Anecdote - Tree forts
My brother and I grew up in Kila with horses, dogs, ten acres and a pond in our front yard. We also grew up with a woods behind us that acted as our back yard. We would explore the woods and call it our own because we were in it. Like many boys we liked building forts. At first we used dead and downed trees and stacked them like a beaver dam. As the years progressed so did our forts. Soon we were building small houses of lumber we chopped down with hatchets, a small ax. One evening we got a little out of control. We spent hours feverishly chopping small, young pines; the rhythmic thumping and cries of timber could probably be heard through the thick forest to any near by houses; we built a fort complete with doors, windows and a roof. That night we slept in the structure and imagined the distance coyote yelps were wolves just outside the fort, and that the only thing saving us from certain doom was are artfully sound walls. In the morning we walked home feeling proud of ourselves for surviving the night in the wilderness. When we stepped around the garage we saw our father filling the doorway and shaking his head, and we hoped we would be able to survive civilization. "I just had to explain to Mr. Gates what happened to his trees. " He said, staring at me more than at my brother. "He was not happy."
Playing Opossum or If You Can't Beat the Math Play Dead
Kadence loves nature and books, so when I began reading books to Kadence about opossums I did not realize that I was creating a potential nightmare for her teacher.
It all started when my wife, a librarian, brought home the potential devious picture book about seemingly cute opossums. After I read this book to Kadence it awakened in her a dangerous interest in the opossum. Soon it was an obsession; she needed more and more opossum books. At first it was fiction, which seemed harmless enough, then she went into the realm of nonfiction opossum books. Night after night we read opossum books. As her parents we should have seen it coming, but we did not. A week later we were completely blindsided by the news from her teacher.
Kadence's teacher solemnly told my wife what had happened after school in the privacy of her empty room. It happened in math class. It always happens in math class. For some reason, Kadence, at the age of five, had scissors in her hands during math class. Scissors and math together may seem innocent enough to an untrained eye, however, the combination is dangerous. If you have ever been in a math class, and my guess is that you have then you know how ultimately frustrating math can be. Mixing this math-induced-frustration with scissors is always going to be a bad idea. As Kadence sat in math class with a pair of scissors she began doing exactly what you would expect from a five year old in math class; she began to open and close them. At first, I am sure, the scissor slicing was passive, but as time went on and the numbers began getting more aggressive so did the scissor strokes. I am aware of how these math classes take place. At first it is all small numbers, innocent and friendly, but before you know it the numbers begin growing, and then they attack. Soon enough the scissors took on a mind of their own not only opening and closing, but they were also moving around in circles and perhaps even jabbing trying to counter attack.
The teacher did what any teacher would do. She asked her to stop, but it was too late. With all the numbers getting bigger and moving around trying to flank her, Kadence could not stop the scissors; it was her only defense. So when Kadence did not retreat with the first quiet "stop" from the teacher. The teacher had no choice but to move to the next strategy in a potentially dangerous situation; she yelled "STOP." Then it happened.
Kadence froze. She fell out of her chair, and she laid on the ground not moving a muscle. The scissors still clutched in her tiny hand.
When my wife came home after hearing the story and told me about it, I asked Kadence why she fell out of her desk and laid on the floor. She said, "It works for the opossum!"
The question remains, who was she more afraid of the teacher or the math?
Homeroom Story Number 12: Through the fence or I really loved that sweatshirt
I grew up on ten acres with a barn, a pond and horses. From early on in our family to be in Montana meant being good with a horse. One spring day, on a Saturday or Sunday, my brother and I were hanging out at our pond. When heading back to the house I decided to jump on my horse Jig, a thoroughbred, trained to race 7/8 of a mile. He was light brown with a white blaze and three white socks. I climbed on his back which in itself was a feat. I grabbed a handful of hair on Jig’s main with both hands and jumped, climbed, clawed and finally swung my leg over his back. The feeling of being on a bareback horse is exhilarating. Gripping the dusty main, and smelling the unique horse smell, a mixture of horse hair, and dry spring dust that drifts up every time you move.
I kicked Jig a little to move him toward the house, which was about a quarter mile up a gentle green slope. My hands where loosely entwined in the horses mane. My legs just dangling at Jig’s side as he naturally walked toward the house. Then, all of a sudden, Jig began to gallop. I gripped his mane with earnest and squeezed my legs around his side. Leaning forward, putting my face in the horses mane as Jig rhythmically ran up the hill covering 20 feet with each stride. His hooves gently thudding the soft grass as my mind was whirling. Do I jump or wait for him to stop. I lowered my hands around his muscular neck as I thought about bailing and then thought better of it. He would stop sooner or later. He would stop but would he slow down. He seemed to be picking up the pace. His ears where stretched back and his nose was pushed forward, He thundered toward the fence, I thought will he jump it and as suddenly as he began he stopped. I slid of the front of his neck as inertia threw me into and through the fence. The barbed wire ripped my Minnesota twins sweatshirt clean of my body. I guess I had a ways to go to be a true Montanain.
I kicked Jig a little to move him toward the house, which was about a quarter mile up a gentle green slope. My hands where loosely entwined in the horses mane. My legs just dangling at Jig’s side as he naturally walked toward the house. Then, all of a sudden, Jig began to gallop. I gripped his mane with earnest and squeezed my legs around his side. Leaning forward, putting my face in the horses mane as Jig rhythmically ran up the hill covering 20 feet with each stride. His hooves gently thudding the soft grass as my mind was whirling. Do I jump or wait for him to stop. I lowered my hands around his muscular neck as I thought about bailing and then thought better of it. He would stop sooner or later. He would stop but would he slow down. He seemed to be picking up the pace. His ears where stretched back and his nose was pushed forward, He thundered toward the fence, I thought will he jump it and as suddenly as he began he stopped. I slid of the front of his neck as inertia threw me into and through the fence. The barbed wire ripped my Minnesota twins sweatshirt clean of my body. I guess I had a ways to go to be a true Montanain.
Mr. Johnson is an Idiot number 17: Gaz-a-boo or the art of not being noticed
It was ninth grade, which was less awkward then eighth but not by much. The class was on a science field trip to Lawrence Park, a big park with trees and multiple playgrounds and gazebos. The learning objective was to understand directions with a compass and coordinates, orienteering. My objective was to blend in and not make a fool of myself. I should have stuck with the learning objective.
I was almost put in a good group. Three boys, that was the good part, and one girl that was the almost good part. I have found that it is relativity easy to blend in and not make a fool of myself in front of boys. All boys make fools of themselves that is what they do, to not do something foolish with a group of boys would simply be foolish, but a girl that was a different matter. Girls required a whole different set of skills. A set of skills I did not have, in fact, I did not even have access to a list of the set of skills that were prerequisites to the actual set of skills. The only skill I had going for me is that I was aware that I had no set of skills. Not only was a awkward in front of girls, I was bound to be awkward, foolish and embarrassed in front of this one. Sarah Jenson, popular, tall, and mean. She had long black hair that matched her black eyes and one of those sneering, intimidating smiles that says I am smarter then you, and we all know it. She was one of those girls you wanted to like you because school was safer that way. If she didn't like you she would chew you up and spit you out. Not right away, of course, she chewed slowly, and her spit was like sugar; sure sugar sounds good, but in the long run it will kill you. Her cruelty was simple; she just told the rest of the world how stupid you were, and everyone else listened. To avoid my name being spread like sugary spit; I made a plan. The plan was to do nothing. (Ya, the plan was as stupid as it sounds). I would just follow the crowd, right down answers, don't disagree, don't try to lead, don't do anything to be noticed. That might have been a bad idea because when I did eventually make a fool of myself I stuck out like a pink flamingo in a Montana cow pasture.
I was doing well; sticking to the plan. Regrettably the other boys had the same plan as me, so the group was quiet and Sarah was annoyed, and Sarah being annoyed was dangerous. We were like idiot henchmen following the evil princess around in her kingdom, but we were almost safely done with the scavenger hunt. We had one coordinate to go then it would be over, back to the boring but safe classroom.The last problem must have been a tricky one because the group was completely silent. No one moved, and Sarah had no answer for the group. The wind started to rustle the leaves, and the air got colder. At first I was not even reading the questions to find the correct coordinates, but everyone was so quiet and just standing there I did not know what else to do. I glanced down at the question, and like a volcano exploding out of my mouth I said way too loudly, "what in the heck is a gaz-a-boo?" Slowly they group turned toward me. The boys smiled and Sarah sneered. As their minds began to catch up to my words they began to chuckle and then laugh, and then howl. The tension of being in a group all mourning with Sarah Jenson was being released. "A gazebo, a gazebo," one boy said between laughs. Sarah didn't say anything she was laughing too hard. I was doomed. My unpopular, awkward high school existence just got much worse. After everyone recovered, we solved the final problem together.
As I headed back to the bus with my head down hoping to find a seat well away from Sarah Jenson, I felt a tug at my elbow. I looked up. It was Sarah. Still smiling. "That was the best laugh I had in a long time and the best part of my morning. That was fun, and you are funny. See you in class." I was stunned. Was that sugary sarcasm or a real connection? When she sat behind me on the bus, I cringed ready for a tornado of insults as she told her friends how I couldn't read, but she didn't, in fact, she said she had fun. The teacher stepped on the bus. "Did everyone reach their objective?" She asked. I shook my head yes. I had almost reached the objective.
Footnotes
(Sarah Jenson was not the girl's real name)
(The simile It exploded out of my mouth like a volcano was first said by Kadence after she accidentally told her cousin what she was going to get for Christmas.)
I was doing well; sticking to the plan. Regrettably the other boys had the same plan as me, so the group was quiet and Sarah was annoyed, and Sarah being annoyed was dangerous. We were like idiot henchmen following the evil princess around in her kingdom, but we were almost safely done with the scavenger hunt. We had one coordinate to go then it would be over, back to the boring but safe classroom.The last problem must have been a tricky one because the group was completely silent. No one moved, and Sarah had no answer for the group. The wind started to rustle the leaves, and the air got colder. At first I was not even reading the questions to find the correct coordinates, but everyone was so quiet and just standing there I did not know what else to do. I glanced down at the question, and like a volcano exploding out of my mouth I said way too loudly, "what in the heck is a gaz-a-boo?" Slowly they group turned toward me. The boys smiled and Sarah sneered. As their minds began to catch up to my words they began to chuckle and then laugh, and then howl. The tension of being in a group all mourning with Sarah Jenson was being released. "A gazebo, a gazebo," one boy said between laughs. Sarah didn't say anything she was laughing too hard. I was doomed. My unpopular, awkward high school existence just got much worse. After everyone recovered, we solved the final problem together.
As I headed back to the bus with my head down hoping to find a seat well away from Sarah Jenson, I felt a tug at my elbow. I looked up. It was Sarah. Still smiling. "That was the best laugh I had in a long time and the best part of my morning. That was fun, and you are funny. See you in class." I was stunned. Was that sugary sarcasm or a real connection? When she sat behind me on the bus, I cringed ready for a tornado of insults as she told her friends how I couldn't read, but she didn't, in fact, she said she had fun. The teacher stepped on the bus. "Did everyone reach their objective?" She asked. I shook my head yes. I had almost reached the objective.
Footnotes
(Sarah Jenson was not the girl's real name)
(The simile It exploded out of my mouth like a volcano was first said by Kadence after she accidentally told her cousin what she was going to get for Christmas.)
The Desk & The Note (Brooke and Liz)
The desk is worn wood, black top, piled with books, paper, memos, a laptop and sticky notes, but none of that matters; what matters is the inside of the desk like the inside of an adolescent. The inside of the desk is full of names. Not on sheets of paper and filed away, but names in pen, pencil, sharpie and highlighter each unique in time, space and style. The inside of the desk is full of the people who have shaped him as a teacher. Some of the names are small and fading, while others are bold and written more than once as if afraid of being forgotten.
He sits back, eyes closed visualizing his day; his current students. What new names will he have here, will he leave an impression in these new students like they leave in his desk and on him? His eyes open as he opens a drawer and looks at the names, remembering.
Brooke and Liz
A grin spreads across his face as he is reminded of that cold December day years ago. The class was right before lunch, a chatty class, mostly girls if he remembers correctly. He was reading Night to the class, trying to keep middle school students engaged by putting emotion into the text while reading aloud, knowing he was probably making a fool of himself. But the incident he was thinking about happened after he read that day. The girls were reading silently. When he sensed more then saw a note being passed. His stomach dropped. A passed note meant an unengaged student or worse two unengaged students. He put so much time and effort into his lessons that it was hard for him not to feel like a failure whenever students were not engaged. And these two being disengaged could be trouble.
He did not want to but he had to take the note or did he? Now he can’t remember did he take the note or did he find it later. He remembered seeing the note and the heavy weight of failure in himself; the familiar sweat when he knew students were not interested in what he wanted them interested in. The sudden wave of intense heat that spread through his body not out of anger, maybe out of embarrassment or failure. Maybe he got the note later, after class. He does, however, remember the note.
He made it habit years earlier not to read notes. Too often the notes told more than he wanted to know. He realized to be at his best he had to believe in each student, trust each student and too often notes with swearing, teacher bashing, and negativity crushed his trust, so he made it a habit not to read the notes when there were any. But he read this note.
At first he wished he had not, right away it had the same old negativity that made him break out in a cold sweat, and wonder if he should start browsing the paper for a new job. But then he read on and found the humor in it and now he thinks back and laughs, but it could have turned out differently.
December, he is still trying to get to know the students and they are still figuring him out. He always wished there was a way to get know students faster, to earn their trust. He always found it funny at the end of the school year when teachers could not wait for summer. He felt he could teach all summer; it took nine months to build that bond. But at this time, at the time of the note, he did not have that bond. So the note left him on edge, until later in the year when he got to know these two wonderful young ladies for who they were, and now it makes him laugh.
The note:
Liz – He is weird
Brooke – Ya, he’s weird , but I like him anyway
Liz – Ya, me too
Now he laughs because he is weird, and the girls were inspirational, leaving on him a mark with their name that signifies what hard work and dedication can bring.
Now he laughs because he is weird, and the girls were inspirational, leaving on him a mark with their name that signifies what hard work and dedication can bring.
Super K and that Crazy Tangled Up Cat
I wrote this for Kadence's birthday as part of a school VIP project. Becca wrote it into a book, and my mom illustrated it. Tig and Win the cats in the story were our kittens at the time I wrote the story.
Super K and that Crazy Tangled Up Cat
Kadence was comfortably curled up reading her favorite book
with her two cats in a cozy nook.
Win, the clam cat was sitting by her side,
while Tig, the crazy one, was hoping for a ride
He was playing with the strings of Kadence’s birthday balloons
Little did they know they would be on an adventure soon.
As Tig got tangled up, Gracyne opened the door
Just then a March wind blew and sucked Tig and balloons right of the floor.
“This no time to panic” Kadence said with a flare
as Kadence turned into super k ready to be there
Super k ran to the garage and jumped on her bike
and she pedaled and pedaled with all of her might
as that crazy, tangled cat flew out of sight
She raced toward the cliffs of Lone Pine
yelling, “that crazy cat is mine”
as she pedaled a cliff sprang up in her way
but that is no problem for Super K.
She jumped off her bike and began to climb.
Going faster and faster trying to save him in time.
Hand over hand gripping small holds,
She climbed and climbed acting bold,
As she crested the top giving it all that she could,
she spotted Tig floating over a deep dark wood.
As the scary forest loomed, Super K got a feeling of doom,
she know she would have to zoom, zoom, zoom.
So up a tree she scrambled to the highest twig
looking, looking, looking for that tiny tig.
There he was that crazy, tangled up cat right in her reach.
She grabbed the strings as the wind blew them toward the beach.
“Oh no cats hate to get wet.”
How is super k going to save her pet?
As they floated toward Foy’s Lake
Super K had her mind to make.
She grabbed that cat and put her on her chest
this would be the final test.
She quickly took out her art supplies
and found her pipecleaners and began to tie.
Super K weaved together a boat,
and set that crazy cat on to float.
She tied one end of a balloon string to her hip,
and the other end to the pipecleaner ship.
Super K swam and swam to the shore
with that crazy, tangled up cat, who loved her forevermore.
with her two cats in a cozy nook.
Win, the clam cat was sitting by her side,
while Tig, the crazy one, was hoping for a ride
He was playing with the strings of Kadence’s birthday balloons
Little did they know they would be on an adventure soon.
As Tig got tangled up, Gracyne opened the door
Just then a March wind blew and sucked Tig and balloons right of the floor.
“This no time to panic” Kadence said with a flare
as Kadence turned into super k ready to be there
Super k ran to the garage and jumped on her bike
and she pedaled and pedaled with all of her might
as that crazy, tangled cat flew out of sight
She raced toward the cliffs of Lone Pine
yelling, “that crazy cat is mine”
as she pedaled a cliff sprang up in her way
but that is no problem for Super K.
She jumped off her bike and began to climb.
Going faster and faster trying to save him in time.
Hand over hand gripping small holds,
She climbed and climbed acting bold,
As she crested the top giving it all that she could,
she spotted Tig floating over a deep dark wood.
As the scary forest loomed, Super K got a feeling of doom,
she know she would have to zoom, zoom, zoom.
So up a tree she scrambled to the highest twig
looking, looking, looking for that tiny tig.
There he was that crazy, tangled up cat right in her reach.
She grabbed the strings as the wind blew them toward the beach.
“Oh no cats hate to get wet.”
How is super k going to save her pet?
As they floated toward Foy’s Lake
Super K had her mind to make.
She grabbed that cat and put her on her chest
this would be the final test.
She quickly took out her art supplies
and found her pipecleaners and began to tie.
Super K weaved together a boat,
and set that crazy cat on to float.
She tied one end of a balloon string to her hip,
and the other end to the pipecleaner ship.
Super K swam and swam to the shore
with that crazy, tangled up cat, who loved her forevermore.
Lake Swimming: poetry under prose
I step on to the cold pebbles with my bare feet and walk to the edge of the lake. It is six o'clock in the morning and vapor is escaping the lake creating a mysteries white mist two feet above the water. I prepare to dive in. It's cold, but I know that water in warmer then the air. I breath deep preparing myself to swim across the lake. Two eagles stare down at me from the old gnarled tree above. I move my arms in full circles and dive in. The water is fifty-two degrees, so I start moving fast to warm up. My face and head are chilled. I soon catch my cadence as my hands catch the water. The lake is like a glass, perfectly smooth and cold. I imagine my body breaking the surface tension of the lake and my wake that can be seen from the trail above. Then I think about swimming and everything else disappears like the mysteries mist. I pull my hand out at my hip relaxed and elbow bent. Water drips off my finger tips making small ripples near my head. While my hand is suspend in the air I turn my body and head to take a breath. Just the corner of my mouth escapes the lake. As one eye looks at the mountain tops to catch my bearings to stay on track. Just as quick my head enters the water as my hand gently glides in front of my body and grips the water like a paddle. I began to pull and my body glides over my hand, as my feet kick to a six beat cadence creating small swirls of water and bubbles behind me. I glance up in the middle of the lake, alone in absolute peace mixed with the challenge of reaching the other side and coming back again. Time escapes and water runs through my fingers and my teeth until I reach the shore. I look up and see the two eagles still watching me.
Number 38 - Keep on swimming, keep on swimming, keep on swimming or never give up on a beta fish
I dragged into the house after a long day of work to hear my wife screaming my name in terror. I dashed through the door to see what the problem was; I was ready, fortified with that fight or flight hormone. My wife, visibly in distress, was standing at the kitchen sink with Kadence wide eyed clinging to Becca's jeans, fingernails white. . Besides the look on their faces everything looked in order. I took a quick survey of the room, looking for an intruder or blood. All I saw was a messy kitchen, then I saw it. Out of place, our fish bowl was sitting next to the sink. Usually the fish bowl held a blue beta fish named Dori, but the bowl was empty of fish and water. Becca was trying to speak but the words were getting clogged. I followed her gestures toward the sink, then toward the bottom of the sink, then toward the garbage disposal. My eyes flasehed from the empty fish bowl to the garbage disposal. Finally, Becca freed her words and murmed in a whispered voice that you might hear at a funeral, "Dori is down there." Once she began talking she could spit out the rest of story. She had been changing the water in the fish bowl, when Dori, perhaps bored of the small fish life inside a glass bowl, leaped from the bowl and into the garbage disposal. Becca had been running water down the garbage disposal for 30 minutes to keep the fish alive.
Without hesitation I reached into the garbage disposal and grasped Dori loosely. I began to pull my hand out of the sink, however, with my hand in a fist it did not fit through the garbage disposal hole. I had to make a split second decision. I either had to turn the garbage disposal on and end Dori's suffering or squeeze her to death and pull her out to give her a proper funeral, down the toilet. I looked at my wife; I looked at my daughter her eyes wide, squeezing her moms leg, looking at me like I was suppose to be some kind of hero. I squeezed and pulled. My meaty hand still did not fit. I re gripped and squeezed and pulled again. This time I pulled my hand out.
I slowly opened my hand, as Kadence switched from her mother's leg to mine still silent and wide eyed. As I opened my hand the fish didn't so much as slither. I had squeezed Dori to death. I looked down. Kadence's eyes bored into mine, pleading, begging for a good word. I had to try. I brought the fish to my mouth and began CPR. I gave Dori three breaths, right on the gills. The fish was slimy like they are suppose to be, I took this as a good sign. Dori smelled of a bad mixture of dead fish and garbage disposal, but I went on. Then I gave her fifteen compressions with my pinkie where I thought her heart might be. Nothing happened. I tried again, and again. Nothing. No flinch, no sltiher, no gasping or vomiting. Kadence looked up, as she whispered, about to cry, "991." I was not ready to give up on Dori, or I was not ready to give up the role as hero.
I held Dori with one hand as I filled her fish bowl with another. In the haste of an ER nurse I slid Dori back into her bowl. Still she did not move. She laid on her side and pengalemed at the top of the water and began to ever so slowly sink like a wet leaf to the bottom. I dashed in five bounds across the room and put the bowl on its normal resting place, on top of an entertainment center between two speakers. My wife and child looked on in confusion and sorrow, I did not know whether they were more worried about me or the fish. I quickly put in a P.O.D. CD, pushed track three and turned up the volume. Then I stood back and waited. On the third repeat of the singer screaming out the chours, "alive, I am so glad I am alive," Dori's tail twitched, then a fin wiggled, then a gill fluttered a little and all of a sudden to match the beat of the music, Dori began to swim in circles. She just kept on swimming, kept on swimming, and kept on swimming. I think there is a lesson in this, but I am not sure what.
Without hesitation I reached into the garbage disposal and grasped Dori loosely. I began to pull my hand out of the sink, however, with my hand in a fist it did not fit through the garbage disposal hole. I had to make a split second decision. I either had to turn the garbage disposal on and end Dori's suffering or squeeze her to death and pull her out to give her a proper funeral, down the toilet. I looked at my wife; I looked at my daughter her eyes wide, squeezing her moms leg, looking at me like I was suppose to be some kind of hero. I squeezed and pulled. My meaty hand still did not fit. I re gripped and squeezed and pulled again. This time I pulled my hand out.
I slowly opened my hand, as Kadence switched from her mother's leg to mine still silent and wide eyed. As I opened my hand the fish didn't so much as slither. I had squeezed Dori to death. I looked down. Kadence's eyes bored into mine, pleading, begging for a good word. I had to try. I brought the fish to my mouth and began CPR. I gave Dori three breaths, right on the gills. The fish was slimy like they are suppose to be, I took this as a good sign. Dori smelled of a bad mixture of dead fish and garbage disposal, but I went on. Then I gave her fifteen compressions with my pinkie where I thought her heart might be. Nothing happened. I tried again, and again. Nothing. No flinch, no sltiher, no gasping or vomiting. Kadence looked up, as she whispered, about to cry, "991." I was not ready to give up on Dori, or I was not ready to give up the role as hero.
I held Dori with one hand as I filled her fish bowl with another. In the haste of an ER nurse I slid Dori back into her bowl. Still she did not move. She laid on her side and pengalemed at the top of the water and began to ever so slowly sink like a wet leaf to the bottom. I dashed in five bounds across the room and put the bowl on its normal resting place, on top of an entertainment center between two speakers. My wife and child looked on in confusion and sorrow, I did not know whether they were more worried about me or the fish. I quickly put in a P.O.D. CD, pushed track three and turned up the volume. Then I stood back and waited. On the third repeat of the singer screaming out the chours, "alive, I am so glad I am alive," Dori's tail twitched, then a fin wiggled, then a gill fluttered a little and all of a sudden to match the beat of the music, Dori began to swim in circles. She just kept on swimming, kept on swimming, and kept on swimming. I think there is a lesson in this, but I am not sure what.
Homeroom Stories number 2: mathematics is not math or it does not add up to cheat
Spelling has never come easy for me, but that is no excuse. At the end of the 2nd grade year, I had a typical spelling test. You remember the type, Monday pretest, Wednesday practice test, and my favorite Friday the final test. I studied for these tests with the help of my mother,a third grade teacher. Monday night, after the pretest, I wrote each word I missed ten times. There was always twenty words on the test, since I missed every word, I wrote two-hundred words. Wednesday night, after the practice test I again wrote each word that I missed ten times, since I again missed every word, I wrote a total of two-hundred words. With all that writing you would think my handwriting would at least be better, but it is worse then my spelling. Friday night, after the final test, after again missing twenty words, I did not have to write any more words.
By the end of 2nd grade I had not only failed every Friday final test, I had not yet gotten one word correct, not one word! At this point I had no concern of passing a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday spelling test, I only wanted to get one word right, just one word.
It was April or May the afternoon sun filtered through the windows. The teacher slowly walked up and down between the aisles making sure we where ready for the Friday final test. The room was silent except for a few nervous doodlers to my right. My head was already sunk. I was prepared to once again feel that heavy weight of disappointment, my stomach had that slight ache, as I again prepared to do my best on something that I knew would turn out embarrassing.As I looked over and saw the girls who got all twenty words right on the Monday pretest or the Wednesday practice test eating Popsicles, I was thinking how I would have to hide my score from my friends and my parents, and I was just hoping that the teacher would not read the scores a loud again. She walked past my desk checking that my pencil was sharpened, and my paper was clean. It was. I listened to her feet clunk across the floor to the front of room to begin reading the test.
As the teacher went through the words, my head sank lower and lower. I spelled word after word, I would even spell them three different ways and circle the one I thought looked right. She was on word fifteen. Math. "We will have math after spelling." I wrote down M and then I woke up. It most have been the straightest I ever sat in my desk during a spelling test. I began to smile. For the first time in my life I had the chance to get a word right on the Friday final spelling test. I gripped my pencil a little tighter. I hunched over my desk getting my chest close to my paper. I peered down to look at my math book. There it was just laying there a capital M staring me in the face. I did not think of it as cheating. It was coping. It was surviving. I slowly swung my body in my desk to hide my eyes from the teacher. I quickly glanced down and grabbed with my mind one letter at a time. I swiped my forearm against my brow, sweat glistened off my arm. Finally I was done. I looked over the word; it did not look right, but in my experience that did not mean much. I looked up at the teacher, as she said, "number 19 clock." Number 19 I missed three words. No problem, I thought; I had the words memorized in the right order, I just could not spell them right. I quickly scribbled down the words I knew to be numbers 16, 17 and 18, and finished the test with the rest of the class.
I turned in the test beaming. We got the test returned by the end of the day. Mercifully she did not say the scores aloud. She turned the test upside down on my desk. I quickly turned it over. On top of the page in round, bubble numbers was a - 20, (she stopped putting an F on my paper months ago.) I could not believe it. I scanned down the page to number 15 and saw a giant red slash next to the word MATHEMATICS.
By the end of 2nd grade I had not only failed every Friday final test, I had not yet gotten one word correct, not one word! At this point I had no concern of passing a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday spelling test, I only wanted to get one word right, just one word.
It was April or May the afternoon sun filtered through the windows. The teacher slowly walked up and down between the aisles making sure we where ready for the Friday final test. The room was silent except for a few nervous doodlers to my right. My head was already sunk. I was prepared to once again feel that heavy weight of disappointment, my stomach had that slight ache, as I again prepared to do my best on something that I knew would turn out embarrassing.As I looked over and saw the girls who got all twenty words right on the Monday pretest or the Wednesday practice test eating Popsicles, I was thinking how I would have to hide my score from my friends and my parents, and I was just hoping that the teacher would not read the scores a loud again. She walked past my desk checking that my pencil was sharpened, and my paper was clean. It was. I listened to her feet clunk across the floor to the front of room to begin reading the test.
As the teacher went through the words, my head sank lower and lower. I spelled word after word, I would even spell them three different ways and circle the one I thought looked right. She was on word fifteen. Math. "We will have math after spelling." I wrote down M and then I woke up. It most have been the straightest I ever sat in my desk during a spelling test. I began to smile. For the first time in my life I had the chance to get a word right on the Friday final spelling test. I gripped my pencil a little tighter. I hunched over my desk getting my chest close to my paper. I peered down to look at my math book. There it was just laying there a capital M staring me in the face. I did not think of it as cheating. It was coping. It was surviving. I slowly swung my body in my desk to hide my eyes from the teacher. I quickly glanced down and grabbed with my mind one letter at a time. I swiped my forearm against my brow, sweat glistened off my arm. Finally I was done. I looked over the word; it did not look right, but in my experience that did not mean much. I looked up at the teacher, as she said, "number 19 clock." Number 19 I missed three words. No problem, I thought; I had the words memorized in the right order, I just could not spell them right. I quickly scribbled down the words I knew to be numbers 16, 17 and 18, and finished the test with the rest of the class.
I turned in the test beaming. We got the test returned by the end of the day. Mercifully she did not say the scores aloud. She turned the test upside down on my desk. I quickly turned it over. On top of the page in round, bubble numbers was a - 20, (she stopped putting an F on my paper months ago.) I could not believe it. I scanned down the page to number 15 and saw a giant red slash next to the word MATHEMATICS.
Homeroom Story number 18: My one moment of fame or it rings truth
I have been told that everyone has their one moment of fame, mine came to me in 9th grade, a time when the teenage mind is at its most impressionable, most confused, most invincible state. A time when popularity is as predictable as a teens mood.
A little background: I went to school, in at the time, was the biggest Jr. high in the state. I was a nobody. I was a little shy and very awkward: messy hair, braces, glasses and chubby. I just went through my routine of the school day from one class to the next. It was a good day if I talked to anyone, and I did not get teased. By talking to anyone I mean boys, talking to girls was out of the question.
It was metal shop class, and we were creating rings. Of course the teacher went over safety rules first, with such basics as the machinery and the tools, and, of course, don't put your ring on until it is finished. A funny thing about the teenage brain is its idea that the teenage body is invincible and that not all rules apply to them. So due to this notion planted in my brain of invincibility and the teenage need to belong, when a girl began talking to me I became a little dumber. After I got over the fact that a girl was talking to me, I began to understand what she was trying to tell me. She suggested that I try the ring on as she slid her own ring on and off her finger to prove the absurdness of the safety rule, of course, I did not hesitate to try my own ring on. She said it looked nice, I beamed. Maybe it was the beaming that got me in trouble, extra blood going to my finger, or maybe my knuckles are big and odd shaped and a little awkward like the rest of me, or maybe it was just my time in history to become famous, but for what ever reason the ring stuck. My first move was to panic and pull harder, of course, that made it worse. Then the girl grabbed my hand, increasing blood flow to my finger, and began to pull, making it much worse. We twisted it, shock it,and pulled and pulled at it. We ran to the sink and put soap and water on it; it did not work. At this point from all the pulling of the unfinished metal of the ring; it began to cut through my flesh and bleed. This caused my new friend to panic, and she did something I will never understand, but I am sure it has something to do with that unreliable teenage brain. She ran to tell the teacher what had happened. I was dumbfounded. He examined my finger like a doctor, saying things like hmmmm and ahhhhh, until he suggested I lay under the table with my finger in a vise as he cut the ring off. So I laid under the table, face up as he sawed the ring ; the vise squeezing my finger. All I could see was the bottom of the table and wads of pink gum stuck to the underside. The room was completely silent except of the grinding of the saw. The teacher went slow either to be careful not to cut me or to relish the moment. When he finally cut through the ring and unwound the vise I slowly slid the ring off my finger before standing up from under the table. As I slid from under the table I began to hear the murmurings and giggles of classmates. But as I stood up I could see it was not just my classmates; it was the entire school and I was famous. All eyes where on me for one instant, wide eyes and open mouths that spelled the letter O. An applause rose, cheers could be heard throughout the room and down the hallways and screams of, "he got it off," made it through the Jr. high grapevine like a a wildfire. All to fast, the girl slid into the crowd and the teacher sent everyone to their next class. I got pats on the back and, "way to go" from complete strangers. For the rest of that day I was thy most popular kid in school. My moment of fame.
A little background: I went to school, in at the time, was the biggest Jr. high in the state. I was a nobody. I was a little shy and very awkward: messy hair, braces, glasses and chubby. I just went through my routine of the school day from one class to the next. It was a good day if I talked to anyone, and I did not get teased. By talking to anyone I mean boys, talking to girls was out of the question.
It was metal shop class, and we were creating rings. Of course the teacher went over safety rules first, with such basics as the machinery and the tools, and, of course, don't put your ring on until it is finished. A funny thing about the teenage brain is its idea that the teenage body is invincible and that not all rules apply to them. So due to this notion planted in my brain of invincibility and the teenage need to belong, when a girl began talking to me I became a little dumber. After I got over the fact that a girl was talking to me, I began to understand what she was trying to tell me. She suggested that I try the ring on as she slid her own ring on and off her finger to prove the absurdness of the safety rule, of course, I did not hesitate to try my own ring on. She said it looked nice, I beamed. Maybe it was the beaming that got me in trouble, extra blood going to my finger, or maybe my knuckles are big and odd shaped and a little awkward like the rest of me, or maybe it was just my time in history to become famous, but for what ever reason the ring stuck. My first move was to panic and pull harder, of course, that made it worse. Then the girl grabbed my hand, increasing blood flow to my finger, and began to pull, making it much worse. We twisted it, shock it,and pulled and pulled at it. We ran to the sink and put soap and water on it; it did not work. At this point from all the pulling of the unfinished metal of the ring; it began to cut through my flesh and bleed. This caused my new friend to panic, and she did something I will never understand, but I am sure it has something to do with that unreliable teenage brain. She ran to tell the teacher what had happened. I was dumbfounded. He examined my finger like a doctor, saying things like hmmmm and ahhhhh, until he suggested I lay under the table with my finger in a vise as he cut the ring off. So I laid under the table, face up as he sawed the ring ; the vise squeezing my finger. All I could see was the bottom of the table and wads of pink gum stuck to the underside. The room was completely silent except of the grinding of the saw. The teacher went slow either to be careful not to cut me or to relish the moment. When he finally cut through the ring and unwound the vise I slowly slid the ring off my finger before standing up from under the table. As I slid from under the table I began to hear the murmurings and giggles of classmates. But as I stood up I could see it was not just my classmates; it was the entire school and I was famous. All eyes where on me for one instant, wide eyes and open mouths that spelled the letter O. An applause rose, cheers could be heard throughout the room and down the hallways and screams of, "he got it off," made it through the Jr. high grapevine like a a wildfire. All to fast, the girl slid into the crowd and the teacher sent everyone to their next class. I got pats on the back and, "way to go" from complete strangers. For the rest of that day I was thy most popular kid in school. My moment of fame.
Homeroom Story number 36 - Dad locks child in car or peek-a-boo more then just a child's game
I went to the Summit with Kandence who was 2 years old at the time. I only needed to drop by to deliver something of no concscoincce to my wife. I regrettably pulled the blue sedan in directly in front of the gym and ran in, delivered what ever it was I needed to deliver and ran out, a 15 second job, however as returning to my car I realized that I locked the car doors with the keys in the ignition and a 2 year old, who was wide awake, in the backseat. Here I did what most parents, I believe, would do in the situation. I panicked. I ran into the lobby and called 911. I know that seems a bit drastic now, but that is what I did.
While waiting for the police officer to show up I entertained the 2 year old strapped in the back seat by playing peek-a-boo. I would crouch down, sneak around the car, pop up and yell peek-a-boo. Every dad has played this game with a two year old at some point, however, most have not played this game directly outside a busy gym right after work. As patrons came out of the Summit doors they would see me crouching around my car and popping up and yelling peek-a-boo into the closed window. Some of these patrons I knew. As theses patrons came out the doors they would say things like, "Luke, I just saw your wife do you want me to go get her?" I would have to interrupt my peek-a-boo game to tell my friend to, in fact," not get my wife under any circumstances."
After having 4 or so such interruptions the police officer came. He was a big man who looked bigger wearing 23 pounds of hardware. He sauntered up to the window carrying a long, black bar used to break into such cars. He grasped my hand with a firm shake and preceded to jam the bar into the car. I watched as Kandence's eyes got big. She had that look that every two year old gets right before they start to cry. To ease Kadence's mind I put my arm around the big man's shoulders and smiled at Kadence. Kadence held her breath, I held mine and if I remember correctly the officer held his. Kadence did not cry but she still had that just-about-to-cry look. Again, I did what I think most fathers would have done in this situation. I asked the police officer to play peek-a-boo around the car.
Here we were, two grown men, directly in front of the busiest establishment, at the busiest time of the day walking around, crouching below the windows, taking turns popping up and yelling through a closed window "peek-a-boo." Some people stopped to watch, some asked to help, some pretended not to see us and others (my favorite type of people) asked if they could play.
As soon as Kadence seemed reassured the officer began to again try to break into my car to no avail, while I continued to play peek-a-boo. After about 20 minutes, a knight in shiny armor, (Carharts and a loose flannel) riding a white horse, (white pick-up truck stamped with LOCKSMITH on the side) drove up to the car. He dismounted armed with courage, intelligence, strength and a thin wire with a hook. In a flash, he unsheathed his weapon, slid it between the window and the door, twisted and opened the door with his other hand. All faster then it takes to tell. As the door opened he gave a wink and a smile toward Kadence, then turned to leave. As he mounted his trusty stead he looked over his shoulder and said, "my job here is done." And as fast as he came, he left with only the fumes from his exhaust pipe to prove that he ever existed. The officer looked at me and shrugged as he too walked to his car. I entered the car and looked at Kadence whose three simple words said it all, "Peek-a-boo?"
While waiting for the police officer to show up I entertained the 2 year old strapped in the back seat by playing peek-a-boo. I would crouch down, sneak around the car, pop up and yell peek-a-boo. Every dad has played this game with a two year old at some point, however, most have not played this game directly outside a busy gym right after work. As patrons came out of the Summit doors they would see me crouching around my car and popping up and yelling peek-a-boo into the closed window. Some of these patrons I knew. As theses patrons came out the doors they would say things like, "Luke, I just saw your wife do you want me to go get her?" I would have to interrupt my peek-a-boo game to tell my friend to, in fact," not get my wife under any circumstances."
After having 4 or so such interruptions the police officer came. He was a big man who looked bigger wearing 23 pounds of hardware. He sauntered up to the window carrying a long, black bar used to break into such cars. He grasped my hand with a firm shake and preceded to jam the bar into the car. I watched as Kandence's eyes got big. She had that look that every two year old gets right before they start to cry. To ease Kadence's mind I put my arm around the big man's shoulders and smiled at Kadence. Kadence held her breath, I held mine and if I remember correctly the officer held his. Kadence did not cry but she still had that just-about-to-cry look. Again, I did what I think most fathers would have done in this situation. I asked the police officer to play peek-a-boo around the car.
Here we were, two grown men, directly in front of the busiest establishment, at the busiest time of the day walking around, crouching below the windows, taking turns popping up and yelling through a closed window "peek-a-boo." Some people stopped to watch, some asked to help, some pretended not to see us and others (my favorite type of people) asked if they could play.
As soon as Kadence seemed reassured the officer began to again try to break into my car to no avail, while I continued to play peek-a-boo. After about 20 minutes, a knight in shiny armor, (Carharts and a loose flannel) riding a white horse, (white pick-up truck stamped with LOCKSMITH on the side) drove up to the car. He dismounted armed with courage, intelligence, strength and a thin wire with a hook. In a flash, he unsheathed his weapon, slid it between the window and the door, twisted and opened the door with his other hand. All faster then it takes to tell. As the door opened he gave a wink and a smile toward Kadence, then turned to leave. As he mounted his trusty stead he looked over his shoulder and said, "my job here is done." And as fast as he came, he left with only the fumes from his exhaust pipe to prove that he ever existed. The officer looked at me and shrugged as he too walked to his car. I entered the car and looked at Kadence whose three simple words said it all, "Peek-a-boo?"
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