Effect Essay
It was an unfortunate combination of a pushy boss, an ambush from a cat and my unwillingness to just say no to a horrible idea that cost me a better part of my right hand ring finger. Dave my boss wanted the night stands ready to go to camp that night. I had to sand the tension pegs and all I had was my belt sander. I told Dave I’d bring my table sander down tomorrow and we could make the pegs in a safer fashion. He’d have none of that, he wanted them done there and then. I gave in against a nagging in my head that was telling me I was making a bad decision. So away I went sanding five inch pegs on a belt sander with my fingers. It was actually going better than I assumed, I only have three more to go and I’d be done. At that point B.B., Dave’s wife’s cat came tearing out of nowhere and startled me. I turned my head and as I did my finger got sucked into the back roll of the sander and was obliterated. I’m not short three quarters of one finger. It’s not a life stopper and I’ve become used to it. It does give my friends yet another go-to point for giving me shit. They say I can now only count to nine and a quarter. However, it has had some significant drawbacks that constantly remind me of my error.
I can’t hold my nuts. No, seriously, nuts, bolts, small food pieces fall right out of my hand. Whereas most folks can make a sealed pouch with their hand to contain small parts, I cannot. I’ve got a little hole that lets things slip out. I’m used to it for the most part now but I’ve lost and dropped more fasteners by forgetting this defect in my hand. I’ve also dumped candies, popcorn and other edibles all over me by trying to get them from bowl to mouth by the handful. Now, most would say I’m a fool for not just using my left hand for such activities but I’m left handed. A lot of times my right hand is doing the mindless stuff while my dominant hand is doing the finesse work.
The second downside comes during inclement weather. Much like an older person with arthritis, I can tell when it’s going to rain or snow. You think it would be good to know this in advance and I’m sure it would if the system used to deliver such notices was not throbbing pain. It also gets achy at temperatures most consider “good working weather”. Around thirty-five degrees my poor stub starts to sting, as it gets down into the teens or lower I have to keep my finger crammed under my arm or tucked into one of the other heat pockets of the human body. While working I do this, only taking my hand out when it is actually needed for something. I also where a thin glove under my work glove to retain as much heat as possible.
Lastly is the side effect that will literally bring me to my knees. See, when the surgeon did what repairs he could to my finger he didn’t have much to work with. All he could do round the bone over, find a flap of skin and stitch it back up. So I’m left with a nub that has just flesh and nerves at the point of it. When I accidentally jam that finger it sends such a jolt of pain through me I’m taking out of action for up to ten minutes. This doesn’t happen often anymore because I try to be conscious of that finger when doing activities of the rougher, or industrious natures. But for about six months after the surgery, I cried in pain more than I had the rest of my life. Usually if that finger gets hit now it’s a rare fluke or due to someone else’s actions.
Sometimes I guess and wonder what the worst result would have been if I’d just told Dave to get bent. He may have huffed and grumbled and got over it. He may have fired me. Either of those would probably have been worth it to have that two inches of finger back. But what bothers me the most is every time I think about what I have to deal with; the lost nuts and bolts, the cold and the pain is the night stands themselves. Dave designed them and I built them but I lost my finger for some of the cheapest ugliest nightstands I’ve ever seen.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
I'd rather have just sold the damn books.
I find nothing more enjoyable than wood working. That’s a pretty general phrase isn’t it? That’s ok because I most forms of working with wood. Structural carpentry get’s my alpha male on, whittling and carving relaxes me, cabinetry and finish work makes me feel like an artist and simple shelf and furniture making gives me an accomplished sense of fusing function and form. The last mentioned is my truest love and like all true loves, sometimes you fight and sometimes you even need to have a good ol’ fashion knock-down and drag-out. I had such a heated event with a book shelf my wife asked me to make. She wanted a floor to ceiling shelf with deep recesses, filigreed base and crown molded top. Easy right? Well it wasn’t easy it left me with a gouged ceiling, a dirty and pissed cat and two hours of thoroughly cleaning my living room. Looking back on it I can the when, the how and the why of the disaster.
Piss-poor planning and over eagerness was my first down fall. I decided to head into work a few hours early figuring I’d have plenty of alone time in the shop to gather materials, layout the pieces, cut, and assemble the shelf. I was right, I did have plenty of time, I had the hole 7’63/4” book shelf done before any of the other workers showed up. That height is the exact height of my living room. Some may not see the flaw in this so I’ll break it down. A book shelf designed to fit floor to ceiling will be significantly taller when you try to stand it up, kind of like when you stand on your tip-toes. I didn’t realize this flaw until I got home that evening.
The next factor in my personal hobby holocaust was realizing my error and having ample opportunity to take a few steps back but deciding, “What the heck, give her a go!”. I drove home with the new shelf for Chickey, I was just as happy and proud as could be. I backed up to the porch, got a runner rug from my shop and used it to drag the shelf into the house (This shelf was quite heavy, I’m guessing approx. 150#). As I was standing there ready to heave this thing up into position I realized that I’d messed up and on the up angle my shelf would be longer than allowable. I ran through the possible fixes and wasn’t enthused about any of them so stubborn, foolish me decides to try anyway. I got my fingers under it and breathed preparing for the big heave I’d need to stand this monster up. I heaved with all my might and ‘CRUNCH!’ I had lodge the back corner of the shelf up into the ceiling and there is hung at an angle crammed between floor and ceiling. “Sonnuva!”
What else could possibly go wrong? I’ll tell you what else. My stubbornness knows no limits, and at that point I should have popped the bookshelf out of my ceiling and dragged it out to my shop to modify it. No, no, instead I ran to my shop and grabbed my circular saw with the finish blade, went back into the house. I laid the shelf back down and set my saw up. There were several reasons not to do that but none penetrated my tired, angry, simple brain. So, I did it, I cut three inches of each leg. That is when my true love brought me to rock bottom.
We now have a beautiful floor to ceiling book shelf in our living room with a slightly modified base but I’m not entirely sure it was worth it. The minute I touched that saw off, Merlin, our cat came to from his nap on the couch. At the same exact time he and everything withing eight feet of him got blasted with a plume of sawdust. He tore off through the house leaving a trail of dust, my couch along with the pillows, drapes, carpet and coffee table where covered. I got the shelf in place, mudded the ceiling, vacuumed the room (and the cat) all before Chickey came home. She fell in love the minute she saw the shelf and was none the wiser to the hell it took to get it there.
Piss-poor planning and over eagerness was my first down fall. I decided to head into work a few hours early figuring I’d have plenty of alone time in the shop to gather materials, layout the pieces, cut, and assemble the shelf. I was right, I did have plenty of time, I had the hole 7’63/4” book shelf done before any of the other workers showed up. That height is the exact height of my living room. Some may not see the flaw in this so I’ll break it down. A book shelf designed to fit floor to ceiling will be significantly taller when you try to stand it up, kind of like when you stand on your tip-toes. I didn’t realize this flaw until I got home that evening.
The next factor in my personal hobby holocaust was realizing my error and having ample opportunity to take a few steps back but deciding, “What the heck, give her a go!”. I drove home with the new shelf for Chickey, I was just as happy and proud as could be. I backed up to the porch, got a runner rug from my shop and used it to drag the shelf into the house (This shelf was quite heavy, I’m guessing approx. 150#). As I was standing there ready to heave this thing up into position I realized that I’d messed up and on the up angle my shelf would be longer than allowable. I ran through the possible fixes and wasn’t enthused about any of them so stubborn, foolish me decides to try anyway. I got my fingers under it and breathed preparing for the big heave I’d need to stand this monster up. I heaved with all my might and ‘CRUNCH!’ I had lodge the back corner of the shelf up into the ceiling and there is hung at an angle crammed between floor and ceiling. “Sonnuva!”
What else could possibly go wrong? I’ll tell you what else. My stubbornness knows no limits, and at that point I should have popped the bookshelf out of my ceiling and dragged it out to my shop to modify it. No, no, instead I ran to my shop and grabbed my circular saw with the finish blade, went back into the house. I laid the shelf back down and set my saw up. There were several reasons not to do that but none penetrated my tired, angry, simple brain. So, I did it, I cut three inches of each leg. That is when my true love brought me to rock bottom.
We now have a beautiful floor to ceiling book shelf in our living room with a slightly modified base but I’m not entirely sure it was worth it. The minute I touched that saw off, Merlin, our cat came to from his nap on the couch. At the same exact time he and everything withing eight feet of him got blasted with a plume of sawdust. He tore off through the house leaving a trail of dust, my couch along with the pillows, drapes, carpet and coffee table where covered. I got the shelf in place, mudded the ceiling, vacuumed the room (and the cat) all before Chickey came home. She fell in love the minute she saw the shelf and was none the wiser to the hell it took to get it there.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Mackov the Mystic
Example Essay
I introduce to you the great, the mystifying , the mind-boggling Mackov the Psychic. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, a seer of secrets from the past, a diviner of untold truths. He is able to read your thoughts from simple notions to complex home remodeling desires. Ok enough of that, I’m not psychic, I barely have five full senses, let alone a sixth one. My wife swears up and down that I am indeed a mind reader due to some strange, (to her), happenings. Once I baffled her by knowing what she was thinking so precisely she had to pull the car over to stare at me mouth agape. Another time she only had to utter two words and again I stopped her cold with my cosmic foresight about a household appliance. And the biggest show stopper was when I read her mind from two-hundred miles away, it involved a complete overhaul of two of the rooms in our house. After the details of these strange events I’ll let you in on my secret but don’t tell Chickey, I told her I’d let her in on it when we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary and frankly, it’s just too much fun to watch her get freaked out.
We had just spent the weekend up in Greenville with my in-laws. We had been up there for the Fly-in and were on the car ride home, tuckered out and ready get home and veg. Chickey was driving as she always does and I was laid back in the passenger seat with my nose crammed in my current read. We had just entered Abbot and Chickey breaks the silence. “Hey babe, you know what I was thinking?” I didn’t take my face from the pages I just said, “Yup.” In a mock challenging tone she says, “Oh yeah, what?” I’m stop reading, look at her and tell her. “You would like to stop at Walmart on the way home and pick up Mona Lisa’s smile and stuff for tater-tot casserole for dinner tonight. How’d I do?” She slowed down, pulled over and just stared at me with her jaw slacked and a look of bewilderment in her pretty eyes. She stumbled over questions trying to get me to tell her how I nailed it that accurately and like a good hubby I played it up until she gave up and continued the journey home.
A few minor events happened between that and this next one and it became an ongoing joke slash mystery. We were at home enjoying a stormy winter day in the house. I was sitting in my Archie Bunker chair whittling a set of camp utensils and she was puttering around the house. Now a little side note here, we were expecting a small return from our taxes that year. She pokes her head in the room and says, “Hey Hon?” It had the tone of an oncoming idea she was having and I took the opportunity. I told her to hang on a sec, I ran into my man cave, (my office) and came back out with a folded piece of paper. “Yes dear what’s on your mind?” Chickey informs me that she thinks we should take that return money and replace our refrigerator. I hand her the folded paper, she reads. ‘New Fridge With Taxes – TA-DA!” Again, mouth agape, eyes bugging out. “Seriously? Do you have a chip in my brain? I just had that thought ten seconds ago.” I egg her on a bit, give her my blessing on the fridge and she shuffles off scratching her head.
Now for the biggest and best example of my Madam Cleo style powers. Chickey was away on a long weekend. She was staying with her cousin down in Boston. When she arrived home, the bathroom had been remodeled with new flooring, counter, sink, shelving, crapper and a fresh coat of paint. In the kitchen, I replaced the counter and sink, got rid of the archaic returnable bin my father and I built fifteen years ago and built a shelving unit for the toaster oven. Oh yeah and her new mountain bike was sitting out in the shed waiting for it’s maiden voyage. She was absolutely floored because she hadn’t said word one about any of these things but she wanted it. She was mixed between speechless and hammering me with questions about who told me or how I was able to use ‘my powers’ from Holden to Boston. But rock solid me wouldn’t give in. I was loving every stammered word of her confusion and happiness. She gave me a big hug and kiss and whispered, “ I love you but any chance you could stay the hell out of my head?” Nope, not a chance in the world.
So, I’ve already told you I’m not psychic. What I am is clever, quick and observant. That, coupled with a lesson my Pepere taught me when I was a very little boy has given me the appearance of being a mystic. That lesson was that you can learn more about someone by watching and listening rather than talking and asking questions. The more exposure I have to someone the more things my brain picks up and catalogues. The way they do things, the way they like things and the little comments they make to themselves or in conversations they don’t think I hear, all these things get filed away for later use. As an added bonus, I usually have the mannerisms that I’m not paying full attention so it’s assumed I’m either not listening or can’t be bothered. In my Chickey’s case, she has been a major part of my life for fourteen years my brain has three vaults, a self-storage unit and a Chevy conversion van filled with harrumphs, sighs, looks, phrases, habits, likes, dislikes desires and the list goes on. So when she thinks she’s having the thought for the first time, she’s actually had notions and fragments of the thought before, this is just the first time she’s fully formed it . And of course I’m clever enough and know her habits and brain enough to put two and two together and quick enough to make it seem spooky. This sort of stuff happens with friends and family on a less frequent basis. And it all boils down to just observing with my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.
I introduce to you the great, the mystifying , the mind-boggling Mackov the Psychic. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, a seer of secrets from the past, a diviner of untold truths. He is able to read your thoughts from simple notions to complex home remodeling desires. Ok enough of that, I’m not psychic, I barely have five full senses, let alone a sixth one. My wife swears up and down that I am indeed a mind reader due to some strange, (to her), happenings. Once I baffled her by knowing what she was thinking so precisely she had to pull the car over to stare at me mouth agape. Another time she only had to utter two words and again I stopped her cold with my cosmic foresight about a household appliance. And the biggest show stopper was when I read her mind from two-hundred miles away, it involved a complete overhaul of two of the rooms in our house. After the details of these strange events I’ll let you in on my secret but don’t tell Chickey, I told her I’d let her in on it when we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary and frankly, it’s just too much fun to watch her get freaked out.
We had just spent the weekend up in Greenville with my in-laws. We had been up there for the Fly-in and were on the car ride home, tuckered out and ready get home and veg. Chickey was driving as she always does and I was laid back in the passenger seat with my nose crammed in my current read. We had just entered Abbot and Chickey breaks the silence. “Hey babe, you know what I was thinking?” I didn’t take my face from the pages I just said, “Yup.” In a mock challenging tone she says, “Oh yeah, what?” I’m stop reading, look at her and tell her. “You would like to stop at Walmart on the way home and pick up Mona Lisa’s smile and stuff for tater-tot casserole for dinner tonight. How’d I do?” She slowed down, pulled over and just stared at me with her jaw slacked and a look of bewilderment in her pretty eyes. She stumbled over questions trying to get me to tell her how I nailed it that accurately and like a good hubby I played it up until she gave up and continued the journey home.
A few minor events happened between that and this next one and it became an ongoing joke slash mystery. We were at home enjoying a stormy winter day in the house. I was sitting in my Archie Bunker chair whittling a set of camp utensils and she was puttering around the house. Now a little side note here, we were expecting a small return from our taxes that year. She pokes her head in the room and says, “Hey Hon?” It had the tone of an oncoming idea she was having and I took the opportunity. I told her to hang on a sec, I ran into my man cave, (my office) and came back out with a folded piece of paper. “Yes dear what’s on your mind?” Chickey informs me that she thinks we should take that return money and replace our refrigerator. I hand her the folded paper, she reads. ‘New Fridge With Taxes – TA-DA!” Again, mouth agape, eyes bugging out. “Seriously? Do you have a chip in my brain? I just had that thought ten seconds ago.” I egg her on a bit, give her my blessing on the fridge and she shuffles off scratching her head.
Now for the biggest and best example of my Madam Cleo style powers. Chickey was away on a long weekend. She was staying with her cousin down in Boston. When she arrived home, the bathroom had been remodeled with new flooring, counter, sink, shelving, crapper and a fresh coat of paint. In the kitchen, I replaced the counter and sink, got rid of the archaic returnable bin my father and I built fifteen years ago and built a shelving unit for the toaster oven. Oh yeah and her new mountain bike was sitting out in the shed waiting for it’s maiden voyage. She was absolutely floored because she hadn’t said word one about any of these things but she wanted it. She was mixed between speechless and hammering me with questions about who told me or how I was able to use ‘my powers’ from Holden to Boston. But rock solid me wouldn’t give in. I was loving every stammered word of her confusion and happiness. She gave me a big hug and kiss and whispered, “ I love you but any chance you could stay the hell out of my head?” Nope, not a chance in the world.
So, I’ve already told you I’m not psychic. What I am is clever, quick and observant. That, coupled with a lesson my Pepere taught me when I was a very little boy has given me the appearance of being a mystic. That lesson was that you can learn more about someone by watching and listening rather than talking and asking questions. The more exposure I have to someone the more things my brain picks up and catalogues. The way they do things, the way they like things and the little comments they make to themselves or in conversations they don’t think I hear, all these things get filed away for later use. As an added bonus, I usually have the mannerisms that I’m not paying full attention so it’s assumed I’m either not listening or can’t be bothered. In my Chickey’s case, she has been a major part of my life for fourteen years my brain has three vaults, a self-storage unit and a Chevy conversion van filled with harrumphs, sighs, looks, phrases, habits, likes, dislikes desires and the list goes on. So when she thinks she’s having the thought for the first time, she’s actually had notions and fragments of the thought before, this is just the first time she’s fully formed it . And of course I’m clever enough and know her habits and brain enough to put two and two together and quick enough to make it seem spooky. This sort of stuff happens with friends and family on a less frequent basis. And it all boils down to just observing with my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
M/3=X?
Mack/3=X
One of my former employers used to get a bit bitchy when I’d inform him of a shortage in my pay check. He couldn’t understand how I could get upset about twenty-five to fifty dollars when he was dealing with deficits in the range of a grand to two hundred thousand. I tried to explain to him that it’s all relative. His dollar volume for his company was as important to him as mine was to my house hold and family. That fifty dollars is my hundred large. I think the same goes with people’s beings, their problems and issues. I think I am extremely different than my peers and that not many would understand what goes on in my head but in all honesty there are several million humans thinking the same exact thing. However, this five grapher aint about them, it’s about me. I am three different people depending my environment and who’s around me, or better yet, who’s not.
Jovial ol’ Mack, fun loving, charming husband, goof ball, bread winner for the fam, that’s what my wife, friends and family see. I do love to have a good time and want those around me to be happy, but truth be told most of my personality and behavior when surrounded by those closest to me is charade. I’m a loner, not like dark rebel sorts portrayed in the classic movies, nothing so glamorous as that. I just love to be alone. I’m so nervous when I’m around people that I wind myself up tighter than a turkeys touch-hole. So, I’ve become a pretty good actor, I plan what I’m going to do and rehearse what I’m going to say to steer things in a certain direction. I don’t stay up at night scripting tomorrow’s events or practice in the mirror. It is usually a lightning fast check list to make sure I don’t let what I’m really thinking come to surface. If I did it would probably go like this; “Attention-attention! In an orderly fashion, could all y’all asses please line up shortest to tallest and promptly leave my planet?” Since we all know that’s no way to be, I’ve trained myself to say “Yes dear.” Opposed to “What the hell makes my time less valuable than yours? Go get it yourself and leave me be!”
Work is a different story. I’m still grossly uncomfortable having to deal with people and shy away from any in depth socializing at work. But I think most of my coworkers would label me friendly and personable with a slight chance of temper flares. I’m still plotting my actions but fortunately I work in a field where it’s accepted and somewhat expected that attitudes and tempers will snap from time to time. I keep my head buried in my work as much as I can so I don’t have to deal with them too much and save my blow-outs for situations where I need a pressure relief. A prime example happened just last week. My co-worker and I were knocking tin when another crews foreman came up and tried to bully us out of our area as his work was more important. As our foreman wasn’t present he thought he’d get away with it. Sorry chief, real Mack is coming out. “Maybe you need to go to the tool crib and get a glass stomach, because apparently your heads up your ass and you can’t see you’ve walked into our area. You want us to leave, go talk to Mike, if he says we go, we go.” Wow, that felt good, now back to pretending to be a nice guy.
Solo-Mack. My favorite person to be. As I said I’m a loner. I can’t explain in words how I feel when there’s no one around, I’ve got the house to myself or I’m out in my shop. I don’t have to watch my language, I can think freely, mentally comment on people, things and ideas without feeling judged. I only have to deal with one ass and that’s me. I don’t get this time nearly enough for my tastes but maybe that makes it all the more valuable. I get more accomplished during these times because my mind is focused on the task at hand or no task at all and not fractured into thinking about what to say next, who’s around me, what should I do in this situation. There is a song by Garth Brooks and it’s one of my absolute favorites, it’s titled The man that I am when there’s no one around. Not all the words match up with me but the message is true. When I’m alone I am at my truest form.
Those are my three masks and I’m not sure what that makes me. Does M/3= a con artist? Does it equal a guy clever enough fake it to survive? Am I different from everyone else or just as different as everyone else? Would a profiler label me as a schizophrenic, anti-social narcissist with anger issues? Frankly I don’t care what it makes, it’s hard enough for me to do it, let alone break it down and understand it. And I don’t mind if the profiler profiles me like that, as long as he does it remotely and doesn’t have to actually talk to me.
One of my former employers used to get a bit bitchy when I’d inform him of a shortage in my pay check. He couldn’t understand how I could get upset about twenty-five to fifty dollars when he was dealing with deficits in the range of a grand to two hundred thousand. I tried to explain to him that it’s all relative. His dollar volume for his company was as important to him as mine was to my house hold and family. That fifty dollars is my hundred large. I think the same goes with people’s beings, their problems and issues. I think I am extremely different than my peers and that not many would understand what goes on in my head but in all honesty there are several million humans thinking the same exact thing. However, this five grapher aint about them, it’s about me. I am three different people depending my environment and who’s around me, or better yet, who’s not.
Jovial ol’ Mack, fun loving, charming husband, goof ball, bread winner for the fam, that’s what my wife, friends and family see. I do love to have a good time and want those around me to be happy, but truth be told most of my personality and behavior when surrounded by those closest to me is charade. I’m a loner, not like dark rebel sorts portrayed in the classic movies, nothing so glamorous as that. I just love to be alone. I’m so nervous when I’m around people that I wind myself up tighter than a turkeys touch-hole. So, I’ve become a pretty good actor, I plan what I’m going to do and rehearse what I’m going to say to steer things in a certain direction. I don’t stay up at night scripting tomorrow’s events or practice in the mirror. It is usually a lightning fast check list to make sure I don’t let what I’m really thinking come to surface. If I did it would probably go like this; “Attention-attention! In an orderly fashion, could all y’all asses please line up shortest to tallest and promptly leave my planet?” Since we all know that’s no way to be, I’ve trained myself to say “Yes dear.” Opposed to “What the hell makes my time less valuable than yours? Go get it yourself and leave me be!”
Work is a different story. I’m still grossly uncomfortable having to deal with people and shy away from any in depth socializing at work. But I think most of my coworkers would label me friendly and personable with a slight chance of temper flares. I’m still plotting my actions but fortunately I work in a field where it’s accepted and somewhat expected that attitudes and tempers will snap from time to time. I keep my head buried in my work as much as I can so I don’t have to deal with them too much and save my blow-outs for situations where I need a pressure relief. A prime example happened just last week. My co-worker and I were knocking tin when another crews foreman came up and tried to bully us out of our area as his work was more important. As our foreman wasn’t present he thought he’d get away with it. Sorry chief, real Mack is coming out. “Maybe you need to go to the tool crib and get a glass stomach, because apparently your heads up your ass and you can’t see you’ve walked into our area. You want us to leave, go talk to Mike, if he says we go, we go.” Wow, that felt good, now back to pretending to be a nice guy.
Solo-Mack. My favorite person to be. As I said I’m a loner. I can’t explain in words how I feel when there’s no one around, I’ve got the house to myself or I’m out in my shop. I don’t have to watch my language, I can think freely, mentally comment on people, things and ideas without feeling judged. I only have to deal with one ass and that’s me. I don’t get this time nearly enough for my tastes but maybe that makes it all the more valuable. I get more accomplished during these times because my mind is focused on the task at hand or no task at all and not fractured into thinking about what to say next, who’s around me, what should I do in this situation. There is a song by Garth Brooks and it’s one of my absolute favorites, it’s titled The man that I am when there’s no one around. Not all the words match up with me but the message is true. When I’m alone I am at my truest form.
Those are my three masks and I’m not sure what that makes me. Does M/3= a con artist? Does it equal a guy clever enough fake it to survive? Am I different from everyone else or just as different as everyone else? Would a profiler label me as a schizophrenic, anti-social narcissist with anger issues? Frankly I don’t care what it makes, it’s hard enough for me to do it, let alone break it down and understand it. And I don’t mind if the profiler profiles me like that, as long as he does it remotely and doesn’t have to actually talk to me.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Research Graph
Research Graph
I was taught at a young age that a boy needs to be able to tie basic knots for the variety of work related and recreational activities he’ll do. For the most part I fulfill that requirement. I can tie your basics; bowline, heaving line, slip, clove, guy-line, sheep shank, constrictor, barrel, but I’m not rope or knot master. I am however always learning of a new knot and trying it out and about a year ago my buddy Curt asked me if I’d ever heard of ‘fusion knots’. He figured if anyone would know it would be me. He thought that for two reasons; first, I am always heckling him when he practices ‘if you can’t tie a knot tie a lot’, and second I am considered among my peers as a king of useless knowledge. But I had never heard of these fusion knots, however I did tell him I’d know more by morning. With that stored in my head, when I got home that night I Googled fusion knots and the standard ten thousand links came up.
The first link that caught my eye was titled, ‘tying fusion knots by…blah-blah’. *Click* that click alone was the beginning of a small obsession. The page was filled with mini links, the links where pictures of cool looking knots that seemed intricate and way more complicated than I was used to and they all had names that I’d never heard before; River bends, Solomon bars, Bugler’s braid. Clicking on these sub links took me to instructional write ups with rough drawings. I grabbed a hank of parachord from my shop and tried to tie a few with no success. The instruction appeared to be written by a NASA shuttle technician and the illustrations by his three year old. I hit the back arrow to see what other sites had to offer.
I clicked through various links and got a little more informed each time but didn’t find any site that could teach me how to tie these knots, explain their function or even fill me in on the definition of a ‘fusion knot’. On one site it might show me a really detailed picture of a finished Solomon bar but wouldn’t show me how to get there or what to do with it once I had it. The next would tell me Solomon Bars are good to use as belts but again, had poor instructional methods and didn’t fill me in on what made this ‘fusion’ material. I was getting a bit agitated but that’s par for the course when you’re on the hunt for knowledge.
About twelve to fifteen sites into my downward spiral of failed results and getting groggy I hit the alpha and omega, the fiddler’s green of my search. This link took me two a blog style site with Youtube video support and within a few seconds I had come to the conclusion, this must be the guy who invented fusion knots. Besides the fancy headers and tool buttons, the first useable piece on the site was a dictionary style blurb explaining what fusion knots are. Then there were the knot links that when clicked upon would take you to a very well filmed video of each knot, step by step. Finally I knew that a fusion knot is a decoratively tied rope that also has practical and functional uses. So from the previous site where it said an S-bar could make a good belt it meant that it is the fusion between decoration and function. Also I have the method to tie such items.
That site has been on my favorites bar since that night. I’ve learned how to tie several pieces that have proved useful and been the topic of conversation when people see them. I have; Solomon bar tool lanyards, a slats rescue belt, river bar bracelets that make great gifts, monkey’s fists (originally used as a heaving line tool, but now also makes a great dog catch toy.) and many other neat tied pieces. On an end note, it turns out the gentleman that does all this tying started out hosting parties where he would teach couples how to add knot tying bondage to their intimate moments…I’ll stick with fusion knots.
I was taught at a young age that a boy needs to be able to tie basic knots for the variety of work related and recreational activities he’ll do. For the most part I fulfill that requirement. I can tie your basics; bowline, heaving line, slip, clove, guy-line, sheep shank, constrictor, barrel, but I’m not rope or knot master. I am however always learning of a new knot and trying it out and about a year ago my buddy Curt asked me if I’d ever heard of ‘fusion knots’. He figured if anyone would know it would be me. He thought that for two reasons; first, I am always heckling him when he practices ‘if you can’t tie a knot tie a lot’, and second I am considered among my peers as a king of useless knowledge. But I had never heard of these fusion knots, however I did tell him I’d know more by morning. With that stored in my head, when I got home that night I Googled fusion knots and the standard ten thousand links came up.
The first link that caught my eye was titled, ‘tying fusion knots by…blah-blah’. *Click* that click alone was the beginning of a small obsession. The page was filled with mini links, the links where pictures of cool looking knots that seemed intricate and way more complicated than I was used to and they all had names that I’d never heard before; River bends, Solomon bars, Bugler’s braid. Clicking on these sub links took me to instructional write ups with rough drawings. I grabbed a hank of parachord from my shop and tried to tie a few with no success. The instruction appeared to be written by a NASA shuttle technician and the illustrations by his three year old. I hit the back arrow to see what other sites had to offer.
I clicked through various links and got a little more informed each time but didn’t find any site that could teach me how to tie these knots, explain their function or even fill me in on the definition of a ‘fusion knot’. On one site it might show me a really detailed picture of a finished Solomon bar but wouldn’t show me how to get there or what to do with it once I had it. The next would tell me Solomon Bars are good to use as belts but again, had poor instructional methods and didn’t fill me in on what made this ‘fusion’ material. I was getting a bit agitated but that’s par for the course when you’re on the hunt for knowledge.
About twelve to fifteen sites into my downward spiral of failed results and getting groggy I hit the alpha and omega, the fiddler’s green of my search. This link took me two a blog style site with Youtube video support and within a few seconds I had come to the conclusion, this must be the guy who invented fusion knots. Besides the fancy headers and tool buttons, the first useable piece on the site was a dictionary style blurb explaining what fusion knots are. Then there were the knot links that when clicked upon would take you to a very well filmed video of each knot, step by step. Finally I knew that a fusion knot is a decoratively tied rope that also has practical and functional uses. So from the previous site where it said an S-bar could make a good belt it meant that it is the fusion between decoration and function. Also I have the method to tie such items.
That site has been on my favorites bar since that night. I’ve learned how to tie several pieces that have proved useful and been the topic of conversation when people see them. I have; Solomon bar tool lanyards, a slats rescue belt, river bar bracelets that make great gifts, monkey’s fists (originally used as a heaving line tool, but now also makes a great dog catch toy.) and many other neat tied pieces. On an end note, it turns out the gentleman that does all this tying started out hosting parties where he would teach couples how to add knot tying bondage to their intimate moments…I’ll stick with fusion knots.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Contrast
Here we are again at another famous bonfire hosted by Chris, Jack and me. We have a burn every weekend we can during good weather. It’s dark enough to light the pile and we’re all well into the libations. I don’t even offer to touch the fire off, not that I’m not capable but I know it’s going to much more entertaining to watch Chris and Jack battle it out. Jack crumples up some paper and wood chips and strategically places them around and in the pile and starts to light each one of them with his high-end twin butane cigar lighter. Uh-oh here comes Chris with a large coffee tumbler. I know what’s in that cup and Jack would too but he’s not paying attention. With a casual toss, Chris lobs cup and all onto one of Jacks little paper fires and *Woosh*. Instantly the entire pile is crackling to life with fifteen foot flames. Jack jumps back starts checking to see if he’s on fire while Chris is howling with laughter. “How’d you like that Nancy?” Chris ribs. Jack just gives him a deadpan look, “You’re a fucking cave man you realize that?” These are my oldest and closest friends, and being my friend is pretty much it for similarities. I’ve known Jack for twenty-six years and Chris I’ve known for a lot less time of twenty-four years. As different as those two are it’s amazing they even admit to knowing each other let alone be best friends for so long. I often wonder if it’s an ‘opposites attract’ situation or a, ‘keep your friends close and enemies closer’ deal
Right off the bat you can see the differences. Jack does not own work clothes, he has clothes he’s willing to work in and then send to the cleaners. He’s has out fits for any social occasion, suits, sports clothes, western apparel etc. Then there’s Chris; if he needs to dress up, this involves a trip to Walmart to pick up an outfit because the last outfit got dirty fixing the van or deciding it was a good day to wrestle with the dog in the rain. On a day to day basis Jack sits around his house in ‘slacks’ a button down and clean sneakers or shoes while Chris is wearing greasy work shorts a tattered tank top and just the skin on his feet he was born with. Seeing these two together in public or at an event is like watching a clash of the classes.
Both men work hard and are good guys to have on your team regardless of what the project is. However the approaches they take couldn’t be more different. If we need to lift an engine block of the shop floor Jack will have a plan set up to hook a chain fall here and there, use the strong back bar as a fulcrum and then lift and drift the engine on to the work bench or into the vehicle. Jacks theory is more mental less physical whenever possible even if it takes longer. Chris will have none of that tom foolery. Chris is an animal so it only makes sense to just heave the block up with man power and drop it in place. If we try Jack’s plan, Chris helps but will let you know this is how sissies do things. If we go with Chris’ plan, Jack will tell Chris; “You’re gonna kill yourself idiot and I’m not going to feel bad.” The project always gets done but sometimes it takes as long to decide how.
Jack is a social butterfly and a perfect stranger. At gatherings of any size and for any reason, Jack is right at home. He’s able to hold his own in any conversation and has the social manners of a socialite or playboy. In simple terms Chris does not really like humans. Sometimes we wonder if he just barely tolerates us. If he is forced to attend events that involve more than his close friends and family, he tends to find a chair or corner out of the way and avoid interaction until his wife decides he’s suffered enough. Jack will be polite and show genuine interest in others. Chris is more likely to feign interest for as long as his impatience will allow and then find the quickest means out of the situation.
Those are my two best friends and as different as they are, they’ve managed a friendship that spans over two decades. I can’t be sure but I’d almost bet that the reason for this long running streak is because the one trait they both have is pure stubbornness. Neither will let either see the other quit first. I don’t know which one I’m more like. I can’t stopping reffing their differences long enough figure it out.
Right off the bat you can see the differences. Jack does not own work clothes, he has clothes he’s willing to work in and then send to the cleaners. He’s has out fits for any social occasion, suits, sports clothes, western apparel etc. Then there’s Chris; if he needs to dress up, this involves a trip to Walmart to pick up an outfit because the last outfit got dirty fixing the van or deciding it was a good day to wrestle with the dog in the rain. On a day to day basis Jack sits around his house in ‘slacks’ a button down and clean sneakers or shoes while Chris is wearing greasy work shorts a tattered tank top and just the skin on his feet he was born with. Seeing these two together in public or at an event is like watching a clash of the classes.
Both men work hard and are good guys to have on your team regardless of what the project is. However the approaches they take couldn’t be more different. If we need to lift an engine block of the shop floor Jack will have a plan set up to hook a chain fall here and there, use the strong back bar as a fulcrum and then lift and drift the engine on to the work bench or into the vehicle. Jacks theory is more mental less physical whenever possible even if it takes longer. Chris will have none of that tom foolery. Chris is an animal so it only makes sense to just heave the block up with man power and drop it in place. If we try Jack’s plan, Chris helps but will let you know this is how sissies do things. If we go with Chris’ plan, Jack will tell Chris; “You’re gonna kill yourself idiot and I’m not going to feel bad.” The project always gets done but sometimes it takes as long to decide how.
Jack is a social butterfly and a perfect stranger. At gatherings of any size and for any reason, Jack is right at home. He’s able to hold his own in any conversation and has the social manners of a socialite or playboy. In simple terms Chris does not really like humans. Sometimes we wonder if he just barely tolerates us. If he is forced to attend events that involve more than his close friends and family, he tends to find a chair or corner out of the way and avoid interaction until his wife decides he’s suffered enough. Jack will be polite and show genuine interest in others. Chris is more likely to feign interest for as long as his impatience will allow and then find the quickest means out of the situation.
Those are my two best friends and as different as they are, they’ve managed a friendship that spans over two decades. I can’t be sure but I’d almost bet that the reason for this long running streak is because the one trait they both have is pure stubbornness. Neither will let either see the other quit first. I don’t know which one I’m more like. I can’t stopping reffing their differences long enough figure it out.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Contrast Intro Edit
Here we are again at another famous bonfire hosted by Chris, Jack and me. We have a burn every weekend we can during good weather. It’s dark enough to light the pile and we’re all well into the libations. I don’t even offer to touch the fire off, not that I’m not capable but I know it’s going to much more entertaining to watch Chris and Jack battle it out. Jack crumples up some paper and wood chips and strategically places them around and in the pile and starts to light each one of them with his high-end twin butane cigar lighter. Uh-oh here comes Chris with a large coffee tumbler. I know what’s in that cup and Jack would too but he’s not paying attention. With a casual toss, Chris lobs cup and all onto one of Jacks little paper fires and *Woosh*. Instantly the entire pile is crackling to life with fifteen foot flames. Jack jumps back starts checking to see if he’s on fire while Chris is howling with laughter. “How’d you like that Nancy?” Chris ribs. Jack just gives him a deadpan look, “You’re a fucking cave man you realize that?” These are my oldest and closest friends, and being my friend is pretty much it for similarities. I’ve known Jack for twenty-six years and Chris I’ve known for a lot less time of twenty-four years. As different as those two are it’s amazing they even admit to knowing each other let alone be best friends for so long. I often wonder if it’s an ‘opposites attract’ situation or a, ‘keep your friends close and enemies closer’ deal.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Contrast Intros
Chris and Jack
Intro one
Chris and Jack are my oldest and closest friends, and being my friend is pretty much it for similarities. I’ve known Jack for twenty-six years and Chris I’ve known for a lot less time of twenty-four years. As different as those two are it’s amazing they even admit to knowing each other let alone be best friends for so long. I often wonder if it’s an ‘opposites attract’ situation or a, ‘keep your friends close and enemies closer’ deal.
Intro two
I’ve had the same two best friends for the last twenty-four years. Chris and Jack, I couldn’t ask for two better friends or two more polar opposite friends either. Whenever we all get together, I get the slight feeling I’m in a modern day episode of the odd couple. Chris is the true epitome of a rough and tumble redneck, where as Jack is culturally diverse and has the social manners of a noble. Oil, meet water.
Intro one
Chris and Jack are my oldest and closest friends, and being my friend is pretty much it for similarities. I’ve known Jack for twenty-six years and Chris I’ve known for a lot less time of twenty-four years. As different as those two are it’s amazing they even admit to knowing each other let alone be best friends for so long. I often wonder if it’s an ‘opposites attract’ situation or a, ‘keep your friends close and enemies closer’ deal.
Intro two
I’ve had the same two best friends for the last twenty-four years. Chris and Jack, I couldn’t ask for two better friends or two more polar opposite friends either. Whenever we all get together, I get the slight feeling I’m in a modern day episode of the odd couple. Chris is the true epitome of a rough and tumble redneck, where as Jack is culturally diverse and has the social manners of a noble. Oil, meet water.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Mack the Knife
Man, I love my knives and I’ve got several. Now before you go thinking I’m one of those crazy-eye, redneck Rambos with a ten inch combat knife on my belt, I’m not and in my opinion that’s not a knife is a short sword. I just believe a good knife is an essential tool to have and the job I’m doing defines what a good knife is. I don’t concern myself with the handle size or shape; I can replace that if I choose. The length of the blade plays a part but not as big a part as some would think. For me it’s all about the cutting edge or “business end” as my father would say. When it comes to the blade of the knife, I have found, with one of three blade styles, I can perform any task requiring a knife.
The first blade style is thin steel with a single bevel. Examples of this type of blade are; utility knives, surgical tools and my all time favorite, the original Swiss Army Tinker. The back of the blade is at most 1/16” wide but usually much thinner. This means the steel tapers down from back to edge with not steep angle change. What does this mean as far as cutting? Well, there is almost no drag from the back of the blade and since you start and finish the cut using the same angle there’s no fiber pull or forcing the blade into the material. I use my Tinker for high detail work such as wood carving, whittling and other tasks where you have to be precise in what stays and what goes. I can’t imagine trying to carve Santa’s nostrils out with a Rambo knife.
I do a lot of activities that I wouldn’t let my precious Tinker near. So, I reach for my splicer. The splicer style of blade is good for more abrasive and repetitive works. I’ll use it if I’m cutting rope, opening cardboard boxes or making impromptu tent stakes and marshmallow sticks. (Rope and cardboard are both horribly destructive on knife blades.) The splicer blade at the back end is maybe 1/8” at most and angles down toward the edge. Before it meets the edge it changes the angle five to ten degrees. This puts more meat in the cutting edge allowing the blade to stay honed longer and lets me put more force behind it. The down side to this is that I spend more time sharpening this knife due to the tasks I use it for.
The last and least used blade style is the chisel blade. This blade has the shape of a wood chisel but not such a steep angle. It is completely flat on one side of the blade and tapers down to a razor edge on the other side. Most blades of this style have a serrated edge and I can’t figure out why. If your knife is sharp you shouldn’t need the serrations and if you need the serrations, get a saw. But the shape of this blade is ideal for cutting or shaving something off the surface without digging into the body of the material. I used this style of blade to shave while on Army field exercises, it will cut the hair off but due to the flat side it won’t dig into your skin. I’ll also use it occasionally if my wood carving has gotten moist or sat too long and developed fibers on the surface, this will take them off without cutting the actual carving.
Ok, I admit, not all of the knives in my possession are good knives that fall into one of the above three categories. I’ve received several knives as gifts from friends and family all with good intentions. I’ve won some as prizes and even bought a few in a “pinch” situation. But those knives are all corralled in an ammo can in the back of my shop and probably won’t see the light of day for a long time. Why? They’re not the right blade for any job.
The first blade style is thin steel with a single bevel. Examples of this type of blade are; utility knives, surgical tools and my all time favorite, the original Swiss Army Tinker. The back of the blade is at most 1/16” wide but usually much thinner. This means the steel tapers down from back to edge with not steep angle change. What does this mean as far as cutting? Well, there is almost no drag from the back of the blade and since you start and finish the cut using the same angle there’s no fiber pull or forcing the blade into the material. I use my Tinker for high detail work such as wood carving, whittling and other tasks where you have to be precise in what stays and what goes. I can’t imagine trying to carve Santa’s nostrils out with a Rambo knife.
I do a lot of activities that I wouldn’t let my precious Tinker near. So, I reach for my splicer. The splicer style of blade is good for more abrasive and repetitive works. I’ll use it if I’m cutting rope, opening cardboard boxes or making impromptu tent stakes and marshmallow sticks. (Rope and cardboard are both horribly destructive on knife blades.) The splicer blade at the back end is maybe 1/8” at most and angles down toward the edge. Before it meets the edge it changes the angle five to ten degrees. This puts more meat in the cutting edge allowing the blade to stay honed longer and lets me put more force behind it. The down side to this is that I spend more time sharpening this knife due to the tasks I use it for.
The last and least used blade style is the chisel blade. This blade has the shape of a wood chisel but not such a steep angle. It is completely flat on one side of the blade and tapers down to a razor edge on the other side. Most blades of this style have a serrated edge and I can’t figure out why. If your knife is sharp you shouldn’t need the serrations and if you need the serrations, get a saw. But the shape of this blade is ideal for cutting or shaving something off the surface without digging into the body of the material. I used this style of blade to shave while on Army field exercises, it will cut the hair off but due to the flat side it won’t dig into your skin. I’ll also use it occasionally if my wood carving has gotten moist or sat too long and developed fibers on the surface, this will take them off without cutting the actual carving.
Ok, I admit, not all of the knives in my possession are good knives that fall into one of the above three categories. I’ve received several knives as gifts from friends and family all with good intentions. I’ve won some as prizes and even bought a few in a “pinch” situation. But those knives are all corralled in an ammo can in the back of my shop and probably won’t see the light of day for a long time. Why? They’re not the right blade for any job.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Classification Outro
Outro one.
Ok, I admit, not all of the knives in my possession are good knives that fall into one of the above three categories. I’ve received several knives as gifts from friends and family all with good intentions. I’ve won some as prizes and even bought a few in a “pinch” situation. But those knives are all corralled in a ammo can in the back of my shop and probably won’t see the light of day for a long time. Why? They’re not the right blade for any job.
Outro two
There is more to a knife blade than what I’ve listed above. There are countless sub categories and variables in each blade type. One also has to learn the proper techniques to sharpen and maintain each type of blade. However If you start off with one of the three standards above and know which one is right for the job, the rest will fall into place with practice and patience
Intros posted below
Ok, I admit, not all of the knives in my possession are good knives that fall into one of the above three categories. I’ve received several knives as gifts from friends and family all with good intentions. I’ve won some as prizes and even bought a few in a “pinch” situation. But those knives are all corralled in a ammo can in the back of my shop and probably won’t see the light of day for a long time. Why? They’re not the right blade for any job.
Outro two
There is more to a knife blade than what I’ve listed above. There are countless sub categories and variables in each blade type. One also has to learn the proper techniques to sharpen and maintain each type of blade. However If you start off with one of the three standards above and know which one is right for the job, the rest will fall into place with practice and patience
Intros posted below
Classification Intro
Intro one
“That’s not a knife, this is a knife!” That’s the popular line often quoted from Crocodile Dundee. Sorry Croc I wouldn’t call either one of them a proper knife. I guess you can take any random hunk of metal and put a handle on it and call it a knife. Not this guy. I take my knives seriously and believe you have to have the right one for the job at hand. Any knife in order to be worth a damn has to be well taken care of, sharpened properly and stored properly. However what makes a knife good for a job all comes down to the blade and blades can be broken down into three neat categories.
Intro two.
Knives, in one form or another, have played a part in human existence for thousands of years. They’ve taken on countless shapes and styles from the stoned dirks made by the early Egyptians, to the wooden hunting knives used by many south American tribes. Technically a knife only has to be stronger than the material your cutting and sharp enough to break the fiber of that material. I, however, hold my knives dear to me and believe a proper knife is all about the blade. The blade, or business, of the knife should have one of three types of blades on it. If it doesn’t have one of the following three, it is a toy knife and won’t find a place among my tools.
“That’s not a knife, this is a knife!” That’s the popular line often quoted from Crocodile Dundee. Sorry Croc I wouldn’t call either one of them a proper knife. I guess you can take any random hunk of metal and put a handle on it and call it a knife. Not this guy. I take my knives seriously and believe you have to have the right one for the job at hand. Any knife in order to be worth a damn has to be well taken care of, sharpened properly and stored properly. However what makes a knife good for a job all comes down to the blade and blades can be broken down into three neat categories.
Intro two.
Knives, in one form or another, have played a part in human existence for thousands of years. They’ve taken on countless shapes and styles from the stoned dirks made by the early Egyptians, to the wooden hunting knives used by many south American tribes. Technically a knife only has to be stronger than the material your cutting and sharp enough to break the fiber of that material. I, however, hold my knives dear to me and believe a proper knife is all about the blade. The blade, or business, of the knife should have one of three types of blades on it. If it doesn’t have one of the following three, it is a toy knife and won’t find a place among my tools.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Metagraph - Cause Essay
I was sitting at my desk staring at a blank MSO document. I had a nice fresh Nat Sherman billowing smoke in my fingers, a chilled Killians in hand and my boots planted firmly on my end table. I was thinking about a million different things as I always do. I was trying to keep a tether to the actual topic at hand, a cause essay, and failing miserably. I didn’t want to right a cause essay, didn’t really want to write anything at all. I’m not the biggest fan of writing, Why can’t I just meet Mr. G. once a week and talk an essay to him. At least he wouldn’t be able to tell if I missed a comma or hyphenated two words that shouldn’t be. My Pepere popped into my thoughts and how he’d probably chide me for being foolish or being a “heathen” as he liked to call me. Pepere, there’s a man I owe a lot to, like the army deal. That’s when the memories started playing out about how and why I decided to join the army. Topic in hand I just started typing soup to nuts. Then I butchered it up, edited and handed it in piece meal as instructed. Another assignment done…I hope.
Why are you in my army?
I was sitting on the tiled floor with sixty other young men and women. We were all probably thinking similar thoughts. ‘What the hell have I done?’ It’s the first day of basic training and we were getting our official rude awakening into Army life. Drill Sgt. Whigham was standing before us all shooting information at us in a very harsh rat-a-tat fashion when he asks; “Why are you here in my army? If any of you stand up and say it’s for the college money you might as well ring out now, you don’t join my army for college money.” Well, there’s the million dollar question. Why was I in this man’s army?
My father’s opinion about the military is simple; every able-bodied, red-blooded American ought to do his time in the service. I don’t know if I agree with that now, but when I was a young boy I sure did. On the rare occasion my father talked about his time in the army and his tour in Viet Nam, I would sit there in rapture taking it all in. Then I’d go off on a tangent about how when I joined I was going to be just like him. “Son, Son.” he’d say, “Slow down. You know you gotta lotta work to do to get to that point. The army doesn’t like boys who talk back and lie. The army wants you to keep your nose clean and your mouth shut. I don’t really think you can do it.” At that point I was pretty mad and in my mind swore to him and at him. “I’ll show you!”
My grandfather, Pepere, he was a real hard man to love. My mother, siblings and I lived in the apartment above his. He was the father figure to me Monday through Friday and he was the man who taught me to be a man. Of course I fought him every step of the way. He was stern, ruthless and borderline mean when it came to the education and discipline of us children. I don’t really know if it was how the old French-Canadians did things or maybe an effect of being a former drunk but I didn’t like it and made his job as hard as I could. One of the few times he’d laugh was when I mentioned my intent of joining the Army. It wasn’t a joyous laugh; it was a scoffing laugh and would usually be followed up with a statement such as, “You, in the Army? You won’t last a week in the Army. You can’t stand still, you can’t keep your mouth shut…” And again I’d internally curse and vow to show him that he’s wrong.
Then there was me. I wanted to prove my father and grandfather wrong and I also wanted to prove myself right. I knew what my elders were saying was accurate. I was an out of control, mouthy kid who liked to buck authority at every turn. However I also knew that I had the focus and determination to succeed when the goals were important to me. I was scared of the possibility that I may fail and Dad and Pepere would be saying "I knew it!" And that just wasn't an option I could let happen. I guess there was also a small part of me that actually wanted the adventure and to escape Maine for a bit, but that wasn't enough to be considered a driving force.
Drill Sgt! Pvt. McPherson, the two most important men in my life told me I’d never make it in the Army, I’m just here to prove them wrong Drill Sgt.” After a few seconds that seemed like hours of DS Whigham giving me an appraising half-scowl, he nodded and said he’d help me prove them wrong. That’s it, the reason I was in Whigham’s Army. I never had any thoughts of reenlisting, no desire to move up the ranks. I liked and hated my time in the army equally, but it was all worth it when I could look Dad and Pepere in the eyes and say, “I did it!” When that day came, they both said what I knew they would. “I’m proud of you; I always knew you could do it.”
My father’s opinion about the military is simple; every able-bodied, red-blooded American ought to do his time in the service. I don’t know if I agree with that now, but when I was a young boy I sure did. On the rare occasion my father talked about his time in the army and his tour in Viet Nam, I would sit there in rapture taking it all in. Then I’d go off on a tangent about how when I joined I was going to be just like him. “Son, Son.” he’d say, “Slow down. You know you gotta lotta work to do to get to that point. The army doesn’t like boys who talk back and lie. The army wants you to keep your nose clean and your mouth shut. I don’t really think you can do it.” At that point I was pretty mad and in my mind swore to him and at him. “I’ll show you!”
My grandfather, Pepere, he was a real hard man to love. My mother, siblings and I lived in the apartment above his. He was the father figure to me Monday through Friday and he was the man who taught me to be a man. Of course I fought him every step of the way. He was stern, ruthless and borderline mean when it came to the education and discipline of us children. I don’t really know if it was how the old French-Canadians did things or maybe an effect of being a former drunk but I didn’t like it and made his job as hard as I could. One of the few times he’d laugh was when I mentioned my intent of joining the Army. It wasn’t a joyous laugh; it was a scoffing laugh and would usually be followed up with a statement such as, “You, in the Army? You won’t last a week in the Army. You can’t stand still, you can’t keep your mouth shut…” And again I’d internally curse and vow to show him that he’s wrong.
Then there was me. I wanted to prove my father and grandfather wrong and I also wanted to prove myself right. I knew what my elders were saying was accurate. I was an out of control, mouthy kid who liked to buck authority at every turn. However I also knew that I had the focus and determination to succeed when the goals were important to me. I was scared of the possibility that I may fail and Dad and Pepere would be saying "I knew it!" And that just wasn't an option I could let happen. I guess there was also a small part of me that actually wanted the adventure and to escape Maine for a bit, but that wasn't enough to be considered a driving force.
Drill Sgt! Pvt. McPherson, the two most important men in my life told me I’d never make it in the Army, I’m just here to prove them wrong Drill Sgt.” After a few seconds that seemed like hours of DS Whigham giving me an appraising half-scowl, he nodded and said he’d help me prove them wrong. That’s it, the reason I was in Whigham’s Army. I never had any thoughts of reenlisting, no desire to move up the ranks. I liked and hated my time in the army equally, but it was all worth it when I could look Dad and Pepere in the eyes and say, “I did it!” When that day came, they both said what I knew they would. “I’m proud of you; I always knew you could do it.”
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Outro 1
“Drill Sgt! Pvt. McPherson, the two most important men in my life told me I’d never make it in the Army, I’m just here to prove them wrong Drill Sgt.” After a few seconds that seemed like hours of DS Whigham giving me an appraising half-scowl, he nodded and said he’d help me prove them wrong. That’s it in a nutshell. I never had any thoughts of reenlisting, no desire to move up the ranks or be a lifer. One term was all I needed to look my father, my grandfather and myself in the eye and say, “Ha, I toldya!”
Outro 2
There, my plan was set, do one term in the military. Four simple years of keeping my head down, nose clean and mouth shut. I did that, I also put up with giving false respect based on what rank was on a guys collar and having my living quarters raked over anytime the cadre wanted to. I liked my time in the army as much as I hated it, but it was all worth it when I could look Dad and Pepere in the eyes and say, “I did it!” When that day came, they both said what I knew they would. “I’m proud of you, I always knew you could do it.”
“Drill Sgt! Pvt. McPherson, the two most important men in my life told me I’d never make it in the Army, I’m just here to prove them wrong Drill Sgt.” After a few seconds that seemed like hours of DS Whigham giving me an appraising half-scowl, he nodded and said he’d help me prove them wrong. That’s it in a nutshell. I never had any thoughts of reenlisting, no desire to move up the ranks or be a lifer. One term was all I needed to look my father, my grandfather and myself in the eye and say, “Ha, I toldya!”
Outro 2
There, my plan was set, do one term in the military. Four simple years of keeping my head down, nose clean and mouth shut. I did that, I also put up with giving false respect based on what rank was on a guys collar and having my living quarters raked over anytime the cadre wanted to. I liked my time in the army as much as I hated it, but it was all worth it when I could look Dad and Pepere in the eyes and say, “I did it!” When that day came, they both said what I knew they would. “I’m proud of you, I always knew you could do it.”
Monday, September 27, 2010
Intro 1
I was sitting on the tiled floor with sixty other young men and women. We were all probably thinking similar thoughts. ‘What the hell have I done?’ It’s the first day of basic training and we were getting our official rude awakening into Army life. Drill Sgt. Whigham was standing before us all shooting information at us in a very harsh rat-a-tat fashion when he asks; “Why are you here in my army? If any of you stand up and say it’s for the college money you might as well ring out now, you don’t join my army for college money.” Well, there’s the million dollar question. Why was I in this man’s army?
Intro 2
I spent four years in the Army, no more, no less. I knew I was there for one term only because that was goal I had for myself since age 12. That’s an odd goal for a twelve year old to have, graduate and do just one term in the military. I didn’t know any real facts about the army. Everything I knew about the army I’d learned on television or through stories my father had told me. But the stats and facts about the army weren’t important, I just had to do it. But why?
I was sitting on the tiled floor with sixty other young men and women. We were all probably thinking similar thoughts. ‘What the hell have I done?’ It’s the first day of basic training and we were getting our official rude awakening into Army life. Drill Sgt. Whigham was standing before us all shooting information at us in a very harsh rat-a-tat fashion when he asks; “Why are you here in my army? If any of you stand up and say it’s for the college money you might as well ring out now, you don’t join my army for college money.” Well, there’s the million dollar question. Why was I in this man’s army?
Intro 2
I spent four years in the Army, no more, no less. I knew I was there for one term only because that was goal I had for myself since age 12. That’s an odd goal for a twelve year old to have, graduate and do just one term in the military. I didn’t know any real facts about the army. Everything I knew about the army I’d learned on television or through stories my father had told me. But the stats and facts about the army weren’t important, I just had to do it. But why?
Reactions to ‘cause” essays.
‘Love Sucks’
The writing of the ‘love sucks’ essay seemed easy to follow and required very little back reading to pick up a lost point. I can even agree a little bit with the topic. When love ends it rarely ends well. I’m glad she is trying to better her grip on it. I liked the way she fired the final shot by saying the essay was going to be shown to her current mate.
‘Dancing Chicken’
Another one easy to read, it appeared to be in logical order. I’ve got no love for ballet or any dancing for that fact but I got the point of starting and quitting repeatedly. I used to be guilty of that, it’s always seemed easier to do when it was on Mom’s dime. I wonder if it has changed for this girl, assuming she’s now an adult and she has to pay for her hobbies. It’s hard to quit when you’ve got skin in the game.
‘Go Random Sports team.’
I can’t even tell you if I think this essay is well written. Any talk of sports and sports teams makes my mind glaze over and day dream about… not sports. It appears to me the graphs are too loaded but again I think the sentence, “The Sox are on”, involves too many sports related terms. One thing I did like was the ‘sound effects.’ I like to read “THWACK!” instead of, “The ball was hit and it made a loud cracking sound. But the over use of caps is one of my arch nemesis of the interwebz generation. The ending where it’s all a dream doesn’t set well with me. I was told by a high school English teacher when someone ends a story like that, it is because they didn’t bother to come up with a proper ending. I don’t know if that’s true but every time I see it that thought races through my head.
‘Double Time, March’
This one was so-so. I sure do understand the rush of being partnered up with a ‘crush’. The first three graphs were put together so it was mediocre to read. The last two seemed to switch gears and I got the impression there was a lack of supporting details.
‘Love Sucks’
The writing of the ‘love sucks’ essay seemed easy to follow and required very little back reading to pick up a lost point. I can even agree a little bit with the topic. When love ends it rarely ends well. I’m glad she is trying to better her grip on it. I liked the way she fired the final shot by saying the essay was going to be shown to her current mate.
‘Dancing Chicken’
Another one easy to read, it appeared to be in logical order. I’ve got no love for ballet or any dancing for that fact but I got the point of starting and quitting repeatedly. I used to be guilty of that, it’s always seemed easier to do when it was on Mom’s dime. I wonder if it has changed for this girl, assuming she’s now an adult and she has to pay for her hobbies. It’s hard to quit when you’ve got skin in the game.
‘Go Random Sports team.’
I can’t even tell you if I think this essay is well written. Any talk of sports and sports teams makes my mind glaze over and day dream about… not sports. It appears to me the graphs are too loaded but again I think the sentence, “The Sox are on”, involves too many sports related terms. One thing I did like was the ‘sound effects.’ I like to read “THWACK!” instead of, “The ball was hit and it made a loud cracking sound. But the over use of caps is one of my arch nemesis of the interwebz generation. The ending where it’s all a dream doesn’t set well with me. I was told by a high school English teacher when someone ends a story like that, it is because they didn’t bother to come up with a proper ending. I don’t know if that’s true but every time I see it that thought races through my head.
‘Double Time, March’
This one was so-so. I sure do understand the rush of being partnered up with a ‘crush’. The first three graphs were put together so it was mediocre to read. The last two seemed to switch gears and I got the impression there was a lack of supporting details.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Person
Assignment on proper graph construction. Slap/Goodies/Slap
I wonder if people who are complete pricks wake up in the morning and decide, I’m going to be arrogant and rude to everyone I meet today. Or is it a severe chemical imbalance and they don’t even realize they are lowering the happy factor of the entire human race? Chuck T. is one such prick and because I hate him so much I decided in his case it’s a choice. Chuck was the crane tagger and rigger on the shored vessel we worked on and his job was to make sure the crane loaded and unloaded materials for the crews to work with. All the time he did this, he made it a point to make ignorant comments to the crews, talking shit about how they were doing their jobs, how he’d have done it better, making fun of peoples clothing or tools. Even when people where nice to him he responded with venomous disdain and condescension. I never spoke to Chuck because I didn’t need his services. The one and only time I did was because a very young and simple co-worker of mine was trying to make Chuck’s job easier by sorting materials for off load into groups. He asked Chuck where he’d like the plywood stacked and Chuck’s response, “Put it in the scale pan you fucking retard!” I blew my top and got right in Chuck’s grill and stated, “Listen F#$K-bag, I don’t know who the f#$K you think you are but this kids trying to help you in case you didn’t notice. Now either get a glass stomach or dig your head out of your ass because the next time I hear you giving shit to anybody on this deck I’ll gladly lose my job by laying you the f#$k out!” Chuck tried to reply but I’d had enough. “No, shut the f#$k up. Go tell your boss, my boss or God himself that I threatened you. If you ain’t gonna do that, then just shut up and do your f#$king job!” That’s where we left it and the last time I heard news on Chuck T. he’d been fired when he was made to shave to enter a wood boiler and he dumped the clippings on the bosses desk.
Assignment on proper graph construction. Slap/Goodies/Slap
I wonder if people who are complete pricks wake up in the morning and decide, I’m going to be arrogant and rude to everyone I meet today. Or is it a severe chemical imbalance and they don’t even realize they are lowering the happy factor of the entire human race? Chuck T. is one such prick and because I hate him so much I decided in his case it’s a choice. Chuck was the crane tagger and rigger on the shored vessel we worked on and his job was to make sure the crane loaded and unloaded materials for the crews to work with. All the time he did this, he made it a point to make ignorant comments to the crews, talking shit about how they were doing their jobs, how he’d have done it better, making fun of peoples clothing or tools. Even when people where nice to him he responded with venomous disdain and condescension. I never spoke to Chuck because I didn’t need his services. The one and only time I did was because a very young and simple co-worker of mine was trying to make Chuck’s job easier by sorting materials for off load into groups. He asked Chuck where he’d like the plywood stacked and Chuck’s response, “Put it in the scale pan you fucking retard!” I blew my top and got right in Chuck’s grill and stated, “Listen F#$K-bag, I don’t know who the f#$K you think you are but this kids trying to help you in case you didn’t notice. Now either get a glass stomach or dig your head out of your ass because the next time I hear you giving shit to anybody on this deck I’ll gladly lose my job by laying you the f#$k out!” Chuck tried to reply but I’d had enough. “No, shut the f#$k up. Go tell your boss, my boss or God himself that I threatened you. If you ain’t gonna do that, then just shut up and do your f#$king job!” That’s where we left it and the last time I heard news on Chuck T. he’d been fired when he was made to shave to enter a wood boiler and he dumped the clippings on the bosses desk.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Unique
I guess I'm a bit of a riddle even to myself. Sure I'm unique but probably not as special or peculiar as I may think I am. I sure am eclectic. I'm kind of a rough cut hill-billy in my appearance, with my scuffed up work boots or gum-rubbers, dirty tattered jeans, my pocketed tee and work shirt. I'm almost never seen without a dew rag on my head, or a hat if the situation calls for it. My face is usually scruffy and unkempt and a nice little battle scar across the bridge of my nose. It's rare to find me without my trusty Swiss army knife and a pen clipped to my tee-shirt.
I usually tend to come off real gruff and alpha male, but I'm a lot more complex and open than that. I enjoy all your manly-man activities; building, destroying, burning, drinking, fighting, cussing, welding. However I also like to read and study religions and cultures, I love animals to a point and the same goes for kids. I love music and comedy as much as I love silence and a good heated debate or argument. I'm not openly religious but I believe in a very strict moral and ethical code that has no religious foundation at all, it's just what makes sense to me.
My lifestyle and diet is attrocious. I don't take care of myself very well and my diet consists of coke, coffee, beer, smokes, and what ever the microwave has to offer. But when I get the chance to sit down to one of my wife's meals it's like heaven on Earth.
I love to do hard labor but I hope it pays off with a future job at a desk or in a classroom. I don't want to work hard till I die, I want to work hard now and less later. On the topic of work. I work hard most days but I get hit with a major case of the 'lazies' from time to time and make no excuses. I actually call them 'Shane Appreciation Days'.
Am I unique? Yeah I'm unique, just like everyone else.
I usually tend to come off real gruff and alpha male, but I'm a lot more complex and open than that. I enjoy all your manly-man activities; building, destroying, burning, drinking, fighting, cussing, welding. However I also like to read and study religions and cultures, I love animals to a point and the same goes for kids. I love music and comedy as much as I love silence and a good heated debate or argument. I'm not openly religious but I believe in a very strict moral and ethical code that has no religious foundation at all, it's just what makes sense to me.
My lifestyle and diet is attrocious. I don't take care of myself very well and my diet consists of coke, coffee, beer, smokes, and what ever the microwave has to offer. But when I get the chance to sit down to one of my wife's meals it's like heaven on Earth.
I love to do hard labor but I hope it pays off with a future job at a desk or in a classroom. I don't want to work hard till I die, I want to work hard now and less later. On the topic of work. I work hard most days but I get hit with a major case of the 'lazies' from time to time and make no excuses. I actually call them 'Shane Appreciation Days'.
Am I unique? Yeah I'm unique, just like everyone else.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Inventory of my 30”x12’-6” work bench, shadow board and lower shelf excluded.
End to end blanket of wood dust.
Left to right: 6x6” steel box filled with stubs of welding tungsten,
Upside down hard hat filled with flapper wheels of various grits,
Stack o’ books: electrical wiring, wood working, plumbing, more wood working.
4x12” bin filled with tapes: electrical, friction, teflon, duct, rubber, masking/painting.
Stack of sand paper in varying grits
Four mini-sledge hammer heads and one RP shovel head in need of new handles,
Four empty Budweiser tall boys and one empty Bud Light can with evidence of cigar ash on top
Plexiglass case of router bits
Two sets of “small bits” organizing units filled with small nuts, tacks, wire nuts, molly anchors, alice clips, grommets, washers, screws, drill bits, alan wrenches, small sockets, etc.
A standard 12” bench vice, and flat, sliding bar vice.
An almost completed shelf, for the bathroom, with holes in it for girly hair tools.
Series of old Folgers cans filled with, random screw drivers, socket drivers, rasps, files, chisels, punches, nail sets, drift pins, carving gouges.
Stack of leather blanks for various sizes, thickness, and animals.
A jigsaw with the chord almost detached
A coiled up extension cord with the male end severed.
A belt sander, 3x18”
Scroll saw, band saw, drill press, and an archaic frame used to turn any power drill motor into a drill press.
A ceramic plant pot filled with old door hinges and pins
A terracotta green man pot filled with Romex connectors, and steel outlet boxes.
A leather stretching clamp
A glass mason jar with welding/plasma tips and an old slag/dross hammer
A small pile of basswood and whitewood.
A stack of might putty blocks.
Wow, this guy has an odd view on “organized”, items seem to be corralled into loose groupings but there’s almost no real work surface. He probably has to spend equal time cleaning a space off as he does doing the intended project. And speaking of projects, with the pile of tools that need attention, he probably doesn’t have a lot of time to spend on them. However he certainly does cover the spectrum of crafting and repair, everything from metal working to wood carving, electrical and leather work. It is a bit disturbing though, to see the empty beers and ash. It’s 2010, doesn’t he realize; A) the dangers of power tools and alcohol? and B) how explosive wood dust can be. He’s either invincible or foolish. He does make good use of those old coffee cans, but I wonder if his wife knows about the pottery he’s using to hold his brick-a-brack. Judging by this partially complete shelf, he does good work, I wonder if that’s pre beer or post beer. Any way I guess I know who to call if I need a metal-leather-wood, book case with accent lighting.
End to end blanket of wood dust.
Left to right: 6x6” steel box filled with stubs of welding tungsten,
Upside down hard hat filled with flapper wheels of various grits,
Stack o’ books: electrical wiring, wood working, plumbing, more wood working.
4x12” bin filled with tapes: electrical, friction, teflon, duct, rubber, masking/painting.
Stack of sand paper in varying grits
Four mini-sledge hammer heads and one RP shovel head in need of new handles,
Four empty Budweiser tall boys and one empty Bud Light can with evidence of cigar ash on top
Plexiglass case of router bits
Two sets of “small bits” organizing units filled with small nuts, tacks, wire nuts, molly anchors, alice clips, grommets, washers, screws, drill bits, alan wrenches, small sockets, etc.
A standard 12” bench vice, and flat, sliding bar vice.
An almost completed shelf, for the bathroom, with holes in it for girly hair tools.
Series of old Folgers cans filled with, random screw drivers, socket drivers, rasps, files, chisels, punches, nail sets, drift pins, carving gouges.
Stack of leather blanks for various sizes, thickness, and animals.
A jigsaw with the chord almost detached
A coiled up extension cord with the male end severed.
A belt sander, 3x18”
Scroll saw, band saw, drill press, and an archaic frame used to turn any power drill motor into a drill press.
A ceramic plant pot filled with old door hinges and pins
A terracotta green man pot filled with Romex connectors, and steel outlet boxes.
A leather stretching clamp
A glass mason jar with welding/plasma tips and an old slag/dross hammer
A small pile of basswood and whitewood.
A stack of might putty blocks.
Wow, this guy has an odd view on “organized”, items seem to be corralled into loose groupings but there’s almost no real work surface. He probably has to spend equal time cleaning a space off as he does doing the intended project. And speaking of projects, with the pile of tools that need attention, he probably doesn’t have a lot of time to spend on them. However he certainly does cover the spectrum of crafting and repair, everything from metal working to wood carving, electrical and leather work. It is a bit disturbing though, to see the empty beers and ash. It’s 2010, doesn’t he realize; A) the dangers of power tools and alcohol? and B) how explosive wood dust can be. He’s either invincible or foolish. He does make good use of those old coffee cans, but I wonder if his wife knows about the pottery he’s using to hold his brick-a-brack. Judging by this partially complete shelf, he does good work, I wonder if that’s pre beer or post beer. Any way I guess I know who to call if I need a metal-leather-wood, book case with accent lighting.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Worst Teacher 9/1 assignment
Worst Teacher
If I close my eyes and think real hard I could probably envision myself back in Mr. B’s class room. But I’m not going to do that. Why bring such discomfort and irritation upon myself? In my humble opinion Mr. B was and most likely still is a horrid human. Granted, I wasn’t the role model student, just a long haired skater punk with my fair share of attitude and angst. However, I did pass in my assignments on time and kept my mouth shut and head down for the most part. But for some reason Mr. B took an immediate disliking to me. Was it the hair? The tar-scuffed Jncos? Maybe he just needs a focus for his anger every year and I was it.
I could almost smell it in the air when he and I were going to have it out. It would usually start after he’d given his speech and instructions for the day and open the floor to questions and comments. He knew how to get it started and foolish I always bit. “Did you get it McPherson or do we need a picture today?” The other kids even my good friends would chuckle. I don’t blame them, I probably would have too were the name McPherson switched out and replaced. But I didn’t chuckle, like I said before I always took the bait. I would come back at him with a juvenile retort, along the lines of “No, B I don’t get that but I did get your moms last night”. Like I said, very juvenile but that’s what I and my peers were so it got the class hooting and gasping. Like a check list, the next step, B’s face went through the five shades of red and then he’d verbally blister me and escort me down to the main office where I’d spend the next half hour.
If it wasn’t the out and out verbal arguments it was giving me lousy grades base on items that the other kids got passes on. Like handwriting , Obviously he could read my papers as he’d make comments on the subject matter , so my writing couldn’t have been unreadable. There were kids with far worse handwriting than mine. A lot of times he’d just hover over my desk for extended periods of time, trying to bird-dog me until I, again, bit and responded with anger.
The pinnacle and final showdown of M vs. B was the second to last day of school. After the school day my best friend and I were having a water gun war with our new Super Soaker 3k water cannons. On the street that ran by the school. Mind you, we were off school grounds by sixty feet or better, and not bothering anyone. B comes running out of the school and demands we hand out guns to him or he calls the police. I guess in my eighth grade mindset, threatening me with the police was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I informed him of my father’s three rules of fighting: “Can’t see-can’t fight, can’t breath-can’t fight, Can’t walk-can’t fight”. I know he wasn’t scared, I was 13-14 years old, and he would probably have squashed me like a bug. However for whatever reason he stormed back inside, we continued our gun battle, the cops never showed. The following day, (the last day of school), he blocked me at the door and wouldn’t let me in class without an apology to him if front of the class. He did not get an apology, what he got was me doing an about face, walking to the office, asking them to call my mother up here for an impromptu Parent –Teacher meeting. My mother (a very smart woman) came right up, listened to both sides of the story, and told B and the principal as a punishment for my crimes we were going out to lunch and ice cream for the day.
Mr. B, 18 years have passed and I hope life has treated you the way you treated me that year, every step of the way.
If I close my eyes and think real hard I could probably envision myself back in Mr. B’s class room. But I’m not going to do that. Why bring such discomfort and irritation upon myself? In my humble opinion Mr. B was and most likely still is a horrid human. Granted, I wasn’t the role model student, just a long haired skater punk with my fair share of attitude and angst. However, I did pass in my assignments on time and kept my mouth shut and head down for the most part. But for some reason Mr. B took an immediate disliking to me. Was it the hair? The tar-scuffed Jncos? Maybe he just needs a focus for his anger every year and I was it.
I could almost smell it in the air when he and I were going to have it out. It would usually start after he’d given his speech and instructions for the day and open the floor to questions and comments. He knew how to get it started and foolish I always bit. “Did you get it McPherson or do we need a picture today?” The other kids even my good friends would chuckle. I don’t blame them, I probably would have too were the name McPherson switched out and replaced. But I didn’t chuckle, like I said before I always took the bait. I would come back at him with a juvenile retort, along the lines of “No, B I don’t get that but I did get your moms last night”. Like I said, very juvenile but that’s what I and my peers were so it got the class hooting and gasping. Like a check list, the next step, B’s face went through the five shades of red and then he’d verbally blister me and escort me down to the main office where I’d spend the next half hour.
If it wasn’t the out and out verbal arguments it was giving me lousy grades base on items that the other kids got passes on. Like handwriting , Obviously he could read my papers as he’d make comments on the subject matter , so my writing couldn’t have been unreadable. There were kids with far worse handwriting than mine. A lot of times he’d just hover over my desk for extended periods of time, trying to bird-dog me until I, again, bit and responded with anger.
The pinnacle and final showdown of M vs. B was the second to last day of school. After the school day my best friend and I were having a water gun war with our new Super Soaker 3k water cannons. On the street that ran by the school. Mind you, we were off school grounds by sixty feet or better, and not bothering anyone. B comes running out of the school and demands we hand out guns to him or he calls the police. I guess in my eighth grade mindset, threatening me with the police was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I informed him of my father’s three rules of fighting: “Can’t see-can’t fight, can’t breath-can’t fight, Can’t walk-can’t fight”. I know he wasn’t scared, I was 13-14 years old, and he would probably have squashed me like a bug. However for whatever reason he stormed back inside, we continued our gun battle, the cops never showed. The following day, (the last day of school), he blocked me at the door and wouldn’t let me in class without an apology to him if front of the class. He did not get an apology, what he got was me doing an about face, walking to the office, asking them to call my mother up here for an impromptu Parent –Teacher meeting. My mother (a very smart woman) came right up, listened to both sides of the story, and told B and the principal as a punishment for my crimes we were going out to lunch and ice cream for the day.
Mr. B, 18 years have passed and I hope life has treated you the way you treated me that year, every step of the way.
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