ms. Ebby Halliday is truly one of the nations most amazing women. She started in business here in Dallas back in the 1930’s. This was a time when women were neither wanted, nor easily accepted into the business world. Ms. Halliday not only started selling homes here in Dallas, but she opened her own office and quickly became the city’s and state’s most successful realtor. That was 60 years ago and Ebby Halliday is north Texas’ first name in real estate. You can find out more about this remarkable woman here.

We thought that, even though the hotel had valet parking, having a person drive them to and from the event would be much better. I mean, why wait in the huge valet parking line if you don’t have to. So I, being the loving and dutiful husband that I am, quickly volunteered my services. However, after we got there we found that self-parking, while available, was even more of a wait than the valet, so we ended up using the valet after all. As it turned out, one of the hospital’s other guests was unable to attend the luncheon, so I was able to not only be a driver, but a guest as well.

And let me just say that both the President and First Lady are wonderful speakers. Their speeches were both funny and sincerely heart felt. This was a luncheon funding the Genesis Women’s Shelter and it was easy to tell that both George and Barbara Bush care deeply for battered women everywhere.

My father-in-law has been a manager with Ebby Halliday Realtors for more than 30 years, and I’ve always heard how wonderful Ms. Halliday is from him. Over the past 17 years, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Halliday on several different occasions, but I’d never really spent much time with her. However, while I knew I was going to have fun, I was not prepared for the truly wonderful day I was going to have.

Ms. Halliday was simply a joy to be with! She is the epitome of elegance and grace. The car ride to the hotel was filled with talking and laughter. Ms. Halliday didn’t even get upset when I got lost. (Really more of a wrong turn…I don’t drive downtown very much these days)

Melissa even bravely confronted the Secret Service agents and somehow got permission for Ms. Halliday to go up on stage and speak with the George and Barbara Bush. (Which was no small task…there’s nothing my wife can’t do, but that’s a story for another day)

The ride home was as fun and memorable as the ride to the event. Except this time I didn’t get lost!

So, a day in the life of this chauffer was filled with nothing but fun people, interesting conversation, invigorating company and good food. Top it all off with a much needed, and may I say well deserved, day off and it adds up to a great day!

Chauffeuring, not such a bad gig…if you have the right passengers!

Multitasking & Robot Hands

I’m not sure what it’s a sign of, although based on the boy who made the comment I’m forced to believe that it’s the sign of true genius. At the very least, it’s multitasking at its finest.

Here’s the situation:

We’re taking the 4th grade math TAKS (Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills) test. In case you don’t have school age children attending public school, or you aren’t in Texas, this is the mother of all math tests. Everything we’ve done this year has been preparing us to take (and hopefully pass) this test.

I’m not going to go into the whole “Teaching to the Test” thing right now, because it is a sore spot for me. Suffice it to say, I don’t, but the test is important all the same.

For most of my students this was a four to five hour test. We’re about two hours into the test, when Zuco raises his hand.

Now, this is a testing situation and nothing like an ordinary day in my class. There is supposed to be as little distraction from the test as possible. Students are not permitted to get out of their seats without permission. Not for any reason.

So, when Zuco raised his hand I got up, grabbed my tissue box, walked over to his seat, squatted down to his level and waited for the question.

What I usually hear is not an interrogative statement, but rather a declarative statement phrased with a very subtle interrogative inflection, “I don’t get this.”

According to TAKS LAW 101, I’m only allowed to say the following, “I can only help you with questions about the directions, why don’t you read the question again and see if that helps.” 9.999 time out of 10 I usually see that spark of understanding in the child’s eyes once they have reread the question.

However, Zuco’s lack of eye contact and somewhat distant demeanor were, at first, a bit disconcerting. "Mr. A," he said never taking his eyes off his outstretched hand, "I know I’m supposed to be taking this math test and all, but I just can’t get my mind to stop thinking about it.”

“About what?” I said. Even as I heard my lips utter the words my heart jumped up into my throat as if to somehow grab the thoughtlessly misspoken phrase and pull it back into my mouth…but it was too late.

“It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about how much my hand and a robot hand have in common. I mean they’re almost the same thin…” and my hand shot up and cut him off in mid ramble.

Choking down a huge grin, I somehow managed to whisper, “Why don’t you and I discuss this after we’ve all finished taking the test?”

I’m not going to be a bit surprised if Zuco ends up inventing some kind of superhuman robot hand someday. The kind of robot hand that turns the world of prosthetics upside-down.

But knowing Zuco, it will probably happen while he’s doing open-heart surgery.

A Dancing Communion

We attend Wilshire Baptist Church in Dallas. It is no longer a Southern Baptist church. We pulled out of the Southern Baptist Convention a few years ago when the dangerously fundamental faction of the Southern Baptist Convention reared it ugly head, again, and started trying to mandate yet another of its idiotic ideologies.

As a result of our no longer being a Southern Baptist church, I enjoy adding the line, “We’re not that kind of Baptist,” to any conversation in which I happen to tell someone what church I am a member of. While, “We’re not that kind of Baptist,” isn’t Wilshire’s official mantra, for me it says a lot about the church I choose to be a part of. Especially when I get to say it to someone who happens to be Southern Baptist. I guess that’s the evil preacher’s kid in me.

Anyway, we’re not that kind of Baptist, however, we do observe communion, or Lord’s Supper as we sometimes call it, in a similar fashion. In case you’re not familiar with Baptist communion, in a nutshell, here’s how it usually works:

The minister stands at the communion table at the front of the sanctuary and leads communion. What is actually said and done varies from church to church, and minister to minister. Then ushers move to the communion table, take plates with the communion wafers and pass them to the people in the pews. When everyone has their communion wafer the minister, quoting Jesus, says something like, “This is my body, do this in remembrance of me,” and congregates eat their wafers.

And the whole thing is repeated with the wine. (but really juice…we may not be that kind of Baptist, but we’re still Baptist!) But this time the pastor says, “This is my blood, do this in remembrance of me.”

I had never taken communion any other way until I was well into my teens. Truth be known, I had no idea that there was any other way for a good portion of my life.

Baptists do not observe communion every Sunday. We could if we wanted to, but I like the fact that whenever we have communion it is a special Sunday. It’s usually a very worshipful experience for me.

However, last week’s communion wasn’t worshipful like it usually is. It wasn’t because of any kind of funky mood that I was in, but believe me my mood has caused more than one Lord’s Supper Sunday morning to come and go without my feeling or experiencing much of anything.

This Sunday it was due to an odd, almost scientific happening.

The plates, you see, that are used to carry the wafers and juice are highly polished silver. I mean they’re practically using mirrors as trays to carry both the body and the blood of Christ to the congregation.

We were sitting in the balcony when I noticed the reflection of a circle dancing on the ceiling of the sanctuary. The first thing I saw was a kind of a glare bouncing off the plate that the usher was bringing in my direction. Then I looked up to see the circular pattern on the ceiling.

After getting my communion wafer, I watched the pattern from his plate glide back and forth along the ceiling as he served the last couple of rows in the balcony.

It wasn’t until I was watching the usher, or rather the reflection from his plate, leave the balcony that I saw the rest of the ceiling. Everywhere I looked dancing circles of reflecting light adorned the sanctuary’s ceiling. They were swaying, and rocking to their own silent tune as they gracefully moved around the ceiling.

Eventually, the ushers stacked all the plates back into two piles on the communion table. All that was left was two motionless overlapping circles making a giant venn diagram on the ceiling.

I sat there staring at these now motionless circles resting peacefully on the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about these circles. Circles that, only moments before, had been doing their secret dance across the ceiling. It was the same dance they do every communion Sunday, I assume, but this time they had an audience.

That’s when my thinking started to shift from the circles of light to the apostles and the Lord’s Supper. I don’t really know what caused the shift in my focus. Maybe the light, maybe the dancing, maybe the complicated simplicity of the circles. Whatever it was, I sat there thinking about these guys who were, unbeknownst to them, sharing a last meal with my Lord and Savior.

What was going through their minds?

What did they think was going on?

Did any of them really understand who Jesus was?

The trays holding the tiny cups of juice, juice that symbolizes Christ’s blood, didn’t make any circles on the ceiling. My best guess is that the juice and the cups absorb light rather than reflect it.

Whatever the reason, I wasn’t able to sink my thoughts into the dancing circles a second time that morning.


No, last week’s communion wasn’t worshipful like it usually is…and I’m kind of glad.

"Just Add Water" - A Lesson with MRE's

One of my students brought an MRE, or Meal, Ready-to-Eat, to class yesterday. I don’t mind telling you I was more than a little intrigued. A couple of years ago I watched something (I think on PBS) about MRE’s and I have wanted very much to give one a try ever since.

Here is the explanation of an MRE that I got off the web:

The Meal, Ready-To-Eat (MRE) is designed to sustain an individual engaged in heavy activity such as military training or during actual military operations when normal food service facilities are not available. The MRE is a totally self-contained operational ration consisting of a full meal packed in a flexible meal bag.

So there I am, a class full of hungry looking 3rd and 4th graders with a MRE in my hand. What would you have done?

We broke it open, baby!

Ours was menu no. 2, Barbeque Pork Rib.

We pulled out the different components, spread them out on the table and started looking for directions. At first, I thought this was going to be a major pain. However, I was quickly impressed with not only its simplicity, but how truly self-contained the whole meal was. The only thing we had to provide was water, but if push came to shove, the only things you had to have water for were the two beverages. The rest could be eaten cold and dry.

Here’s what we had:
· Pork Rib
· Clam Chowder
· Cheese Spread
· Wheat Snack Bread
· Cookie
· Powdered Beverage (a lot like Gatorade)
· Hot Beverage (coffee)
· Hot Sauce (Tabasco)
· Accessory Packet (salt, pepper, sugar, coffee creamer, and hand towel)
· Spoon
· Flameless Heater * this was really amazing

Each food item was vacuum-sealed in its own little bag. And then there was the flameless heater. It’s inside a long pouch and it generates some kind of chemical reaction with water to create heat. You open one end of the pouch, put whatever you are cooking in the pouch with the heater, add less than a cup of water and presto, you’ve got an oven! And I’m here to tell you it gets really hot!

We added the water, and in a few moments we could not only see steam coming from the bag, but we could hear and smell things cooking as well. I was quite impressed.

The pork rib looked like something you might get on a McRibb sandwich at McDonald’s, but it smelled and tasted much better. I cut it into half-inch bites and used toothpicks to serve the class. Only about 6 students turned it down and everyone who tried it wanted more.

My teaching partner and I split the clam chowder, because none of the students really wanted any…BIG SHOCK! As far as clam chowder goes, it wasn’t the worst I’ve ever had, but it did taste a little fishy.

We all shared the wheat snack bread and the cookie as well. The bread reminded me, and several of the students, of a big communion wafer. The cookie was a molasses cookie and it was pretty dense, if you know what I mean. However, I can imagine if I was fighting somewhere like oh, say, Iraq…a dense cookie might just hit the spot.

I’m standing there wondering how I can get some more of these little goodies for things like lunch each day, when I notice the nutrition label. The pork ribs alone had 100 calories from fat! I may not be as nutrition savvy as I should be, but I think that’s high. After doing a little research, I discovered that MRE’s are designed to have 1300 calories per meal. That’s when I changed my mind about the whole MRE for lunch thing.

In the end, we all got to experience something new, be sufficiently impressed by a three-course dinner that came in a watertight pouch that weighed about a pound, and have a hands-on nutrition lesson. Then we all went back to our seats and wrote about what we had just experienced/learned…so I got to take a grade!


Not too bad for a “Just add Water” kind of lesson!

Jigger and Saw

I like patterns. Visual patterns as well as audio patterns. My wife and daughter are forever gently laying their hands on my hands to stop my fingers from tapping with the beat of whatever song happens to be playing. Often times their gentle hands are magically transformed into high-pitched, shrieking voices crying out for the insanity to stop. The funny thing is that I usually have no idea I’m even tapping. It’s just something I do. Part of my brain hears something in the beat of the music that, for some reason, it desperately needs to imitate.

Whatever the reason, I find myself tapping along with the beat of songs, or really any kind of beat that I happen to come across. I recently had to have an MRI and I don’t mind telling you I was a bit worried about laying on a bed, my face covered with a cage and sliding headfirst into a long tube.

As it turned out, it wasn’t all that bad. There were these loud, rhythmic sounds making a constant pattern that I found very soothing. At one point I said to the technician, “Look, I’m finding it really hard to stay awake. Is it okay if I fall asleep?” He seemed a little confused by the question, but said, “If you can, go right ahead.” About half an hour later, I woke myself up snoring.

I’m telling you I really like patterns!

You would think a person like me, who really enjoys patterns, would be the shining star of any and every dance floor. Not so! The term “two left feet” doesn’t even begin to describe me dancing. If you’re a bad dancer, then you hope that you get to dance somewhere near me in order to not look so bad. When it comes to dancing, my fascination with patterns turns ugly and I look something like Elaine from Seinfeld.

I don’t know what it is. I can hear the rhythm, I can feel the beat, but I just can’t get my body to move in conjunction with what I’m hearing. It’s really strange…both the situation and my dancing.

The same thing goes with the words in the songs. Case in point; Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville had parts that were a bit hard for me to decipher. In fact, I sang one three-word phrase from the song wrong for more than 10 years!

In my defense, Margaritaville came out in about 1977-1978, when I was in the sixth or seventh grade. Having a Southern Baptist minister for a father meant that I had no idea what a margarita was. Truth be known, I also thought he was singing, “Wasting away,” instead of “Wasted away,” so I just thought he was singing about hanging out and being lazy in some crazy town with a strange name. But I liked the song all the same.

So there I am, a young naïve boy listening to this song all about drinking margaritas and having no idea what in the world it was talking about. Combine that with the fact that I was listening more to the syllabic patterns than the actual words and it’s easy to see how I made this mistake.

This is the line in question:

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt.

But this is what I heard:

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin' for my lost jigger and saw.

So it’s the 1970’s. I hear this song, confuse the lyrics and permanently cement the wrong words “jigger and saw” in my mind. I even heard this song sung by a couple of kids at school in a talent show, but I still heard jigger and saw instead of shaker of salt.
(I realize you couldn’t get away with singing a song like this in a school talent show today, but come on, it was the 70’s!)

Jump ahead to the mid 1980’s. I’m driving somewhere with Gordon, my brother, when this song comes on the radio. We’re both singing along and having a blast. Then we get to the part where I sing jigger and saw. Gordon almost runs into a ditch he’s laughing so hard. I, on the other hand, am saying, “What? What? What’s so funny?”

Remember, I’ve been singing this song wrong for at least 10 years. By this time it made perfect sense to me. I mean, I had no idea what a jigger and saw were, but I had no idea what a margarita was either…I just assumed they went together.

Rest assured, that Gordon and I laughed plenty that night.

Jump ahead to 1988. While I knew what the correct words were, in the back of my mind I still heard the words, jigger and saw. Anytime I heard the song I just had to consciously change the words from jigger and saw to shaker of salt. And I had somehow managed to make it through my entire college career without my jigger and saw word change secret becoming common knowledge…until...

I’m out with my future wife at the classic burger joint, Snuffers, here in Dallas when Margaritaville starts playing. I start laughing and, suffering from a momentary lapse of good judgment, decide to explain the whole thing. I think I even sang it wrong a few times in an attempt to stress how much shaker of salt and jigger and saw really do sound alike.

To this day we can’t hear that song without busting out laughing. I’ve tried to explain it to our daughter, but I think it’s just one more thing on her list of stuff that proves her dad is strange.

Next time you hear Margaritaville, by Jimmy Buffet, try singing Jigger and Saw in place of Shaker of Salt and see if it doesn’t sound right.

Sometimes You Gotta Keep'um Guessing

I wrote about my ever-changing name badge back here when I was Batman. What’s funny is there are a few of the younger students who think I really am Batman. But I don’t think believing a teacher at your school is Batman should cause any seriously detrimental side effects as they get older. At least I don’t think it will…I guess we’ll find out.

Anyway, as you can see by the picture, I’m on to a new secret identity. My daughter and her friend told me that they thought I should become Napoleon Dynamite. I liked the idea and so that’s who I am.

I also decided that until school is out for summer, I’m going to change my name badge identity at least once a week, maybe more. I mean come on; it’s only eight more weeks.

Sometimes you gotta keep’um guessing.

Winning the Lottery

It isn’t hard to understand why you’d be on cloud nine if you won the lottery. A few years ago, shortly after Texas started having a lottery, I purchased about five guesses at a buck apiece. I didn’t win the jackpot, but on one of the five tickets had four out of the six numbers correct.

Matching merely three of the six numbers, something I had done before, means that you win $3.00...no big deal. However, matching four of the number meant that I had two-thirds of the winning numbers and that’s 66.6% to you and me. This had to be at least enough to buy us dinner.

As it turned out, I won $100! But you would have thought I had won the big jackpot! The guy at the 7/11 hands me ten crisp ten-dollar bills and I strutted back to the car like I was Donald Trump.

It’s funny how something so relatively small can fill someone with such a huge amount of joy.

I saw a wonderful example of this yesterday.

A student of mine, who is sweet person, but who struggles academically and typically doesn’t do very well on things like spelling tests, made a 100 on the spelling test.

When I saw the grade I went crazy. You would have thought she had won the big jackpot! Once again, I found myself strutting around like I was Donald Trump. I dragged this child and the test out in the hall and started bragging to everyone I could find.

I even had her take the test and show it to the principal. I wasn’t there, but evidently our principal didn’t miss a beat. She even gave her some candy.

Winning the lottery would be really nice, but I learned an important lesson from my student yesterday. Everything in life doesn’t have to be as big as winning the lottery, but if you allow even the small things to make you that happy…then baby, you win the big jackpot!

And who knows, maybe the principal will give you some candy.

Spring it just about fixed!

This week was spring break for Richardson ISD, as well as most of the ISD’s in and around Dallas.

As for us, we took a vacation to McKinney, Texas. McKinney is about 30 miles north of Dallas straight up I-75. My in-laws live there and we just needed to be somewhere that wasn’t home.

We were only there from Saturday to Wednesday, but I was quite surprised at how “vacationish” those five days felt. I guess it was just being away from our stuff. Stuff like our TV, our phone, and our kitchen…basically being away from our house is what gave it that vacation feel.

Saturday was our seventeenth anniversary and we stayed downtown at the Tartan Thistle, a wonderful old house that’s been turned into a bed and breakfast. Here's their web site. Thank you Phyllis and Homer. The rest of our stay we spent at my in-law’s house.

On Monday, I went car shopping with Homer. I’ve mentioned Homer, the king of car shoppers, here when he helped me buy a car. However, last time I was in school when he did all the behind the scenes, Internet wheeling and dealing. This time I got to witness some of the game. He spent all day Sunday sending emails to dealers all over Texas and a few in Oklahoma requesting price quotes on very specific cars and trucks.

Monday, we drove to Weatherford (west of Fort Worth) just to meet the salesman, check out the cars and then drive away. “It’s all part of the game.” Homer said. “I need to see how badly he wants to sell me that car. I’ll poke around, toss out some numbers here and there, then we’ll drive off and leave him guessing.” Homer asked the salesman to email him a quote on a specific truck we had been looking at. Then we left and drove back to McKinney.

Two hours on the road, an hour and a half at the dealership, and a two-hour drive back without a new anything. Oddly enough, I think it went just the way he had it planned.

I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for that kind of car buying. I fall in love to easily with a car and decide I have to have THAT car. But that’s not how Homer works. “If they sell the car I’m looking at then I’ll just find the same thing somewhere else or I’ll look for something else to buy.”

I got the feeling that doesn’t happen very often. I mean there wasn’t a long line of people standing there waiting to drive off in new cars.

So that was Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday were just lazy days sitting in front of a 72 inch TV doing my best to watch everything that satellite dish has to offer. (We only have an antenna in the attic and nine channels)

Spring was broken, but it’s just about fixed, and I got a little time away from reality. Come Monday morning, spring will be fixed and school will be ready to commence, right on schedule.

But, do not shed tears for me!

I had my fun, my time away from it all, my “break” as it were. I’m rejuvenated and ready to teach again. I’ll be there on the front lines, shooing away cobwebs from young minds.

So no, do not cry for me. Mine is not a job, but a calling.



And besides…there’s only 10 more weeks ‘til summer!

What Were You Thinking?

What were you thinking when you pushed her?
What were you feeling the first time your fist drew his blood?
What was going through your mind when you found him hiding from you?
What thoughts do you have when you’re causing pain?
What words do you whisper to yourself to justify what you do?


How powerful does it make you feel?
How easy is it to convince yourself that she deserved it?
How do you make yourself believe that he likes it too?
How many times have you promised that this is the last time?
How hard is it to look at yourself in a mirror?


Why is he always so afraid of you?
Why do you let your anger take control?
Why is she always crying?
Why did you ever let this begin?
Why haven’t you stopped?

Note: This poem was prompted by a particularly stressful situation at school. However, things have been taken care of.

Is it me, or is it Batman?

A few years ago, my district decided that every employee needed to have a picture ID. I’d been on staff at schools who’s principal had decided to require all teachers to wear nametags, but this was the first time I had been required, by the district, to wear a picture ID. To tell the truth, I believe it is a good idea.

Early on I became bored and possibly a little dissatisfied the picture on my tag. I don’t know if it was the shirt I was wearing, the expression on my face, or just a bad hair day. Whatever the reason I decided I wanted to change the picture on my tag.

It wasn’t long before I figured out a way to change the photo on my name badge, and I changed it to a more recent and much more flattering picture of myself. Happy with my new name badge again, I could once again concentrate all of my energy on teaching.

One morning, only a couple of days after changing my picture, I was getting ready for school when I had a true stroke of genius. If I could take my ID badge and put a new picture of myself on it that easily, what was stopping me from putting whatever picture I wanted on the badge?

Over the last few years I’ve had many different secret identities. I try to use pictures of people that my students will recognize, but sometimes, like the time I was Willie Nelson, I just have to be someone who makes me happy.

Some of the people I have been include:

Darth Vader, Larry the Cucumber, Barbie, Willie Nelson, Spiderman, Superman, Princess Leia, Gumby and currently I’m Batman.

Whenever a student notices my badge, I act like it’s big secret and say, “If everyone finds out who that I’m really Batman, then I won’t be able to fight crime anymore.”

Most of my students love my ever-changing name badge. Some of students think just think I’m nuts. Sadly, a few of them have never noticed.

So, as for who’s going to show up to teach my class on Monday…

Your guess is as good as mine.

Beno, Where Are You?

His name is Beno and he was in my class for three days. His proof of residency was a one week paid receipt at a nearby motel, and he was a mess.

It was a Tuesday morning, and smiling I welcomed him in and introduced him to the class. I showed him to his seat, gave him a pencil and some paper, (he didn’t have anything) and went to find him a math textbook.

I wasn’t far away when a pencil sailed by my head and crashed into the wall across the room. Spinning around I asked, “Okay, who threw that pencil?” At which point the entire class pointed at Beno. That’s when I heard the four words that would become Beno’s mantra for the next three days, “I didn’t, they’re lying!” There were times I call him over and he’d repeat these words before I even said anything.

I got a sneak peak into Beno’s life that first afternoon when I walked him out of the building to meet his parents and discuss the day’s behavior. We stood there waiting for his parents and he pointed to an approaching car.

I’m the first one to argue that the car you drive is not a reflection of who you are. And I couldn’t car less if the parents of my student’s drive a Rolls Royce, or a Ford Pinto. However, the condition of Beno’s family car was a sad, yet quite accurate depiction of this poor boy’s life.

Except for the doors, the trunk lid and the hood, it was mostly kind of a faded, burnt orange. The trunk lid was white, the hood was primer gray, and the doors were different shades of blue. Any hints to the small, two-door car’s make or model had been removed by the miles, or quite possibly by little malicious hands.

As it pulled up, I stepped closer to the curb, strapped on a smile and stuck out my hand to meet Beno’s parents. The man behind the wheel never shook my hand. Pointing to the lady in the passenger’s seat he blurted out, “I ain’t his daddy!” The lack of eye contact and the inflection in his voice screamed, “We’ve heard it all before.”

I stood there reporting on Beno’s behavior to his mom. I tried to start off positive, but there wasn’t much of anything positive that I could think of. “I’m glad Beno’s in my class, here’s a list of a few supplies he could use. However, as for his behavior…”

My words drifted in and out of the car like the smoke from her cigarette.

During our discussion I couldn’t help but notice the condition of the interior of the car. It reminded me of the inside of a destruction derby car. Everything that could be removed and sold for some quick cash was gone. The radio, the door panels, the rearview mirror, even the backseat was gone. As the driver pulled his seat forward so Beno could climb in and sit/lay on a pile of dirty towels and pillows that were a makeshift backseat, I noticed the lack of seat belts and the two-by-four holding the front passenger’s seat in an upright position.

That’s when the truth became all too clear. Beno wasn’t a student in my class. I was simply an easy free babysitter for a couple of people who were just trying find a way to make a few bucks, and possibly stay one step ahead of the law before moving on to the next motel.

After school on Thursday I told his mother that, because of his behavior, if he wanted to go on Friday’s field trip then she would have to go as well.

She said she’d go, and they drove off. As I watched the sad little car drive away, Beno's head popped up and he flipped me off through the back window. I couldn’t help but think that his mom had told him to do it.

Beno was absent on Friday, and I never saw him again. The office checked with the motel and they had split in the middle of the night, taking with them everything in the tiny motel room that wasn’t bolted down…TV and all.

That was six years ago, and Beno would be about 17 years old by now. I wonder what kind of life he’s having? I wonder if he’s ever been in jail? I wonder if he’s ever been abused? I wonder if he’s ever fallen completely and hopelessly in love with the girl of his dreams? I wonder if he ever wonders about a teacher he had for three short days back in 2000?

Beno, where are you?

I wonder…

What does Toner Low really mean?

Several years ago I had a Lexmark color ink-jet printer. I enjoyed being able to print in color, but it always seemed like the colors never really came out as bright as I thought they should, and the ink was always running out. I think I had to buy a new ink cartridge about every 30 to 40 days, and they were about 50 bucks a pop!

So there I am, dropping about 600 dollars a year for the luxury of printing in substandard color. That's when my sister called.

Seems the company she was working for was downsizing, or moving, or something where they were dumping all kinds of computer stuff. They were getting rid of everything from computer and monitors to scanners and printers. She told me I could get a used Hewlett Packard Laser-Jet 4050 printer for $100. It would only be black and white, but it would be a laser printer.

While I was excited, I have to admit, I was a little skeptical. For all I knew, I was getting a printer that had been spitting out several thousand pages an hour for years. Not to mention the fact that laser toner is more than double the cost of an ink-jet cartridge. However, my lust for a laser printer won out, and I forked over the $100 for the HP Laser printer.

So I get this new laser printer, plug it in, and get ready to do some serious printing. I don’t know if you’ve ever used an ink-jet printer, but after you print something the ink is still wet, and smears easily. Not so with the laser! I was giddy with anticipation of my first laser print job.

Sadly, the first page I printed didn’t have the crisp clean lines, or the rich dark tones I was expecting from a laser printer, so I set out to solve the problem.

What I didn’t have was an owner’s manual, but I’ve played around with, and self-diagnosed enough with electronics in my life that I was quiet sure I could figure out how to adjust this machine without the manual.

I quickly figured out how to run a diagnostic page, and in seconds was looking over the complete usage history of my printer.

One of the first things I noticed was that the page count was at just at 15,399. Then I saw that its first preventive maintenance (which I assume is like a tune-up) is at 200,000 pages, and I was a long way from that there!

Next I noticed a toner gauge at the bottom of the page. It was on empty. I went online and saw that I was going to have to spend another 100 bucks for toner. Suddenly this was looking like I had made a bad decision. But I got the new toner, and ran a second diagnostic page.

This page looked completely different! The first page had all the same words, but the background was white and the letters seemed at tad sketchy and a bit faded. The second page had crisp, clear lines with an almost 3D look. And there was an HP logo background over the entire page. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

At this point I had spent $200 dollars for this new printer, but I still wasn’t sure if it was going to save any money. Remember, I was spending about 600 dollars a year for ink-jet ink, and if this laser toner didn’t last at least twice as long, I was in for a substantial increase in printer costs.

I stuck a piece of masking tape on the toner cartridge and wrote the date, and page count. That way, the next time I had to change the toner, I would have an idea of how much money this machine was costing me.

Recently the printer’s little screen stared saying, “Toner Low.” I checked the date on the masking tape, and ran a new diagnostic page just the other day. The diagnostic page showed my page count to be 22,872. That means I’m a mere 7,473 pages closer to my 200,000 page preventative maintenance. I also checked the toner gauge and it’s slightly above the 50% mark. The date on the tape was November 12, 2001. In four years, I’ve printed close to 7,500 pages, and only used half of my toner. I haven't even had to think about toner for over four years! But I still get this "Toner Low" message.

I wonder what that means?

Strange Memory

Unlike the title might suggest this isn’t a posting about some strange memory I’ve been having. Suffice it to say, I have more than my fair share of those, but this is about the act of having a memory that could be characterized as being strange.

The other day my M and I were discussing memory and how she feels her memory is somehow faulty or deficient. While she has memories of different people and events throughout her life, she, and this is her perception, doesn’t feel like she has very detailed memories of those people or events.

I, on the other hand, feel like my memory is oddly detailed. I can recall all manner of details about different places and things that we have been to, or done over the last 17 years that M either has no memory of, or remembers without much detail. However, I’m forced to wonder if I truly have a really detailed memory, or if subconsciously I’m fabricating these details in order to create memories that make sense? Who knows?

What M does have, that I’m extremely jealous of, is a fantastic short-term memory. Thanks to a closed head injury, which I first told you about here, my short-term memory is the pits! If I meet someone and hear his or her name, but don’t use it right away, it’s gone in a matter of seconds. M, on the other hand, can hear a name one time and remember it forever…or so it seems.

If given a choice, I would take M’s fantastic short-term memory over my bizarrely detailed memory any day of the week, but I guess that’s not possible.

So this leaves me with one question:

Who has the strange memory?

The Costco Buying Frenzy!

Well, I finally went, and it was better than I could have imagined!

Wanda and Derrick took us for our Costco initiation. First, we had to redeem our gift certificate for our membership cards with our pictures on them. (Although I’m forced to wonder if anyone really ever looks at the picture on the back of the card)

After getting our cards, which act like your ticket to enter the shopping magic kingdom, we walked around the corner and I stood there as my brain tried to soak it all in. I really didn’t think they were going to have EVERYTHING, but now I’m a believer.

I walked around in stunned silence as Wanda and Derrick grabbed the few things they had on their list and then the tour began.

At first, I didn’t see any real organization behind the layout of the store. It appeared like tables of whatever product they happened to get in that day were simply tossed into whatever space happened to be available. However, it wasn’t long before the philosophy behind their madness began to sink in and make sense.

While items such as clothes, automotive/mechanical, frozen foods and entertainment, to name a few, had their own areas, it was impossible to walk in and go directly to the area you were looking for and not pass by a sampling of hundreds of different types of food or merchandise. While this can seem quite frustrating, there’s a method to their madness.

If you put your blinders on and go to Costco with tunnel vision, then you can walk in and out and only purchase the item or items that you came there to buy.

However, if you are like 99% of the people who walk into Costco, you’re going to discover hundreds of things you need that you had no idea you needed before going into the store. This was our fate.

In my mind we were going to check the store out, buy a new combination DVD VCR player, maybe buy something small for our daughter M, and that was it.

I quickly found the prefect DVD VCR player. I had seen the same one in at the electronics store for $139.99, but I got it a Costco for $79.99. That’s a HUGE savings in my book.

Anyway, I found it, and I was ready to look around…that was my downfall.

I couldn’t turn around without seeing something that looked like it would be fun to have, or that I had forgotten that I needed. And then something else would end up in the basket.

They also have people strategically placed throughout the store at little kiosks cooking, and handing out samples of all kinds of food products. I tasted five different kinds of cookies, several small sampling of roasted chicken, two or three different kinds of bread, vegetarian sausage, and a strawberry yogurt smoothie. I could easily go there for dinner.

Before I knew it, our basket was full. However, it wasn’t until I was unloading my cart onto the conveyor belt, and I got down to the DVD VCR player, the one item I had intended to buy, that I understood the pure genius behind the whole “Organized Mess” philosophy of Costco.

Could this have been Costco’s plan all along? How did they know that if they could get me past the security and into the store, I would not only buy what I came for, but a host of other items as well?

Here is what we took home that day:
· DVD VCR player
· A purple swimsuit for M’s summer camp
· Three extra large bottles of different types of vitamins
· One whole roasted chicken (still warm)
· A box of three large frozen pizzas
· A bag of frozen edamame (click to find out more about edamame)
· Two packages of 24 boxes Valentine’s Smarties for M’s class

I must admit, spent more time and money than I meant to that day, but I had a blast.

Next time, Costco won’t be able to suck me into its buying frenzy so easily…or will they?

A Fun, Yet Stinging Memory

You know how sometimes you see or hear something that reminds you of something you have either forgotten, or just not thought about for a very long time? Well, that happened to me just the other day, and it was a fun memory from my childhood…well, kind of fun.

During a writing lesson at school the topic somehow turned to tornados. The natural progression of this conversation somehow turned into a discussion of whirlwinds and Dust Devils. Now, Dust Devil is a term I am very familiar with, but haven’t had much of a need to use or even think about for many years.

I’ve written before about growing up in El Paso, the west Texas of west Texas. Basically, El Paso is a in the middle of a big desert. It’s very dry with lots and lots of sand, and Dust Devils are very common.

The playground at my elementary school was a huge sandbox. You could dig down about four to six inches, clear away the sand and find a hardened clay base. It was on this base that we would play marbles, or sometimes use sticks to carve out little caves. It was a fun playground.

However, there were times, and to the best of my recollection they happened daily, when the Dust Devils would come. First, you would hear the screams of the children as they ran trying to escape the stinging winds. You’d look up to see the funnel cloud of swirling sand moving across the playground, and pray it wasn’t heading your way.

More often than not, you either weren’t in the path of the Dust Devil, or you could simply run out of its line of fire.

The times I couldn’t avoid these sandy monsters are burned into my memory. For you see, this was sand blowing at speeds of up to 70 miles per hour, and all you could do was turn your back to the storm, clamp your eyes and mouth shut, and brace yourself for its merciless attack.

Most times the onslaught would end in a matter of seconds, but it would leave you with a burning reminder that mother nature's not always your friend.

So there I was, a first grader facing the harsh realities of a cruel and hostile playground, with little more than my quick wit and the speed of my Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops to protect me from the savage west Texas weather. But I had something these fierce beasts weren’t counting on…an older brother who not only had been out in the world fighting the elements three years longer than I had, but whose wisdom in matters like this was legendary…at least in my mind.

“Look Hugh, when these Dust Devils come up here’s what you do,” he said using his best advice giving voice. “I know your first impulse is to turn your back and shut your eyes when they’re coming toward you, but that’s the wrong thing to do.”

Now, this is where I should have figured out that something was amiss, but I was young and trusting. Besides, this was my brother talking and he wouldn’t lead me astray on such a life and death matter.

“You have to face the storm,” he said, “look straight at it and don’t move.”

“But won’t hurt even more?”

“It seems like it would, but for some reason you looking straight at it, and the spinning sand not going in a straight line makes it impossible for the sand to get in your eyes. It also doesn’t hurt as much.”

And I bought it hook, line, and sinker!

I don’t know how long it was before I had the occasion to test my newfound Dust Devil deterrent, but it plays back in my mind like a nightmare forever stuck in an endless, slow motion loop.

I’m on the playground. I’ve got plenty of time to escape the approaching menace, but unlike my friends who franticly scramble for safety, I stand my ground, safe in the knowledge that I can beat my oncoming foe. I may have even moved into its path.

So there I was, standing feet apart, hands on my hips, eyes wide open staring down the approaching Dust Devil.

It wasn’t until the outer layers of the now giant swirling mass of sand reached me that I began doubting my brother’s wisdom.

I’m forced to admit that the strong winds and spinning sand paint a both beautiful and remarkable picture. But that’s not a silhouette you want tattooed on your eyeballs!

The whole event was over before I ever had a chance to run. Sinking to my knees, I struggled to rub bucketfuls of sand from my now bloodshot eyes as my friends who, watching from a safe distance, now all ran to my aid wondering what in the hell I was thinking.

I’m not sure how, but somewhere off in the distance...I heard a familiar laugh.

Costco and Me

Our friends, Wanda and Derrick, gave us a membership to Costco for Christmas.

I’m quite sure Costco stores are everywhere, but just in case I’m mistaken, here’s the skinny: Costco is huge store that has everything from groceries and building supplies, to electronics and underwear. This place is HUGE!

I’ve never actually been to Costco, although the half hour drive to my mother-in-law’s house takes me dangerously close. Driving by, I have to stop myself from drooling as my mind longingly imagines the endless wonders hidden away inside the massive structure. My best guess is that it is somewhat akin to a Sam’s Club store, but according to our friends, it’s much better.

Anyway, you have to have a membership, and while I’ve wanted to get one for years now, it’s always been one of those things I want to do, but just haven’t gotten around to yet. (It seems I have quite a few things on this list!)

So now I’ve had my membership for one complete week and while I’m itching to go, for some unknown reason I haven’t yet.

However, rest assured that once I make my maiden voyage to this, the Disneyland of low cost shopping warehouses, I’ll not only save lots of money buying all kinds of stuff, but I’ll write all about it.

Until then…it’s Costco or bust!

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.