In what some people would call supreme irony, my wife is an avid sports fan whereas I can take it or leave it. While I enjoy sitting in Wrigley Field and watching the Cubbies and yes, I admit that I have become a Cubs fan; it will never be with the fervor that she espouses. Nonetheless, I do hope they get back in the World Series one of these days. On top of the Cubs season tickets, we also have season tickets for Hawkeye football and basketball. Therefore, we get to go through security quite frequently.
Today I am “girding my loins” for another Hawkeye football excursion tomorrow, the biggest thing I am dreading is the inevitable search of our belongings after we show our over-priced ticket. I won’t bore you with the sundry things I carry in my fanny pack, but apparently the rent-a-cops and security wieners are fascinated by its contents. Never clear on what they are looking for, they poke around until they are satisfied that they have pissed me off totally before letting me pass.
For those of you who are not familiar with Hawkeye Nation, they don’t allow bags bigger than the size of a standard piece of paper (8 ½ x 11) – okay, I can appreciate this “standard” but the painfully obtuse method of measuring for go or no-go is without a doubt the dumbest methodology I have ever endured. A quick fix would be to follow the example of the airlines with a box of the requisite size to use a simple go/no go process of if it fits it is good to go, but noooooo, THAT would be too simple and far too user friendly to be implemented. Instead each of the security people have a sheet of paper torn from a notebook to check bag sizes. A clumsy method at best.
I watched one woman unsuccessfully try to bring in a purse whose dimensions were within the required dimensions, however, it had fringe that exceeded the sheet of paper rule and despite an attempt at reason she was rebuffed at the gate with a threat to “call the police.” Of course, this arbitrary standard is not necessarily adhered to at every point of entry so it is quite possible that this frustrated fan went to another gate to gain admission. If not she was probably not a very nice person after a hurried trip back to her car.
Do not attempt to reason with the Per-Mar or university security people. These minimum–wage earners are likely to follow their orders as if they came from a burning bush. Just two weeks ago I made a point of putting my items into a clear plastic bag in an effort to get through “security” a little more quickly, thinking that despite it being larger than a piece of paper that its translucence would obviate that failure. Boy was I wrong. The people in the cheap yellow jackets said I could not use this plastic bag because it wasn’t from the Hawk Shop! I had to remove my bottles of water and carry them in without the benefit of a bag.
Last year I had one of those lightweight bags that were originally designed to carry sneakers but have become a ubiquitous giveaway especially at sporting events. Anyway, I was told I couldn’t bring the bag inside the stadium. Okaaaaay, fair enough, we emptied the contents into various coat pockets. But as I started to stuff the offending bag into a semi-empty pocket, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to bring the empty bag in either. Never mind the fact that I could have walked 20 feet and purchased another one just like it from THE HAWK SHOP! Luckily, this time, common sense prevailed and another Per-Mar guy told me to just move along
Having been in airport security I can appreciate the necessity of bag searches when warranted but when it comes to entering a sports complex, the reason behind the searches is never clearly explained. One time I tried to enter Carver-Hawkeye Arena with a pocketknife. I’d forgotten it was in my bag and since it does look a little wicked, the bag searcher’s head about exploded upon seeing it. He started quoting off all sorts of non-existent Homeland Security directives about it being a weapon, etc so rather than argue with him, I walked out and back into another door – with the pocket knife stuffed securely in my jeans pocket. Hey, it was January in Iowa; I wasn’t about to walk the mile back to our car. Troublemaker that I am I went on to my seat, used the knife to peel an apple and watched the game. Later, unsure if the yellow-jacketed one was correct my wife did a quick web search and discovered that in fact it WAS NOT big enough to be considered a weapon by any law enforcement standards after all!
As regular visitors to Wrigley Field, we often pack a lunch and snacks for our trips to watch the Cubs, the security folks are always very courteous and understanding about bringing food and drinks into the ball park. I can’t recall a time being turned back for an offending item. Once the searcher found my Swiss Army knife, hesitated only a second before asking me not to stab anyone with it and let me go on my way.
So, is it weapons, alcohol or food? In Hawkeye Nation, they have a vague prohibition about bringing food to a game. While it is irksome to have some booger-eater pawing through my bag for God knows what but to have them decide one time that a food item was okay and the next time that the very same thing doesn’t meet their idea of a “snack” is absolutely infuriating. If the college would ratchet back the outrageous prices they charge for food maybe po’ folk like me wouldn’t try to smuggle in dinner! I won’t even get into the criminal prices they charge just to get into the games!
Last but not least, it is the smug superiority of some of these rent-a-cops that really gets me!
Here’s another example of idiocy in action. One night standing in line to enter the arena, a U of I security guard very rudely asked me what was in my pants cargo pocket. Not being on my toes, I made the mistake of telling him the truth, “a bottle of water,” and turned back to the business of getting through security. No one else said anything and I continued on my way. Shortly afterwards I saw this troll pointing me out of the crowd to “real” cops. All I could think of was here it comes! Boy these guys were textbook cops, spreading out so they were in a semi-circle around me and confronted me about the bulge in my pocket – like I said I wasn’t on my game that night so I again replied that it was a bottle of water. When asked to show it to them I pulled it out and by gosh it was what I told them it was. Using their massively analytical brains they noticed the other cargo pocket was bulging too and I produced yet another bottle of water. Okay, so far so good right? Na-ah, Old Barney Fife and Goober Pyle proceeded to dress me down about not complying with instructions and that the next time someone tells me to show them what was in my pockets to do it! Of course I tried to explain to these two mental giants that the rent-a-cop didn’t ask me to show him anything, he asked a question, I responded and went on my way through security and if it HAD been such a problem that maybe the boob should have stopped me BEFORE going through security! The shorter cop kept saying that I was supposed to comply with instructions to which I replied that I had complied and that he never asked to see what was in my pocket! Arrrrgh!
As I said, I understand the necessity of safety measures having been involved with airport security but my Gawd! Make the insanity stop! Tomorrow is another day and another Hawkeye football game; wanna put a wager on me getting hassled again?
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Friday, September 24, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Walking Among Giants
In the grand scheme of things I suppose few of them made much of an impact. None of them cured a disease, threw the winning touchdown pass or in a few cases were even successful in business ventures, but they were truly giants and I am proud to say I walked among them. Simple men with simple tastes, they were mostly family men who in their gray years doted after grandchildren with the love and tenderness that sometimes was missing from their attention to their own children – making up for past mistakes, I suppose.
They were farmers, ironworkers, carpenters, and laborers of all sorts. Giants like my father, my grandfather, and other hard working, rough-hewn men of their era, they worked tirelessly to provide for their families and in turn strengthen their country. They labored every day, rarely pausing except for Friday nights to cheer on the home team, Sundays to give praise (and maybe do a little fishing) and then started it all over again come Monday morning. As a child I was in awe of them: their rough clothes, work-scarred hands and how big they were! My lord, they were huge! When they weren’t working you could find them at the grain elevator, hardware store, or wherever giants congregated to discuss the news of the day: how the corn was lookin’, how the boys were doin’ overseas, or if this really was the year the Cubs were going all the way. They towered over the very land they nurtured and it seemed to my adolescent mind that I was walking in a denim-cloaked forest whenever they gathered; their conversations eventually turning to tales of “the olden days,” the days before marriage, children and long hours of work.
Many went off to war as young men (boys really), staying away just long enough to serve their country, but quickly returned home to start their own families and their own lives with their uniforms packed neatly away. A few of them were even hell-raisers in their younger days; how do you think I learned about cow tipping? They talked about running hoop nets in the river baited with ungodly concoctions guaranteed to bring in the “big ‘uns” or how they used to go to a particular house tucked away in the woods where they would play a few hands of whist and maybe take a nip (or two) of corn liquor come Saturday night.
As the giants went about their labors there were usually kids following in their wake fighting to carry the tool bucket or to be somehow involved in the giants’ efforts. A giant’s idea of “quality time” was getting the job done and teaching us the value of hard work and, in turn the worth of a man. We children scrambled for attention and it didn’t take long to figure out which giant had a pocketful of hard candies to reward the hardest working helper. Of course, an angry giant was a fearsome sight to behold and woe to the errant son who heard the epithet, “Wait ‘til your father gets home!”
Most times we looked up in admiration and awe at the efforts of the giants. It seemed as if they could move mountains, build anything and explain the most difficult problems. But sadly as we grew older we usually participated with less enthusiasm, only listened half-heartedly, and our admiration waned even as we began to stretch our own wings in the hopes (even if silently) that we could measure up to the giants of our youth. Over the course of time we moved away, fought our own wars and discovered that our giants seemed less threatening and more human. Like a favorite tool on the workbench, they have somehow lost the shine of use and have taken on instead the patina of the ages. They appear a little smaller in stature, slower in movement and finally have become in our eyes what they always were – men who loved their wives and children with all their hearts even if they might not have been able to tell us at the time.
Cherish these men if you still have the chance and even if it is too late and your own giants are gone, try to remember the days when you were held in awe by their stories and were fascinated by their wisdom. And as one by one, we lay them to rest, their ranks thinning with age, we discover that we have become our fathers; somehow, I cannot help but wonder if they didn’t know it all along.
They were farmers, ironworkers, carpenters, and laborers of all sorts. Giants like my father, my grandfather, and other hard working, rough-hewn men of their era, they worked tirelessly to provide for their families and in turn strengthen their country. They labored every day, rarely pausing except for Friday nights to cheer on the home team, Sundays to give praise (and maybe do a little fishing) and then started it all over again come Monday morning. As a child I was in awe of them: their rough clothes, work-scarred hands and how big they were! My lord, they were huge! When they weren’t working you could find them at the grain elevator, hardware store, or wherever giants congregated to discuss the news of the day: how the corn was lookin’, how the boys were doin’ overseas, or if this really was the year the Cubs were going all the way. They towered over the very land they nurtured and it seemed to my adolescent mind that I was walking in a denim-cloaked forest whenever they gathered; their conversations eventually turning to tales of “the olden days,” the days before marriage, children and long hours of work.
Many went off to war as young men (boys really), staying away just long enough to serve their country, but quickly returned home to start their own families and their own lives with their uniforms packed neatly away. A few of them were even hell-raisers in their younger days; how do you think I learned about cow tipping? They talked about running hoop nets in the river baited with ungodly concoctions guaranteed to bring in the “big ‘uns” or how they used to go to a particular house tucked away in the woods where they would play a few hands of whist and maybe take a nip (or two) of corn liquor come Saturday night.
As the giants went about their labors there were usually kids following in their wake fighting to carry the tool bucket or to be somehow involved in the giants’ efforts. A giant’s idea of “quality time” was getting the job done and teaching us the value of hard work and, in turn the worth of a man. We children scrambled for attention and it didn’t take long to figure out which giant had a pocketful of hard candies to reward the hardest working helper. Of course, an angry giant was a fearsome sight to behold and woe to the errant son who heard the epithet, “Wait ‘til your father gets home!”
Most times we looked up in admiration and awe at the efforts of the giants. It seemed as if they could move mountains, build anything and explain the most difficult problems. But sadly as we grew older we usually participated with less enthusiasm, only listened half-heartedly, and our admiration waned even as we began to stretch our own wings in the hopes (even if silently) that we could measure up to the giants of our youth. Over the course of time we moved away, fought our own wars and discovered that our giants seemed less threatening and more human. Like a favorite tool on the workbench, they have somehow lost the shine of use and have taken on instead the patina of the ages. They appear a little smaller in stature, slower in movement and finally have become in our eyes what they always were – men who loved their wives and children with all their hearts even if they might not have been able to tell us at the time.
Cherish these men if you still have the chance and even if it is too late and your own giants are gone, try to remember the days when you were held in awe by their stories and were fascinated by their wisdom. And as one by one, we lay them to rest, their ranks thinning with age, we discover that we have become our fathers; somehow, I cannot help but wonder if they didn’t know it all along.
Friday, August 13, 2010
And another school year is upon us
Oh boy, I just got my packet to reapply to be a substitute teacher for yet another fun filled year of Edutainment. I can't wait to start covering fridays and mondays for all the coaches who need to "watch game films" or other very important activities for their first love of coaching rather than being an educator.
Now I must say that I have encountered some teachers who are dynamic educators who are truly hesitant to take a half-day off let alone a full day. From these gems I try to take away any nuggets of information they may leave with their lesson plans so that maybe someday I'll be able to use them in my own classroom. Of course there are others who leave sub plans that resemble a hurried phone number written on a cocktail napkin, or in some cases there are entire scripts that you are expected to follow to the letter - dry, boring, forced edutainment that you can ladle out like so much mystery meat in the lunch room.
There are two assignments that invariably end up on the substitute plan: Videos and worksheets. For the longest time I hated both of them. I never really got to exercise my teaching chops by handing out volumes of worksheets or plugging in video after video and I looked forward to the rare teacher who took a chance with a substitute and actually left a "real" LP. Of course it was much better in Social Studies classes - an area that I am over-qualified to teach in part because I really like history! Huh, go figure.
Anyway, Now that I've been subbing for a while I tend to look forward to the videos and although I still absolutely HATE worksheets I accept that they are here to stay in that intricate complex that is the American education system. Why do I hate them so much you ask? At first blush worksheets are wonderful tools to help guide students through their assignments, especially beneficial in math class, however, in history and social studies they have degenerated into a vapid activity for students that tends to improve their ability to "cherry pick" information from their text without establishing a basis or continuity of information. It's even worse if students are allowed to partner up while doing worksheets. Instead of collaborative learning they tend to divvy up the assignment so that they tend to find less than 50% of the desired information. Larger study groups = less information gained. And as a substitute you have to stand there and watch it happen.
I've seen students from 6th through 12th graders in dozens of schools use this technique and sadly many teachers reinforce this lack o' learnin' by allowing study notes for tests. I saw this technique for the first time when I student taught in Tacoma and I was appalled by the cavalier attitude this team of teachers had towards history. Their preferred method of instruction was to lecture from their notes as they wrote all the key points on a chalk board after which they told the kids that if they copied down everything on the board that they would ace the unit quiz because they were allowed to use their notes during the test! These long-time "educators" dismissed my concern about incorrect information being doled out with the comment, "well, don't worry about it, you're the only one who knows the right answer."
Of course I'm talking about history because that's my thing, I enjoy history and historical scholarship so indifference (or incompetence) in teaching history is an anathema for me. History and it's Frankenstein's monster of a cousin: social studies should be taught by history teachers, not coaches!
It seems that there are only two kinds of history teachers: coaches and social revisionists. If you were looking for that old eccentric history teacher who knows enough history to have just maybe have marched with Sherman you won't find them in the public school system - anywhere.
If you talk to college history professors they will almost unanimously agree that the average freshman enters college with a tremendous lack of basic knowledge of research techniques, history or civics. I must agree with them as I was asked to be a Teaching Assistant for an upper level college class (300 level) while I was student teaching. Yeah, I'm a glutton for punishment! Anyway, I was grading papers at both the high school senior and the college junior levels at about the same time and in many cases the only way I could tell them apart was the subject matter!
Anyway, it's been eight years since I got my teaching certification - haven't even had the whiff of a job yet. I did get two mercy interviews at the school where my wife works though. I've been certified so long I've gone through two basic licenses (in two different states) as well as a third substitute license! As I see it I've got 8 years of no experience under my belt with little chance of ever having my own classroom.
Here's a kicker, my current license will expire in two years so I do hope that something comes along before I have to hand the state another $85 to continue to be a sub. I'll continue to work towards a full-time (I'd take part-time) position teaching history, I'd even call it social studies if I could get a permanent gig!
What's working against me you ask? Well, I seriously don't know for sure. It certainly isn't my credentials, I am fully endorsed in all aspects of history and social studies so it isn't that. One major strike against me is that I now have a Masters Degree. I've now become too expensive as a novice teacher for some school districts - at least that's what I'm told. Of course there is the inevitable problem of not being a coach. Sorry, never played organized sports, never really liked them either.
This brings me to the intangibles, the points that no one talks about, are afraid to even hint about but are truly deal breakers. I suffer from a few terminal maladies that can never be cured: I'm too old, too white, too male, too conservative and too damn independent for a school district to take a chance on me! Of course this added to not being a coach makes me unemployable and quite frankly untouchable.
As I read back over this diatribe, I hesitate to post it for school administrators to read but then again what's going to happen? They're not going to hire me? They are already not doing that so what's the difference?
With all that said, I will continue to teach within the limits that I work under and I'll try to touch the handful of kids who seem to like me as a teacher because I'm "not like other substitutes," their words not mine. One girl once told me she didn't like it when I subbed because I was too smart, that she liked dumb substitutes. There was a a twinkle in her eye when she said it though...
Ancora Imparo!
Now I must say that I have encountered some teachers who are dynamic educators who are truly hesitant to take a half-day off let alone a full day. From these gems I try to take away any nuggets of information they may leave with their lesson plans so that maybe someday I'll be able to use them in my own classroom. Of course there are others who leave sub plans that resemble a hurried phone number written on a cocktail napkin, or in some cases there are entire scripts that you are expected to follow to the letter - dry, boring, forced edutainment that you can ladle out like so much mystery meat in the lunch room.
There are two assignments that invariably end up on the substitute plan: Videos and worksheets. For the longest time I hated both of them. I never really got to exercise my teaching chops by handing out volumes of worksheets or plugging in video after video and I looked forward to the rare teacher who took a chance with a substitute and actually left a "real" LP. Of course it was much better in Social Studies classes - an area that I am over-qualified to teach in part because I really like history! Huh, go figure.
Anyway, Now that I've been subbing for a while I tend to look forward to the videos and although I still absolutely HATE worksheets I accept that they are here to stay in that intricate complex that is the American education system. Why do I hate them so much you ask? At first blush worksheets are wonderful tools to help guide students through their assignments, especially beneficial in math class, however, in history and social studies they have degenerated into a vapid activity for students that tends to improve their ability to "cherry pick" information from their text without establishing a basis or continuity of information. It's even worse if students are allowed to partner up while doing worksheets. Instead of collaborative learning they tend to divvy up the assignment so that they tend to find less than 50% of the desired information. Larger study groups = less information gained. And as a substitute you have to stand there and watch it happen.
I've seen students from 6th through 12th graders in dozens of schools use this technique and sadly many teachers reinforce this lack o' learnin' by allowing study notes for tests. I saw this technique for the first time when I student taught in Tacoma and I was appalled by the cavalier attitude this team of teachers had towards history. Their preferred method of instruction was to lecture from their notes as they wrote all the key points on a chalk board after which they told the kids that if they copied down everything on the board that they would ace the unit quiz because they were allowed to use their notes during the test! These long-time "educators" dismissed my concern about incorrect information being doled out with the comment, "well, don't worry about it, you're the only one who knows the right answer."
Of course I'm talking about history because that's my thing, I enjoy history and historical scholarship so indifference (or incompetence) in teaching history is an anathema for me. History and it's Frankenstein's monster of a cousin: social studies should be taught by history teachers, not coaches!
It seems that there are only two kinds of history teachers: coaches and social revisionists. If you were looking for that old eccentric history teacher who knows enough history to have just maybe have marched with Sherman you won't find them in the public school system - anywhere.
If you talk to college history professors they will almost unanimously agree that the average freshman enters college with a tremendous lack of basic knowledge of research techniques, history or civics. I must agree with them as I was asked to be a Teaching Assistant for an upper level college class (300 level) while I was student teaching. Yeah, I'm a glutton for punishment! Anyway, I was grading papers at both the high school senior and the college junior levels at about the same time and in many cases the only way I could tell them apart was the subject matter!
Anyway, it's been eight years since I got my teaching certification - haven't even had the whiff of a job yet. I did get two mercy interviews at the school where my wife works though. I've been certified so long I've gone through two basic licenses (in two different states) as well as a third substitute license! As I see it I've got 8 years of no experience under my belt with little chance of ever having my own classroom.
Here's a kicker, my current license will expire in two years so I do hope that something comes along before I have to hand the state another $85 to continue to be a sub. I'll continue to work towards a full-time (I'd take part-time) position teaching history, I'd even call it social studies if I could get a permanent gig!
What's working against me you ask? Well, I seriously don't know for sure. It certainly isn't my credentials, I am fully endorsed in all aspects of history and social studies so it isn't that. One major strike against me is that I now have a Masters Degree. I've now become too expensive as a novice teacher for some school districts - at least that's what I'm told. Of course there is the inevitable problem of not being a coach. Sorry, never played organized sports, never really liked them either.
This brings me to the intangibles, the points that no one talks about, are afraid to even hint about but are truly deal breakers. I suffer from a few terminal maladies that can never be cured: I'm too old, too white, too male, too conservative and too damn independent for a school district to take a chance on me! Of course this added to not being a coach makes me unemployable and quite frankly untouchable.
As I read back over this diatribe, I hesitate to post it for school administrators to read but then again what's going to happen? They're not going to hire me? They are already not doing that so what's the difference?
With all that said, I will continue to teach within the limits that I work under and I'll try to touch the handful of kids who seem to like me as a teacher because I'm "not like other substitutes," their words not mine. One girl once told me she didn't like it when I subbed because I was too smart, that she liked dumb substitutes. There was a a twinkle in her eye when she said it though...
Ancora Imparo!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Just because you can....
After the recent flap surrounding the MTV awards and the excessive cursing that went on during the telecast I pondered just why this is such a hot button item. Right off the bat I must admit that I did not watch the awards ceremony so I don't have first hand knowledge of the indiscretions so I had to rely on excerpts that have been flying around the internet.
I haven't watched MTV in years - for obvious reasons, I grew up and the incessant chatter has not. One of the most important lessons I learned along the way has been, "Just because you can doesn't mean you should...."
No, I'm not some boorish prig who doesn't like an occasional cuss word - just ask my wife who will attest to my very colorful language but after watching the clips of the cursing I came to the conclusion that they were all scripted - much like the kiss between Sandra Bullock and ah, whoever that was that she smooched on the face in between all the cussing. It was all so very phony that all I could think about was how lame it all appeared!
About halfway through the Youtube clip I stopped it and went on to more important things like finding another talking dog video, as someone who spent a major portion of my life in the Army, I know cussing when I hear it and that wasn't it! Even Sandy B's kiss was lame!
So, Hollywood, give it up. If you have to script yourself being edgy and foul-mouthed it ain't the %#$&$ing same as if you &*&$^#*& ^%&#*&% do it yourself. Do you understand you punk-@553d *&*(^&^$ ^(&Q#ers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh yeah, Sandra Bullock, if you are gonna start mashing faces with girls do it with feeling!
Woody Sends
I haven't watched MTV in years - for obvious reasons, I grew up and the incessant chatter has not. One of the most important lessons I learned along the way has been, "Just because you can doesn't mean you should...."
No, I'm not some boorish prig who doesn't like an occasional cuss word - just ask my wife who will attest to my very colorful language but after watching the clips of the cursing I came to the conclusion that they were all scripted - much like the kiss between Sandra Bullock and ah, whoever that was that she smooched on the face in between all the cussing. It was all so very phony that all I could think about was how lame it all appeared!
About halfway through the Youtube clip I stopped it and went on to more important things like finding another talking dog video, as someone who spent a major portion of my life in the Army, I know cussing when I hear it and that wasn't it! Even Sandy B's kiss was lame!
So, Hollywood, give it up. If you have to script yourself being edgy and foul-mouthed it ain't the %#$&$ing same as if you &*&$^#*& ^%&#*&% do it yourself. Do you understand you punk-@553d *&*(^&^$ ^(&Q#ers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh yeah, Sandra Bullock, if you are gonna start mashing faces with girls do it with feeling!
Woody Sends
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
a long hiatus
Wow, for some reason I have been avoiding writing this blog although I had planned on writing every day. Oh well, at least I didn't buy a new bound journal for this foray into forced reflection and writing. Summer vacation has officially begun with graduation parties, Memorial Day and tending the garden.
The sun came out this morning so it looks like a bit of time in the garden today - after yesterday's heavy rain weeding should be much easier. I'll have to fence in the rest of the garden today too so the wabbits will weave the pwoduce awone.
That's enough for now, I'm outta here.
M
The sun came out this morning so it looks like a bit of time in the garden today - after yesterday's heavy rain weeding should be much easier. I'll have to fence in the rest of the garden today too so the wabbits will weave the pwoduce awone.
That's enough for now, I'm outta here.
M
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Called Home
My father died from cancer almost two years ago. I miss him. I miss the few times that we spent together as adults. What I miss the most are the times that we will never have because we were both busy getting on with life when we thought we had all the time in the world. As I was growing up my father was too busy supporting a growing family to spend much of what is now referred to as “quality time." I remember him working for a local construction company as well as running our small family farm with my grandfather.
I was stationed on Okinawa Japan when cancer invaded my life almost three years ago. My mother called mid-morning on a Saturday. Instead of her usual banter about grandchildren and life back home, she stammered out the short statement “Your father has something to tell you.” Because of his hearing loss Dad rarely talked on the phone so I prepared myself for something significant, but not his short statement “I've got a cancer.” Nothing can ever prepare you for the possibility of hearing that news. I sat in disbelief as Dad tried to soothe my rattled nerves and assure me that I didn’t need to come home. At once I felt fear and guilt --Fear at losing my father and guilt about missing so much of my family.
My wife and I were quickly flown stateside on emergency leave and twenty-four hours later I was walking through the kitchen door of the house where I lived as a child. My parents were both a little grayer and my father somehow a little smaller than the terrible (at times) giant of my youth – over the years he had become just a man. He was afraid of his surgery the following day, but happy for today as his whole family was home. The following three weeks were a blur of doctors, discussions, visits and of course family arguments. The doctors had been quite pleased with the results of the operation and felt that they had removed all of the cancer. All too soon we returned to Okinawa filled with hopes that there would be a complete recovery. After all, it was 1993 and didn’t we hear about miracle recoveries from cancer every day in the news?
The next six months passed with the usual phone calls and letters. “Dad was doing fine...”
I wanted to believe that no news was good news, but that just wasn’t the case. My family had been trying to protect me by not informing me of the vicious course the cancer had taken: A tumor had been discovered in Dad’s brain. Luckily it had been operable and he was soon in recovery. A growth on his right hand was removed, but it soon reappeared. Slowly came the realization that to save the body the hand had to be removed. Following innumerable trips to the hospital, the doctors advised my parents that there was little else that could be done. My father should return home to live out the rest of his life with dignity.
In January 1994 I received a phone call from my brother. His message was as blunt as my father’s had been almost a year before, “If you want to see Dad, you had better get home as soon as you can.”
We had just started our fifth year overseas. Sandra and I were comfortable in our island home. I knew that we couldn’t just go home for a couple of weeks and then return to Okinawa, there was too much to be said and done. I would have to trust the Army’s support system in which I had little faith. All the plans my wife and I had lain out for our last year on Okinawa were immediately canceled because we had to go home. The following day I started the process by requesting a tour curtailment and what is known as a “compassionate reassignment,” a rather simple way of saying “we take care of our own.”. As soon as I mentioned why we had to go home RIGHT NOW, red tape was quickly cut, procedures modified and in some instances paperwork was even “created” to help us on our way. Soldiers I had never met before approached me offering help in any way they could - I had never felt so good about being in the Army as I did in those hectic days. Within three weeks the system that I had mistrusted so much got us home.
I was afraid of what I was to find when I got home this time and braced myself for the worst as I walked through the door. I found my mother flitting frantically about the kitchen and as my father came into the room I saw that he moved slowly and methodically – more stooped and gray than the year before. I enveloped him in a bear hug and felt him stiffen, afraid that I would hurt him. I put my happiness in check to avoid injuring him and assisted him to his chair. As I sat there unwinding after the 24 hours I had spent in transit I could not help wondering why this had to happen. Of anyone I knew Bob Woods was tough enough and ornery enough to beat cancer. Why was God being so cruel to allow Dad to be crippled and to end his life so slowly? My father could build anything, could fix anything, it just was not fair to make him suffer so much.
Over the next six weeks Dad’s fragile health began to fail, slowly at first but he was in a steady decline that seemed to increase with every passing hour. Embarrassed as he was, he finally allowed me to help him with his daily ablutions. Always a fastidious man, he showered and shaved daily despite the pain. Although I was at first uncomfortable helping him bathe and dress, I felt somehow privileged to be able to assist him and tried to ensure he maintained his dignity despite his infirmity. Dad grew steadily worse; the pain increasing with each passing day, the morphine only kept him semi-comfortable as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It was decided that he be given last rites. The parish priest quickly arrived and absolved my father of sin preparing him to leave this world as the family stood helplessly around his bed. That night my father slipped away in his sleep, no longer in pain and finally at peace. In the ensuing days as we prepared for his funeral, it occurred to me that his life had made a complete circle, he had died in the same room he had been born on the farm that he loved so much. He had not been a man of great means, but he had been a very rich man.
I guess God needed a good farmer in heaven.
I was stationed on Okinawa Japan when cancer invaded my life almost three years ago. My mother called mid-morning on a Saturday. Instead of her usual banter about grandchildren and life back home, she stammered out the short statement “Your father has something to tell you.” Because of his hearing loss Dad rarely talked on the phone so I prepared myself for something significant, but not his short statement “I've got a cancer.” Nothing can ever prepare you for the possibility of hearing that news. I sat in disbelief as Dad tried to soothe my rattled nerves and assure me that I didn’t need to come home. At once I felt fear and guilt --Fear at losing my father and guilt about missing so much of my family.
My wife and I were quickly flown stateside on emergency leave and twenty-four hours later I was walking through the kitchen door of the house where I lived as a child. My parents were both a little grayer and my father somehow a little smaller than the terrible (at times) giant of my youth – over the years he had become just a man. He was afraid of his surgery the following day, but happy for today as his whole family was home. The following three weeks were a blur of doctors, discussions, visits and of course family arguments. The doctors had been quite pleased with the results of the operation and felt that they had removed all of the cancer. All too soon we returned to Okinawa filled with hopes that there would be a complete recovery. After all, it was 1993 and didn’t we hear about miracle recoveries from cancer every day in the news?
The next six months passed with the usual phone calls and letters. “Dad was doing fine...”
I wanted to believe that no news was good news, but that just wasn’t the case. My family had been trying to protect me by not informing me of the vicious course the cancer had taken: A tumor had been discovered in Dad’s brain. Luckily it had been operable and he was soon in recovery. A growth on his right hand was removed, but it soon reappeared. Slowly came the realization that to save the body the hand had to be removed. Following innumerable trips to the hospital, the doctors advised my parents that there was little else that could be done. My father should return home to live out the rest of his life with dignity.
In January 1994 I received a phone call from my brother. His message was as blunt as my father’s had been almost a year before, “If you want to see Dad, you had better get home as soon as you can.”
We had just started our fifth year overseas. Sandra and I were comfortable in our island home. I knew that we couldn’t just go home for a couple of weeks and then return to Okinawa, there was too much to be said and done. I would have to trust the Army’s support system in which I had little faith. All the plans my wife and I had lain out for our last year on Okinawa were immediately canceled because we had to go home. The following day I started the process by requesting a tour curtailment and what is known as a “compassionate reassignment,” a rather simple way of saying “we take care of our own.”. As soon as I mentioned why we had to go home RIGHT NOW, red tape was quickly cut, procedures modified and in some instances paperwork was even “created” to help us on our way. Soldiers I had never met before approached me offering help in any way they could - I had never felt so good about being in the Army as I did in those hectic days. Within three weeks the system that I had mistrusted so much got us home.
I was afraid of what I was to find when I got home this time and braced myself for the worst as I walked through the door. I found my mother flitting frantically about the kitchen and as my father came into the room I saw that he moved slowly and methodically – more stooped and gray than the year before. I enveloped him in a bear hug and felt him stiffen, afraid that I would hurt him. I put my happiness in check to avoid injuring him and assisted him to his chair. As I sat there unwinding after the 24 hours I had spent in transit I could not help wondering why this had to happen. Of anyone I knew Bob Woods was tough enough and ornery enough to beat cancer. Why was God being so cruel to allow Dad to be crippled and to end his life so slowly? My father could build anything, could fix anything, it just was not fair to make him suffer so much.
Over the next six weeks Dad’s fragile health began to fail, slowly at first but he was in a steady decline that seemed to increase with every passing hour. Embarrassed as he was, he finally allowed me to help him with his daily ablutions. Always a fastidious man, he showered and shaved daily despite the pain. Although I was at first uncomfortable helping him bathe and dress, I felt somehow privileged to be able to assist him and tried to ensure he maintained his dignity despite his infirmity. Dad grew steadily worse; the pain increasing with each passing day, the morphine only kept him semi-comfortable as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It was decided that he be given last rites. The parish priest quickly arrived and absolved my father of sin preparing him to leave this world as the family stood helplessly around his bed. That night my father slipped away in his sleep, no longer in pain and finally at peace. In the ensuing days as we prepared for his funeral, it occurred to me that his life had made a complete circle, he had died in the same room he had been born on the farm that he loved so much. He had not been a man of great means, but he had been a very rich man.
I guess God needed a good farmer in heaven.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Some People's Kids
It is amazing just how much teenage boys can waste time that they can ill afford to lose. We have been in class for over 20 minutes and they have yet to do any work, mostly they have just sat there gabbing with each other and picking at things on/in their bodies. Major "ewwww" factor here.
Anyway, I wish I could convey to them that pissing away HS is a terrible thing - I look back at my time now as a total waste, in part because of the lame classes I took but also because of my desire for immediate gratification. eg: not doing classwork because it was more fun to BS.
"Huh, you know I can get an A+ in geometry and still fail this class."
"Dems crazy laak fo o' fie mufugas"
"I can't find my sheet so I can't do this work, so I figured I would just read this book."
"I'd rather live than learn."
"I'll just google it tonight."
"I can't imagine a world without shopping...."
"Why can't I listen to my Ipod during the test?"
"Can I take this call? It's long distance!"
These are just some of the things I've heard since I began substitute teaching. Here's one that I heard second hand and it's just TOO good not to post. Let me set the stage first, the assistant principal is dealing with a chronically tardy, absent and confrontational girl. She is being very antagonistic and after the AP asks/says something she didn't like she stormed at him, "You can just suck my imaginary man cock!"
Okay, how can you respond to something like this? OMG what a little shit! With language skills and imagination like that I foresee a future in the adult entertainment industry for this little girl, not necessarily a bright future, maybe as an extra in a group grope!
Oh well, tomorrow's another day.
Anyway, I wish I could convey to them that pissing away HS is a terrible thing - I look back at my time now as a total waste, in part because of the lame classes I took but also because of my desire for immediate gratification. eg: not doing classwork because it was more fun to BS.
"Huh, you know I can get an A+ in geometry and still fail this class."
"Dems crazy laak fo o' fie mufugas"
"I can't find my sheet so I can't do this work, so I figured I would just read this book."
"I'd rather live than learn."
"I'll just google it tonight."
"I can't imagine a world without shopping...."
"Why can't I listen to my Ipod during the test?"
"Can I take this call? It's long distance!"
These are just some of the things I've heard since I began substitute teaching. Here's one that I heard second hand and it's just TOO good not to post. Let me set the stage first, the assistant principal is dealing with a chronically tardy, absent and confrontational girl. She is being very antagonistic and after the AP asks/says something she didn't like she stormed at him, "You can just suck my imaginary man cock!"
Okay, how can you respond to something like this? OMG what a little shit! With language skills and imagination like that I foresee a future in the adult entertainment industry for this little girl, not necessarily a bright future, maybe as an extra in a group grope!
Oh well, tomorrow's another day.
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