Later, after Matt had gone, we laughed until we cried about poor Matt’s confusion over being shot at. I’m not sure if I ever told Matt about what really happened. Maybe someday I should, because we owe him a lot.
You see, unknowingly, Matt helped us feed our addiction. Now, we not only had explosives, but we also had a plan.
It didn’t take us long to dream up several different fun booby trap scenarios.
Our first, and possibly our best, idea was to put together a huge assortment of tiny landmines. Then, under the cover of night and while they were still wet, we’d toss our little bursts of excitement around campus in some of the high foot traffic areas. Due to the potential for echo, stairwells were a personal favorite. They’d have all night to dry and the next morning some poor, unsuspecting pedestrian would get a rather startling wake-up call.
Our next idea was to tie a 20 to 30-foot piece of string to one of the above-mentioned landmines. Once again, while they were still wet, we’d toss them up on roofs or awnings. The next morning, when some curious passerby came wandering along and pulled the string, BAM! Our only concern was the chance that the now airborne package might land on someone’s head. I wish I could say that our concern was due to some kind of higher moral dedication to keeping the general public safe. However, as I recall, it was more a desire not to get caught. Although, after testing this idea, it became apparent that it didn’t take more than a wee bit movement to create sufficient friction to ignite the package and they would usually detonate long before getting near the edge. So this too became a workable plan.
Over the next few months we came up with quite a few different plans all of which, at the time, seemed like great ideas. I’m not sure how many different little bundles of fun we made, but there were quite a few. My only regret is that I never stuck around to long enough, or got back to the scene early enough, to experience the fun of the actual explosions.
After a while, our fascination with these little bombs began to dwindle. After you’ve heard countless explosions and seen equally as many tiny mushroom clouds, the fun starts to stagnate.
That’s when we had the idea for Big Mama.
Big Mama was the mother of all the frictional impact explosives we had made so far, and Mama, was she BIG!
Using a razor blade, we made an incision in the side of a tennis ball and spooned in the wet mixture. In the interest of chemical conservation, as well as, to make sure the water had somewhere to go, we layered Big Mama with healthy supply of rice . Once complete, we parked her safely in the munitions box with an extra layer or two of toilet paper. Just to be safe.
We really didn’t give much thought to how, or by whom this would be thrown, launched, dropped, or otherwise given flight to. We were living in the moment and seeing as the d-day for Big Mama was several days away at best, it didn’t matter yet.
We also didn’t give much thought to how dangerous Big Mama might be. Based on the success of each of our previous home chem-lab experiments, (at least the ones we actually watched) we probably should have been a bit more wary. But we were young and we were immortal and we were stupid.
By this time we fancied ourselves as quite the frictional impact explosives experts. Being experts, it was our professional opinion that if we didn’t wait long enough for her to be dry all the way through, while she would probably blow up, the glorious explosion we were looking forward to would be far less spectacular than what we desired.
The days passed like years as we waited for Big Mama to mature. Unlike all of her predecessors who were packaged in wax paper, a somewhat porous container, the tennis ball she was in was, except for the slit cut by us, quite airtight.
We waited. And then just for good measure, we waited some more.
Waiting for over a week to play with a new toy gives you nothing, if not time to ponder. As the days passed, it seemed that something similar to good sense started to worm its way into our thoughts. The more we thought about it, we began to have visions of ways Big Mama could turn out to be a big disaster. Not the least of which was the two of us getting injured or caught.
Our original plan was to come up with some semi-safe way to detonate Big Mama on campus. However, after our thought provoked revelations, we figured that our plan needed to change. And we decided to take her out to a back road somewhere, toss her down the road and just see what we see.
Not quite as spectacular a plan as we had originally had our hearts set on, but our only other option was soaking Big Mama in water and dismantling her.
Roads like we wanted were all too common around our university and it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get ourselves pretty far out of town. We pulled over and carefully lifted the munitions box out of the car.
Dan opened the munitions box and with my arm outstretched, I carefully reached in. We really had no idea how fragile Big Mama was going to be, and I was afraid of grabbing it too tightly and setting it off in my hand. I was also afraid of holding it too loosely and dropping it on my foot. As luck would have it, I was able to gently roll it off of the toilet paper padding and into my hand. Then, cradling it gently in my hand with my arm extended and my elbow locked I made a grenade type toss about 20 yards down the road.
The explosion was incredible.
The sound was more than just a loud explosion it was awesome. It was a delayed sound like I had only experienced while watching movies in science class. The kind where you first see a completely silent burst of light and then, just as you begin to wonder about why there’s no sound, the sound hits and echoes through your entire body.
The mushroom cloud was at least six feet tall, its canopied top had a diameter of four to five feet. It was easily a hundred times the size of anything we had made so far. And it didn’t quickly dissipate into the air like the small ones. Oh no, it slowly drifted off into the darkening sky.
Stupefied by what we had accomplished, we stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Remembering to breath again, I suddenly gasped for breath as we both ran to the point of impact.
Looking down at the spot where Big Mama had met the road, I couldn’t help but think it looked beautiful. The force of the explosion had embedded bits of tennis ball into the asphalt and created a sunburst pattern with shades of blues and reds mixed in.
Mesmerized by all that had just transpired, we started being pelted with tiny bits of falling tennis ball. Standing in a tennis ball downpour, I began to have a whole new kind of respect for the power that this stuff had. We weren’t just playing with a bunch of Black Cat firecrackers that we picked up at some roadside stand. These were explosives. Frictional Impact Explosives...and they were for real.
The drive home was silent and the ride seemed longer this time, both of us trying to wrap our minds around this new truth about what we were doing. When we finally spoke, we agreed that Big Mama had been fun to make and an intriguing learning experience, but we vowed to never make anything anywhere near that big again.
Coming Soon…
Part 5: The End of an Era
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
Bogged Down...
I'm sorry, but I got bogged down with school junk and haven't been able to give the time to Big Mama that she needs. I should be able to finish her this weekend.
Sorry for the delay.
Hugh
Sorry for the delay.
Hugh
Sunday, January 23, 2005
The Big Bang
As we were getting ready to scale the wall and go back through our hole in the ceiling, we discovered that the door was only locked on the outside, some kind of fire law I guess. This made our exit much easier. We replace the ceiling tiles, took few pairs of surgical gloves and turned off the lights as we walked out the door. We then slowly made our way down the back stairs and out the building.
We got home and went to work on our first batch.
I’m not sure what time is was, but it had to be late. I don’t think we ever even thought about time. Our minds were focused on one thing and one thing only.
We carefully set up our chemical lab on a coffee table in the living room and worked about an hour making three dime sized little goodies. We wrapped them in wax paper with twisted ends, which made them look like little pieces of cheep Halloween candy. After we finished, we padded a WWII munitions box with toilet paper and carefully placed our creations inside. Then we cleaned up the lab, and fell asleep watching TV.
I don’t remember who woke up first, or even how long we had been asleep, but we sat staring down at three little wax paper blobs nestled safely in their toilet paper home, discussing our next move.
We were like parents gazing down at their new baby in awe and wonder. We couldn’t believe that we had made such wonderful little things and that they were ours to take care of, at least until we tried to blow them up.
Our big concern was that they hadn’t had enough time to dry, and that trying to use one prematurely might ruin it. So we decided to wait a couple of hours. However, it didn’t take long for our will power to crumble and we decided if we tried one and it didn’t work, we would just go get it and keep waiting. Besides, if we ruined this one, we had two more, as well as the makings for quite a few.
It was cold outside and I put on my jacket and shoes, so I could quickly run out and retrieve anything that failed to combust. At this point we still didn’t have much faith in our frictional impact explosives pamphlet. I mean, you mix two chemicals together with some water and rice and it’s supposed to explode? We were still unbelievers.
Dan carefully lifted the smallest of the three little treasures out of the box. Gingerly cupping it in his hand, we carefully moved to the front porch and he lobbed it out onto the driveway.
Sadly, I don’t remember much about the next few moments. I’m not sure exactly what has clouded or possibly clogged my memory. Maybe it was the deafening sound. Maybe it was the miniature mushroom cloud. Maybe it was the two excited and terrified boys awkwardly stumbling over each other as fell back into the house. Whatever it was, the next thing I remember is sitting in a now dark room, peeking through closed curtains and waiting for the police to show up.
And so we sat. Waiting silently. Listening intently for sirens, neighbors, or any commotion at all from outside.
But there was nothing.
Somehow we had managed to create a fairly significant explosion in a residential neighborhood and nobody noticed or cared. What had we done to deserve this?
Minds racing, we began a verbal reenactment of our first Big Bang, each of us reliving every detail as if the other had not been present. Somewhat automatically, we also began setting our lab up again. Then we got to work making more of our little toys.
It was somewhere in the process that we had the idea for our next test. We decided that to throw another of our babies out into the street from the front door was just asking for trouble. However, if we threw it over the house, from the backyard to the front, then we wouldn’t be seen.
I don’t remember who threw this one, but I do remember being disappointed at the lack of an explosion. Cautiously, we went out to search for our bomb.
We had two theories: One, It landed in the grass and it was too soft of a landing to create the explosion. In which case, we would simply retrieve it and throw it a second time. Two, it wasn’t dry yet and would have to be thrown again later.
We went out and searched, but couldn’t find it anywhere. After searching the entire yard, the driveway and the street without any luck, we headed back into the house. We were a little concerned, for a moment or two, and then returned to our lab. We worked for a while and created half a dozen or so new explosives. Each ranging is size from a pencil eraser to dime-sized ball.
As we cleaned up, we discussed what we were going to do with our new toys. Sure, mushroom clouds and loud noises were fun, but that would only satisfy our mischievous hunger for a short time. It wouldn’t be long before, not unlike a drug addict, we would be hunting for new ways to get a bigger and better demolitions fix.
Then it happened.
Matt, a friend of ours, decided to make an unannounced visit. Now, unannounced visits were more than okay, they were commonplace for us. We didn’t live far from campus and people were always dropping by just to hang out. As he was pulling up, there was this loud explosion. We both jumped up and rushed to the window. Matt was sitting in his car nervously looking around.
It didn’t take us long to figure out that our over the house little gem had landed in the street wet and become a kind of landmine. It sat in the street, dried and Matt had run over it.
Crouching and doing little zig-zag moves, Matt ran to the door shouting about someone taking pot shots at him from who knows where. We ushered him inside and calmed him down by claiming not to have heard anything and changing the subject.
Later, after Matt had gone, we laughed until we cried about poor Matt’s confusion over being shot at. I’m not sure if I ever told Matt about what really happened. Maybe someday I should, because we owe him a lot.
You see, unknowingly, Matt helped us feed our addiction. Now, we not only had explosives, but we also had a plan.
Coming Soon…
Part 4: Booby Traps and Big Mama
We got home and went to work on our first batch.
I’m not sure what time is was, but it had to be late. I don’t think we ever even thought about time. Our minds were focused on one thing and one thing only.
We carefully set up our chemical lab on a coffee table in the living room and worked about an hour making three dime sized little goodies. We wrapped them in wax paper with twisted ends, which made them look like little pieces of cheep Halloween candy. After we finished, we padded a WWII munitions box with toilet paper and carefully placed our creations inside. Then we cleaned up the lab, and fell asleep watching TV.
I don’t remember who woke up first, or even how long we had been asleep, but we sat staring down at three little wax paper blobs nestled safely in their toilet paper home, discussing our next move.
We were like parents gazing down at their new baby in awe and wonder. We couldn’t believe that we had made such wonderful little things and that they were ours to take care of, at least until we tried to blow them up.
Our big concern was that they hadn’t had enough time to dry, and that trying to use one prematurely might ruin it. So we decided to wait a couple of hours. However, it didn’t take long for our will power to crumble and we decided if we tried one and it didn’t work, we would just go get it and keep waiting. Besides, if we ruined this one, we had two more, as well as the makings for quite a few.
It was cold outside and I put on my jacket and shoes, so I could quickly run out and retrieve anything that failed to combust. At this point we still didn’t have much faith in our frictional impact explosives pamphlet. I mean, you mix two chemicals together with some water and rice and it’s supposed to explode? We were still unbelievers.
Dan carefully lifted the smallest of the three little treasures out of the box. Gingerly cupping it in his hand, we carefully moved to the front porch and he lobbed it out onto the driveway.
Sadly, I don’t remember much about the next few moments. I’m not sure exactly what has clouded or possibly clogged my memory. Maybe it was the deafening sound. Maybe it was the miniature mushroom cloud. Maybe it was the two excited and terrified boys awkwardly stumbling over each other as fell back into the house. Whatever it was, the next thing I remember is sitting in a now dark room, peeking through closed curtains and waiting for the police to show up.
And so we sat. Waiting silently. Listening intently for sirens, neighbors, or any commotion at all from outside.
But there was nothing.
Somehow we had managed to create a fairly significant explosion in a residential neighborhood and nobody noticed or cared. What had we done to deserve this?
Minds racing, we began a verbal reenactment of our first Big Bang, each of us reliving every detail as if the other had not been present. Somewhat automatically, we also began setting our lab up again. Then we got to work making more of our little toys.
It was somewhere in the process that we had the idea for our next test. We decided that to throw another of our babies out into the street from the front door was just asking for trouble. However, if we threw it over the house, from the backyard to the front, then we wouldn’t be seen.
I don’t remember who threw this one, but I do remember being disappointed at the lack of an explosion. Cautiously, we went out to search for our bomb.
We had two theories: One, It landed in the grass and it was too soft of a landing to create the explosion. In which case, we would simply retrieve it and throw it a second time. Two, it wasn’t dry yet and would have to be thrown again later.
We went out and searched, but couldn’t find it anywhere. After searching the entire yard, the driveway and the street without any luck, we headed back into the house. We were a little concerned, for a moment or two, and then returned to our lab. We worked for a while and created half a dozen or so new explosives. Each ranging is size from a pencil eraser to dime-sized ball.
As we cleaned up, we discussed what we were going to do with our new toys. Sure, mushroom clouds and loud noises were fun, but that would only satisfy our mischievous hunger for a short time. It wouldn’t be long before, not unlike a drug addict, we would be hunting for new ways to get a bigger and better demolitions fix.
Then it happened.
Matt, a friend of ours, decided to make an unannounced visit. Now, unannounced visits were more than okay, they were commonplace for us. We didn’t live far from campus and people were always dropping by just to hang out. As he was pulling up, there was this loud explosion. We both jumped up and rushed to the window. Matt was sitting in his car nervously looking around.
It didn’t take us long to figure out that our over the house little gem had landed in the street wet and become a kind of landmine. It sat in the street, dried and Matt had run over it.
Crouching and doing little zig-zag moves, Matt ran to the door shouting about someone taking pot shots at him from who knows where. We ushered him inside and calmed him down by claiming not to have heard anything and changing the subject.
Later, after Matt had gone, we laughed until we cried about poor Matt’s confusion over being shot at. I’m not sure if I ever told Matt about what really happened. Maybe someday I should, because we owe him a lot.
You see, unknowingly, Matt helped us feed our addiction. Now, we not only had explosives, but we also had a plan.
Coming Soon…
Part 4: Booby Traps and Big Mama
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Up and Over
A few days later, I was sitting in class when I noticed something about the ceiling. It was one of those ceilings with the big white square ceiling tiles. You know the ones, every school, of every district, of every city, of every state has the exact same ones. What grabbed my attention on this particular day was a missing tile. Now a missing tile in the ceiling of a classroom was nothing new, except that this particular tile just happened to be right next to the wall.
Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole and over the wall and dropping down onto the other side.
Our chemical storage room problem was solved!
After class, I found Dan and filled him in on my ceiling tile discovery. On our way home we made a brief, but thorough, detour through the science building to make a casual inspection of the ceiling tiles. After confirming that the building had the same tiles, and checking to be sure the bathroom window was unlocked, we hurried home to organize the evening’s plans.
Using our first mission as a guide, we again set our clocks for 3:00 am. We packed a flashlight, measuring spoons, two jars with lids, scissors and some duct tape in a backpack. Then spent the next few hours finalizing our plans.
The lab classrooms were each about 60-feet x 30-feet. The entrance to the rooms was about in the middle of the long wall. The door to the chemical storage room was the opposite wall straight across from the entrance. The front of each classroom was at one of the short ends of the room and had the lectern, the professor’s workstation and a pull down screen for slides and movies. There were rows of workstations with black countertops evenly spaced the length of the room. There were also blacktop workstations built along three of the walls. The only break in the countertops that lined the walls was at the two doors. We planned to get in the building and the classroom just as we had before, use the workstations against the walls for platforms, remove a ceiling tile and then up and over.
We tucked our floor plans and diagrams into the backpack and tried to get some sleep.
The clocks went off, but we really weren’t asleep. We got up, grabbed the backpack and our disk golf gear and headed out the door. Getting in the building and up to the second floor went without a hitch. That’s when we encountered our next problem.
Up until this point, neither of us had noticed a shelf that circled the room above the workstations about a foot below the ceiling. This shelf housed different kinds of science paraphernalia as well as several old science experiments.
We were at first a little disheartened by the discovery of this shelf. It was going to be pretty hard to get over this shelf and through the ceiling tile without breaking something.
To us it was imperative that we be invisible. If we could pull this off without anyone even suspecting that unwanted guests had been in the chemical supply room, it would make multiple trips possible, thereby granting us an inexhaustible supply of chemicals.
This shelf also presented the possibility that there were similar shelves on the other side of the wall as well, a problem we had failed to plan for. Attempting to improvise, we sat there discussing what to do next. Then a second unsettling thought occurred to us. It was quite possible that there were boxes, file cabinets or who knows what else stacked against the walls on the inside the storage room. We would be able to look down, but it might not be possible to avoid making a gigantic mess. Suddenly we had a high probability of an unsuccessful mission, and I was beginning to feel more like Inspector Clouseau than James Bond.
We were on the verge of giving it up for the night when we noticed that not only did the workstations along the walls stop at the doors, but there was a break in the shelf at the doors as well. In a flash, James Bond was back and the quest was on again.
Balancing on the edge of the workstations with feet propped against the doorframe, we carefully removed the ceiling tile next to the wall that was right above the door. With the tile off, we climbed up and perched ourselves on the wall between the two ceilings. Then we carefully removed the tile above the door on the inside, went over the wall and into the chemical storage room. Up and Over.
The chemical supply room didn’t have any windows, so as long as the doors were closed we could turn the lights on and take our time.
The supply room had row after row of floor to ceiling shelves, each packed with every kind of chemical you could imagine. We quickly discovered that the chemicals were in alphabetical order and finding the ones we needed couldn’t have been easier.
As we were getting our jars out of the backpack we noticed a workroom down at one end. We found bottles, beakers, scales, lids, labels and surgical gloves. It only seemed right that these chemicals should be placed, stored and labeled in their proper containers. Working quickly, but carefully we put on surgical gloves, and gathered the needed chemicals.
The first thing we noticed was that the school had several containers of each chemical. Our first impulse was to take a whole bottle of each, but if we did our “Invisible Thief” theory would be wasted. With the huge amount of chemicals in this lab we were fairly sure that nobody was using any one chemical on a regular basis. If this were true, then a little bit of one chemical missing out of a few bottles would not attract any attention. With each chemical, we took a small amount out of each of the bottles. Small enough so as not to look oddly low, but large enough to give us a good supply to work with at home. We corked the bottles, labeled them and stored them safely in the backpack. We then placed the bottles back on the shelves exactly as we had found them.
As we were getting ready to scale the wall and go back through our hole in the ceiling, we discovered that the door was only locked on the outside, some kind of fire law I guess. This made our exit much easier. We replaced the ceiling tiles, took few pairs of surgical gloves and turned off the lights as we walked out the door. We then slowly made our way down the back stairs and out the building.
We got home and went to work on our first batch.
Coming Soon...
Part 3: The Big Bang
Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole and over the wall and dropping down onto the other side.
Our chemical storage room problem was solved!
After class, I found Dan and filled him in on my ceiling tile discovery. On our way home we made a brief, but thorough, detour through the science building to make a casual inspection of the ceiling tiles. After confirming that the building had the same tiles, and checking to be sure the bathroom window was unlocked, we hurried home to organize the evening’s plans.
Using our first mission as a guide, we again set our clocks for 3:00 am. We packed a flashlight, measuring spoons, two jars with lids, scissors and some duct tape in a backpack. Then spent the next few hours finalizing our plans.
The lab classrooms were each about 60-feet x 30-feet. The entrance to the rooms was about in the middle of the long wall. The door to the chemical storage room was the opposite wall straight across from the entrance. The front of each classroom was at one of the short ends of the room and had the lectern, the professor’s workstation and a pull down screen for slides and movies. There were rows of workstations with black countertops evenly spaced the length of the room. There were also blacktop workstations built along three of the walls. The only break in the countertops that lined the walls was at the two doors. We planned to get in the building and the classroom just as we had before, use the workstations against the walls for platforms, remove a ceiling tile and then up and over.
We tucked our floor plans and diagrams into the backpack and tried to get some sleep.
The clocks went off, but we really weren’t asleep. We got up, grabbed the backpack and our disk golf gear and headed out the door. Getting in the building and up to the second floor went without a hitch. That’s when we encountered our next problem.
Up until this point, neither of us had noticed a shelf that circled the room above the workstations about a foot below the ceiling. This shelf housed different kinds of science paraphernalia as well as several old science experiments.
We were at first a little disheartened by the discovery of this shelf. It was going to be pretty hard to get over this shelf and through the ceiling tile without breaking something.
To us it was imperative that we be invisible. If we could pull this off without anyone even suspecting that unwanted guests had been in the chemical supply room, it would make multiple trips possible, thereby granting us an inexhaustible supply of chemicals.
This shelf also presented the possibility that there were similar shelves on the other side of the wall as well, a problem we had failed to plan for. Attempting to improvise, we sat there discussing what to do next. Then a second unsettling thought occurred to us. It was quite possible that there were boxes, file cabinets or who knows what else stacked against the walls on the inside the storage room. We would be able to look down, but it might not be possible to avoid making a gigantic mess. Suddenly we had a high probability of an unsuccessful mission, and I was beginning to feel more like Inspector Clouseau than James Bond.
We were on the verge of giving it up for the night when we noticed that not only did the workstations along the walls stop at the doors, but there was a break in the shelf at the doors as well. In a flash, James Bond was back and the quest was on again.
Balancing on the edge of the workstations with feet propped against the doorframe, we carefully removed the ceiling tile next to the wall that was right above the door. With the tile off, we climbed up and perched ourselves on the wall between the two ceilings. Then we carefully removed the tile above the door on the inside, went over the wall and into the chemical storage room. Up and Over.
The chemical supply room didn’t have any windows, so as long as the doors were closed we could turn the lights on and take our time.
The supply room had row after row of floor to ceiling shelves, each packed with every kind of chemical you could imagine. We quickly discovered that the chemicals were in alphabetical order and finding the ones we needed couldn’t have been easier.
As we were getting our jars out of the backpack we noticed a workroom down at one end. We found bottles, beakers, scales, lids, labels and surgical gloves. It only seemed right that these chemicals should be placed, stored and labeled in their proper containers. Working quickly, but carefully we put on surgical gloves, and gathered the needed chemicals.
The first thing we noticed was that the school had several containers of each chemical. Our first impulse was to take a whole bottle of each, but if we did our “Invisible Thief” theory would be wasted. With the huge amount of chemicals in this lab we were fairly sure that nobody was using any one chemical on a regular basis. If this were true, then a little bit of one chemical missing out of a few bottles would not attract any attention. With each chemical, we took a small amount out of each of the bottles. Small enough so as not to look oddly low, but large enough to give us a good supply to work with at home. We corked the bottles, labeled them and stored them safely in the backpack. We then placed the bottles back on the shelves exactly as we had found them.
As we were getting ready to scale the wall and go back through our hole in the ceiling, we discovered that the door was only locked on the outside, some kind of fire law I guess. This made our exit much easier. We replaced the ceiling tiles, took few pairs of surgical gloves and turned off the lights as we walked out the door. We then slowly made our way down the back stairs and out the building.
We got home and went to work on our first batch.
Coming Soon...
Part 3: The Big Bang
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Frictional Impact Explosives
When I was a junior in college my brother was working his way through seminary. During his seminary career my brother had many different jobs. I didn’t say “odd” jobs, but I assure you they were.
I don’t know exactly how he found the job at some kind of book shipping warehouse and I don’t even care. This warehouse had hundreds of different books, all waiting to be boxed up and shipped, but the only one I know about is a small eight to ten page pamphlet called, Frictional Impact Explosives.
My roommate Dan and I had spent more time and money on different kind of fireworks throughout our college years than we should have. We had even gone so far as to make some of our own, but when the Frictional Impact Explosives pamphlet arrived at our door we were as giddy as schoolgirls on prom night and couldn’t wait to get started.
Our giddiness, however, soon turned to depression as we realized that two of the four ingredients needed to make these little goodies were not easily available to the general public. The two easily attainable ingredients were water and rice. (The rice was simply used as an absorbing agent for the water) We already had an abundance of both of these items at our house. The other two were chemicals, whose names I can’t remember, but wouldn’t publish here if I could, were going to be a little bit harder to get our hands on.
Neither of us were science majors, but we had both been in and around the science building enough to know the general layout of the building. There were four science lab classrooms on the second floor. This part of the building has a long hall going east and west on the north side of the building and a matching hall on the south side of the building. Between these two halls were the four science lab classrooms, two on the north side and two on the south side. Smashed between the two north classes and the two south classes, like the cream filling in an Oreo, was a chemical storage room that ran the length of the rooms. Although we had never seen inside the chemical storage room, we knew it the answer to our frictional impact quandary.
At this point we had two big problems to solve.
One: How do we get into the science building after dark?
Two: After we are in the science building, how do we get through the locked classroom doors and the locked chemical storage room doors?
As for getting in the building, that didn’t take us long. Using a game of night disk golf for cover, we circled the building in search for its weak link. What we found was a lone window that was semi-secluded in a kind of sunken atrium area that was designed as a kind of professor’s lunch/smoking area.
The atrium was on the back of the building, shaded by trees and unlit at night. This window wasn’t like the rest of the windows on the first floor. This window had shaded glass like you would see on a shower door. If this were in fact a bathroom window, then it would be easy to get in and unlock the window during the day. We marked this window as a possible bathroom window on our map of the building, scouted the rest of the building and finished our disk golf game.
The next day we went into building, found the bathroom and unlocked the window. It was beginning to seem like child’s play as our frictional impact dreams took one giant step towards fruition.
That night we set our alarm clocks for 3:00 am. We dressed in camouflage and black, and snuck in science building through the bathroom window. We slowly made our way up to the science lab classrooms and were pleasantly surprised to find the classroom doors unlocked. However, just as we suspected, all four doors to the chemical storage room were locked tight.
Working around cars as much as I had in my life, I had used clothes hangers and even a special tool I’d made to jimmy locked car doors to free stranded keys for friends. But these bad-boys were locked tight. We tried everything we could think, but it quickly became apparent that our frictional impact dreams were behind locked doors.
Or so it seemed…
A few days later, I was sitting in class when I noticed something about the ceiling. It was one of those ceilings with the big white square ceiling tiles. You know the ones, every school, of every district, of every city, of every state has the exact same ones. What grabbed my attention on this particular day was a missing tile. Now a missing tile in the ceiling of a classroom was nothing new, except that this particular tile just happened to be right next to the wall.
Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole and dropping down onto the other side.
Our chemical storage room problem was solved!
Coming Soon…
Part 2: Up and Over
I don’t know exactly how he found the job at some kind of book shipping warehouse and I don’t even care. This warehouse had hundreds of different books, all waiting to be boxed up and shipped, but the only one I know about is a small eight to ten page pamphlet called, Frictional Impact Explosives.
My roommate Dan and I had spent more time and money on different kind of fireworks throughout our college years than we should have. We had even gone so far as to make some of our own, but when the Frictional Impact Explosives pamphlet arrived at our door we were as giddy as schoolgirls on prom night and couldn’t wait to get started.
Our giddiness, however, soon turned to depression as we realized that two of the four ingredients needed to make these little goodies were not easily available to the general public. The two easily attainable ingredients were water and rice. (The rice was simply used as an absorbing agent for the water) We already had an abundance of both of these items at our house. The other two were chemicals, whose names I can’t remember, but wouldn’t publish here if I could, were going to be a little bit harder to get our hands on.
Neither of us were science majors, but we had both been in and around the science building enough to know the general layout of the building. There were four science lab classrooms on the second floor. This part of the building has a long hall going east and west on the north side of the building and a matching hall on the south side of the building. Between these two halls were the four science lab classrooms, two on the north side and two on the south side. Smashed between the two north classes and the two south classes, like the cream filling in an Oreo, was a chemical storage room that ran the length of the rooms. Although we had never seen inside the chemical storage room, we knew it the answer to our frictional impact quandary.
At this point we had two big problems to solve.
One: How do we get into the science building after dark?
Two: After we are in the science building, how do we get through the locked classroom doors and the locked chemical storage room doors?
As for getting in the building, that didn’t take us long. Using a game of night disk golf for cover, we circled the building in search for its weak link. What we found was a lone window that was semi-secluded in a kind of sunken atrium area that was designed as a kind of professor’s lunch/smoking area.
The atrium was on the back of the building, shaded by trees and unlit at night. This window wasn’t like the rest of the windows on the first floor. This window had shaded glass like you would see on a shower door. If this were in fact a bathroom window, then it would be easy to get in and unlock the window during the day. We marked this window as a possible bathroom window on our map of the building, scouted the rest of the building and finished our disk golf game.
The next day we went into building, found the bathroom and unlocked the window. It was beginning to seem like child’s play as our frictional impact dreams took one giant step towards fruition.
That night we set our alarm clocks for 3:00 am. We dressed in camouflage and black, and snuck in science building through the bathroom window. We slowly made our way up to the science lab classrooms and were pleasantly surprised to find the classroom doors unlocked. However, just as we suspected, all four doors to the chemical storage room were locked tight.
Working around cars as much as I had in my life, I had used clothes hangers and even a special tool I’d made to jimmy locked car doors to free stranded keys for friends. But these bad-boys were locked tight. We tried everything we could think, but it quickly became apparent that our frictional impact dreams were behind locked doors.
Or so it seemed…
A few days later, I was sitting in class when I noticed something about the ceiling. It was one of those ceilings with the big white square ceiling tiles. You know the ones, every school, of every district, of every city, of every state has the exact same ones. What grabbed my attention on this particular day was a missing tile. Now a missing tile in the ceiling of a classroom was nothing new, except that this particular tile just happened to be right next to the wall.
Undistracted by the monotone voice of my American History professor, I stared up through the space left by the missing tile and was intrigued by the fact that the wall stopped only inches above the tiles. I quickly deduced that, if I were so inclined, there was nothing to prevent me from climbing through the hole and dropping down onto the other side.
Our chemical storage room problem was solved!
Coming Soon…
Part 2: Up and Over
Monday, January 10, 2005
I Teach Therefore I am
I Teach Therefore I Am
Is what the bumper sticker said
I hit the gas and caught
A stupid grin on vacant head
I punched it and sped on
Wondering, now what’s the world to do?
When people like that teach
No wonder children’s brains are goo
As I’d tell my friends of him
His glassy stare and gaze I’d mock
We’d laugh and then discuss
How education’s such a crock
It’s been maybe fifteen years now
Since I read that bumper sticker
Sometimes I think about that day
And then I shake my head and snicker
Life plays these little games
And then reality says “WHAM”
The truth, it hits me like a brick
I Teach Therefore I Am…
Is what the bumper sticker said
I hit the gas and caught
A stupid grin on vacant head
I punched it and sped on
Wondering, now what’s the world to do?
When people like that teach
No wonder children’s brains are goo
As I’d tell my friends of him
His glassy stare and gaze I’d mock
We’d laugh and then discuss
How education’s such a crock
It’s been maybe fifteen years now
Since I read that bumper sticker
Sometimes I think about that day
And then I shake my head and snicker
Life plays these little games
And then reality says “WHAM”
The truth, it hits me like a brick
I Teach Therefore I Am…
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Back to School Blues
I don’t know what it is about going back to school after the Christmas break that makes it hard.
It could be that you go away tired, get a little rest, but return before your body and mind have really had time to heal. It could be that your students, being younger, have all the time they need to rebuild their bodies and minds, and they come back expecting you to feel just as refreshed as they do. It could be the fact that you have just enough time away from the kids that you let your guard down, so your first few days back are like a sucker punch to the gut. Or it could just be that your 40-year-old body is feeling its age…nah, that couldn't be it.
Anyway, whatever the reason, I, along with several of my peers, have had a hard time getting our teaching engines started and back in gear this year.
Now this wouldn’t be so bad if it only affected my school life. However, mine is a complicated interrelated factory. If production stops or even slows down in one area of life’s factory, all the areas of my life grind to a sudden halt.
I realized today that I’ve been neglecting my blog. I enjoy writing, but there are times when it has to take a backseat to, well, everything.
I’ll post something ASAP.
Thanks
Hugh
It could be that you go away tired, get a little rest, but return before your body and mind have really had time to heal. It could be that your students, being younger, have all the time they need to rebuild their bodies and minds, and they come back expecting you to feel just as refreshed as they do. It could be the fact that you have just enough time away from the kids that you let your guard down, so your first few days back are like a sucker punch to the gut. Or it could just be that your 40-year-old body is feeling its age…nah, that couldn't be it.
Anyway, whatever the reason, I, along with several of my peers, have had a hard time getting our teaching engines started and back in gear this year.
Now this wouldn’t be so bad if it only affected my school life. However, mine is a complicated interrelated factory. If production stops or even slows down in one area of life’s factory, all the areas of my life grind to a sudden halt.
I realized today that I’ve been neglecting my blog. I enjoy writing, but there are times when it has to take a backseat to, well, everything.
I’ll post something ASAP.
Thanks
Hugh
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
New Car
In the 24 years that I have been driving I’ve owned, and co-owned ten cars. My first has always been my favorite, and she was a 1974 Chevrolet Camaro, and I bought her in 1981. I loved driving my Camaro, and any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. In 1983 Chevrolet came out with Camaro’s third body style and, in my opinion, the Camaro has never been the same. However, Chevy may still pull a classic Camaro shaped rabbit out of its hat one of these days. Who knows?
I’ve never owned a vehicle that even came close to bringing me the joy that my Camaro did. Maybe it was the first car mystique. Maybe it was the 350 cubic inches with the Holly 4 bbl carburetor. Maybe it was the rear tires that would burn rubber and smoke with only a mere tap on the accelerator. (A fact that caused me to purchase more than my fair share of tires for that baby) Whatever the reason, I really enjoyed just being behind the wheel and driving somewhere…anywhere, it didn’t matter why and I didn’t care. A joy that I have never experienced since.
I wrecked my Camaro in 1983, two days before graduating from high school. My first love gone, I was sure I’d never enjoy driving the same way again.
Monday, December 27, 2004 was driving’s first real spark for me in 21 years. With the help of my father-in-law, who is possibly the world’s best car shopper, I purchased a 2005 Chevrolet Trailblazer, and while I’ve owned about eight cars since my beloved Camaro, she is only my second true auto love.
When I climb behind the wheel I’m magically transported back to a time when any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. There’s no first car mystique, no 350 cubic inches, no 4 bbl carburetor and certainly no smoking tires, but the feeling’s back all the same.
It’s been a long time, but I think I’d better head to the store for a Coke or some Tic-Tacs, or whatever. There’s bound to be something at the store I really need.
Maybe I’ll figure it out on the way.
I’ve never owned a vehicle that even came close to bringing me the joy that my Camaro did. Maybe it was the first car mystique. Maybe it was the 350 cubic inches with the Holly 4 bbl carburetor. Maybe it was the rear tires that would burn rubber and smoke with only a mere tap on the accelerator. (A fact that caused me to purchase more than my fair share of tires for that baby) Whatever the reason, I really enjoyed just being behind the wheel and driving somewhere…anywhere, it didn’t matter why and I didn’t care. A joy that I have never experienced since.
I wrecked my Camaro in 1983, two days before graduating from high school. My first love gone, I was sure I’d never enjoy driving the same way again.
Monday, December 27, 2004 was driving’s first real spark for me in 21 years. With the help of my father-in-law, who is possibly the world’s best car shopper, I purchased a 2005 Chevrolet Trailblazer, and while I’ve owned about eight cars since my beloved Camaro, she is only my second true auto love.
When I climb behind the wheel I’m magically transported back to a time when any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. There’s no first car mystique, no 350 cubic inches, no 4 bbl carburetor and certainly no smoking tires, but the feeling’s back all the same.
It’s been a long time, but I think I’d better head to the store for a Coke or some Tic-Tacs, or whatever. There’s bound to be something at the store I really need.
Maybe I’ll figure it out on the way.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Dirk the Jerk
My wife asked me why all my stories and poems had to be so dark and violent. I really wasn’t even aware that they all seemed to be flowing in that direction. So I set out to change things…and the result was 'Dirk the Jerk.'
Dirk the Jerk
There’s a boy at my school and his name is Dirk,
And there’s a good reason his name rhymes with jerk
Almost every morning, he punches me hard,
And because I’m not skinny, he calls me “Fat Lard”
At recess, it’s kick ball on almost all days,
Dirk goofs up our games in lots of mean ways
One day, he ran over and stole my new ball,
And laughed as he booted it over the wall
Next, Dirk came out early and stole all the bases,
Then stood back and laughed while making mean faces
Lunchtime for the jerk is especially fun,
He poured chocolate milk on my hamburger bun
Sitting down without looking was one big mistake,
Cause stuck to my pants, was the Jerk’s piece of cake
I decided I that would watch out from now on,
That the days of Dirk picking on me were all gone
So the next day, at recess I hid in the trees,
I squatted real low and got down on my knees
I thought, “I’ll watch for Dirk and see where he’s playing
Then far, far from Dirk and his friends I’ll be staying”
You couldn’t miss Dirk as he bolted outside,
I was so very glad I’d decided to hide
At first, I saw just what I thought that I would,
Dirk running around being up to no good
Then suddenly, truth, it became crystal clear,
And of Dirk the jerk, I no longer had fear
I watched Dirk pick on kids and oh, there were many,
But as for Dirk’s friends, well, he didn’t have any
I watched Dirk all recess, though it wasn’t fun,
When it ended, I knew something had to be done
If I didn't have friends, I just might be mean too,
So I gave it some thought and I knew what to do
The very next day, I picked Dirk for my team,
I just smiled as, “NOT HIM!” I heard everyone scream
Dirk played the whole game and we all had a blast,
When the recess bell rang, Dirk came over at last
And he seemed really sad that our fun had to end,
But his smile said it all…cause now Dirk has a friend
Dirk the Jerk
There’s a boy at my school and his name is Dirk,
And there’s a good reason his name rhymes with jerk
Almost every morning, he punches me hard,
And because I’m not skinny, he calls me “Fat Lard”
At recess, it’s kick ball on almost all days,
Dirk goofs up our games in lots of mean ways
One day, he ran over and stole my new ball,
And laughed as he booted it over the wall
Next, Dirk came out early and stole all the bases,
Then stood back and laughed while making mean faces
Lunchtime for the jerk is especially fun,
He poured chocolate milk on my hamburger bun
Sitting down without looking was one big mistake,
Cause stuck to my pants, was the Jerk’s piece of cake
I decided I that would watch out from now on,
That the days of Dirk picking on me were all gone
So the next day, at recess I hid in the trees,
I squatted real low and got down on my knees
I thought, “I’ll watch for Dirk and see where he’s playing
Then far, far from Dirk and his friends I’ll be staying”
You couldn’t miss Dirk as he bolted outside,
I was so very glad I’d decided to hide
At first, I saw just what I thought that I would,
Dirk running around being up to no good
Then suddenly, truth, it became crystal clear,
And of Dirk the jerk, I no longer had fear
I watched Dirk pick on kids and oh, there were many,
But as for Dirk’s friends, well, he didn’t have any
I watched Dirk all recess, though it wasn’t fun,
When it ended, I knew something had to be done
If I didn't have friends, I just might be mean too,
So I gave it some thought and I knew what to do
The very next day, I picked Dirk for my team,
I just smiled as, “NOT HIM!” I heard everyone scream
Dirk played the whole game and we all had a blast,
When the recess bell rang, Dirk came over at last
And he seemed really sad that our fun had to end,
But his smile said it all…cause now Dirk has a friend
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Go-Cart Memories
Every boy deserves to have an uncle who’s bigger than life. An uncle who rides wheelies on motorcycles. An uncle who drives a racecar and has a room full of trophies to prove it. An uncle who can build anything. An uncle who dreams big and makes those dreams come true.
For me that was Uncle Van Ray. Uncle Van Ray is my mother’s younger brother and he did all those things and more. He lived near my grandparents so going to see them meant going to see him. A fact that made the almost 15 hour drive from El Paso to Livingston (northeast of Houston) a little bit easier for a young boy to handle.
It was always fun to discover the latest incredible invention or project Uncle Van Ray was working on. In many ways it was like having Caractacus Potts, the dad from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, for an uncle. Except that Uncle Van Ray’s inventions worked.
Some of the larger-than-life things I remember Uncle Van Ray building are: a racecar, a jeep, countless deer hunting stands, both battery and solar powered deer feeders, remote control racecars (I mean he designed and built the whole car), a racetrack for driving the remote control cars on and of course my go-cart.
I was in about the fifth grade when Uncle Van Ray invited me to come to his house and build a go-cart. For me, this was a dream come true. Not only did I get to spend a couple of weeks with this man whose life and abilities seemed magical to me, but I got to work right along side him and bring home a go-cart. It was a win, win, win situation.
I had always been in awe of, as well as a little afraid of, Uncle Van Ray’s shop. To a wide-eyed, young, impressionable boy with a love of anything mechanical, it’s metal walls and massive awnings only added mystery to it’s already haunted castle appearance.
Before this invitation, I had only managed to sneak the occasional glimpse into this, the Disney World of workshops. This time, my trip to the Mechanical Magic Kingdom would be much more than a few stolen glances as the massive doors slid closed, I would be working side by side with Walt himself. I was more than just a spectator, I was in the game.
Inside his workshop, there were more power tools than I had ever dreamed of before. Along with a huge assortment of toolboxes, workbenches, and every sort of mechanical “do-dad” you could imagine hanging on the walls. The main room housed several different sizes and kinds of floor saws, drill presses, a metal lathe, a welder, a cutting torch, and a couple of machines I had never heard of.
The back room had my uncle’s collection of wood and metal salvaged from who knows where that he used to create his incredible inventions. At different times throughout the go-cart building adventure, Uncle Van Ray would disappear into the back room and emerge with an odd assortment of metal pieces that he would craft into some specialized element for one of the go-cart’s intricate parts.
I arrived to find the basic frame of the go-cart already welded together. The raw, tarnished metal lay flat on the floor and we got to work measuring and marking the various pieces that we needed.
During the day, while Uncle Van Ray was at work, my grandfather and I would fish, run errands and organize the materials for the evenings visit to the go-cart factory. We didn’t do much, if any, of the work until Uncle Van Ray got home.
I don’t remember there being any kind of blueprints or plans for the go-cart, but I’m sure there were. Even if my uncle only had them in his head, which I doubt, I can only imagine how detailed they must have been.
This was the 1970’s. The only go-carts my friends or I had ever seen were the ones with a 3-horse power engine and six-inch diameter lawn mower wheels. While they looked fun, they were nothing compared to the monster go-cart we built.
It was huge. It had a chrome steering wheel with black cushioned handgrips, a roll bar, a 5-horse power engine, and 13-inch diameter off-road tires. We painted it metallic blue and it looked more like a miniature racecar than a go-cart.
Time and a head injury have erased many of my memories of those days, but I’ll never forget my first ride on that go-cart. Uncle Van Ray pushed me out of the workshop onto the awning-covered carport and the engine roared to life with only a single pull. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I hit the gas and made a 300-yard blurry blue loop around my grandfather’s house and back up to the workshop.
After I got back we cleaned up the workshop, but I couldn’t get my mind or my eyes off my new toy. After what felt like a lifetime, but was really only about five minutes, Uncle Van Ray told me I’d better go make sure she was still running right. For the next two days that go-cart only stopped if it got dark, or I really had to go to the bathroom.
I had never spent that much one-on-one time with Uncle Van Ray before this go-cart adventure and I really never have since. I’m not sure that Uncle Van Ray was prepared for the number of questions I had about everything. And I had a million. But Uncle Van Ray took the time to make his nephew’s dreams come true and, possibly unknowingly, sparked a kind of mechanical "Do-it-your-selfism" in the life of a young boy.
He taught me how to see a completed project from the beginning and then build what you see, a skill I would pull off the shelf and use countless times throughout my life.
I like to believe I taught him a thing or two about relating to a young boy, a skill he would pull off the shelf and use years later when his grandsons was born. At least that’s what I like to believe.
I still have that go-cart, although it has gone to live with my cousin and his two boys down on their few acres near Waco. I’m sure Blue loves his new foster family and I have an open invitation to come ride whenever I want.
Just like in the old days, I look forward to driving at full throttle until I run out of gas, or really have to go to the bathroom, whichever comes first. Maybe I’ll do just that next summer.
Thanks Uncle Van Ray for being wild, being crazy, and being creative. But most of all, thanks for making a difference in the life of your young nephew.
For me that was Uncle Van Ray. Uncle Van Ray is my mother’s younger brother and he did all those things and more. He lived near my grandparents so going to see them meant going to see him. A fact that made the almost 15 hour drive from El Paso to Livingston (northeast of Houston) a little bit easier for a young boy to handle.
It was always fun to discover the latest incredible invention or project Uncle Van Ray was working on. In many ways it was like having Caractacus Potts, the dad from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, for an uncle. Except that Uncle Van Ray’s inventions worked.
Some of the larger-than-life things I remember Uncle Van Ray building are: a racecar, a jeep, countless deer hunting stands, both battery and solar powered deer feeders, remote control racecars (I mean he designed and built the whole car), a racetrack for driving the remote control cars on and of course my go-cart.
I was in about the fifth grade when Uncle Van Ray invited me to come to his house and build a go-cart. For me, this was a dream come true. Not only did I get to spend a couple of weeks with this man whose life and abilities seemed magical to me, but I got to work right along side him and bring home a go-cart. It was a win, win, win situation.
I had always been in awe of, as well as a little afraid of, Uncle Van Ray’s shop. To a wide-eyed, young, impressionable boy with a love of anything mechanical, it’s metal walls and massive awnings only added mystery to it’s already haunted castle appearance.
Before this invitation, I had only managed to sneak the occasional glimpse into this, the Disney World of workshops. This time, my trip to the Mechanical Magic Kingdom would be much more than a few stolen glances as the massive doors slid closed, I would be working side by side with Walt himself. I was more than just a spectator, I was in the game.
Inside his workshop, there were more power tools than I had ever dreamed of before. Along with a huge assortment of toolboxes, workbenches, and every sort of mechanical “do-dad” you could imagine hanging on the walls. The main room housed several different sizes and kinds of floor saws, drill presses, a metal lathe, a welder, a cutting torch, and a couple of machines I had never heard of.
The back room had my uncle’s collection of wood and metal salvaged from who knows where that he used to create his incredible inventions. At different times throughout the go-cart building adventure, Uncle Van Ray would disappear into the back room and emerge with an odd assortment of metal pieces that he would craft into some specialized element for one of the go-cart’s intricate parts.
I arrived to find the basic frame of the go-cart already welded together. The raw, tarnished metal lay flat on the floor and we got to work measuring and marking the various pieces that we needed.
During the day, while Uncle Van Ray was at work, my grandfather and I would fish, run errands and organize the materials for the evenings visit to the go-cart factory. We didn’t do much, if any, of the work until Uncle Van Ray got home.
I don’t remember there being any kind of blueprints or plans for the go-cart, but I’m sure there were. Even if my uncle only had them in his head, which I doubt, I can only imagine how detailed they must have been.
This was the 1970’s. The only go-carts my friends or I had ever seen were the ones with a 3-horse power engine and six-inch diameter lawn mower wheels. While they looked fun, they were nothing compared to the monster go-cart we built.
It was huge. It had a chrome steering wheel with black cushioned handgrips, a roll bar, a 5-horse power engine, and 13-inch diameter off-road tires. We painted it metallic blue and it looked more like a miniature racecar than a go-cart.
Time and a head injury have erased many of my memories of those days, but I’ll never forget my first ride on that go-cart. Uncle Van Ray pushed me out of the workshop onto the awning-covered carport and the engine roared to life with only a single pull. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I hit the gas and made a 300-yard blurry blue loop around my grandfather’s house and back up to the workshop.
After I got back we cleaned up the workshop, but I couldn’t get my mind or my eyes off my new toy. After what felt like a lifetime, but was really only about five minutes, Uncle Van Ray told me I’d better go make sure she was still running right. For the next two days that go-cart only stopped if it got dark, or I really had to go to the bathroom.
I had never spent that much one-on-one time with Uncle Van Ray before this go-cart adventure and I really never have since. I’m not sure that Uncle Van Ray was prepared for the number of questions I had about everything. And I had a million. But Uncle Van Ray took the time to make his nephew’s dreams come true and, possibly unknowingly, sparked a kind of mechanical "Do-it-your-selfism" in the life of a young boy.
He taught me how to see a completed project from the beginning and then build what you see, a skill I would pull off the shelf and use countless times throughout my life.
I like to believe I taught him a thing or two about relating to a young boy, a skill he would pull off the shelf and use years later when his grandsons was born. At least that’s what I like to believe.
I still have that go-cart, although it has gone to live with my cousin and his two boys down on their few acres near Waco. I’m sure Blue loves his new foster family and I have an open invitation to come ride whenever I want.
Just like in the old days, I look forward to driving at full throttle until I run out of gas, or really have to go to the bathroom, whichever comes first. Maybe I’ll do just that next summer.
Thanks Uncle Van Ray for being wild, being crazy, and being creative. But most of all, thanks for making a difference in the life of your young nephew.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Writer's Frustration
I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
It doesn’t care if I ever rhyme again
Rhyming is fun
And fun suggests enjoyment
And this isn’t enjoyment
This is therapy
Therapy is hard work
Hard work is something you endure
But to endure it takes desire
I’m not sure if I desire to endure
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
It doesn’t care if I ever rhyme again
Rhyming is fun
And fun suggests enjoyment
And this isn’t enjoyment
This is therapy
Therapy is hard work
Hard work is something you endure
But to endure it takes desire
I’m not sure if I desire to endure
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Slot Cars and Air Compressors
In life, there are some things that just come naturally. For me these have always been the mechanical type things. I spent hours as a child taking apart and rebuilding my toys, especially the electronic kind. I think I was kind of like that kid that lived next door to Woody and Buzz in the movie Toy Story, but without the explosives.
My personal favorite was my slot car track. I quickly discovered that I could not only take apart and rearrange the track, but the cars as well. My slot car inventory was organized into three distinct groups, each securely kept in it’s own plastic Parkay butter bowl garage/workshop.
· Group 1: New Cars – These were the cars (usually not more that two at any one time) that I still liked the way they were. I left these alone, because didn’t want to take the chance of messing up a good thing.
· Group 2: Redesigned Cars – These were all the cars that I had owned long enough to get bored with. I would take them apart, mix and match the pieces and by some twist of fate, get them to run again. A few of these cars were now actually faster than before, but more often than not they ran slow and pretty rough.
· Group 3: The Parts Pile – This was all the extra tires, magnets, connectors, plastic body shells, and all the other leftover pieces that did not yet have a place among my collection of Redesigned Cars. It always seemed odd to me that while the first two groups stayed pretty much the same size this group was forever growing.
These days I don’t have a slot car track, but I still have a love of, as well as my knack for, anything mechanical. That’s why a couple of years ago I asked for an air compressor for Christmas.
"What in the world does he want with an air compressor?” This was the reply from my father-in-law.
In my mind I had, and still have, visions of spectacular woodworking projects that I could accomplish if I only had a tool as compact and versatile as an air compressor. Not to mention the plethora of auto and household types of maintenance and chores that could quite obviously be completed much more quickly and easily.
Quickly sensing that mine was an uphill battle, I seized each and every opportunity I had to enlighten the unbelievers in my family and help them see the benefits of my owning what I had begun referring to as, ‘The Mother of all Power Tools.’
But Christmas came and there was no air compressor shaped package under the tree.
A little disheartened, but not defeated, I set my sights on the following Christmas. And this time I had a full year to educate and lure supporters from the dark side of the power tool force.
After a year of some subtle and some not so subtle hint dropping I not only got my air compressor, but two nail guns to boot.
We’re going on one year of life with an air compressor and while it’s come in handy for countless repairs around the house, so far I’ve only actually used the compressor and nail guns to build one thing…a stand for the air compressor itself to set upon.
This is no rinky-dink, scrap wood stand that I hastily threw together one day after downing a few brews. Oh no, I used a t-square and all my high school mechanical drawing knowledge to draft the top, front, and right side views. I had all the measurements and knew exactly how much lumber to buy. For structural stability, as well as storage, I added a shelf on the bottom to hold my nail guns. It has a drawer to hold all the different blower attachments and a hook on the side for coiling the air hose. I even designed the top with a set of three 45-degree corner mounts to secure the compressor’s tripod stand. Then I primed it and painted it flat black.
It’s very nice. In fact, it’s so nice that my father, who got an air compressor about the same time I got mine, had me help him build one. My Dad’s, not being the prototype, actually turned out a little bit better than mine.
I’m not sure what became of my slot car wrecking yard. However, it’s not hard to imagine how three butter bowls filled with an odd assortment of car parts could have been confused with unwanted junk and tossed into the trash pile by mistake. It probably happened long after I had left home.
However, as I put the finishing touches on my compressor stand, stood back to inspect my work and couldn’t help but think about that little boy who spent all those hours with his slot car track.
In some ways I’m still that same little boy who dismantled all those slot cars, only now my toys are bigger and come equipped with two nail guns.
I had planned to attach a picture of the compressor stand, but I haven't had the time to figure out how to do that yet. I'll post the picture later.
My personal favorite was my slot car track. I quickly discovered that I could not only take apart and rearrange the track, but the cars as well. My slot car inventory was organized into three distinct groups, each securely kept in it’s own plastic Parkay butter bowl garage/workshop.
· Group 1: New Cars – These were the cars (usually not more that two at any one time) that I still liked the way they were. I left these alone, because didn’t want to take the chance of messing up a good thing.
· Group 2: Redesigned Cars – These were all the cars that I had owned long enough to get bored with. I would take them apart, mix and match the pieces and by some twist of fate, get them to run again. A few of these cars were now actually faster than before, but more often than not they ran slow and pretty rough.
· Group 3: The Parts Pile – This was all the extra tires, magnets, connectors, plastic body shells, and all the other leftover pieces that did not yet have a place among my collection of Redesigned Cars. It always seemed odd to me that while the first two groups stayed pretty much the same size this group was forever growing.
These days I don’t have a slot car track, but I still have a love of, as well as my knack for, anything mechanical. That’s why a couple of years ago I asked for an air compressor for Christmas.
"What in the world does he want with an air compressor?” This was the reply from my father-in-law.
In my mind I had, and still have, visions of spectacular woodworking projects that I could accomplish if I only had a tool as compact and versatile as an air compressor. Not to mention the plethora of auto and household types of maintenance and chores that could quite obviously be completed much more quickly and easily.
Quickly sensing that mine was an uphill battle, I seized each and every opportunity I had to enlighten the unbelievers in my family and help them see the benefits of my owning what I had begun referring to as, ‘The Mother of all Power Tools.’
But Christmas came and there was no air compressor shaped package under the tree.
A little disheartened, but not defeated, I set my sights on the following Christmas. And this time I had a full year to educate and lure supporters from the dark side of the power tool force.
After a year of some subtle and some not so subtle hint dropping I not only got my air compressor, but two nail guns to boot.
We’re going on one year of life with an air compressor and while it’s come in handy for countless repairs around the house, so far I’ve only actually used the compressor and nail guns to build one thing…a stand for the air compressor itself to set upon.
This is no rinky-dink, scrap wood stand that I hastily threw together one day after downing a few brews. Oh no, I used a t-square and all my high school mechanical drawing knowledge to draft the top, front, and right side views. I had all the measurements and knew exactly how much lumber to buy. For structural stability, as well as storage, I added a shelf on the bottom to hold my nail guns. It has a drawer to hold all the different blower attachments and a hook on the side for coiling the air hose. I even designed the top with a set of three 45-degree corner mounts to secure the compressor’s tripod stand. Then I primed it and painted it flat black.
It’s very nice. In fact, it’s so nice that my father, who got an air compressor about the same time I got mine, had me help him build one. My Dad’s, not being the prototype, actually turned out a little bit better than mine.
I’m not sure what became of my slot car wrecking yard. However, it’s not hard to imagine how three butter bowls filled with an odd assortment of car parts could have been confused with unwanted junk and tossed into the trash pile by mistake. It probably happened long after I had left home.
However, as I put the finishing touches on my compressor stand, stood back to inspect my work and couldn’t help but think about that little boy who spent all those hours with his slot car track.
In some ways I’m still that same little boy who dismantled all those slot cars, only now my toys are bigger and come equipped with two nail guns.
I had planned to attach a picture of the compressor stand, but I haven't had the time to figure out how to do that yet. I'll post the picture later.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Bear's Lesson
I started writing children’s picture stories a few years ago after attending a district required reading staff development. At one point during the class, our instructor read us a story similar to this. I don’t remember exactly what the point was for reading this book. Some lesson idea, I suppose. I don’t even remember the title.
Anyway, the story was about a wolf who comes across some barnyard animals that are reading. The animals end up teaching the wolf to read, they all become friends and live happily ever after.
I heard the story and I was very disappointed. You see, I felt that the story should have had a much different ending. I went straight home and wrote my first rhyming children's picture story. However, seeing as I can’t draw anything more than stick people and I don’t even do that very well, you’ll have to create the pictures in your mind.
Enjoy
Bear's Lesson
I know of a sheep, a chicken and pig,
When I met these guys, my life it changed big
You see, I’m a bear and what I have to say,
Is I eat all these creatures on most every day
The problem begins with me walking along,
When all of a sudden, I heard a strange song
The music was odd, though it had a good beat,
And the voices I heard, to my ears, were a treat
Then I saw it, a kind of old broken down shack,
It was three shades of red with a wobbly smoke stack
Quick up to the window, I did softly creep,
The first thing I saw was this rather large sheep
I sat there just dreaming of having sheep stew,
When a squatty, plump pig waddled into my view
Well now the night’s meal was almost complete
I’d have mutton stew, then the other white meat
But nothing compares to me seeing the chicken,
I became Pavlov’s dog, as my chops I was lickin’
Without thinking longer, I knocked down the door,
I raised both my arms and let out a loud, “ROAR!”
In the past, well, each roar was just loads of fun,
Cause all over the place my new dinner would run
I’d have a real blast chasing down the night’s feast,
And I wouldn’t stop ‘til I’d gulped down each beast
But these new taste treats didn’t follow that rule,
I stood with arms raised, feeling much like a fool
My actions, it seemed, they had one small hitch,
Pig said, “My good fellow, your roar was off pitch”
Pig showed me a seat, and bewildered I sat,
When sheep spoke up and said, “Not to mention, you’re flat”
“We could give you lessons,” the nice chicken said,
I smiled really big and nodded my head
I went to that shack for six weeks, twice a day,
For they taught about music in more that one way
I learned that I sing in what’s known as bass,
That’s why, when I roar, it shakes up the place
My teachers, they said that for me solo’s best,
For I tend to be loud and drown out all the rest
And that’s when the lesson I’d learned, it hit big,
I had three new friends…sheep, chicken and pig
See, they didn’t think that I was all scary,
Just because I am loud, big, mean and hairy
No, they took the time to help out a bear,
The fact is, we’re different, but they didn’t care
So when my last lesson had come to an end,
I stuck out my paw and said “Bye” to each friend
I turned to the door, but then I looked back,
And grabbed that fat chicken for a last good-bye snack
Sheep and pig stared in fear as I started to chew,
Coughing feathers, I said, “Guys, it's just what bears do”
Anyway, the story was about a wolf who comes across some barnyard animals that are reading. The animals end up teaching the wolf to read, they all become friends and live happily ever after.
I heard the story and I was very disappointed. You see, I felt that the story should have had a much different ending. I went straight home and wrote my first rhyming children's picture story. However, seeing as I can’t draw anything more than stick people and I don’t even do that very well, you’ll have to create the pictures in your mind.
Enjoy
Bear's Lesson
I know of a sheep, a chicken and pig,
When I met these guys, my life it changed big
You see, I’m a bear and what I have to say,
Is I eat all these creatures on most every day
The problem begins with me walking along,
When all of a sudden, I heard a strange song
The music was odd, though it had a good beat,
And the voices I heard, to my ears, were a treat
Then I saw it, a kind of old broken down shack,
It was three shades of red with a wobbly smoke stack
Quick up to the window, I did softly creep,
The first thing I saw was this rather large sheep
I sat there just dreaming of having sheep stew,
When a squatty, plump pig waddled into my view
Well now the night’s meal was almost complete
I’d have mutton stew, then the other white meat
But nothing compares to me seeing the chicken,
I became Pavlov’s dog, as my chops I was lickin’
Without thinking longer, I knocked down the door,
I raised both my arms and let out a loud, “ROAR!”
In the past, well, each roar was just loads of fun,
Cause all over the place my new dinner would run
I’d have a real blast chasing down the night’s feast,
And I wouldn’t stop ‘til I’d gulped down each beast
But these new taste treats didn’t follow that rule,
I stood with arms raised, feeling much like a fool
My actions, it seemed, they had one small hitch,
Pig said, “My good fellow, your roar was off pitch”
Pig showed me a seat, and bewildered I sat,
When sheep spoke up and said, “Not to mention, you’re flat”
“We could give you lessons,” the nice chicken said,
I smiled really big and nodded my head
I went to that shack for six weeks, twice a day,
For they taught about music in more that one way
I learned that I sing in what’s known as bass,
That’s why, when I roar, it shakes up the place
My teachers, they said that for me solo’s best,
For I tend to be loud and drown out all the rest
And that’s when the lesson I’d learned, it hit big,
I had three new friends…sheep, chicken and pig
See, they didn’t think that I was all scary,
Just because I am loud, big, mean and hairy
No, they took the time to help out a bear,
The fact is, we’re different, but they didn’t care
So when my last lesson had come to an end,
I stuck out my paw and said “Bye” to each friend
I turned to the door, but then I looked back,
And grabbed that fat chicken for a last good-bye snack
Sheep and pig stared in fear as I started to chew,
Coughing feathers, I said, “Guys, it's just what bears do”
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Strange Thought Box
I found a box
Inside my head
Where strange thoughts lurk
Until they’re said
It is a dark
And dreary place
Most thoughts in here
I should erase
It’s not a place
I often go
Strange thoughts
Are hard to overthrow
But there are times
I must admit
That in this box
I like to sit
I wallow in
The day’s dark mood
And find strange peace
In solitude
These thoughts you see
They aren’t all bad
The truth be known
Some make me glad
For they can do
The hardest task
My darkest fears
Sometimes they mask
This box I have
It is not new
Inside your head
You’ll find one too
Inside my head
Where strange thoughts lurk
Until they’re said
It is a dark
And dreary place
Most thoughts in here
I should erase
It’s not a place
I often go
Strange thoughts
Are hard to overthrow
But there are times
I must admit
That in this box
I like to sit
I wallow in
The day’s dark mood
And find strange peace
In solitude
These thoughts you see
They aren’t all bad
The truth be known
Some make me glad
For they can do
The hardest task
My darkest fears
Sometimes they mask
This box I have
It is not new
Inside your head
You’ll find one too
Friday, November 26, 2004
Sorry Big Bird
I think it was somewhere between second and third grade that I lost my fascination with Sesame Street. I don’t remember exactly what caused me to stop watching. Maybe I gave in to peer pressure, maybe I had other things to do. Maybe I just outgrew it. Who knows. For whatever reason I stopped watching Sesame Street until after I became a parent.
Being an elementary school teacher, I see hints most every day that Sesame Street is alive and doing well. Everything from the songs I hear students singing on the way to recess, to pictures of Elmo on t-shirts and lunchboxes.
However, by the time students get into third and fourth grade they’ve all but forgotten about the loveable cast from the PBS neighborhood, or simply changed channels to watch a flashy band of spacemen defeat unbelievable villains with the help of an amazing laser-light show and some wild pyrotechnics.
At least I thought they had forgotten.
My school is broken down into three student populations. We have Primary, which is kindergarten to second grade. Next is Intermediate, which is third and fourth grade. At the top of the food chain are the fifth and sixth graders known as Upper.
In case you haven’t been in a classroom since you were a student, school is different these days, at least in my classroom. We don’t have rows of desks with the teacher’s desk up at the front and a podium for the teacher to lecture behind. We have tables and chairs with students working in different locations all around the classroom at their own pace. And my school takes great pride in the very “Montessori-ish” way in which it runs.
Because of the way the school operates we don’t really have problems with kids passing notes in school. I mean why pass a note when you could just go over and talk to the person.
A few years ago when I taught in Upper, there was a young Upper teacher, Ms. G. She was fresh out of college, full of energy and very cute. She was a popular teacher at my school with students and faculty members alike, but it wasn’t hard to tell that her biggest fans were the fifth and sixth grade boys.
This was one of the few times in my entire teaching career I actually intercepted a note in mid pass. I was walking between the tables on my way to help a student, when a boy, who wasn’t trying to hide his actions at all, thrust a note across the aisle I was walking in without looking back. The boy he was trying so desperately to communicate with wasn’t really paying attention, so the note passers hand, along with the note, sat waving like a flag on a windy day.
I grabbed the note, shoved it in my pocket, told the boys to get back to work and went on to help the other student.
I was in the lounge for lunch when I stuck my hand in my pocket and found the note again. Curious to discover what piece of business was so important that it had to be discussed on a scrap of paper during class, I opened the note.
It said something like this:
- Did you see Ms. G. today?
- Yes I did! And I liked what I saw…A LOT!
(The next line changed the way I would see Sesame Street forever.)
- Thanks to her I’ve had a Big Bird all day!
I laughed as I read the note aloud to everyone in the lounge.
Then I shook my head and said, “Sorry Big Bird.”
Note: I never discussed the note with either boy. I'm sure they hope that I didn’t read the note and that it just got thrown away. And I wonder how long they watched for the sign. The sign that means the difference between a note that had been thoughtlessly cast aside and a note that had not only been read, but shown to Ms. G.
Those boys are in high school now and part of me hopes they still wonder about whatever happened to that note. I think about that day and laugh out loud…because so did Ms. G.
Being an elementary school teacher, I see hints most every day that Sesame Street is alive and doing well. Everything from the songs I hear students singing on the way to recess, to pictures of Elmo on t-shirts and lunchboxes.
However, by the time students get into third and fourth grade they’ve all but forgotten about the loveable cast from the PBS neighborhood, or simply changed channels to watch a flashy band of spacemen defeat unbelievable villains with the help of an amazing laser-light show and some wild pyrotechnics.
At least I thought they had forgotten.
My school is broken down into three student populations. We have Primary, which is kindergarten to second grade. Next is Intermediate, which is third and fourth grade. At the top of the food chain are the fifth and sixth graders known as Upper.
In case you haven’t been in a classroom since you were a student, school is different these days, at least in my classroom. We don’t have rows of desks with the teacher’s desk up at the front and a podium for the teacher to lecture behind. We have tables and chairs with students working in different locations all around the classroom at their own pace. And my school takes great pride in the very “Montessori-ish” way in which it runs.
Because of the way the school operates we don’t really have problems with kids passing notes in school. I mean why pass a note when you could just go over and talk to the person.
A few years ago when I taught in Upper, there was a young Upper teacher, Ms. G. She was fresh out of college, full of energy and very cute. She was a popular teacher at my school with students and faculty members alike, but it wasn’t hard to tell that her biggest fans were the fifth and sixth grade boys.
This was one of the few times in my entire teaching career I actually intercepted a note in mid pass. I was walking between the tables on my way to help a student, when a boy, who wasn’t trying to hide his actions at all, thrust a note across the aisle I was walking in without looking back. The boy he was trying so desperately to communicate with wasn’t really paying attention, so the note passers hand, along with the note, sat waving like a flag on a windy day.
I grabbed the note, shoved it in my pocket, told the boys to get back to work and went on to help the other student.
I was in the lounge for lunch when I stuck my hand in my pocket and found the note again. Curious to discover what piece of business was so important that it had to be discussed on a scrap of paper during class, I opened the note.
It said something like this:
- Did you see Ms. G. today?
- Yes I did! And I liked what I saw…A LOT!
(The next line changed the way I would see Sesame Street forever.)
- Thanks to her I’ve had a Big Bird all day!
I laughed as I read the note aloud to everyone in the lounge.
Then I shook my head and said, “Sorry Big Bird.”
Note: I never discussed the note with either boy. I'm sure they hope that I didn’t read the note and that it just got thrown away. And I wonder how long they watched for the sign. The sign that means the difference between a note that had been thoughtlessly cast aside and a note that had not only been read, but shown to Ms. G.
Those boys are in high school now and part of me hopes they still wonder about whatever happened to that note. I think about that day and laugh out loud…because so did Ms. G.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Mike the Singer
About my poems:
I started writing poems a few years ago. My first poem was ‘Mickey the Muck’, which I posted a week or so ago. Some of my poems are silly, some are happy, some are sad and some are gross, but they are all a bit bizarre. So read and enjoy.
Now Mike was a guy
And he loved to sing
And Mike, he would sing
About most anything
Seems his focus was people
On every occasion
And he’d sing about folks
Of most any persuasion
One day, his songs told
Of a guy on a Harley
Whose clothes were a mess
And his face, it was gnarly
By the look of this guy
You could tell he chewed nails
And I’m certain he’d broke
Out of quite a few jails
Without thought for his safety
Mike started his song
And at first the guy sat there
Like nothing was wrong
When Mike got to the part
About a gross nasty smell
The biker guy looked
Like things weren’t going well
The biker guy stared
With a twitch in his eye
And he seemed to be thinking
Of ways Mike could die
When the song turned to baldness
The guy lost his cool
From a bag he produced
A quite strange looking tool
As he headed toward Mike
People started to hide
But the guy dropped his tool
He sat down, and he cried
See, Mike’s song didn’t change
Not even one part
But he touched that mean biker dude
Deep in his heart
The biker got up
Wiped his face with a sigh
Then he drove that weird tool
Right straight through Mike’s left eye
The biker was touched
That’s all I can say
And Mike learned
A valuable lesson that day
You can’t sing about bikers
Without one single care
That is, not unless
You’ve an eye, you can spare
I started writing poems a few years ago. My first poem was ‘Mickey the Muck’, which I posted a week or so ago. Some of my poems are silly, some are happy, some are sad and some are gross, but they are all a bit bizarre. So read and enjoy.
Now Mike was a guy
And he loved to sing
And Mike, he would sing
About most anything
Seems his focus was people
On every occasion
And he’d sing about folks
Of most any persuasion
One day, his songs told
Of a guy on a Harley
Whose clothes were a mess
And his face, it was gnarly
By the look of this guy
You could tell he chewed nails
And I’m certain he’d broke
Out of quite a few jails
Without thought for his safety
Mike started his song
And at first the guy sat there
Like nothing was wrong
When Mike got to the part
About a gross nasty smell
The biker guy looked
Like things weren’t going well
The biker guy stared
With a twitch in his eye
And he seemed to be thinking
Of ways Mike could die
When the song turned to baldness
The guy lost his cool
From a bag he produced
A quite strange looking tool
As he headed toward Mike
People started to hide
But the guy dropped his tool
He sat down, and he cried
See, Mike’s song didn’t change
Not even one part
But he touched that mean biker dude
Deep in his heart
The biker got up
Wiped his face with a sigh
Then he drove that weird tool
Right straight through Mike’s left eye
The biker was touched
That’s all I can say
And Mike learned
A valuable lesson that day
You can’t sing about bikers
Without one single care
That is, not unless
You’ve an eye, you can spare
Thursday, November 18, 2004
I lost part of my life.
After my brother’s wedding, the whole family, extended family and all, spent a few days in Corpus Christi. We played on the beach, hung out at the pool and just had fun with relatives we hadn’t seen in quite a while. I went offshore fishing one night with a couple of cousins. The boat took us a couple of miles off the coast, just far enough to make it legal to sell beer on the boat. We spent the next three hours with our lines in the water, drinking beer and laughing.
Unlike my cousins and I, who paid the extra dollar to use the boat’s equipment, the guy next to me had brought his own rod. Now this guy had some serious cash invested in his fishing gear.
We had been out for about two hours and the guy with the expensive fishing gear had downed more beer than the three of us combined, maybe that was to blame. Whatever the reason, one minute he’s holding this rod that’s worth more than my car (It was 1985 and I had a 1977 Monte Carlo) and the next minute we’re all watching it vanish into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. All he could do is stand there and mourn, because as the boat’s bait guy put it, “Baby, it ain’t coming back!”
It’s very frustrating to me to lose anything. I’ve been known to search desperately on my hands and knees, for longer that a sane person should, to find a single screw that I’ve dropped in the garage.
I really hate losing stuff.
Imagine, if you will, how a person with such an intense dislike for losing things feels when he loses something really valuable and has no possible hope of ever retrieving the missing item.
In 1990, my wife and I were headed to friend’s house for dinner, when I turned left in front of a pick-up truck. In the blink of an eye two months of my life, along with several of my personality traits, sank to the ocean’s floor and I’ve spent the better part of 14 years standing and mourning.
I suffered a closed head injury and was in a coma for a month. I spent three months after the coma as an inpatient at Dallas Rehabilitation Institute (DRI) and the next eight months in outpatient rehabilitation therapy.
In life, everybody has to do things that aren’t exactly what they want to do. And while they may not be happy about what they’re doing, they are doing something
From the third month to the end of my outpatient stint at DRI, while I didn’t necessarily want to be there, I do have memories of being there. I was doing something. I have memories both enjoyable and frustrating. I have memories of daily physical and occupational therapy sessions. I have memories of people and events, both good and bad. And I have memories of physical and mental struggles. Life was going. Life was happening.
Not so for the month I spent at Parkland Hospital and my first month at DRI. Those days are not there and never will be. The doctor told me that there was so much brain swelling and so little brain activity, that it wasn’t like being asleep. I was closer to being dead. At least brain dead.
Early on, I found myself longing to know what was happening while I was out. Not in the whole world, just in my world. I know from the countless cards and letters my family saved for me that people were concerned and praying for me. I know that my family felt scared and helpless as they waited on pins and needles, praying the doctor’s next report would be good news.
I’ve heard all the stories and I lived through the hardest part of the rehabilitation. But that can’t be all. I was gone for two months. I know there’s more. There’s got to be more. Doesn’t there?
I wore out my wife and family long ago asking questions about what people were doing and thinking. I want to know moods. I want to see faces. I want to understand. I want to be able to remember.
Part of me feels like I’m being selfish. The people I’m questioning, they don’t want to remember. They don’t want to relive September 8, 1990. Remembering pain isn’t easy or fun. I can’t even imagine how painful the whole experience must have been.
I can’t even imagine and I guess that’s the problem.
My brother printed me a copy of the journal he kept during the whole ordeal. I’ve read it a thousand times in hopes of having some kind of revelation. And while it helped I still want more.
After spending the last 14 years on my hands and knees, I’ve all but abandoned my desperate search for clues to my life’s missing parts. You see, life doesn’t slow down and wait for people to play catch-up. You’re expected to keep trudging along, and fill in the gaps as best as you can. And I found that as time wears on, people’s memories of those events aren’t very detailed or reliable anymore.
Today there is a before accident or “Old Hugh” and an after accident or “New Hugh.” There was a time when most of my memories were of the Old Hugh. I still had crisp clear memories of Old Hugh and I forced myself to live in his shadow.
I spent more time than I probably should have comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh. Comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh was hard, because New Hugh never seemed to be able to measure up. He was never quite as quick, never quite as smart, just never quite as good.
As time moves on I find myself losing touch with the Old Hugh. There was a time when New Hugh’s voice, which was affected not only by the brain injury, but also by vocal cord trauma due to a tracheotomy, sounded very strange to me. And while I still don’t like how new Hugh’s voice sounds, these days hearing a recording of Old Hugh’s voice is what sounds strange. It’s like hearing a voice you recognize, but just can’t put a face to.
These days I find that the Old Hugh is becoming harder and harder to find. I’m not sure, but I think the dividing line between the two Hughs has become so blurred that after 14 years it has become hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
New Hugh is a nice guy too. In many ways he is very much the same as Old Hugh. But there are still times that I really miss Old Hugh. It’s mostly things only my wife or I would notice.
Old Hugh visits me sometimes in my dreams. He’s still happy, carefree and young. Living his life like nothing can hurt him. He speaks clearly and his words pour out polished with never even the hint of effort. But sooner or later I awake and find that my speech is still labored and a little choppy.
No matter how badly I might want to, I know I'll never be able to dive into the murky depths and retrieve Old Hugh, because baby, he ain’t coming back.
Unlike my cousins and I, who paid the extra dollar to use the boat’s equipment, the guy next to me had brought his own rod. Now this guy had some serious cash invested in his fishing gear.
We had been out for about two hours and the guy with the expensive fishing gear had downed more beer than the three of us combined, maybe that was to blame. Whatever the reason, one minute he’s holding this rod that’s worth more than my car (It was 1985 and I had a 1977 Monte Carlo) and the next minute we’re all watching it vanish into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. All he could do is stand there and mourn, because as the boat’s bait guy put it, “Baby, it ain’t coming back!”
It’s very frustrating to me to lose anything. I’ve been known to search desperately on my hands and knees, for longer that a sane person should, to find a single screw that I’ve dropped in the garage.
I really hate losing stuff.
Imagine, if you will, how a person with such an intense dislike for losing things feels when he loses something really valuable and has no possible hope of ever retrieving the missing item.
In 1990, my wife and I were headed to friend’s house for dinner, when I turned left in front of a pick-up truck. In the blink of an eye two months of my life, along with several of my personality traits, sank to the ocean’s floor and I’ve spent the better part of 14 years standing and mourning.
I suffered a closed head injury and was in a coma for a month. I spent three months after the coma as an inpatient at Dallas Rehabilitation Institute (DRI) and the next eight months in outpatient rehabilitation therapy.
In life, everybody has to do things that aren’t exactly what they want to do. And while they may not be happy about what they’re doing, they are doing something
From the third month to the end of my outpatient stint at DRI, while I didn’t necessarily want to be there, I do have memories of being there. I was doing something. I have memories both enjoyable and frustrating. I have memories of daily physical and occupational therapy sessions. I have memories of people and events, both good and bad. And I have memories of physical and mental struggles. Life was going. Life was happening.
Not so for the month I spent at Parkland Hospital and my first month at DRI. Those days are not there and never will be. The doctor told me that there was so much brain swelling and so little brain activity, that it wasn’t like being asleep. I was closer to being dead. At least brain dead.
Early on, I found myself longing to know what was happening while I was out. Not in the whole world, just in my world. I know from the countless cards and letters my family saved for me that people were concerned and praying for me. I know that my family felt scared and helpless as they waited on pins and needles, praying the doctor’s next report would be good news.
I’ve heard all the stories and I lived through the hardest part of the rehabilitation. But that can’t be all. I was gone for two months. I know there’s more. There’s got to be more. Doesn’t there?
I wore out my wife and family long ago asking questions about what people were doing and thinking. I want to know moods. I want to see faces. I want to understand. I want to be able to remember.
Part of me feels like I’m being selfish. The people I’m questioning, they don’t want to remember. They don’t want to relive September 8, 1990. Remembering pain isn’t easy or fun. I can’t even imagine how painful the whole experience must have been.
I can’t even imagine and I guess that’s the problem.
My brother printed me a copy of the journal he kept during the whole ordeal. I’ve read it a thousand times in hopes of having some kind of revelation. And while it helped I still want more.
After spending the last 14 years on my hands and knees, I’ve all but abandoned my desperate search for clues to my life’s missing parts. You see, life doesn’t slow down and wait for people to play catch-up. You’re expected to keep trudging along, and fill in the gaps as best as you can. And I found that as time wears on, people’s memories of those events aren’t very detailed or reliable anymore.
Today there is a before accident or “Old Hugh” and an after accident or “New Hugh.” There was a time when most of my memories were of the Old Hugh. I still had crisp clear memories of Old Hugh and I forced myself to live in his shadow.
I spent more time than I probably should have comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh. Comparing New Hugh to Old Hugh was hard, because New Hugh never seemed to be able to measure up. He was never quite as quick, never quite as smart, just never quite as good.
As time moves on I find myself losing touch with the Old Hugh. There was a time when New Hugh’s voice, which was affected not only by the brain injury, but also by vocal cord trauma due to a tracheotomy, sounded very strange to me. And while I still don’t like how new Hugh’s voice sounds, these days hearing a recording of Old Hugh’s voice is what sounds strange. It’s like hearing a voice you recognize, but just can’t put a face to.
These days I find that the Old Hugh is becoming harder and harder to find. I’m not sure, but I think the dividing line between the two Hughs has become so blurred that after 14 years it has become hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
New Hugh is a nice guy too. In many ways he is very much the same as Old Hugh. But there are still times that I really miss Old Hugh. It’s mostly things only my wife or I would notice.
Old Hugh visits me sometimes in my dreams. He’s still happy, carefree and young. Living his life like nothing can hurt him. He speaks clearly and his words pour out polished with never even the hint of effort. But sooner or later I awake and find that my speech is still labored and a little choppy.
No matter how badly I might want to, I know I'll never be able to dive into the murky depths and retrieve Old Hugh, because baby, he ain’t coming back.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Where did she go?
I recently cleaned out one of the closets in my house. I knew it was going to be hard work and I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I had no idea that it was going to be one of the most emotionally painful experiences of my entire life.
You see it was my daughter’s toy closet. It was packed full of all kinds of stuff we hadn’t seen, let alone played with, for who knows how long.
At first, it was going quite well and it seemed I had over possibly over estimated the amount of time and effort the job was going to require. Little did I know that my heart was about to be smashed to bits.
We had three piles. There was the keep pile, the give to cousin Ashlyn pile, and the donate pile.
My misery all began when I pulled the huge Barbie box out and Macy said in a loud clear voice, “Ashlyn!”
“No, this is all your Barbie stuff,” was my stuttering reply.
“Don’t want ‘em,” she said.
And the dagger sunk into my heart.
Where did she go? This little girl who I rocked, played with and read to. What was happening to my world?
Thinking back I realized that my world was changing. The signs have been popping up in different places for quite some time now, but I hadn’t seen them. Maybe my heart just wouldn’t let me see them.
There was, "I should probably shop for clothes with Mom from now on." And then, "Get out Dad! I’m changing!"
Then came the morning I heard an unfamiliar alarm clock go off and she got up on her own. Waking her up has always been my job. I like my job. But for too long I had just been taking it for granted.
I’ve tried my best to ignore these evil hints at reality.
I think we all do it. Ignore reality. Especially painful reality. I’m a firm believer that if you just ignore it long enough it will go away. But usually reality is just extra painful when it finally comes crashing down.
Ever since my closet cleaning nightmare, my life has become an emotional roller coaster. I’m forced to stand-by and helplessly watch my little girl grow up.
I do not want to go to the land of pre-teen girls…not yet. I want my little girl, who seems so big these days, to slow down and be daddy’s little girl. If only for a while.
This quote from the Real Live Preacher is my prayer:
“Gracious and loving Heavenly Father, please do not send me to Nineveh today. I’ll gladly go tomorrow, or better yet, some unspecified day in the future, but not today. I will not get on the boat bound for Tarshish, but neither am I ready to leave these shores. I plan to do your bidding, eventually, but if you try to drag me onto this ship, I will make a terrible scene. I will shout and cry aloud. My fingernails will rip ugly furrows into the dock.”
You see it was my daughter’s toy closet. It was packed full of all kinds of stuff we hadn’t seen, let alone played with, for who knows how long.
At first, it was going quite well and it seemed I had over possibly over estimated the amount of time and effort the job was going to require. Little did I know that my heart was about to be smashed to bits.
We had three piles. There was the keep pile, the give to cousin Ashlyn pile, and the donate pile.
My misery all began when I pulled the huge Barbie box out and Macy said in a loud clear voice, “Ashlyn!”
“No, this is all your Barbie stuff,” was my stuttering reply.
“Don’t want ‘em,” she said.
And the dagger sunk into my heart.
Where did she go? This little girl who I rocked, played with and read to. What was happening to my world?
Thinking back I realized that my world was changing. The signs have been popping up in different places for quite some time now, but I hadn’t seen them. Maybe my heart just wouldn’t let me see them.
There was, "I should probably shop for clothes with Mom from now on." And then, "Get out Dad! I’m changing!"
Then came the morning I heard an unfamiliar alarm clock go off and she got up on her own. Waking her up has always been my job. I like my job. But for too long I had just been taking it for granted.
I’ve tried my best to ignore these evil hints at reality.
I think we all do it. Ignore reality. Especially painful reality. I’m a firm believer that if you just ignore it long enough it will go away. But usually reality is just extra painful when it finally comes crashing down.
Ever since my closet cleaning nightmare, my life has become an emotional roller coaster. I’m forced to stand-by and helplessly watch my little girl grow up.
I do not want to go to the land of pre-teen girls…not yet. I want my little girl, who seems so big these days, to slow down and be daddy’s little girl. If only for a while.
This quote from the Real Live Preacher is my prayer:
“Gracious and loving Heavenly Father, please do not send me to Nineveh today. I’ll gladly go tomorrow, or better yet, some unspecified day in the future, but not today. I will not get on the boat bound for Tarshish, but neither am I ready to leave these shores. I plan to do your bidding, eventually, but if you try to drag me onto this ship, I will make a terrible scene. I will shout and cry aloud. My fingernails will rip ugly furrows into the dock.”
Saturday, November 13, 2004
The Big Day!
I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. 6:27 AM. My mind was working to wrap itself around what that meant.
Is it early, or am I late? What day is it? Do I have school? Should I get up, or do I have some more time?
It’s the same process for me most every day. I am a very deep sleeper.
But this morning was a little different. As my eyes started to close again for a few brief moments of morning slumber, a new and different thought popped into my head.
Hugh, you’re 40.
Lying there I tried to feel different, I really did. I wanted to be alive with a new understanding of life’s great truths. I wanted to suddenly know what it means to be a “Grown-up.” I wanted to feel 40.
I’ve been awake and 40 now for about half an hour…still no big change.
Is it possible that everything I’ve been waiting to happen is all a farce? Could it all be some big political smokescreen designed to keep all of the adults who are under 40 in line?
I’ll keep you posted.
Note: I’m still younger than RLP.
Is it early, or am I late? What day is it? Do I have school? Should I get up, or do I have some more time?
It’s the same process for me most every day. I am a very deep sleeper.
But this morning was a little different. As my eyes started to close again for a few brief moments of morning slumber, a new and different thought popped into my head.
Hugh, you’re 40.
Lying there I tried to feel different, I really did. I wanted to be alive with a new understanding of life’s great truths. I wanted to suddenly know what it means to be a “Grown-up.” I wanted to feel 40.
I’ve been awake and 40 now for about half an hour…still no big change.
Is it possible that everything I’ve been waiting to happen is all a farce? Could it all be some big political smokescreen designed to keep all of the adults who are under 40 in line?
I’ll keep you posted.
Note: I’m still younger than RLP.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Mickey the Muck
There once was a juggler named Mickey the Muck,
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck
He would juggle 10 swords with eyes closed and one handed,
When sword number 8, in his left foot it landed
Mickey kept right on juggling though he’d lost all five toes,
When sword number 6 took off part of his nose
But Mickey kept juggling, and continued to smile,
When his pinky came loose and fell into the pile
Muck had chopped off his pinky with sword number two,
He said, “I’ll stick it back on using tape and school glue”
Mickey didn’t stop juggling, though pieces were missing,
Then the crowd started grumbling, booing and hissing
The Muck knew he had one act that would save the show,
He pulled out 5 chain saws, and started to throw
Well Mickey’s last act was exciting to see,
The first chain saw hit just above the left knee
The crowd cleared back, some ducked and got low,
When his right arm came off just below the elbow
Poor Mickey, he knew that his act it was dying,
But to the Muck’s credit, those chain saws kept flying
It was just about then Mickey started to slip,
Cause he’d lost his left thumb and opposable grip
With his last toss he threw those 5 saws extra high,
He took a big bow, then looked up with a sigh
There once was a juggler named Mickey the Muck,
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck
About Mickey’s last act, many times it’s been said,
“Mickey could have been great, but he just lost his head!”
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck
He would juggle 10 swords with eyes closed and one handed,
When sword number 8, in his left foot it landed
Mickey kept right on juggling though he’d lost all five toes,
When sword number 6 took off part of his nose
But Mickey kept juggling, and continued to smile,
When his pinky came loose and fell into the pile
Muck had chopped off his pinky with sword number two,
He said, “I’ll stick it back on using tape and school glue”
Mickey didn’t stop juggling, though pieces were missing,
Then the crowd started grumbling, booing and hissing
The Muck knew he had one act that would save the show,
He pulled out 5 chain saws, and started to throw
Well Mickey’s last act was exciting to see,
The first chain saw hit just above the left knee
The crowd cleared back, some ducked and got low,
When his right arm came off just below the elbow
Poor Mickey, he knew that his act it was dying,
But to the Muck’s credit, those chain saws kept flying
It was just about then Mickey started to slip,
Cause he’d lost his left thumb and opposable grip
With his last toss he threw those 5 saws extra high,
He took a big bow, then looked up with a sigh
There once was a juggler named Mickey the Muck,
And as jugglers go he had pretty bad luck
About Mickey’s last act, many times it’s been said,
“Mickey could have been great, but he just lost his head!”
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