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…
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Saturday, September 24, 2005
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!
Sunday, September 18, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
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
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
Thursday, September 08, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
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…”
“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…”
Sunday, August 14, 2005
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, August 01, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Camp ...Week Three
This is week three, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping myself busy enough not to go crazy from withdrawal. However, I have been regularly checking the camp’s web site for clues to my daughter’s well being. Melissa and I have found about 20 pictures that we’ve marked for purchase at the end of camp. I guess everything’s a business.
I wrote about working my butt off with Dad, and that kept me pretty busy. Melissa and I spent last week in Santa Fe at a Bed & Breakfast called Adobe Abode. Adobe Abode is a great Bed & Breakfast that we discovered a couple of years ago and have been back several times. Andy and Bonnie, the owners, moved to Santa Fe from Dallas a few years ago to escape the rat race…what a great idea!!!
Adobe Abode is very comfortable, with wonderful breakfasts, and an easy walk to the plaza. You can walk to Canyon Road, but it’s a bit of a hike. If you’re ever going to be in Santa Fe and you need somewhere to stay, give Andy a call at Adobe Abode. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.
For us this wasn’t really a “tourist” kind of trip. With the exception of the Santa Fe Opera, which we had already bought tickets for, we didn’t have anything that we just had to do. The Opera was The Barber of Seville, which turned out to be much more fun than I would have ever expected.
I don’t mind telling you that I was not very excited about going to the opera. I mean sitting for three hours listening to people sing in Italian is not my idea of fun. I was pleasantly surprised! Not only did each person have a little 3-inch by 6-inch monitor that translated everything into English, but there was also quite a bit of comedy…who would have guessed?
While we were busy doing and seeing all kinds of great sights, we found ourselves thinking a lot about what our little one was doing. We even went to the Santa Fe public library and signed up for some Internet time. Just to check in and see what, if anything, we had missed. (We’re goofy I know!)
Time alone with Melissa really fun, and much needed. But now we’re back and Melissa’s at work. I’ve got things to do too. Errands, house cleaning, a couple of small things to fix…that kind crap, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be enough. Already I’ve seen the hints. Hints that daughter withdrawal is taking over.
If you pray, say one for me. I’ll be here in Dallas trying not to lose what’s left of my sanity.
It’s going to be a long 10 days.
Note:
Adobe Abode
Owner - Andy Duettra
505-983-3133
I wrote about working my butt off with Dad, and that kept me pretty busy. Melissa and I spent last week in Santa Fe at a Bed & Breakfast called Adobe Abode. Adobe Abode is a great Bed & Breakfast that we discovered a couple of years ago and have been back several times. Andy and Bonnie, the owners, moved to Santa Fe from Dallas a few years ago to escape the rat race…what a great idea!!!
Adobe Abode is very comfortable, with wonderful breakfasts, and an easy walk to the plaza. You can walk to Canyon Road, but it’s a bit of a hike. If you’re ever going to be in Santa Fe and you need somewhere to stay, give Andy a call at Adobe Abode. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.
For us this wasn’t really a “tourist” kind of trip. With the exception of the Santa Fe Opera, which we had already bought tickets for, we didn’t have anything that we just had to do. The Opera was The Barber of Seville, which turned out to be much more fun than I would have ever expected.
I don’t mind telling you that I was not very excited about going to the opera. I mean sitting for three hours listening to people sing in Italian is not my idea of fun. I was pleasantly surprised! Not only did each person have a little 3-inch by 6-inch monitor that translated everything into English, but there was also quite a bit of comedy…who would have guessed?
While we were busy doing and seeing all kinds of great sights, we found ourselves thinking a lot about what our little one was doing. We even went to the Santa Fe public library and signed up for some Internet time. Just to check in and see what, if anything, we had missed. (We’re goofy I know!)
Time alone with Melissa really fun, and much needed. But now we’re back and Melissa’s at work. I’ve got things to do too. Errands, house cleaning, a couple of small things to fix…that kind crap, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be enough. Already I’ve seen the hints. Hints that daughter withdrawal is taking over.
If you pray, say one for me. I’ll be here in Dallas trying not to lose what’s left of my sanity.
It’s going to be a long 10 days.
Note:
Adobe Abode
Owner - Andy Duettra
505-983-3133
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
"I worked my butt off!"
“I worked my butt off!” is how the saying goes. But where did it come from? I’ve heard the phrase hundreds of times. Hell, I’ve even used it on occasion, but I’ve never really understood how it could have originated.
In my mind I can see this big guy and he’s out working hard. (I’m not being sexist here; I just think you have to agree that a member of the fairer sex couldn’t have come up with something like this) He’s not very literate, probably can’t even read, but he needs some kind of manly, blue collar explanation of just exactly how hard he’s been working. So why choose his butt? I mean, if you’re going to work something off wouldn’t something like “Damn, I worked my arms off,” be much more to the point?
Thanks to my Dad I now understand what was going through that big guy’s head.
My parents recently moved into a new house. They’ve been retired for a few years and decided it was time to move somewhere that would be a little more centrally located between their three children and five grandchildren. So, they built a house right outside of Austin and moved in a few weeks ago.
My dad had several projects that he needed some help with, not the least of which was flooring part of the attic. He’s got two sons, but I’m the one he calls when he needs this kind of help, and to tell the truth I enjoy doing that kind of thing. Especially with Dad.
Last Tuesday, after a host of traveling mishaps, I flew into Austin for a week of work. Dad’s idea was to, “Work my butt off!” and he did!
We built a workbench and two six-foot storage cabinets, floored a HUGE section of the attic, got three truckloads of stuff out of storage and organized the garage. We also problem solved some innovative solutions to some difficult storage issues, came up with some interesting future project ideas and laughed a lot!
After throwing several trips to Home Depot into the mix, you get a really successful, really fun “Work your butt off” kind of week.
Dad, thanks for helping me to understand what working your butt off really means…I had a lot of fun.
You know Dad, I've got some attic that needs flooring...how's your butt feeling?
In my mind I can see this big guy and he’s out working hard. (I’m not being sexist here; I just think you have to agree that a member of the fairer sex couldn’t have come up with something like this) He’s not very literate, probably can’t even read, but he needs some kind of manly, blue collar explanation of just exactly how hard he’s been working. So why choose his butt? I mean, if you’re going to work something off wouldn’t something like “Damn, I worked my arms off,” be much more to the point?
Thanks to my Dad I now understand what was going through that big guy’s head.
My parents recently moved into a new house. They’ve been retired for a few years and decided it was time to move somewhere that would be a little more centrally located between their three children and five grandchildren. So, they built a house right outside of Austin and moved in a few weeks ago.
My dad had several projects that he needed some help with, not the least of which was flooring part of the attic. He’s got two sons, but I’m the one he calls when he needs this kind of help, and to tell the truth I enjoy doing that kind of thing. Especially with Dad.
Last Tuesday, after a host of traveling mishaps, I flew into Austin for a week of work. Dad’s idea was to, “Work my butt off!” and he did!
We built a workbench and two six-foot storage cabinets, floored a HUGE section of the attic, got three truckloads of stuff out of storage and organized the garage. We also problem solved some innovative solutions to some difficult storage issues, came up with some interesting future project ideas and laughed a lot!
After throwing several trips to Home Depot into the mix, you get a really successful, really fun “Work your butt off” kind of week.
Dad, thanks for helping me to understand what working your butt off really means…I had a lot of fun.
You know Dad, I've got some attic that needs flooring...how's your butt feeling?
Monday, July 11, 2005
The Living Stones
The other night I went to hear the Living Stones, a band some of my friends are in. This was their first paying gig! They played here in Dallas at the Lone Star Café, a little out of the way bar that specializes in cold beer and even colder food.
I really enjoyed the music, although I never did hear the Pink Floyd, Doors, or Frank Zappa that I requested. These are friends of mine from church, so I was expecting some preferential treatment, but they just kept whining about no keyboard, or something like that.
All in all, the evening was fun, if for no other reason than good music and fun people watching. I don’t frequent bars, so I’m not regularly exposed to some of the more colorful elements of our society. But this place was a full-blown color wheel!
You name’em, and they were there. I’m about talking everything from a girl in a sequined dress, (She was a bit out of place here) all the way down to folks in shorts and tank tops. At 40, I fully expected to be about the oldest person at this shindig, but I was surprised to find many senior citizens out drinking and dancing the night away. They even had a potluck dinner for some lady’s 60th birthday!
This band has five people and with the exception of the bass player, I know them all. These guys aren’t in this band at hopes of making a living. We’re talking about two lawyers and two guys with at least Masters degrees. I’m quite positive that playing in a band isn’t any of these guys’ main source of income, but that’s possibly just what makes it work.
The Living Stones are five guys with two things in common: a love for music and the desire to play. And I guess there’s some talent rolled-up in the mix somewhere.
So, if you’re ever in Dallas and you ever get a chance to hear the Living Stones play, treat yourself to cold beer and a few songs.
They may not be the best you’ve ever heard, but baby, they’ve got heart!
I really enjoyed the music, although I never did hear the Pink Floyd, Doors, or Frank Zappa that I requested. These are friends of mine from church, so I was expecting some preferential treatment, but they just kept whining about no keyboard, or something like that.
All in all, the evening was fun, if for no other reason than good music and fun people watching. I don’t frequent bars, so I’m not regularly exposed to some of the more colorful elements of our society. But this place was a full-blown color wheel!
You name’em, and they were there. I’m about talking everything from a girl in a sequined dress, (She was a bit out of place here) all the way down to folks in shorts and tank tops. At 40, I fully expected to be about the oldest person at this shindig, but I was surprised to find many senior citizens out drinking and dancing the night away. They even had a potluck dinner for some lady’s 60th birthday!
This band has five people and with the exception of the bass player, I know them all. These guys aren’t in this band at hopes of making a living. We’re talking about two lawyers and two guys with at least Masters degrees. I’m quite positive that playing in a band isn’t any of these guys’ main source of income, but that’s possibly just what makes it work.
The Living Stones are five guys with two things in common: a love for music and the desire to play. And I guess there’s some talent rolled-up in the mix somewhere.
So, if you’re ever in Dallas and you ever get a chance to hear the Living Stones play, treat yourself to cold beer and a few songs.
They may not be the best you’ve ever heard, but baby, they’ve got heart!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Shopping for Camp...still!!!
Yesterday, was our first official day as a childless couple, my wife and I spent most of they day (10:00am to 4:45pm) with my mother-in-law, shopping for purple stuff to send to our daughter at camp.
This camp has three groups, or Tribes as they call them, that each has its own color. Now, even though the girls do everything all mixed up, there are some good-spirited competitions between these three tribes. Not the least of which is an end of term war canoe race that the girls try out for and then train for the entire camp session.
Anyway, my daughter’s tribe color is purple. I didn’t think we were going to find all that much purple stuff, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Stores like Bed Bath and Beyond, among others, have everything your little heart can imagine in purple. I actually found myself considering the purchase of a purple surge protector, but was talked out of it by my wife. I knew she didn’t have any use for a purple surge protector…but what a cool thing to have!
I must say that I was a bit shocked at how much FedEx charges to mail one 20x20x12 package to south Texas. I could understand spending over $50 if it was going to some place in China, but a six hour drive shouldn’t cost that much. At least I don’t have to take it myself.
I’m learning about this whole girl’s camp thing one day at a time.
This camp has three groups, or Tribes as they call them, that each has its own color. Now, even though the girls do everything all mixed up, there are some good-spirited competitions between these three tribes. Not the least of which is an end of term war canoe race that the girls try out for and then train for the entire camp session.
Anyway, my daughter’s tribe color is purple. I didn’t think we were going to find all that much purple stuff, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Stores like Bed Bath and Beyond, among others, have everything your little heart can imagine in purple. I actually found myself considering the purchase of a purple surge protector, but was talked out of it by my wife. I knew she didn’t have any use for a purple surge protector…but what a cool thing to have!
I must say that I was a bit shocked at how much FedEx charges to mail one 20x20x12 package to south Texas. I could understand spending over $50 if it was going to some place in China, but a six hour drive shouldn’t cost that much. At least I don’t have to take it myself.
I’m learning about this whole girl’s camp thing one day at a time.
Friday, July 08, 2005
The Big Bus Adventure
We got to the bus at about 8:00am, and we weren’t the first ones there. Some of these parents wanted to make sure their girls got first pick of seats.
I’m happy to report that I did a good job maintaining my composure. However, I nearly lost it when my daughter walked up and gave me that last hug. Melissa didn’t start to tear up until the bus was pulling out. She was quite strong up until that point.
Standing there, I watched the bus pull out of the parking lot and disappear over the horizon. For me, it was a very strange and solemn kind of happiness. A kind of happiness that I’ve not experienced before. I don’t know exactly what this means. Even as I’m writing this, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
Melissa and I left, got some breakfast and went home.
As she left for work she asked, “So, what are you going to do today?”
Confused, I paused and said, “I don’t know.”
Having nothing to do can be kind of scary.
I’m happy to report that I did a good job maintaining my composure. However, I nearly lost it when my daughter walked up and gave me that last hug. Melissa didn’t start to tear up until the bus was pulling out. She was quite strong up until that point.
Standing there, I watched the bus pull out of the parking lot and disappear over the horizon. For me, it was a very strange and solemn kind of happiness. A kind of happiness that I’ve not experienced before. I don’t know exactly what this means. Even as I’m writing this, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
Melissa and I left, got some breakfast and went home.
As she left for work she asked, “So, what are you going to do today?”
Confused, I paused and said, “I don’t know.”
Having nothing to do can be kind of scary.
Off to Camp...
Today begins a bold new mission into the unknown.
In about forty-five minutes, my wife and I will head to Inwood Village, a strip-shopping village here in Dallas, and put our little girl on a bus headed for camp in south Texas.
I say a new mission, because while I’ve sent her to camp for the last three summers, this is a whole new adventure for all of us. In the past she’s gone to Sky Ranch and only been gone for a week. Combine that with the fact that at Sky Ranch you take your child to camp and this becomes a whole new adventure.
I got up this morning excited, but a little apprehensive.
I mentioned that I cry easily…I wonder how well I’m going to hold up?
In about forty-five minutes, my wife and I will head to Inwood Village, a strip-shopping village here in Dallas, and put our little girl on a bus headed for camp in south Texas.
I say a new mission, because while I’ve sent her to camp for the last three summers, this is a whole new adventure for all of us. In the past she’s gone to Sky Ranch and only been gone for a week. Combine that with the fact that at Sky Ranch you take your child to camp and this becomes a whole new adventure.
I got up this morning excited, but a little apprehensive.
I mentioned that I cry easily…I wonder how well I’m going to hold up?
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Frog Memories
I was born in El Paso Texas, and with the exception of a short move to Fort Worth, I lived in El Paso until the end of the second grade.
We lived in a house with a park right across the street. This park was the site of endless adventures for my brother and me. There were many times we’d be in the park, lost in play for hours. I have fond memories of my time spent in that park.
Now I don’t know how much you know about El Paso, but it’s hot and it doesn’t rain very much. I was pretty young, but I seem to remember something about the rain clouds not being able to make it over the mountains. Something like that, I think. However, the times it did rain were usually a downpour.
Rain only enhanced the fascination that this park had for my brother and me. On one end of the park there was a low area that became a pretty good-sized pond. In our imaginations, this pond became an ocean with endless possibilities for exploration.
I don’t remember what magical adventure we were in the middle of, or even exactly how we first discovered the frogs, but once we found them, they were all we could think about.
Seems El Paso was the host/breeding ground for some breed of tiny frog. These little frogs ranged anywhere from a dime to a quarter in size, and this park was a haven for millions of these tiny creatures. They would escape the west Texas heat by burrowing underground and somehow survive in the moisture that was captured deep underground after the city watered.
Anytime it rained the pond appeared in the park, and so did the frogs. You couldn’t take a step in any direction without crunching down on some poor unsuspecting little critter. My brother and I, intent on saving these amphibians from a life of “foot-traffic genocide”, decided to catch as many of them as we could and relocate them to our mother’s flower garden in the backyard. (A plan we failed to discuss with our Mom, but I’ll talk more about that later)
Using a small bucket, we headed to the park and spent the whole afternoon catching dozens of little frogs. Then we’d go back home, dump them into the flowerbed and head back to the pond for more.
I don’t know how many of these humanitarian trips we made back and forth between the pond and the garden, but there were several. You see, we weren’t just splashing around and playing in the water like all the other kids. Oh no, we were on a mission, a rescue mission and in our minds it was for real.
Now this was over 30 years ago, so thinking back, our bucket probably wasn’t really all that big, although it seemed huge at the time. I’m guessing it wouldn’t have held more than 150 to 200 little frogs. Seeing as we probably made five or six of these frog rescue trips back to the house, there were actually only somewhere between 750 to 1,200 little refugees in our garden/frog relocation camp. We went to bed, secure in the knowledge that our amphibitarian relief efforts had been a huge success.
Then things started to go wrong…
As it turns out, there were many aspects of our frog relocation project that we hadn’t actually thought about.
First: The size and capacity of our camp. While Mom’s garden seemed quite large to a first grader, it was in fact quite small. Combine that with the fact that we have five to six times the number of these small frogs in our garden as we actually have room for, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.
Turns out, as is so often the case in many refugee camps, overcrowding was a major problem. During the daytime and the sweltering heat, we didn’t see many of our new neighbors. However, at night in the desert things tend to cool off. This is when our new little friends would venture out in search of food, and possibly less crowded living conditions. Whatever the reason, during the night and early morning these little guys would be all over the yard and the porch.
It wasn’t long before Mom, walking outside in bare feet, discovered our new neighbors. I don’t remember much more than the loud, ear piercing shrieks as she hopped from foot to foot, squishing dozens of our little refugees. It’s been a long time, but I remember it being quite funny for the whole family. Well, I guess not for Mom.
Next, we also failed to think about, or possibly ignored the presence of the backyard’s primary resident, Tip. Tip, our dog, was all too happy to share his yard with these little guys. Turns out they made great playmates, toys and sometimes snacks for our fun-loving puppy. On more than one occasion, I ventured outside just in time to catch Tip, tail wagging, in mid-crunch as he happily played with a new little friend.
All the trials and tribulation associated with opening your own low-rent, frog apartments aside, having a backyard full of frogs turned out to be quite fun.
However, our fascination with our new little friends soon faded and we were forced to search for new forms of entertainment with our frog friends.
Possibly our best idea, or at least the one that has stuck in my head, began with us flooding the garden, digging up as many of these unsuspecting frogs as we could, and loading them into my Dad’s water filled wheelbarrow.
Our house had a flat roof that, as well as I can remember, was covered with small stones. We’d toss a few of the now terrified frogs up on the roof and make bets on which ones would jump off first, then laugh as we tried to catch them in the wheelbarrow full of water. We’d spend the day throwing frogs and racing back and forth with the wheelbarrow. All the while having the time of our lives.
I’m not sure how many frogs we lost all together, but the body count had to be high. I don’t think it ever occurred to us that, assuming the frog survived the throw up onto a hot rock covered roof, that they might have a concussion, or be so stunned that they would either jump the wrong direction or simply sit there and cook. All the same, we threw LOTS of the poor little guys up on the roof.
If they did happen to survive the throw, and jump the right directions, and actually land in the wheelbarrow filled with water…we would cheer and throw them right back up on the roof. A fact that I’m quite sure seemed like loads of fun to us, but had to be very disheartening for the poor frogs.
I don’t remember how many different rainy days we took our bucket and went across the street to “save” these little frogs, but seeing as it didn’t rain all that often in El Paso, I don’t believe our mission ever lost its charm. There’s also no way of knowing how many frogs were dug out of their home, tossed up on a hot roof and never heard from again, but there were many.
As fondly as I remember these events, I can’t help but wonder. What were these poor frogs thinking? I mean, here you are, happy in your world when suddenly you’re ripped from the only existence you’ve ever know, transplanted to a strange place and then viciously mistreated…all in the name of charity.
I wonder…did these little frogs ever really need, or want to be helped?
.
We lived in a house with a park right across the street. This park was the site of endless adventures for my brother and me. There were many times we’d be in the park, lost in play for hours. I have fond memories of my time spent in that park.
Now I don’t know how much you know about El Paso, but it’s hot and it doesn’t rain very much. I was pretty young, but I seem to remember something about the rain clouds not being able to make it over the mountains. Something like that, I think. However, the times it did rain were usually a downpour.
Rain only enhanced the fascination that this park had for my brother and me. On one end of the park there was a low area that became a pretty good-sized pond. In our imaginations, this pond became an ocean with endless possibilities for exploration.
I don’t remember what magical adventure we were in the middle of, or even exactly how we first discovered the frogs, but once we found them, they were all we could think about.
Seems El Paso was the host/breeding ground for some breed of tiny frog. These little frogs ranged anywhere from a dime to a quarter in size, and this park was a haven for millions of these tiny creatures. They would escape the west Texas heat by burrowing underground and somehow survive in the moisture that was captured deep underground after the city watered.
Anytime it rained the pond appeared in the park, and so did the frogs. You couldn’t take a step in any direction without crunching down on some poor unsuspecting little critter. My brother and I, intent on saving these amphibians from a life of “foot-traffic genocide”, decided to catch as many of them as we could and relocate them to our mother’s flower garden in the backyard. (A plan we failed to discuss with our Mom, but I’ll talk more about that later)
Using a small bucket, we headed to the park and spent the whole afternoon catching dozens of little frogs. Then we’d go back home, dump them into the flowerbed and head back to the pond for more.
I don’t know how many of these humanitarian trips we made back and forth between the pond and the garden, but there were several. You see, we weren’t just splashing around and playing in the water like all the other kids. Oh no, we were on a mission, a rescue mission and in our minds it was for real.
Now this was over 30 years ago, so thinking back, our bucket probably wasn’t really all that big, although it seemed huge at the time. I’m guessing it wouldn’t have held more than 150 to 200 little frogs. Seeing as we probably made five or six of these frog rescue trips back to the house, there were actually only somewhere between 750 to 1,200 little refugees in our garden/frog relocation camp. We went to bed, secure in the knowledge that our amphibitarian relief efforts had been a huge success.
Then things started to go wrong…
As it turns out, there were many aspects of our frog relocation project that we hadn’t actually thought about.
First: The size and capacity of our camp. While Mom’s garden seemed quite large to a first grader, it was in fact quite small. Combine that with the fact that we have five to six times the number of these small frogs in our garden as we actually have room for, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.
Turns out, as is so often the case in many refugee camps, overcrowding was a major problem. During the daytime and the sweltering heat, we didn’t see many of our new neighbors. However, at night in the desert things tend to cool off. This is when our new little friends would venture out in search of food, and possibly less crowded living conditions. Whatever the reason, during the night and early morning these little guys would be all over the yard and the porch.
It wasn’t long before Mom, walking outside in bare feet, discovered our new neighbors. I don’t remember much more than the loud, ear piercing shrieks as she hopped from foot to foot, squishing dozens of our little refugees. It’s been a long time, but I remember it being quite funny for the whole family. Well, I guess not for Mom.
Next, we also failed to think about, or possibly ignored the presence of the backyard’s primary resident, Tip. Tip, our dog, was all too happy to share his yard with these little guys. Turns out they made great playmates, toys and sometimes snacks for our fun-loving puppy. On more than one occasion, I ventured outside just in time to catch Tip, tail wagging, in mid-crunch as he happily played with a new little friend.
All the trials and tribulation associated with opening your own low-rent, frog apartments aside, having a backyard full of frogs turned out to be quite fun.
However, our fascination with our new little friends soon faded and we were forced to search for new forms of entertainment with our frog friends.
Possibly our best idea, or at least the one that has stuck in my head, began with us flooding the garden, digging up as many of these unsuspecting frogs as we could, and loading them into my Dad’s water filled wheelbarrow.
Our house had a flat roof that, as well as I can remember, was covered with small stones. We’d toss a few of the now terrified frogs up on the roof and make bets on which ones would jump off first, then laugh as we tried to catch them in the wheelbarrow full of water. We’d spend the day throwing frogs and racing back and forth with the wheelbarrow. All the while having the time of our lives.
I’m not sure how many frogs we lost all together, but the body count had to be high. I don’t think it ever occurred to us that, assuming the frog survived the throw up onto a hot rock covered roof, that they might have a concussion, or be so stunned that they would either jump the wrong direction or simply sit there and cook. All the same, we threw LOTS of the poor little guys up on the roof.
If they did happen to survive the throw, and jump the right directions, and actually land in the wheelbarrow filled with water…we would cheer and throw them right back up on the roof. A fact that I’m quite sure seemed like loads of fun to us, but had to be very disheartening for the poor frogs.
I don’t remember how many different rainy days we took our bucket and went across the street to “save” these little frogs, but seeing as it didn’t rain all that often in El Paso, I don’t believe our mission ever lost its charm. There’s also no way of knowing how many frogs were dug out of their home, tossed up on a hot roof and never heard from again, but there were many.
As fondly as I remember these events, I can’t help but wonder. What were these poor frogs thinking? I mean, here you are, happy in your world when suddenly you’re ripped from the only existence you’ve ever know, transplanted to a strange place and then viciously mistreated…all in the name of charity.
I wonder…did these little frogs ever really need, or want to be helped?
.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Closed Head Injury and Anger - 2nd Draft
As the title suggests, this is the revised edition of Closed Head Injury and Anger. However, I didn’t change very much. I think most of what I needed to change had to do with word choice and voice. If you happen to have read the first draft, I would appreciate knowing if this version sounds or reads different than the first draft.
I’ve been a closed head injury survivor for almost 15 year. I wrote some about it in I Lost Part of my Life.
Technically, I’m disabled. I say technically, because I’m not physically disabled and with the exception of my speech, which isn’t really all that bad, but is eternally a thorn in my side, most days I don’t have any reason to ever even think about my head injury. Maybe I’m in denial, but who isn’t?
However, there are days that are filled to the brim with reminders. The things I’m forced to deal with, combined with the sometimes idiotic ways I deal with them, are not only reminders that I do I have a head injury, but they’re reminders that force me to face the fact that I am dealing with a lot.
I guess in many ways I’m lucky. Some survivors deal not only with the mental struggles of a head injury, but with a huge range of physical deficits as well. This is something I try to remind myself of on the hard days…but trying to convince myself that I’m lucky to only have a closed head injury is usually not all that helpful.
When you break part of your body, it heals and life goes on. When you damage part of your brain either other parts of your brain take over and learn to compensate for the skill or ability you lost, or you learn to function without that particular skill.
My head injury took all my emotions, tossed them into a blender, hit puree and poured the emotional smoothie back into my brain.
Before my head injury I had strict control over any and all of my emotions. If I didn’t want to laugh, I didn’t laugh. If I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t cry. And I decided where and when I got angry. I liked having that kind of control. It made coping with an ever-changing world child’s play.
(In “I Lost Part of my Life,” I talk about me comparing
“New Hugh” to “Old Hugh”…it looks and sounds a lot like this)
These days my emotions have me at their mercy. I can’t watch TV without uncontrollably breaking into tears over the stupidest things. (I’m talking about Tide commercials!) It’s actually become kind of a family joke to look over and see what see what new household product commercial has caused Hugh to fall to pieces.
I also find myself laughing uncontrollably at the stupidest things. Seeing as laughing sends extra air through your windpipe and, thanks to a tracheotomy, I only have one functioning vocal cord to regulate the amount of oxygen that’s coming out, suddenly laughing makes it nearly impossible for me to talk and be understood.
These two problems are a minor inconvenience at best and while I would rather not have to go through life dealing with them, I’m the only one who is truly bothered and I can deal with that.
Not so for the anger.
Difficulty with anger management is an all too common problem experienced by closed head injury survivors. I know from the countless hours I spent in Occupational and Cognitive Remediation therapy that learning to deal with anger is a huge part of living with a closed head injury.
For the past 15 years I’ve been living with a kind of time bomb inside my head and I don’t have much, if any, control over when and where it goes off.
In a nutshell, this is what happens: Something happens that doesn’t go quite the way it should. Maybe it’s something that just isn’t working like it is supposed to, or maybe it’s simply not working the way Hugh thinks it should be working. Either way, my feeling overly frustrated is the first step. Over the years I’ve learned to identify this “overly frustrated feeling” and can now usually back away from the situation and avoid anything else.
If the situation involves other people, or something I can’t easily back away from that’s when I start to feel the wave. This wave of anger starts somewhere deep down. I don’t know exactly where, but I can feel it bubbling up and it sometimes scares me. There are times I can feel the wave coming and rational thought is able to block the wave. Other times, however, the wave is either so huge, or I’m already so tired, that rational thoughts don’t even register.
I can usually feel myself losing control. I know that I’m not being rational and that the situation, whatever it may be, doesn’t need my being angry. However, simply understanding that things are moving in the wrong direction isn’t always enough to turn things around.
I feel a lot like one of those cartoon characters has an angel on one shoulder and devil on the other. Early on, in my closed head injury survivor world, the angel rarely spoke. On the few occasions in which the angel did have something to say, it was all too easy for the devil to convince me to see things his way.
Melissa and I had only been married for a year and a half when we were in the car accident that pureed my emotions. For the first few years after the accident, Melissa lovingly dealt with a husband whose mood and temper were fragile at best. On more than one occasion, her easygoing spirit helped to calm me down long before anger was able to take over.
My daughter, on the other hand, has only known life with a head injured dad.
If you’re 10 and you get hurt, you go to the doctor and you get better. For this reason, I’m not sure she truly understands the kind of injury we’re talking about, but I can see in her eyes that she loves me and just wants everything to be okay.
Having a condition that never goes away is hard for me to wrap my mind around, and I’ve been on this planet 30 years longer than she has. How can I expect her to fully understand?
Let me just say that the times I’ve “blown-up” have, in the big scheme of things, been relatively minor. There’s never any physical violence, just me being angry and ranting and raving. The only thing I’ve ever broken was a Cross pen of mine that I happen to be holding, and I was very sad. It didn’t make a mess, but it was my favorite pen.
After 15 years, several hard life lessons, the support of my family and friends combined with me turning 40, I can finally say that these days the inner me doesn’t get angry all that quick. Even though the feelings are still there, more often than not I’m able take control of my anger before it takes control of me.
However, for reasons I don’t understand, although fatigue plays a big role, there are times my head injury pops out of the closet, takes control, and my anger gets the best of me.
These days it usually only happens with my immediate family, another fact that I don’t quite understand. Maybe home is the only place I’m able to completely let my guard down…I don’t know.
My anger management, thanks to Melissa’s continued love and support, has improved significantly. After 15 years, there are times she sees the potential for trouble long before it’s an issue, and is able to help me avoid the whole situation, or at least address it calmly.
I don’t know what I’d do without my wife and daughter, they are truly a blessing in my life, head injury or not. Their love, understanding and support make my life, which can seem hard at times, all worth it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So there you have it, more than you ever wanted to know about the anger issues of a closed head injury survivor. My head injury life is an uphill battle, and as much as I hate to admit it, it always will be. I guess I’ll just keep trudging through life and learning from my mistakes as best I can.
Note:
I’ve talked about this a lot with my family, but this is the first time I’ve written about it…at least the anger part. Writing it down has caused me to think through and see things much more carefully and clearly - thanks for listening.
I’ve been a closed head injury survivor for almost 15 year. I wrote some about it in I Lost Part of my Life.
Technically, I’m disabled. I say technically, because I’m not physically disabled and with the exception of my speech, which isn’t really all that bad, but is eternally a thorn in my side, most days I don’t have any reason to ever even think about my head injury. Maybe I’m in denial, but who isn’t?
However, there are days that are filled to the brim with reminders. The things I’m forced to deal with, combined with the sometimes idiotic ways I deal with them, are not only reminders that I do I have a head injury, but they’re reminders that force me to face the fact that I am dealing with a lot.
I guess in many ways I’m lucky. Some survivors deal not only with the mental struggles of a head injury, but with a huge range of physical deficits as well. This is something I try to remind myself of on the hard days…but trying to convince myself that I’m lucky to only have a closed head injury is usually not all that helpful.
When you break part of your body, it heals and life goes on. When you damage part of your brain either other parts of your brain take over and learn to compensate for the skill or ability you lost, or you learn to function without that particular skill.
My head injury took all my emotions, tossed them into a blender, hit puree and poured the emotional smoothie back into my brain.
Before my head injury I had strict control over any and all of my emotions. If I didn’t want to laugh, I didn’t laugh. If I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t cry. And I decided where and when I got angry. I liked having that kind of control. It made coping with an ever-changing world child’s play.
(In “I Lost Part of my Life,” I talk about me comparing
“New Hugh” to “Old Hugh”…it looks and sounds a lot like this)
These days my emotions have me at their mercy. I can’t watch TV without uncontrollably breaking into tears over the stupidest things. (I’m talking about Tide commercials!) It’s actually become kind of a family joke to look over and see what see what new household product commercial has caused Hugh to fall to pieces.
I also find myself laughing uncontrollably at the stupidest things. Seeing as laughing sends extra air through your windpipe and, thanks to a tracheotomy, I only have one functioning vocal cord to regulate the amount of oxygen that’s coming out, suddenly laughing makes it nearly impossible for me to talk and be understood.
These two problems are a minor inconvenience at best and while I would rather not have to go through life dealing with them, I’m the only one who is truly bothered and I can deal with that.
Not so for the anger.
Difficulty with anger management is an all too common problem experienced by closed head injury survivors. I know from the countless hours I spent in Occupational and Cognitive Remediation therapy that learning to deal with anger is a huge part of living with a closed head injury.
For the past 15 years I’ve been living with a kind of time bomb inside my head and I don’t have much, if any, control over when and where it goes off.
In a nutshell, this is what happens: Something happens that doesn’t go quite the way it should. Maybe it’s something that just isn’t working like it is supposed to, or maybe it’s simply not working the way Hugh thinks it should be working. Either way, my feeling overly frustrated is the first step. Over the years I’ve learned to identify this “overly frustrated feeling” and can now usually back away from the situation and avoid anything else.
If the situation involves other people, or something I can’t easily back away from that’s when I start to feel the wave. This wave of anger starts somewhere deep down. I don’t know exactly where, but I can feel it bubbling up and it sometimes scares me. There are times I can feel the wave coming and rational thought is able to block the wave. Other times, however, the wave is either so huge, or I’m already so tired, that rational thoughts don’t even register.
I can usually feel myself losing control. I know that I’m not being rational and that the situation, whatever it may be, doesn’t need my being angry. However, simply understanding that things are moving in the wrong direction isn’t always enough to turn things around.
I feel a lot like one of those cartoon characters has an angel on one shoulder and devil on the other. Early on, in my closed head injury survivor world, the angel rarely spoke. On the few occasions in which the angel did have something to say, it was all too easy for the devil to convince me to see things his way.
Melissa and I had only been married for a year and a half when we were in the car accident that pureed my emotions. For the first few years after the accident, Melissa lovingly dealt with a husband whose mood and temper were fragile at best. On more than one occasion, her easygoing spirit helped to calm me down long before anger was able to take over.
My daughter, on the other hand, has only known life with a head injured dad.
If you’re 10 and you get hurt, you go to the doctor and you get better. For this reason, I’m not sure she truly understands the kind of injury we’re talking about, but I can see in her eyes that she loves me and just wants everything to be okay.
Having a condition that never goes away is hard for me to wrap my mind around, and I’ve been on this planet 30 years longer than she has. How can I expect her to fully understand?
Let me just say that the times I’ve “blown-up” have, in the big scheme of things, been relatively minor. There’s never any physical violence, just me being angry and ranting and raving. The only thing I’ve ever broken was a Cross pen of mine that I happen to be holding, and I was very sad. It didn’t make a mess, but it was my favorite pen.
After 15 years, several hard life lessons, the support of my family and friends combined with me turning 40, I can finally say that these days the inner me doesn’t get angry all that quick. Even though the feelings are still there, more often than not I’m able take control of my anger before it takes control of me.
However, for reasons I don’t understand, although fatigue plays a big role, there are times my head injury pops out of the closet, takes control, and my anger gets the best of me.
These days it usually only happens with my immediate family, another fact that I don’t quite understand. Maybe home is the only place I’m able to completely let my guard down…I don’t know.
My anger management, thanks to Melissa’s continued love and support, has improved significantly. After 15 years, there are times she sees the potential for trouble long before it’s an issue, and is able to help me avoid the whole situation, or at least address it calmly.
I don’t know what I’d do without my wife and daughter, they are truly a blessing in my life, head injury or not. Their love, understanding and support make my life, which can seem hard at times, all worth it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So there you have it, more than you ever wanted to know about the anger issues of a closed head injury survivor. My head injury life is an uphill battle, and as much as I hate to admit it, it always will be. I guess I’ll just keep trudging through life and learning from my mistakes as best I can.
Note:
I’ve talked about this a lot with my family, but this is the first time I’ve written about it…at least the anger part. Writing it down has caused me to think through and see things much more carefully and clearly - thanks for listening.
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