When I was a child, in the summers I went to Boy Scout camp and church camp. Each camp was a week long and lots of fun. I remember reading some stories about kids who went to camps that lasted for weeks and weeks, even all summer long. I remember wondering if these camps were real. If they were real, where are they, and how do kids get to go to them? I’m 40 and I’m finally learning all about these kinds of camps.
My daughter is going to a camp for a month in south Texas. This is a girl’s camp that started in 1926 and has been doing the same or at least a very similar program every summer for almost 80 years. Macy has been on the waiting list since she was born and this is her first year as Waldemar camper.
For me camp was a week long, and I spent more time worrying about who else was going to be there than I did about what I was taking. Packing wouldn’t start until the night before I left. I was only going to be gone for a week, how much forethought and preparation could there be?
Packing for this camp is a whole different kind of summer camp packing than I’ve ever done before. Maybe I’m slow, but I had a hard time getting the whole “4-week camp” idea through my head.
In my defense, there are two really big differences between this type of camp packing and the type of camp packing I've done.
Difference number 1: How long you’ll be gone.
For me, this was the obvious difference. When you’re packing for a week at camp and you forget something, no big deal. What can you possibly forget that you can’t easily borrow from a buddy, or simply due without for few days?
Not so for a month long camp. This is more akin to moving that it is to going to camp.
Difference number 2: The gender of the camper.
This is packing for a cute little girl, not some grubby boy.
What boys need can be packed easily into a small backpack or tote bag. Underwear, shorts, t-shirts, socks, shoes and a toothbrush are about all a boy needs for camp. To tell the truth he really doesn’t even need an outfit for each day, since he’ll probably only change about once every other day anyway.
Girls, on the other hand, need LOTS of stuff. Understand that my daughter doesn’t actually leave for camp until July 8, but we’ve been shopping for camp stuff the entire month of June! While we aren't shopping every day, finding camp stuff has been on our minds since before school was out.
It’s funny, but as foreign as this kind of camp packing is to me, I find myself really getting carried away with it. It’s all too easy for me to get caught up in the whole checking the list (Yes, we have a list!) and making sure she has the stuff laid out and ready to actually put into her trunk.
With only a week left before I put my little darling on the bus that heads from Dallas to south Texas, I find myself finally having the chance to realize that I won’t see her for a whole month. Quite possibly all the packing has been a much-needed distraction from the truth…maybe that’s how it’s designed.
I’ve got plenty of projects here and at my parent’s new house to keep my mind occupied while she’s gone, as well as some long overdue vacation time for just Melissa and me. I guess we’ll see how well I hold up.
I’ll keep you posted.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Closed Head Injury and Anger - Removed
On June 29, I posted a piece called Closed Head Injury and Anger. It was up for less than a day, didn’t have any comments yet and I don’t believe had been read by many people. (Not that anything of mine is read my huge throngs of people, but relatively speaking, not may people have viewed it yet)
Anyway, I was rereading it online, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore. I don’t know exactly want it was that stuck in my craw, but there was a vibe that I didn’t care for.
So I removed it.
I’ll keep working on it and repost it again, hopefully in the near future.
Thanks for understanding.
Hugh
Anyway, I was rereading it online, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore. I don’t know exactly want it was that stuck in my craw, but there was a vibe that I didn’t care for.
So I removed it.
I’ll keep working on it and repost it again, hopefully in the near future.
Thanks for understanding.
Hugh
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Bernard's Taxi Service
We docked in St. Thomas early in the morning before anyone was awake. After a quick breakfast, we busily prepared for a day of sightseeing and shopping, but we had no idea what we were about to meet Bernard.
After taking the ship’s shuttle into downtown, we found ourselves in a sea of island natives, each struggling to make a living off naïve tourists all too willing to fork over big bucks for anything even remotely tropical looking.
There we stood, all 10 of us huddled together discussing our next move. Each voice blurting out must see locations or attractions.
That’s when Bernard approached. Bernard is a six foot black man in his late 20’s or early 30’s. He was neatly dressed, wearing glasses and an NYPD cap. He gave us all a big smile and offered to help with directions at “No Charge!”
After listening to the different places we wanted to visit, he produced a map out of nowhere and began helping us plan the day’s adventures. After giving us the Insider’s Scoop on the which beaches we would probably want to see, he made his smooth transition from Good Samaritan to Polished Businessman.
Pointing toward a row of cars and trucks with seating for up to 20 he said, “First thing you’re going to need to do is catch one of those cabs and head to Magen’s Beach. It’s one of the top 10 beaches in the world.” Then came the well-practiced pitch.
“Of course, with a group this size it’s going to cost you about 15 bucks a person each way. And that’s assuming you only want to go to that beach and straight back here. If you’d like, I could take you on a tour of the island, hit some really great spots, and take you to the beach. Later, we’ll end up back here in downtown where you can do some shopping, then I’ll take you all back to your boat. I’ll do all that for only 20 bucks a head…round trip.”
We asked him to give us a minute he nodded and politely backed off. Far enough so that it didn’t look like he was listening, but not so far the he couldn’t hear what we were saying. After a brief discussion and a group consensus that we really like Bernard, we took him up on his offer.
Oddly enough, Bernard seemed genuinely happy to show these American tourists a good time. He told us to pay him after the tour was complete, showed us where to buy some water, loaded us in the truck and we took off.
Along the way up (pretty much everything is up on these islands) he used the PA system and gave us a brief but thorough history of the island. He pointed out different landmarks we could see every now and again as we eased our way up the inclined, cut-back roads that made the serpentine path up and over to the other side of the island.
We stopped at a spot that Bernard said was one of his favorite photos spots on the whole island. As we climbed out of the truck we were face to face with an amazing view. Standing on a small cement wall that had been constructed as a kind of last chance barrier for any motorist unfamiliar with the road, we were overlooking a beautiful mountainside. It was a truly spectacular sight.
From this angle, the road we had been traveling on wasn’t even visible, but the view of the city and the port was spectacular. A lush green mountainside spotted with the occasional house. As we took pictures, Bernard pointed out different landmarks and celebrities’ homes. It was very intriguing to me that Bernard seemed to know the value of most of the homes along the tour. Maybe they were published in some kind of cab driver’s guide to the island.
It was on one of these types of stops that I noticed what was painted on the side of Bernard’s taxi. On an outside panel between two of the rows of seats it said, “Salvation is of the Jews.”
After getting back in the truck and heading off down the road, Melissa, who had also noticed the sign, and I started discussing the theological implications of such a message, as well as Bernard’s purpose for writing this on the side of his cab.
That’s when Russ, my brother-in-law, commented, “Did you see the driver’s side door?”
On the door Bernard had painted a picture of the Israeli flag and a bible.
This was a 2004 or 2005 Ford F-450, a big truck. It has a specially built, covered bed with five rows of seats that each held four to six people. It was easy to see that Bernard has some big dollars invested in his business.
As for the pictures, these weren’t stickers, or some hastily painted first grade quality, one-dimensional drawings. Both the Salvation is of the Jews sign, as well as the flag and bible were professionally done works of art. The quality reminded me of the spectacular car art you only see at car shows or in magazines.
At this point Russ entered the discussion. We tried to figure out if Bernard was Jewish, or if he was simply trying to cover all the bases for the tourists. After discussing it for a while and not coming up with any good answers, we decided to simply ask Bernard at the end of our tour. I mean, if you put that on the side of your taxi you gotta be prepared for questions.
When we got back into the city to do our last bit of shopping before heading back to the boat, I turned to Bernard and said, “I have to ask you one question.”
He gave me nod, a knowing smile and said, “Shoot!”
“The pictures on the door and the Salvation is of the Jews sign were a bit confusing for us. If you’re Jewish, then why have the bible? If you’re not Jewish, then why have all the other?”
Bernard leaned on the taxi, took off his cap and said, “I’m not Jewish, but I am an adopted Jew. You see, Jesus, my savior, he is a Jew and the bible was written by Jews. So when I made my profession of faith and joined the family of God, in a sense I became a Jew. The reason I put these symbols on my taxi is to give me chances in my everyday life to tell people just like you about my Lord and Savior.”
I don’t have to tell you that I was quite impressed with Bernard. While I did the calculations and figured out that, depending on the number of people he takes on each tour, Bernard makes somewhere between 60 and 150 dollars an hour. While that ain't chump change, I don’t think he’s in it only for the money.
Sure the money’s nice…I guess, but after watching some of the other cabbies who, if they spoke English at all, didn’t really talk with the passengers. They all seemed to be more about quantity than quality.
I like to believe that Bernard discovered along the way that being friendly and helping his customers have a good time was not only a good way of doing business, but it made his life much better.
My mother-in-law and father-in-law surprised us by paying for the whole family’s tour, tip and all. However, as he dropped us off back at the ship, Macy wanted to give him a tip that was just from her. Handing him a five-dollar bill she said, "Thank you Mr. Bernard."
He held up his hand and shook his head, “It’s all taken care of little one.”
She told him it was just from her. He smiled, gave her a hug and accepted the money.
I may never go back to St. Thomas, but if I do you’ll find me in the back of a blue cab with Salvation is of the Jews painted on the side.
Bernard’s Taxi Service
“Breathtaking View of the Island”
Specializing in Beach Excursions and Tours of the Island
Bernard Clovis – Manager
(340) 643-0694
(340) 775-4333
After taking the ship’s shuttle into downtown, we found ourselves in a sea of island natives, each struggling to make a living off naïve tourists all too willing to fork over big bucks for anything even remotely tropical looking.
There we stood, all 10 of us huddled together discussing our next move. Each voice blurting out must see locations or attractions.
That’s when Bernard approached. Bernard is a six foot black man in his late 20’s or early 30’s. He was neatly dressed, wearing glasses and an NYPD cap. He gave us all a big smile and offered to help with directions at “No Charge!”
After listening to the different places we wanted to visit, he produced a map out of nowhere and began helping us plan the day’s adventures. After giving us the Insider’s Scoop on the which beaches we would probably want to see, he made his smooth transition from Good Samaritan to Polished Businessman.
Pointing toward a row of cars and trucks with seating for up to 20 he said, “First thing you’re going to need to do is catch one of those cabs and head to Magen’s Beach. It’s one of the top 10 beaches in the world.” Then came the well-practiced pitch.
“Of course, with a group this size it’s going to cost you about 15 bucks a person each way. And that’s assuming you only want to go to that beach and straight back here. If you’d like, I could take you on a tour of the island, hit some really great spots, and take you to the beach. Later, we’ll end up back here in downtown where you can do some shopping, then I’ll take you all back to your boat. I’ll do all that for only 20 bucks a head…round trip.”
We asked him to give us a minute he nodded and politely backed off. Far enough so that it didn’t look like he was listening, but not so far the he couldn’t hear what we were saying. After a brief discussion and a group consensus that we really like Bernard, we took him up on his offer.
Oddly enough, Bernard seemed genuinely happy to show these American tourists a good time. He told us to pay him after the tour was complete, showed us where to buy some water, loaded us in the truck and we took off.
Along the way up (pretty much everything is up on these islands) he used the PA system and gave us a brief but thorough history of the island. He pointed out different landmarks we could see every now and again as we eased our way up the inclined, cut-back roads that made the serpentine path up and over to the other side of the island.
We stopped at a spot that Bernard said was one of his favorite photos spots on the whole island. As we climbed out of the truck we were face to face with an amazing view. Standing on a small cement wall that had been constructed as a kind of last chance barrier for any motorist unfamiliar with the road, we were overlooking a beautiful mountainside. It was a truly spectacular sight.
From this angle, the road we had been traveling on wasn’t even visible, but the view of the city and the port was spectacular. A lush green mountainside spotted with the occasional house. As we took pictures, Bernard pointed out different landmarks and celebrities’ homes. It was very intriguing to me that Bernard seemed to know the value of most of the homes along the tour. Maybe they were published in some kind of cab driver’s guide to the island.
It was on one of these types of stops that I noticed what was painted on the side of Bernard’s taxi. On an outside panel between two of the rows of seats it said, “Salvation is of the Jews.”
After getting back in the truck and heading off down the road, Melissa, who had also noticed the sign, and I started discussing the theological implications of such a message, as well as Bernard’s purpose for writing this on the side of his cab.
That’s when Russ, my brother-in-law, commented, “Did you see the driver’s side door?”
On the door Bernard had painted a picture of the Israeli flag and a bible.
This was a 2004 or 2005 Ford F-450, a big truck. It has a specially built, covered bed with five rows of seats that each held four to six people. It was easy to see that Bernard has some big dollars invested in his business.
As for the pictures, these weren’t stickers, or some hastily painted first grade quality, one-dimensional drawings. Both the Salvation is of the Jews sign, as well as the flag and bible were professionally done works of art. The quality reminded me of the spectacular car art you only see at car shows or in magazines.
At this point Russ entered the discussion. We tried to figure out if Bernard was Jewish, or if he was simply trying to cover all the bases for the tourists. After discussing it for a while and not coming up with any good answers, we decided to simply ask Bernard at the end of our tour. I mean, if you put that on the side of your taxi you gotta be prepared for questions.
When we got back into the city to do our last bit of shopping before heading back to the boat, I turned to Bernard and said, “I have to ask you one question.”
He gave me nod, a knowing smile and said, “Shoot!”
“The pictures on the door and the Salvation is of the Jews sign were a bit confusing for us. If you’re Jewish, then why have the bible? If you’re not Jewish, then why have all the other?”
Bernard leaned on the taxi, took off his cap and said, “I’m not Jewish, but I am an adopted Jew. You see, Jesus, my savior, he is a Jew and the bible was written by Jews. So when I made my profession of faith and joined the family of God, in a sense I became a Jew. The reason I put these symbols on my taxi is to give me chances in my everyday life to tell people just like you about my Lord and Savior.”
I don’t have to tell you that I was quite impressed with Bernard. While I did the calculations and figured out that, depending on the number of people he takes on each tour, Bernard makes somewhere between 60 and 150 dollars an hour. While that ain't chump change, I don’t think he’s in it only for the money.
Sure the money’s nice…I guess, but after watching some of the other cabbies who, if they spoke English at all, didn’t really talk with the passengers. They all seemed to be more about quantity than quality.
I like to believe that Bernard discovered along the way that being friendly and helping his customers have a good time was not only a good way of doing business, but it made his life much better.
My mother-in-law and father-in-law surprised us by paying for the whole family’s tour, tip and all. However, as he dropped us off back at the ship, Macy wanted to give him a tip that was just from her. Handing him a five-dollar bill she said, "Thank you Mr. Bernard."
He held up his hand and shook his head, “It’s all taken care of little one.”
She told him it was just from her. He smiled, gave her a hug and accepted the money.
I may never go back to St. Thomas, but if I do you’ll find me in the back of a blue cab with Salvation is of the Jews painted on the side.
Note: If you’re going to be in St. Thomas give Bernard’s Taxi Service a call. I know you’ll have a great time.
Bernard’s Taxi Service
“Breathtaking View of the Island”
Specializing in Beach Excursions and Tours of the Island
Bernard Clovis – Manager
(340) 643-0694
(340) 775-4333
Tell him Hugh sent you. He probably won’t remember me…but who knows.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sea Legs
The Valor is the largest of Carnival's 19 ships. However, as big as she is, the constant rocking still takes a little getting used to, but I think I've finally got my "Sea Legs."
On Nassau, (I know I misspelled it) we got to swim with dolphins...it was better than I could have imagined.
I tend to lose track of what day it is during the summer months, and going on vacation only make it worse. That being said, I think it's Wednesday and we're stopping at St. Thomas today.
Just to keep you up to speed - I'm tan, I'm relaxed, and baby, I'm happy...what more do I need?
I'll keep you posted.
On Nassau, (I know I misspelled it) we got to swim with dolphins...it was better than I could have imagined.
I tend to lose track of what day it is during the summer months, and going on vacation only make it worse. That being said, I think it's Wednesday and we're stopping at St. Thomas today.
Just to keep you up to speed - I'm tan, I'm relaxed, and baby, I'm happy...what more do I need?
I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Cruisin' For a Good Time
My wife’s side of the family is taking a cruise together on the Carnival ship Valor. You can check it out here. We’re going to the Easter Caribbean and stopping at St. Thomas, St. Martin and Nassau. I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on anything at home, so I guess it’s a good thing school is out.
There are 10 of us in all, and we do a lot of traveling together. There are some people who I can’t imagine spending that much time with, but the 10 of us get along well and just seem to always have a great time on these kind of excursions…knock on wood!
I’ve only been on one other cruise and it was about 5 years ago. These ships have several pools, gambling, shopping, all kinds of nightly shows, more food than you can imagine and much more. I’m looking forward to just laying in the sun, reading a book and having people bring me drinks.
For Melissa’s birthday her mother gave her a dolphin adventure package on one of our stops. So at one of the ports we’ll get to pet and swim with the dolphins. Melissa loves animals, especially dolphins and this has been a dream for many years.
There’s free email and internet access on the ship so I may even post something while I’m gone…but don’t count on it.
When I get back I’ll be tan, I’ll be rested and I’ll be ready to attack my list of honey-do’s.
Bon Voyage
There are 10 of us in all, and we do a lot of traveling together. There are some people who I can’t imagine spending that much time with, but the 10 of us get along well and just seem to always have a great time on these kind of excursions…knock on wood!
I’ve only been on one other cruise and it was about 5 years ago. These ships have several pools, gambling, shopping, all kinds of nightly shows, more food than you can imagine and much more. I’m looking forward to just laying in the sun, reading a book and having people bring me drinks.
For Melissa’s birthday her mother gave her a dolphin adventure package on one of our stops. So at one of the ports we’ll get to pet and swim with the dolphins. Melissa loves animals, especially dolphins and this has been a dream for many years.
There’s free email and internet access on the ship so I may even post something while I’m gone…but don’t count on it.
When I get back I’ll be tan, I’ll be rested and I’ll be ready to attack my list of honey-do’s.
Bon Voyage
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Summertime Misconceptions
“Man, it must be nice to have the whole summer off!”
I just finished my 11th year of teaching and I wouldn’t trade my occupation for anything in the world.
When I first got into this field I had dreams of long glorious summers filled with nothing but fun and relaxation. However, I quickly learned that my summers are not nearly as glorious and fun filled as I had imagined. Summers are simply a break.
Growing up summer was basically time off from any and all responsibility. I got to sleep late, play hard, stay out late and then sleep late again the next day.
Sure, I had to cut the yard and keep my room fairly clean, but all of that was fairly trivial. As I got into high school, I would work during the day and pick up my lazy routine each night. But summer jobs for a teenager are nothing if not easy. You go, work your assigned hours and then go home. There’s nothing to take home and think about later.
I grew up with a father who is a pastor. I knew that sometimes the phone rings in the middle of the night. I also understood that when it did, Dad was probably going to have get up and leave. You can’t be a pastor and leave your work at the office, because you’re never off duty.
In many ways teaching is like that.
Sure, I take papers and report cards home on occasion to grade and fill out, but that’s not what I’m talking about. My lessons and my class dynamics are forever in my mind. These thoughts aren’t passively filed back somewhere under Other or To-Do. Oh, no, they’re right they’re in the forefront actively taking up space.
“Man, it must be nice to have the whole summer off!” If I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times, but that’s a comment made by people who do not understand.
They do not understand that I pour myself into teaching every day.
They do not understand that I can’t just pop down to the bathroom whenever I want.
They do not understand that I can’t sit idly by while a student’s home life falls to pieces.
They do not understand that for nine months I eat, I drink, I sleep and I breathe teaching.
They do not understand.
So what are summers?
Summers are simply a break. Two months that I get to be only a husband, only a father, only a person who’s getting a much-needed break from an otherwise very hectic existence.
Summer is time for me revitalize and get ready for next year.
I just finished my 11th year of teaching and I wouldn’t trade my occupation for anything in the world.
When I first got into this field I had dreams of long glorious summers filled with nothing but fun and relaxation. However, I quickly learned that my summers are not nearly as glorious and fun filled as I had imagined. Summers are simply a break.
Growing up summer was basically time off from any and all responsibility. I got to sleep late, play hard, stay out late and then sleep late again the next day.
Sure, I had to cut the yard and keep my room fairly clean, but all of that was fairly trivial. As I got into high school, I would work during the day and pick up my lazy routine each night. But summer jobs for a teenager are nothing if not easy. You go, work your assigned hours and then go home. There’s nothing to take home and think about later.
I grew up with a father who is a pastor. I knew that sometimes the phone rings in the middle of the night. I also understood that when it did, Dad was probably going to have get up and leave. You can’t be a pastor and leave your work at the office, because you’re never off duty.
In many ways teaching is like that.
Sure, I take papers and report cards home on occasion to grade and fill out, but that’s not what I’m talking about. My lessons and my class dynamics are forever in my mind. These thoughts aren’t passively filed back somewhere under Other or To-Do. Oh, no, they’re right they’re in the forefront actively taking up space.
“Man, it must be nice to have the whole summer off!” If I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times, but that’s a comment made by people who do not understand.
They do not understand that I pour myself into teaching every day.
They do not understand that I can’t just pop down to the bathroom whenever I want.
They do not understand that I can’t sit idly by while a student’s home life falls to pieces.
They do not understand that for nine months I eat, I drink, I sleep and I breathe teaching.
They do not understand.
So what are summers?
Summers are simply a break. Two months that I get to be only a husband, only a father, only a person who’s getting a much-needed break from an otherwise very hectic existence.
Summer is time for me revitalize and get ready for next year.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
A Day with Alice Cooper
I’ve spent the entire day with the lyrics to the classic Alice Cooper song, “School’s Out for Summer!” running through my head. I even went so far as to sing a few bars to parents as I walked my students, their kids, to the doors this afternoon.
However, based on the semi-polite chuckles I received from frantic parents, I’m forced to conclude that these parents know all too well what they are in store for. (Although, I must admit it could have been the sound of me singing, just ask Real Live Preacher)
I won’t be thinking about, let alone setting foot in school until sometime in mid August.
So for me, School truly is out for summer, but for some of these parents...I think it’s just beginning.
However, based on the semi-polite chuckles I received from frantic parents, I’m forced to conclude that these parents know all too well what they are in store for. (Although, I must admit it could have been the sound of me singing, just ask Real Live Preacher)
I won’t be thinking about, let alone setting foot in school until sometime in mid August.
So for me, School truly is out for summer, but for some of these parents...I think it’s just beginning.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Food Talk
I learned a way to talk to food,
It’s quite a handy trickI learn before I ever eat,
Which foods will make me sick
The other day my sandwich said,
On him I should not dine
I gave him to my brother,
He got sick, but I felt fine
It seems the different kinds of foods,
Don’t always get along
The veggies feel the fruits and nuts,
Have flavors that are wrong
The apples, peaches and the pears,
Are better, so they feel
Than ones like the banana,
Who have to lose their peel
And then there is the candy,
They’re despised by all the rest,
They think they’re high and mighty,
Just cause kids like them best
I’ve discovered that you cannot trust,
The different kinds the meat,
They’ll tell you something bad is safe,
And chuckle while you eat
The dairy products think they’re great,
The others don’t see how,
That people ever stand to eat,
What comes out of a cow
And then there are the beverages,
They fight the worst you know,
It seems they all compare themselves,
To one called H2O
I don’t know why they talk to me,
Sometimes my nerves they strain,
But conversation’s bound to come,
With every hunger pain
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Signs of Aging
In November I turned 40 and I wrote about it here. For me, turning 40 wasn’t all that big of a deal. I mean one day you’re 39 and then you’re one day older, but you are supposed to feel really different. I think birthdays are all a mind game.
There are signs of getting older. Signs that we look forward to and embrace with open arms. A child’s first steps, or beginning school, or graduating high school, or getting married, these are all signs that we enjoy and are truly delightful to experience.
Oh, but there are signs of aging. Signs that jump right in your face. Screaming signs that are harsh reminders that Mother Nature is not on your side. These signs force us to face the truth, whatever that truth may be.
I recently had not one, but two signs of aging.
I had to change doctors. My previous doctor was about a 45-minute drive from my house and school and even though I really liked Dr. Cook, going to see him made being sick even harder than it already was. So on the suggestion of my wife, who works at the hospital, I decided to go see Dr. Wooley.
· Sign of aging #1
My first sign of aging has nothing to do with my health, but rather my doctor. Dr. Wooley and I really hit it off. He is very personable and on my initial visit he sat down and we talked all about me. I told him all about my closed head injury and he asked all the appropriate questions.
He saw my school name badge, on which I’ve pasted a picture of Darth Vader over my picture, and we had a brief, but thorough discussion about the new Star Wars movie. His diagnosis…a simple sinus infection, for which he gave me enough sample medication to keep me from going to the pharmacy, and I was out the door.
However, the whole time I was in there with the doctor something seemed odd or different. Just something I couldn’t put my finger on. It wasn’t until about an hour later that I realized the source of my quandary. You see, for the first time in my life I’m being seen by a doctor who is younger than I am. He may not be much younger, but all the same, he is younger.
That was Monday, and I walked out of his office feeling much, much older and a little more feeble than I did walked I went in.
· Sign of aging #2
Three days later, I’m past my depression about Dr. Wooley’s apparent youth, when I had an appointment with yet another doctor, this time the eye doctor.
I think it was Bill Cosby who said that you know you’re old when you begin to tell what day it is by which doctor you went to. I’m beginning to feel like that’s true.
At the completion of my eye exam, Dr. Uzick says, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”
That’s never good.
And he continued, “The good news is your eyes haven’t changed all that much since your last visit. The bad news is I can tell that in a few years you are going to need bifocals.”
“BIFOCALS??? You have got to be kidding,” was my stuttering reply.
He said that right now I’m doing okay, but he can tell that someday I’m going to need them. Turns out he learned long ago that it is better to start preparing patients well in advance of when they will actually need things like bifocals.
So there you have it. Like it or not I’m getting older. I can tell I am because the youth of America are becoming doctors and some of my parts are beginning to wear out.
To date I’ve only recognized two of these signs…but I’ll keep you posted.
There are signs of getting older. Signs that we look forward to and embrace with open arms. A child’s first steps, or beginning school, or graduating high school, or getting married, these are all signs that we enjoy and are truly delightful to experience.
Oh, but there are signs of aging. Signs that jump right in your face. Screaming signs that are harsh reminders that Mother Nature is not on your side. These signs force us to face the truth, whatever that truth may be.
I recently had not one, but two signs of aging.
I had to change doctors. My previous doctor was about a 45-minute drive from my house and school and even though I really liked Dr. Cook, going to see him made being sick even harder than it already was. So on the suggestion of my wife, who works at the hospital, I decided to go see Dr. Wooley.
· Sign of aging #1
My first sign of aging has nothing to do with my health, but rather my doctor. Dr. Wooley and I really hit it off. He is very personable and on my initial visit he sat down and we talked all about me. I told him all about my closed head injury and he asked all the appropriate questions.
He saw my school name badge, on which I’ve pasted a picture of Darth Vader over my picture, and we had a brief, but thorough discussion about the new Star Wars movie. His diagnosis…a simple sinus infection, for which he gave me enough sample medication to keep me from going to the pharmacy, and I was out the door.
However, the whole time I was in there with the doctor something seemed odd or different. Just something I couldn’t put my finger on. It wasn’t until about an hour later that I realized the source of my quandary. You see, for the first time in my life I’m being seen by a doctor who is younger than I am. He may not be much younger, but all the same, he is younger.
That was Monday, and I walked out of his office feeling much, much older and a little more feeble than I did walked I went in.
· Sign of aging #2
Three days later, I’m past my depression about Dr. Wooley’s apparent youth, when I had an appointment with yet another doctor, this time the eye doctor.
I think it was Bill Cosby who said that you know you’re old when you begin to tell what day it is by which doctor you went to. I’m beginning to feel like that’s true.
At the completion of my eye exam, Dr. Uzick says, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”
That’s never good.
And he continued, “The good news is your eyes haven’t changed all that much since your last visit. The bad news is I can tell that in a few years you are going to need bifocals.”
“BIFOCALS??? You have got to be kidding,” was my stuttering reply.
He said that right now I’m doing okay, but he can tell that someday I’m going to need them. Turns out he learned long ago that it is better to start preparing patients well in advance of when they will actually need things like bifocals.
So there you have it. Like it or not I’m getting older. I can tell I am because the youth of America are becoming doctors and some of my parts are beginning to wear out.
To date I’ve only recognized two of these signs…but I’ll keep you posted.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
WWJD
In life you meet all kinds of people. Sometimes you meet people and spend the rest of your life doing everything humanly possible to never see that person again. However, there are people who are just easy and fun to be around. People with magnetic personalities. These “magnetic” people draw others to them. I don’t know what it is, but no matter what you’re doing, it’s hard to not enjoy yourself around this type of person.
My father-in-law is a magnetic person.
I first met Don about a year and a half before I married his daughter. Melissa and I weren’t even actually dating yet when she took some of her friends to his house to just hang out before the evening’s festivities. I remember we were sitting there talking, but not really doing much of anything when he got home from work. Don hadn’t been there five minutes when things turned around. It’s been almost 20 years, and I don’t even remember what he did that was so fun, but I remember being a little sad when it was time to leave.
Some people just have that effect.
Over that past 16 years that Melissa and I have been married, I’ve learned a lot about Don and his magnetic personality. He has a wonderfully eclectic group of friends that range from multi-millionaire entrepreneurs to Cuban refugees who struggle to make ends meet, and everything in between.
I wouldn’t characterize Don as a really religious person. He is a Christian, and his relationship to God is first of all his own business, and second, none of mine. He is a member of an Episcopal church and for years sang in the choir. At times he comes to church with us.
Last Sunday Don got a call from his friend who is from Cuba. Seems this friend has been staying with a family who literally had no money for food. I don’t know the details of the situation, and I’m not sure Don does. I’m not sure Don even asked, but the kind of heart that Don has couldn’t let these people go hungry.
It would have been easy to just give them some money, or point them to one of the many social service agencies here in Dallas, but that’s not how Don works. He took the whole family, kids and all, to the store and spent a couple of hundred dollars and turned things around for this poor family.
He didn’t ask them questions about how they’re managing their money. He didn’t ask them about what they were going to do in future to ensure they wouldn’t be in this situation again. He didn’t ask them to only purchase the bare minimum. He didn’t ask them anything. He just told them to get whatever they want. The tears of a mother who wasn’t going to have to send her babies to bed hungry, was all the thanks he needed.
Don has never worn a WWJD bracelet, and I’d be surprised if he even knows what one is. But if you asked Don what Jesus would have done for this family who desperately needed help, I bet he could tell you…cause I’m quite sure he showed you.
My father-in-law is a magnetic person.
I first met Don about a year and a half before I married his daughter. Melissa and I weren’t even actually dating yet when she took some of her friends to his house to just hang out before the evening’s festivities. I remember we were sitting there talking, but not really doing much of anything when he got home from work. Don hadn’t been there five minutes when things turned around. It’s been almost 20 years, and I don’t even remember what he did that was so fun, but I remember being a little sad when it was time to leave.
Some people just have that effect.
Over that past 16 years that Melissa and I have been married, I’ve learned a lot about Don and his magnetic personality. He has a wonderfully eclectic group of friends that range from multi-millionaire entrepreneurs to Cuban refugees who struggle to make ends meet, and everything in between.
I wouldn’t characterize Don as a really religious person. He is a Christian, and his relationship to God is first of all his own business, and second, none of mine. He is a member of an Episcopal church and for years sang in the choir. At times he comes to church with us.
Last Sunday Don got a call from his friend who is from Cuba. Seems this friend has been staying with a family who literally had no money for food. I don’t know the details of the situation, and I’m not sure Don does. I’m not sure Don even asked, but the kind of heart that Don has couldn’t let these people go hungry.
It would have been easy to just give them some money, or point them to one of the many social service agencies here in Dallas, but that’s not how Don works. He took the whole family, kids and all, to the store and spent a couple of hundred dollars and turned things around for this poor family.
He didn’t ask them questions about how they’re managing their money. He didn’t ask them about what they were going to do in future to ensure they wouldn’t be in this situation again. He didn’t ask them to only purchase the bare minimum. He didn’t ask them anything. He just told them to get whatever they want. The tears of a mother who wasn’t going to have to send her babies to bed hungry, was all the thanks he needed.
Don has never worn a WWJD bracelet, and I’d be surprised if he even knows what one is. But if you asked Don what Jesus would have done for this family who desperately needed help, I bet he could tell you…cause I’m quite sure he showed you.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Crash!!!
On April 18 my hard drive crashed. Luckily we were able to save most everything, however, I’ve spent the last 10 days without a computer and baby, it was not easy.
While I have a computer at school, it’s just not the same thing. How did I make it all those years without a computer? I guess it’s impossible to miss something you’ve never had.
Anyway, I’m not 100% up and running again, but it shouldn’t be too long.
I can tell you what I learned from this in one word…BACKUP!!!
(Michael G. – If you read this, give me a call…I need a new map to your house)
While I have a computer at school, it’s just not the same thing. How did I make it all those years without a computer? I guess it’s impossible to miss something you’ve never had.
Anyway, I’m not 100% up and running again, but it shouldn’t be too long.
I can tell you what I learned from this in one word…BACKUP!!!
(Michael G. – If you read this, give me a call…I need a new map to your house)
Sunday, April 17, 2005
The Price of Fame
Being a celebrity in America must not be easy. My pastor told a story of leaving Royal Oaks Country Club after playing golf and seeing Emmit Smith. Seems Emmit was getting in his car after what must have been an extremely frustrating 18 holes when a young boy ran up asking for his autograph. Being in no mood to even scribble his name on something he angrily dismissed the boy. Fighting tears, they boy walked back to his father as Emmit burned rubber getting out of the parking lot.
My wife and I went to a black tie auction last night. Presbyterian Hospital hosted the Greer Garson Gala at the Frontiers of Flight Museum near Love Field here in Dallas. We were lucky enough to sit next to Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn.
Stick with me here, I’m making a point.
Due to M’s different positions at the hospital over the last 14 years, we’ve gone to more than our fair share of formal events. We go often enough that a couple of years ago I forked out the big bucks for a tuxedo. However, we don’t usually sit with, or really even talk to any of the celebrities. As much as I tried to deny it, sitting next to Angie Harmon, I was a bit star struck. I mean when Angie Harmon sits at your table you suddenly become very aware of where your elbows are and your posture.
I don’t know much about Jason other than that he used to play for the Giants. However, I’ve watched Angie on Law and Order and countless other shows and must say that she is every bit as gracious and elegant in real life as she appears to be on television. Both Angie and Jason are pleasant dinner companions and our evening couldn’t have been more fun.
No, being a celebrity in America must not be easy, because it has a heavy price. You owe something to your fans.
I don’t think all celebrities have figured this out, but I can name two who have.
My wife and I went to a black tie auction last night. Presbyterian Hospital hosted the Greer Garson Gala at the Frontiers of Flight Museum near Love Field here in Dallas. We were lucky enough to sit next to Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn.
Stick with me here, I’m making a point.
Due to M’s different positions at the hospital over the last 14 years, we’ve gone to more than our fair share of formal events. We go often enough that a couple of years ago I forked out the big bucks for a tuxedo. However, we don’t usually sit with, or really even talk to any of the celebrities. As much as I tried to deny it, sitting next to Angie Harmon, I was a bit star struck. I mean when Angie Harmon sits at your table you suddenly become very aware of where your elbows are and your posture.
I don’t know much about Jason other than that he used to play for the Giants. However, I’ve watched Angie on Law and Order and countless other shows and must say that she is every bit as gracious and elegant in real life as she appears to be on television. Both Angie and Jason are pleasant dinner companions and our evening couldn’t have been more fun.
No, being a celebrity in America must not be easy, because it has a heavy price. You owe something to your fans.
I don’t think all celebrities have figured this out, but I can name two who have.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Just Doing My Job
As a parent I look for signs. Signs that help me know that I’m doing a good job raising my child. Sometimes these signs are neon signs. They stand out proudly displaying to the world how successful you are as a parent.
Your child’s behavior in a restaurant, or how he or she relates to elderly neighbors is this type of sign. They’re bright, they’re bold and you instantly know that either your worst parenting nightmare has come true, or that you have done a good job and your child is a good person.
However, some of these signs aren’t quite so easy to see. They come camouflaged in a plethora of hard to spot disguises. It’s possible to spend most of your life watching for these elusive signs and never seeing one as plainly as I did today.
M, my daughter, is going to a four week camp this summer down in south Texas. It’s her first year to go to this particular camp and she and my wife have invited some of the other campers her age, and their mothers to our house for a kind of break the ice party. It is our desire to help her get to know some of the other campers before getting on the bus in Dallas and heading off to camp.
For most of this party, I’ll be in a meeting at church, but I should get back just in time to meet the other girls and their moms before the party is over.
M took me aside, looked me right in the eyes and said in her most pleasant voice, “Dad, when you come in don’t do anything silly that might embarrass me, okay?”
I got down on my knees, looked into her eyes and replied, “I wouldn’t dream of it, but just knowing that you feel that you needed to say that to me, is music to my ears.”
She gave me a big hug and continued getting ready for the party.
As a parent I look for signs. If you possess the potential for parental embarrassment strong enough to warrant a verbal plea for sanity from your child, rest easy baby…you’re doing your job.
Your child’s behavior in a restaurant, or how he or she relates to elderly neighbors is this type of sign. They’re bright, they’re bold and you instantly know that either your worst parenting nightmare has come true, or that you have done a good job and your child is a good person.
However, some of these signs aren’t quite so easy to see. They come camouflaged in a plethora of hard to spot disguises. It’s possible to spend most of your life watching for these elusive signs and never seeing one as plainly as I did today.
M, my daughter, is going to a four week camp this summer down in south Texas. It’s her first year to go to this particular camp and she and my wife have invited some of the other campers her age, and their mothers to our house for a kind of break the ice party. It is our desire to help her get to know some of the other campers before getting on the bus in Dallas and heading off to camp.
For most of this party, I’ll be in a meeting at church, but I should get back just in time to meet the other girls and their moms before the party is over.
M took me aside, looked me right in the eyes and said in her most pleasant voice, “Dad, when you come in don’t do anything silly that might embarrass me, okay?”
I got down on my knees, looked into her eyes and replied, “I wouldn’t dream of it, but just knowing that you feel that you needed to say that to me, is music to my ears.”
She gave me a big hug and continued getting ready for the party.
As a parent I look for signs. If you possess the potential for parental embarrassment strong enough to warrant a verbal plea for sanity from your child, rest easy baby…you’re doing your job.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Only the Good Die Young...
I met Michael my freshman year at Hardin-Simmons University. We sat next to each other in Psychology of Personal Adjustment.
I liked Michael right from the start. We both laughed at the name of the class and I don’t think a day passed that we didn’t make some kind of joke about our class that taught us how to properly think about masturbation.
Being a small campus, we’d bump into each other fairly often and would usually spend half an hour or so, once a month catching up over junk food.
Our beloved institution of higher education required four semesters of chapel in order to graduate. Our sophomore year we were randomly placed next to each other in chapel. I don’t remember much about my four semesters of chapel at H-SU, but I do remember the two of us laughing and playing around during most of our time together in chapel.
We “bumped” into each other again at seminary. For two years Michael, Tracy Ward and I were like the Three Amigos. I don’t know if they did, but I like to think that our professors would cringe at the thought of us being in their class.
Michael has written about me two times in his blog, once here and a second time here. I haven’t written about Michael at all, a fact that he reminds me of whenever he can.
Back in November, Michael made the long journey from San Antonio to Dallas for my 40th birthday party. I hadn’t seen Michael in probably 10 years and we picked up right where we left off.
Now it’s his turn to get old and I’m heading down south for a night of friends, celebration and maybe a margarita or two. Who knows, maybe Tracy will grace us with his presence as well.
I liked Michael right from the start. We both laughed at the name of the class and I don’t think a day passed that we didn’t make some kind of joke about our class that taught us how to properly think about masturbation.
Being a small campus, we’d bump into each other fairly often and would usually spend half an hour or so, once a month catching up over junk food.
Our beloved institution of higher education required four semesters of chapel in order to graduate. Our sophomore year we were randomly placed next to each other in chapel. I don’t remember much about my four semesters of chapel at H-SU, but I do remember the two of us laughing and playing around during most of our time together in chapel.
We “bumped” into each other again at seminary. For two years Michael, Tracy Ward and I were like the Three Amigos. I don’t know if they did, but I like to think that our professors would cringe at the thought of us being in their class.
Michael has written about me two times in his blog, once here and a second time here. I haven’t written about Michael at all, a fact that he reminds me of whenever he can.
Back in November, Michael made the long journey from San Antonio to Dallas for my 40th birthday party. I hadn’t seen Michael in probably 10 years and we picked up right where we left off.
Now it’s his turn to get old and I’m heading down south for a night of friends, celebration and maybe a margarita or two. Who knows, maybe Tracy will grace us with his presence as well.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
I Found it...It's Mine
When I was in the fifth grade an adult friend of the family gave me a University of Texas spiral notebook. It was white with an orange longhorn picture on the front. I put my name inside the front cover and took it to school.
That same day, I came back to my desk after changing classes for math and it was gone. After searching the classroom I found it in Mike Jones’ desk. He had marked out my name and drawn pictures on the longhorn. When confronted by the teacher and myself he claimed to have found it. Never mind that he found it in my desk and it had my name on it. The twisted idea that simply finding it gave him ownership somehow made sense to Mike Jones.
Having taught elementary school for 11 years, I hear it all the time. “I found it,” is the reply all to quickly given by students who just happen to be in the possession of something that belongs to another student. I’m forever telling my students that just because you find something does not mean that it belongs to you.
I don’t think the line between finding something and stealing something is all that hard to see. Something is either yours, or it isn’t, there’s really no gray area.
Last night I left our garage open by mistake. I’ve done if before, but up until this time I’ve been lucky, if you can call it that.
This time, however, some items were missing. First, my gas powered trimmer. Now, while having to replace the trimmer is a hassle, I wasn’t really all that happy with the way it was working, so it’s not that big of a loss. However, the second item this person “found” was my air compressor, which I’ve written about here. This one hurt. I love my air compressor.
What these people do is drive through the alleys late at night looking for garages that have been accidentally left open. When they see an open garage, they dash in, “find” a few things and dash out.
I guess in the big scheme of things we were lucky. The items lost are easily replaceable and we weren’t hurt.
But I’m left with this question…
When will “I found it” stop being an acceptable excuse for stealing?
That same day, I came back to my desk after changing classes for math and it was gone. After searching the classroom I found it in Mike Jones’ desk. He had marked out my name and drawn pictures on the longhorn. When confronted by the teacher and myself he claimed to have found it. Never mind that he found it in my desk and it had my name on it. The twisted idea that simply finding it gave him ownership somehow made sense to Mike Jones.
Having taught elementary school for 11 years, I hear it all the time. “I found it,” is the reply all to quickly given by students who just happen to be in the possession of something that belongs to another student. I’m forever telling my students that just because you find something does not mean that it belongs to you.
I don’t think the line between finding something and stealing something is all that hard to see. Something is either yours, or it isn’t, there’s really no gray area.
Last night I left our garage open by mistake. I’ve done if before, but up until this time I’ve been lucky, if you can call it that.
This time, however, some items were missing. First, my gas powered trimmer. Now, while having to replace the trimmer is a hassle, I wasn’t really all that happy with the way it was working, so it’s not that big of a loss. However, the second item this person “found” was my air compressor, which I’ve written about here. This one hurt. I love my air compressor.
What these people do is drive through the alleys late at night looking for garages that have been accidentally left open. When they see an open garage, they dash in, “find” a few things and dash out.
I guess in the big scheme of things we were lucky. The items lost are easily replaceable and we weren’t hurt.
But I’m left with this question…
When will “I found it” stop being an acceptable excuse for stealing?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Good-bye Marlene
We recently had to have our cat Marlene put to sleep.
She was old and had been battling several different illnesses, not the least of which was diabetes, for longer than we've had her.
Only a few months after I had gotten home from Dallas Rehabilitation Institute Melissa and I went to Operation Kindness, a no-kill shelter here in Dallas, just to have a look.
We were led to a room small room with a cement floor, at least half a dozen liter boxes, walls lined with floor to ceiling carpeted cat perches, the distinct smell of cat urine and more cats than could be counted.
I don't remember how I first saw her. I do remember that nothing really attracted me to her...at first. Most of the cats were either terrified of you, or didn't see you at all. Marlene, laying on one of the many cat perches, just watched us. She wore a torn up, braided yarn collar that had carved a permanent part in the fur around her neck. When I reached down and petted the unkempt, matted fur she came alive.
She's one of our special cases, the volunteer said. She just showed up on the front porch one day. Too sick to run away, she just laid in the box and cried.
As I picked her up and she began purring loudly, then made herself at home in my arms.
We didn't even look at any more cats. The Operation Kindness Vet took us aside and gave us a brief medical history. He told us she had been pretty sick, but they had nursed her back to health and she was doing pretty well. She had had some kind of a gum infection, so they had removed about a half the teeth from the top of her mouth. His best guess was that she was two years old. Give of take six months.
We paid the fee, put her in the cardboard cat carrier they gave us and headed for the car.
She threw up twice on the way home. She never could ride in a car without getting sick out of at least one end.
We went straight to our vet who said her blood work came back a little suspicious and to keep her away from our other cat, Matiste, until he got some tests back in a day or two.
We took her in our little apartment and let her out of the box. I don't think she had never been on carpet that wasn't on some kind of perch. It was like taking a kid to Disney World, because she started purring loudly and kneading as she walked. I don't remember how long she did that knead walk thing, but it was several days. We took her collar off and were sad to find the part in her matted hair was not going away. She was plump. She was sickly. She was a mess. But we loved her.
Our other cat was strong and one big muscle. Holding Marlene was like holding a big water balloon. She would just ooze right through your fingers. The vet called and told us the tests came back fine and that it looked like she only had asthma so she would probably cough and wheeze from time to time...which she did. After a couple of weeks we noticed that her collar part was gone and that her coat looked really pretty. Like she was taking care of it again.
That was about 13 years ago. Marlene was 15 or 16. That's over 100 in cat years. Her health has slowly been going downhill for several years and we had been giving her pills for her blood sugar for about three years and were looking at having to go to daily insulin shots. This morning she was acting very strange and couldn't seem to snap out of it. The vet had told us she could have a kind of diabetic episode and that we should take her in if she does.
It didn't take long for him to determine that all he could do is prolong the inevitable, and through tears Melissa and I made the decision.
Between the three of us, we have had a lot of tears.
We said good-bye to a good friend.
I hope somewhere she's finally able to catch a mouse.
She was old and had been battling several different illnesses, not the least of which was diabetes, for longer than we've had her.
Only a few months after I had gotten home from Dallas Rehabilitation Institute Melissa and I went to Operation Kindness, a no-kill shelter here in Dallas, just to have a look.
We were led to a room small room with a cement floor, at least half a dozen liter boxes, walls lined with floor to ceiling carpeted cat perches, the distinct smell of cat urine and more cats than could be counted.
I don't remember how I first saw her. I do remember that nothing really attracted me to her...at first. Most of the cats were either terrified of you, or didn't see you at all. Marlene, laying on one of the many cat perches, just watched us. She wore a torn up, braided yarn collar that had carved a permanent part in the fur around her neck. When I reached down and petted the unkempt, matted fur she came alive.
She's one of our special cases, the volunteer said. She just showed up on the front porch one day. Too sick to run away, she just laid in the box and cried.
As I picked her up and she began purring loudly, then made herself at home in my arms.
We didn't even look at any more cats. The Operation Kindness Vet took us aside and gave us a brief medical history. He told us she had been pretty sick, but they had nursed her back to health and she was doing pretty well. She had had some kind of a gum infection, so they had removed about a half the teeth from the top of her mouth. His best guess was that she was two years old. Give of take six months.
We paid the fee, put her in the cardboard cat carrier they gave us and headed for the car.
She threw up twice on the way home. She never could ride in a car without getting sick out of at least one end.
We went straight to our vet who said her blood work came back a little suspicious and to keep her away from our other cat, Matiste, until he got some tests back in a day or two.
We took her in our little apartment and let her out of the box. I don't think she had never been on carpet that wasn't on some kind of perch. It was like taking a kid to Disney World, because she started purring loudly and kneading as she walked. I don't remember how long she did that knead walk thing, but it was several days. We took her collar off and were sad to find the part in her matted hair was not going away. She was plump. She was sickly. She was a mess. But we loved her.
Our other cat was strong and one big muscle. Holding Marlene was like holding a big water balloon. She would just ooze right through your fingers. The vet called and told us the tests came back fine and that it looked like she only had asthma so she would probably cough and wheeze from time to time...which she did. After a couple of weeks we noticed that her collar part was gone and that her coat looked really pretty. Like she was taking care of it again.
That was about 13 years ago. Marlene was 15 or 16. That's over 100 in cat years. Her health has slowly been going downhill for several years and we had been giving her pills for her blood sugar for about three years and were looking at having to go to daily insulin shots. This morning she was acting very strange and couldn't seem to snap out of it. The vet had told us she could have a kind of diabetic episode and that we should take her in if she does.
It didn't take long for him to determine that all he could do is prolong the inevitable, and through tears Melissa and I made the decision.
Between the three of us, we have had a lot of tears.
We said good-bye to a good friend.
I hope somewhere she's finally able to catch a mouse.
Friday, March 11, 2005
An Extremely Something Poem
An extremely angry man
With an extremely angry wife
Had an extremely angry dog
And an extremely angry life
His two extremely angry kids
Made an extremely angry noise
As they extremely angry played
With their extremely angry toys
He ate extremely angry food
At his extremely angry meals
His extremely angry car
Had four extremely angry wheels
This extremely angry man
Had an extremely angry day
When an extremely happy man
Came his extremely angry way
Now this extremely happy man
Did an extremely happy thing
To the extremely angry man
He did extremely happy sing
The extremely angry man
Made an extremely angry face
But the extremely happy man
Kept his extremely happy pace
Then the extremely angry man
Began to feel extremely strange
And this extremely angry man
Made an extremely happy change
So the extremely happy moral
To this extremely happy tale
Is if you be extremely happy
You will not extremely fail
With an extremely angry wife
Had an extremely angry dog
And an extremely angry life
His two extremely angry kids
Made an extremely angry noise
As they extremely angry played
With their extremely angry toys
He ate extremely angry food
At his extremely angry meals
His extremely angry car
Had four extremely angry wheels
This extremely angry man
Had an extremely angry day
When an extremely happy man
Came his extremely angry way
Now this extremely happy man
Did an extremely happy thing
To the extremely angry man
He did extremely happy sing
The extremely angry man
Made an extremely angry face
But the extremely happy man
Kept his extremely happy pace
Then the extremely angry man
Began to feel extremely strange
And this extremely angry man
Made an extremely happy change
So the extremely happy moral
To this extremely happy tale
Is if you be extremely happy
You will not extremely fail
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
The Green Side
We painted my daughter’s room yesterday. It’s been pink for about six years and she’s been really sick of pink for almost half that time.
Thanks to my Dad’s “We ain’t paying no one to do what we can do ourselves” philosophy, I can paint both the interior and exterior of houses and do a pretty fair job. However, with interiors, usually I’m just painting white over white, which is a fairly simple task.
Not so for this paint job.
I knew I was in trouble color wise, when she said, “I think I want green walls.” “We’ll see,” was my hasty reply. All the while I’m shuffling through my mental card catalog of reasons, searching for just the right excuse for why not to paint green.
Then it hits me, and I sat back with my mind at ease, knowing full well that there’s no way my wife is going to let a room in her house be painted green.
And I was right…at first.
When confronted with the green room idea, she shot me a “No way!” glance. Then politely gave the standard, “We’ll see” reply, adding on some wise parental comments about needing to find a color that would work well with the furniture.
I smiled and went about my business secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be painting anything green.
But my daughter had other plans and she’s quite the schemer. She set her sights on Mom. She knew that if she could lure Mom over to the green side of the force, then she could easily crush the anti-green rebellion.
Little did I know that while I’m off doing who knows what (probably driving around in my new Chevrolet Trailblazer), my wife and daughter are still discussing the whole green room thing.
You should know that my wife, while not actually employed as or even making money at it, is quite an artist. Her father who has a wonderful eye for art and her mother, a former art teacher/painter who successfully dabbles in all kinds of art, have genetically instilled a true gift of artistry in my wife.
I wasn’t there so I don’t really know what happened. However, I know things were going well for the rebellion, and we were holding our ground. That is, until my daughter pulled out her secret weapon.
“Hey Mom, what if we paint the walls green with a ceiling blue and you could paint clouds on the ceiling?” At that instant, miles away, I felt a disturbance in the force.
I got home to find that not only was green the new color of choice, but we already had paint chips from Sherwin-Williams and were working on the right combination of green and blue to work with the existing décor.
And I stood by helpless as green became a reality.
With help from my daughter, I painted. First the ceiling blue and then the walls green.
After finishing, I cocked my head to the side, looked the around the room and stepped over to the green side.
Because it really does look good.
Thanks to my Dad’s “We ain’t paying no one to do what we can do ourselves” philosophy, I can paint both the interior and exterior of houses and do a pretty fair job. However, with interiors, usually I’m just painting white over white, which is a fairly simple task.
Not so for this paint job.
I knew I was in trouble color wise, when she said, “I think I want green walls.” “We’ll see,” was my hasty reply. All the while I’m shuffling through my mental card catalog of reasons, searching for just the right excuse for why not to paint green.
Then it hits me, and I sat back with my mind at ease, knowing full well that there’s no way my wife is going to let a room in her house be painted green.
And I was right…at first.
When confronted with the green room idea, she shot me a “No way!” glance. Then politely gave the standard, “We’ll see” reply, adding on some wise parental comments about needing to find a color that would work well with the furniture.
I smiled and went about my business secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be painting anything green.
But my daughter had other plans and she’s quite the schemer. She set her sights on Mom. She knew that if she could lure Mom over to the green side of the force, then she could easily crush the anti-green rebellion.
Little did I know that while I’m off doing who knows what (probably driving around in my new Chevrolet Trailblazer), my wife and daughter are still discussing the whole green room thing.
You should know that my wife, while not actually employed as or even making money at it, is quite an artist. Her father who has a wonderful eye for art and her mother, a former art teacher/painter who successfully dabbles in all kinds of art, have genetically instilled a true gift of artistry in my wife.
I wasn’t there so I don’t really know what happened. However, I know things were going well for the rebellion, and we were holding our ground. That is, until my daughter pulled out her secret weapon.
“Hey Mom, what if we paint the walls green with a ceiling blue and you could paint clouds on the ceiling?” At that instant, miles away, I felt a disturbance in the force.
I got home to find that not only was green the new color of choice, but we already had paint chips from Sherwin-Williams and were working on the right combination of green and blue to work with the existing décor.
And I stood by helpless as green became a reality.
With help from my daughter, I painted. First the ceiling blue and then the walls green.
After finishing, I cocked my head to the side, looked the around the room and stepped over to the green side.
Because it really does look good.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
TAKS Season
For Americans this is tax season. With the April 15th dark cloud looming over their heads, people everywhere are trying to get their all their financial information together, organized and properly 10W-somethinged for the U.S. government.
For most Americans this is your only tax season, and it comes once a year.
However, for many Texans there is also TAKS Season.
You may not live in Texas and even if you do, you may not have school age children. For those of you who happen to be out of the public education loop…in Texas public schools we have a little thing called the TAKS test. (Pronounced like tax) TAKS stands for Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills.
As a teacher, the TAKS test is the greatest producer of stress I have in my life. And it’s trickle down stress. The state puts pressure on the superintendent, who in turn puts pressure on the district administrators, who in turn put pressure on the principals, who in turn put pressure on the teachers, who in turn put pressure on the kids.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for accountability, but ours is a flawed system.
I’ve been teaching for only 11 years, but in that short amount of time I’ve had no less than three students who the state has determined, after a battery of tests, have IQ’s that are too low to qualify for special education and must therefore take and pass the TAKS test.
And that's only one of a plethora of flaws...
For most Americans this is your only tax season, and it comes once a year.
However, for many Texans there is also TAKS Season.
You may not live in Texas and even if you do, you may not have school age children. For those of you who happen to be out of the public education loop…in Texas public schools we have a little thing called the TAKS test. (Pronounced like tax) TAKS stands for Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills.
As a teacher, the TAKS test is the greatest producer of stress I have in my life. And it’s trickle down stress. The state puts pressure on the superintendent, who in turn puts pressure on the district administrators, who in turn put pressure on the principals, who in turn put pressure on the teachers, who in turn put pressure on the kids.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for accountability, but ours is a flawed system.
I’ve been teaching for only 11 years, but in that short amount of time I’ve had no less than three students who the state has determined, after a battery of tests, have IQ’s that are too low to qualify for special education and must therefore take and pass the TAKS test.
And that's only one of a plethora of flaws...
Saturday, February 19, 2005
I had to buy a Vacuum
When you have a dog that’s half part husky who sheds all year round, and a cat who seems to pull hair out in clumps, you need a good vacuum. Thanks to me and my, “Let’s see what this baby will pick up!” philosophy of vacuuming, our old vacuum lived a rather hard life.
After being used like a shop-vac for the last few years, our old vacuum wasn’t working very well. She was getting a little loose around the joints and we were beginning to find it harder and harder to actually get the floors clean.
My brother has been known to use his shop-vac to vacuum his house. I tried using mine and found that while it did do a really good job of cleaning the floors, it also more than doubled the amount of vacuuming time necessary to clean my entire house, as well as gave me back pains from all the stooping required to lug the canister around without tipping it over.
With purchases like this, I would usually just head to the store and get whatever looked the best in my price range. However, this time I went on-line and did some vacuum research. I found a site that rated hundreds of different vacuums and even had reviews written by owners.
This site proved to be quite useful, as I was able to eliminate several different brands and models before ever going to the store.
Then I found the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum. The little boy inside of me who took apart everything he could get his hands on fell in love. I was quite sure that the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum was designed and built with me in mind. I tried everything I could think of to justify spending over 500 dollars for a vacuum, but in the end the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum was just nowhere near my budget.
I ended up getting a Bissell Cleanview Bagless and it’s a nice vacuum too. It has a built in hose with several attachments, a real long cord, and even a headlight. (although I don’t think I’ll be vacuuming much with the lights off) I’ve only used it once, but it works much better than our old vacuum.
So for now I’ve got a Bissell, but maybe someday I’ll get my Dyson.
I’ll keep you posted…
After being used like a shop-vac for the last few years, our old vacuum wasn’t working very well. She was getting a little loose around the joints and we were beginning to find it harder and harder to actually get the floors clean.
My brother has been known to use his shop-vac to vacuum his house. I tried using mine and found that while it did do a really good job of cleaning the floors, it also more than doubled the amount of vacuuming time necessary to clean my entire house, as well as gave me back pains from all the stooping required to lug the canister around without tipping it over.
With purchases like this, I would usually just head to the store and get whatever looked the best in my price range. However, this time I went on-line and did some vacuum research. I found a site that rated hundreds of different vacuums and even had reviews written by owners.
This site proved to be quite useful, as I was able to eliminate several different brands and models before ever going to the store.
Then I found the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum. The little boy inside of me who took apart everything he could get his hands on fell in love. I was quite sure that the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum was designed and built with me in mind. I tried everything I could think of to justify spending over 500 dollars for a vacuum, but in the end the Dyson Bagless Upright Cyclonic Vacuum was just nowhere near my budget.
I ended up getting a Bissell Cleanview Bagless and it’s a nice vacuum too. It has a built in hose with several attachments, a real long cord, and even a headlight. (although I don’t think I’ll be vacuuming much with the lights off) I’ve only used it once, but it works much better than our old vacuum.
So for now I’ve got a Bissell, but maybe someday I’ll get my Dyson.
I’ll keep you posted…
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