Is it me, or is it Batman?

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

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

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

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

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

Some of the people I have been include:

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

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

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

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

Your guess is as good as mine.

Beno, Where Are You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beno, where are you?

I wonder…

What does Toner Low really mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder what that means?

Strange Memory

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

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

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

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

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

So this leaves me with one question:

Who has the strange memory?

The Costco Buying Frenzy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fun, Yet Stinging Memory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But won’t hurt even more?”

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

And I bought it hook, line, and sinker!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Costco and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then…it’s Costco or bust!

Sometimes Ya Gotta be Squirrelly!

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

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

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

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

As it turns out…they did not!

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

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

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

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

'Tis the Season...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Much Needed Break...

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

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

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

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

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

A New Tradition

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

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

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

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

I highly recommend it.

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

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

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

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

Thanks again,

TGM

A Cure for What Ails You

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

Here’s how it works:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or will you?

Spacing Really Does Matter

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go shits a ghost!"

Yep, spacing really does matter!

Lazy -vs- Neglect

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

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

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

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

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

So, I leave you with this question:

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

No, I haven't disappeared...

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

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

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

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

“Quit your whining you lazy bastard!”

However, I am working on something…

Blog Spam

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

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

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

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

What gives Christianity a bad name?

Psychic Readings?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now I'm the psychic!

Pee into the Jug

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

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

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

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

That’s right…URINE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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