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

Kindergarten should not be scary, but when it is, it is good to have a few tricks up your sleeve.

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.

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.)