It always fascinates me how this game of life so often engages in confluence. I received a message not long ago that a wonderful woman and mother of four had passed away after a long illness. It surprised me because I wasn't aware of her condition. I wish I could say we were close friends, but that wasn't the case. Her oldest son had been a basketball player during my time as a publicity director for a local university. Through him I eventually met mom, dad, and the three additional siblings. The family was/is remarkable, although I'm sure battered emotionally. Around the time of her passing, a friend, colleague, and former student was on the verge of giving birth to her first child (a beautiful baby boy who arrived within the past two weeks). I began to think (always dangerous) about the life cycle we all share from the euphoric to the funereal. These two women epitomize all the good things in that precious cycle.
The true test for any person inevitably becomes the reaction to adversity. Both individuals passed those exams. The older woman arrived here from Europe with a positive attitude and a future husband awaiting her arrival. She became the rock of the family while her husband built a successful business from the first shovel of dirt, working 12-15 hour days, seven days a week. All seemed smooth until her oldest son died in a tragic plane crash while en route from the Midwest with his fiancee. He had been a superb athlete, just finishing his second year as a future NBA star. His death completely devastated all who knew him, but his family above all. As the years rolled on, the strength of the family became obvious, with her as the inspiration.
My colleague and former student suffered through a similar situation with a close high school friend, not to mention the passing of several close relatives. Through it all she has remained the same hard-working, positive individual I first met when she was a ninth grader. In all the years I've known her, I can't ever remember seeing her upset, angry, or abrupt. As a teacher she was (is) patient, creative, and insightful. Whenever I walked by her room, I saw happy, engaged students.
It's sad to see friends depart, especially one so important to her loved ones. But life has strange compensations. By my count there are at least five grandchildren to help ease the transition. On the other side, I received an e-mail after the recent birth. The incredible smiles on the faces of mom and dad began the cycle once again.
Give and Take.
MM
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
SCHOOL DAZE
It's the worst night of my year. I'm not talking about the April 14 tax anxieties or dreading the reality of another birthday morning (all downhill after 21). This particular evening makes the others pale in comparison. Yep, Monday night marks the eve of school year 2008-2009. According to my calculations (always unofficial), this will make my 17th consecutive worst night of the year. It appears as if I dislike the idea of school, but that's not the case. I love school and I love teaching. Sounds contradictory, but hopefully I can express a plausible explanation.
Years ago I came to one of those so-called "crossroads of life" situations. I had worked in athletics, both pro and college, for the extent of my post-educational, post-military existence. The experiences, acquaintances, and satisfactions I garnered during that time period both stimulated and satisfied my professional ambitions. However, the day arrived when the passion bucket emptied. I had two choices: continue taking a pay check for work I had ceased to enjoy, or start over with no idea of my future. I was over 40 at the time, so the decision had gargantuan potential for disaster. Nevertheless, I selected option number two. I gave my two weeks notice (surprising to all) and proceeded to hit golf balls for the next few months with an occasional free lance stipend for bill paying. The last thing I ever thought I would do is teach. But after numerous consultations with close friends, I began the process.
Earning a teaching credential is a daunting task. I had not been in a classroom for well over 20 years, and had hardly distinguished myself in that venue. I enrolled at Notre Dame de Namur in February, 1991. For the next 18 months I took classes, became frustrated, tended bar to pay the bills, and had no idea where it would lead. In the fall of 1992, I began my first student teaching assignment at a South Bay middle school. I have rarely been as frightened. My master teacher taught eighth grade English, five periods per day. I can't begin to express my appreciation for her unselfish, patient, encouraging efforts on my behalf. I teach now because of her.
After a few weeks spent observing, she asked if I would like to teach. I think I was too numb to decline and assumed control of three classes. My saving grace was a daily 2nd period meeting with my mentor to discuss the good, the bad, and the ugly (with deference to Clint Eastwood) of my endeavors. It didn't take long to discover what I know now. There's NOTHING like that classroom. Few days go by when I don't savor my position. I'm a devout self-critic, but I think I've taught a few, entertained a few, and hopefully disappointed only a few. What I have received in return, from that vast number of students, is almost impossible to explain. I've had moments in my classroom that for lack of a better term, were euphoric. The young lad who wrote his FIRST poem as a ninth grader and bubbled over with pride; the incredible project presentations, class discussions, brilliant essays, and intellectual maturation, have kept my fire burning since that first middle school day. Not all days are pearls, but the balance scale heavily tilts towards the positive.
This is year number 16 at the same location. I was most fortunate in securing a position at one of the state's best public high schools. It was a right place at the right time with the right people hiring. I've taught a little bit of everything and enjoyed it immensely. For several years I could remember every student, every name and every background, but the numbers have finally caught up with me. I actually blanked on a former student a couple of weeks ago. Highly embarrassing, but I guess understandable. My colleagues are among the finest, most generous people I've ever known. In the good days complimentary; in the down days compassionate and caring. No possible ways to repay the relationships. One constantly hears about teachers being underpaid. I would certainly agree. But aside from the direct deposit monthly check, the profession remunerates in undefinable ways. I've been asked on occasion to compare teaching with my previous vocations. My answer remains consistent. This is the best thing I've ever done.
Monday night approaches. My lack of sleep? Induced by eager anticipation and excitement for the coming year.
Does counting sheep still work?
MM
Years ago I came to one of those so-called "crossroads of life" situations. I had worked in athletics, both pro and college, for the extent of my post-educational, post-military existence. The experiences, acquaintances, and satisfactions I garnered during that time period both stimulated and satisfied my professional ambitions. However, the day arrived when the passion bucket emptied. I had two choices: continue taking a pay check for work I had ceased to enjoy, or start over with no idea of my future. I was over 40 at the time, so the decision had gargantuan potential for disaster. Nevertheless, I selected option number two. I gave my two weeks notice (surprising to all) and proceeded to hit golf balls for the next few months with an occasional free lance stipend for bill paying. The last thing I ever thought I would do is teach. But after numerous consultations with close friends, I began the process.
Earning a teaching credential is a daunting task. I had not been in a classroom for well over 20 years, and had hardly distinguished myself in that venue. I enrolled at Notre Dame de Namur in February, 1991. For the next 18 months I took classes, became frustrated, tended bar to pay the bills, and had no idea where it would lead. In the fall of 1992, I began my first student teaching assignment at a South Bay middle school. I have rarely been as frightened. My master teacher taught eighth grade English, five periods per day. I can't begin to express my appreciation for her unselfish, patient, encouraging efforts on my behalf. I teach now because of her.
After a few weeks spent observing, she asked if I would like to teach. I think I was too numb to decline and assumed control of three classes. My saving grace was a daily 2nd period meeting with my mentor to discuss the good, the bad, and the ugly (with deference to Clint Eastwood) of my endeavors. It didn't take long to discover what I know now. There's NOTHING like that classroom. Few days go by when I don't savor my position. I'm a devout self-critic, but I think I've taught a few, entertained a few, and hopefully disappointed only a few. What I have received in return, from that vast number of students, is almost impossible to explain. I've had moments in my classroom that for lack of a better term, were euphoric. The young lad who wrote his FIRST poem as a ninth grader and bubbled over with pride; the incredible project presentations, class discussions, brilliant essays, and intellectual maturation, have kept my fire burning since that first middle school day. Not all days are pearls, but the balance scale heavily tilts towards the positive.
This is year number 16 at the same location. I was most fortunate in securing a position at one of the state's best public high schools. It was a right place at the right time with the right people hiring. I've taught a little bit of everything and enjoyed it immensely. For several years I could remember every student, every name and every background, but the numbers have finally caught up with me. I actually blanked on a former student a couple of weeks ago. Highly embarrassing, but I guess understandable. My colleagues are among the finest, most generous people I've ever known. In the good days complimentary; in the down days compassionate and caring. No possible ways to repay the relationships. One constantly hears about teachers being underpaid. I would certainly agree. But aside from the direct deposit monthly check, the profession remunerates in undefinable ways. I've been asked on occasion to compare teaching with my previous vocations. My answer remains consistent. This is the best thing I've ever done.
Monday night approaches. My lack of sleep? Induced by eager anticipation and excitement for the coming year.
Does counting sheep still work?
MM
Sunday, August 17, 2008
THE LAND FISH
When Michael Phelps touched the wall for the final time, I imitated a Tiger Woods Fist Pump to celebrate. Hard to fathom how much skill, effort, and determination it takes to accomplish such feats. Phelps seems like the All-American Lad, and has apparently remained free from the evils of dreaded performance-enhancing substances. Aside from his endorsement of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, which has the Food Police in complete apoplexy, this remarkable Land Fish is as close to perfect as anyone can possibly be. But with all the joy, pride, and admiration Phelps has engendered, he still falls short on my hero list.
I realize that last comment may sound blasphemous, however something is missing from the biographical sketch. Yes, as much as I wish to anoint Michael the greatest human of all time, I discovered a distinct flaw. No, it's not something physical (despite his more than generous set of ears) as he is in sterling condition. And it has nothing to do with his mental acumen, which obviously remains strong. He has a pleasant, disarming, and humble personality that does nothing but endear him to the drooling masses of prospective agents and marketeers. No, none of the above. But I just can't overlook this seemingly minuscule chink in the Phelps biographical armor.
You see, my perception of an athletic Zeus goes a bit beyond Phelps' aquatic feats. Through years of training and observation my qualifications for hero/heroine go beyond the Wheaties (or Frosted Flakes) box. I demand perfection! Ted Williams hit over .300 every year EXCEPT one (.254 plagued with neck injuries in 1959). Bill Russell didn't win an NBA championship in TWO of his 13 seasons with the Celtics. Gale Sayers only played SEVEN seasons with the Bears because of knee injuries, Lee Trevino only won SEVEN major golf titles, and Chris Evert lost more than 50 tennis matches in her career. Flawed, all of them. But isn't Michael Phelps perfect? Didn't he win eight gold medals in eight events? True. Yet there remains the dark blemish on a supposedly pristine performance.
Alright, I've dragged this out interminably. The suspense and curiosity has moved toward fever pitch proportions. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MICHAEL PHELPS? Did you happen to notice that in his eight events, he set seven world records? What about the other one? It happened to be the 100-meter Butterfly, the last individual race, where he barely out-touched his Serbian rival. Okay, it was thrilling and dramatic and all those other adjectives the media used for description. But come on, Michael! Where was the eighth world record? There's just an empty space next to that entry on your sheet. How can you expect to be a hero when you lose focus in the 'fly?
I've let it out now and feel ever so much better -- cathartic would be the appropriate description. I guess Mr. Phelps will have to improve in 2012 to hear my full applause.
For what it's worth, I'm not actually that mean or demanding. His feats stand unmatched. A million quotes fit the moment, but I like this one by C.J. Weber: "Perfecting is our destiny, but perfection never our lot."
The Land Fish almost proved him wrong.
MM
I realize that last comment may sound blasphemous, however something is missing from the biographical sketch. Yes, as much as I wish to anoint Michael the greatest human of all time, I discovered a distinct flaw. No, it's not something physical (despite his more than generous set of ears) as he is in sterling condition. And it has nothing to do with his mental acumen, which obviously remains strong. He has a pleasant, disarming, and humble personality that does nothing but endear him to the drooling masses of prospective agents and marketeers. No, none of the above. But I just can't overlook this seemingly minuscule chink in the Phelps biographical armor.
You see, my perception of an athletic Zeus goes a bit beyond Phelps' aquatic feats. Through years of training and observation my qualifications for hero/heroine go beyond the Wheaties (or Frosted Flakes) box. I demand perfection! Ted Williams hit over .300 every year EXCEPT one (.254 plagued with neck injuries in 1959). Bill Russell didn't win an NBA championship in TWO of his 13 seasons with the Celtics. Gale Sayers only played SEVEN seasons with the Bears because of knee injuries, Lee Trevino only won SEVEN major golf titles, and Chris Evert lost more than 50 tennis matches in her career. Flawed, all of them. But isn't Michael Phelps perfect? Didn't he win eight gold medals in eight events? True. Yet there remains the dark blemish on a supposedly pristine performance.
Alright, I've dragged this out interminably. The suspense and curiosity has moved toward fever pitch proportions. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MICHAEL PHELPS? Did you happen to notice that in his eight events, he set seven world records? What about the other one? It happened to be the 100-meter Butterfly, the last individual race, where he barely out-touched his Serbian rival. Okay, it was thrilling and dramatic and all those other adjectives the media used for description. But come on, Michael! Where was the eighth world record? There's just an empty space next to that entry on your sheet. How can you expect to be a hero when you lose focus in the 'fly?
I've let it out now and feel ever so much better -- cathartic would be the appropriate description. I guess Mr. Phelps will have to improve in 2012 to hear my full applause.
For what it's worth, I'm not actually that mean or demanding. His feats stand unmatched. A million quotes fit the moment, but I like this one by C.J. Weber: "Perfecting is our destiny, but perfection never our lot."
The Land Fish almost proved him wrong.
MM
Saturday, August 9, 2008
SPECTATING
A couple of weeks ago I received an e-mail from a close friend asking if I would like to see a ballgame at AT&T Park. Although I generally avoid big crowds and high ticket prices, I thought why not and accepted the invitation. The game itself, surrounding environs, and engaging companions prompted thoughts of both present and past.
I compulsively fear being late. I don't know why, but I've always been a time freak. If I have a meeting at 2:00 p.m., I will arrive no later than 1:55; in fact that's bordering on tardiness. That was the first best part of the baseball outing. We reached the Park for the Giants-Nationals contest two hours before game time, and adjourned to a pleasant dining establishment near the premises for a relaxing repast. There were four of us, all long-time friends, and a good meal always prompts conviviality. With plenty of time left on the clock, we reached our seats and settled in. I should tell you about the seating because it actually sparked the idea for this post. Our tickets came courtesy of one member of our foursome. Suffice it to say he is among the most generous and unassuming individuals I know. It would take another 10 pages to adequately profile our benevolent host, but it would embarrass him greatly. The seats we occupied were four rows behind home plate on an elevated level with zero obstruction. One could literally have a conversation with the Giants' on-deck hitter or even the bat boy.
There's something different about spectating. I've seen so many events over the years that I have become a bit jaded. I hate traffic, crowds, and long lines. Thus my trusty Panasonic 26" television set generally works in a substitute capacity. It's not HD, but at least I'm thinking about it. However, I sporadically become motivated to actually attend games. On that particular night, I'm glad I did.
I won't belabor or repeat my love of baseball, yet I sometimes forget what makes it so enjoyable, especially at its highest level. Because of the pace of play, it lulls even its most ardent fans into a relaxed anticipation of results and outcomes. That evening I kicked myself several times for not remembering how talented the performers, and the relative ease with which they plied their trade. The superb vantage point allowed me to watch so much of the game I never see at home. It continues to boggle my mind how hitters ever connect with a pitch. Generally, they must face a large human standing on an elevated platform (the mound), propelling a small white sphere at speeds of nearly 100 MPH with hopeful accuracy. In addition, the large human can usually make the sphere curve, slice, drop, or rise at varying speeds, and doesn't have to tell the hitter ahead of time. Hitting a baseball successfully may be the only athletic endeavor where the individual can fail seven out of 10 times and be cheered. That night I rediscovered my appreciation for that particular skill. Late in the game the Gigantes trailed by a run, but had the tying and go-ahead runners on base. The Nationals' relief pitcher was a lefty whose fastball leveled off at about 95 MPH. The hitter was a popular veteran, known for his competitive nature. The baseball bull ring opened its gates for all to appreciate.
Being that close to the plate, I "spectated" with far more interest than Panasonic vision. The concentration by pitcher, hitter, catcher, infielders, coaches, and even umpires became more palpable with each pitch, and there were many. The ball and strike count reached 3 and 2, but the hitter proceeded to foul off one, two, three...six pitches in succession, barely making contact with the steady fast ball diet he was given. It was one of those defining moments for any baseball-worshiping spectator. The ultimate challenge...can you hit this fastball, or can I make you miss?
I knew what would happen. I'm not sure why, except for my life-long Ph.D in spectating. The hitter triumphed with a line shot double to left center field. The two runs scored, and the Giants subsequently won the game.
We are often bored by excellence. The great producers in life set the bars high in their respective fields. Occasionally, one needs a dose of drama, effort, and ability to rekindle the excitement meter. I left the park totally satisfied. The company, the meal, the accommodations, and the reminder. The latter being a renewed understanding just how talented certain people are, and how challenging their pursuits. We don't live in a drab or dull society, but a periodic prodding keeps us energized for the special moments.
NOTE: Sorry about the delay. It's the time of the year when occupational demands become heightened.
MM
I compulsively fear being late. I don't know why, but I've always been a time freak. If I have a meeting at 2:00 p.m., I will arrive no later than 1:55; in fact that's bordering on tardiness. That was the first best part of the baseball outing. We reached the Park for the Giants-Nationals contest two hours before game time, and adjourned to a pleasant dining establishment near the premises for a relaxing repast. There were four of us, all long-time friends, and a good meal always prompts conviviality. With plenty of time left on the clock, we reached our seats and settled in. I should tell you about the seating because it actually sparked the idea for this post. Our tickets came courtesy of one member of our foursome. Suffice it to say he is among the most generous and unassuming individuals I know. It would take another 10 pages to adequately profile our benevolent host, but it would embarrass him greatly. The seats we occupied were four rows behind home plate on an elevated level with zero obstruction. One could literally have a conversation with the Giants' on-deck hitter or even the bat boy.
There's something different about spectating. I've seen so many events over the years that I have become a bit jaded. I hate traffic, crowds, and long lines. Thus my trusty Panasonic 26" television set generally works in a substitute capacity. It's not HD, but at least I'm thinking about it. However, I sporadically become motivated to actually attend games. On that particular night, I'm glad I did.
I won't belabor or repeat my love of baseball, yet I sometimes forget what makes it so enjoyable, especially at its highest level. Because of the pace of play, it lulls even its most ardent fans into a relaxed anticipation of results and outcomes. That evening I kicked myself several times for not remembering how talented the performers, and the relative ease with which they plied their trade. The superb vantage point allowed me to watch so much of the game I never see at home. It continues to boggle my mind how hitters ever connect with a pitch. Generally, they must face a large human standing on an elevated platform (the mound), propelling a small white sphere at speeds of nearly 100 MPH with hopeful accuracy. In addition, the large human can usually make the sphere curve, slice, drop, or rise at varying speeds, and doesn't have to tell the hitter ahead of time. Hitting a baseball successfully may be the only athletic endeavor where the individual can fail seven out of 10 times and be cheered. That night I rediscovered my appreciation for that particular skill. Late in the game the Gigantes trailed by a run, but had the tying and go-ahead runners on base. The Nationals' relief pitcher was a lefty whose fastball leveled off at about 95 MPH. The hitter was a popular veteran, known for his competitive nature. The baseball bull ring opened its gates for all to appreciate.
Being that close to the plate, I "spectated" with far more interest than Panasonic vision. The concentration by pitcher, hitter, catcher, infielders, coaches, and even umpires became more palpable with each pitch, and there were many. The ball and strike count reached 3 and 2, but the hitter proceeded to foul off one, two, three...six pitches in succession, barely making contact with the steady fast ball diet he was given. It was one of those defining moments for any baseball-worshiping spectator. The ultimate challenge...can you hit this fastball, or can I make you miss?
I knew what would happen. I'm not sure why, except for my life-long Ph.D in spectating. The hitter triumphed with a line shot double to left center field. The two runs scored, and the Giants subsequently won the game.
We are often bored by excellence. The great producers in life set the bars high in their respective fields. Occasionally, one needs a dose of drama, effort, and ability to rekindle the excitement meter. I left the park totally satisfied. The company, the meal, the accommodations, and the reminder. The latter being a renewed understanding just how talented certain people are, and how challenging their pursuits. We don't live in a drab or dull society, but a periodic prodding keeps us energized for the special moments.
NOTE: Sorry about the delay. It's the time of the year when occupational demands become heightened.
MM
Sunday, August 3, 2008
SANITY CHECK
Do you know ANYONE who doesn't like or have an appreciation for animals? I certainly don't, but lately (and locally) revulsion and disbelief follow a pair of stories in the SAN JOSE MERCURY NEWS. The first by Linda Goldston detailed the discovery of more than 40 starving, emaciated, and abused dogs at a residence in nearby Boulder Creek. I'll spare the gory details, but the neanderthal owner was apparently attempting to cross breed and eventually sell the 'best of the best' as Cane Corsos (Italian Mastiffs). Mr. Wonderful (owner Robert Brunette) fled the scene, but was later captured and charged with a couple of felonies and numerous counts of animal cruelty. He was incensed at those evil animal services people. "Animal services has injured a lot of my dogs," he whined during his arraignment.
The second incident in the same week occurred in Santa Cruz (stories by Mary Anne Ostrom and Joshua Molina). It seems some animal rights activists had run out of patience. They firebombed the house and car of two UC-Santa Cruz biomedical researchers because they continue to use animals in their lab testing procedures. Apparently a list of the scientists (including their addresses) who engage in such testing was distributed in the community. No arrests have been made, but I was stunned by this observation. Dr. Jerry Vlasak, a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Front based in Woodland Hills, called the attacks "necessary," similar to the fight against civil rights. He went on to express a complete lack of remorse for the family or children whose house was targeted, or the scientist whose car was obliterated.
This is what I see as opposite ends of the spectrum. Both incidents are completely unfathomable to me. We had several dogs and cats for pets while growing up. They were part of the family, had their own distinct personalities, and we cherished every year they were with us. I would love to have a dog or cat now, but it would be completely unfair to any prospective pet since I'm not home enough to take care of one. With the exception of the two million ants I slaughtered between the ages of 8 and 12 (I didn't want to mow the lawn, and that was a diversion), I have never thought about animals except in the kindest terms. I don't think I ever enjoyed anything more as a wee sprite than frequent trips to the zoo in Seattle. In my worst human moment I could not harm an animal, but at the same time I completely understand their value in lab research. Not only does research improve health care possibilities for humans, but animals as well.
It's difficult to imagine the brain damage it takes to abuse, maim, and kill dogs. The Michael Vick situation -- and now this one closer to home -- angers, appalls, and saddens anyone with a conscience. The community outpouring of donations and offers to adopt the remaining animals indicates the overwhelming disgust and compassion these stories engendered.
Conversely, to target legitimate scientists who dedicate themselves to their research in a completely legal and legitimate academic environment, conjures visions of totalitarian societies. It's one thing to disagree on issues. But it's completely wrong to break the law harming people and property with such disagreement. I've tried to look at this incident from all sides of the issue, but legitimacy for the actions fails to register on any meter.
What the creature population really needs is a spokesanimal to plead their case. Scanning my brain, I finally came up with the perfect choice. Is there any possibility LASSIE can be reincarnated? She made far more sense than the above mentioned perpetrators.
Maybe I should get a parrot?
MM
The second incident in the same week occurred in Santa Cruz (stories by Mary Anne Ostrom and Joshua Molina). It seems some animal rights activists had run out of patience. They firebombed the house and car of two UC-Santa Cruz biomedical researchers because they continue to use animals in their lab testing procedures. Apparently a list of the scientists (including their addresses) who engage in such testing was distributed in the community. No arrests have been made, but I was stunned by this observation. Dr. Jerry Vlasak, a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Front based in Woodland Hills, called the attacks "necessary," similar to the fight against civil rights. He went on to express a complete lack of remorse for the family or children whose house was targeted, or the scientist whose car was obliterated.
This is what I see as opposite ends of the spectrum. Both incidents are completely unfathomable to me. We had several dogs and cats for pets while growing up. They were part of the family, had their own distinct personalities, and we cherished every year they were with us. I would love to have a dog or cat now, but it would be completely unfair to any prospective pet since I'm not home enough to take care of one. With the exception of the two million ants I slaughtered between the ages of 8 and 12 (I didn't want to mow the lawn, and that was a diversion), I have never thought about animals except in the kindest terms. I don't think I ever enjoyed anything more as a wee sprite than frequent trips to the zoo in Seattle. In my worst human moment I could not harm an animal, but at the same time I completely understand their value in lab research. Not only does research improve health care possibilities for humans, but animals as well.
It's difficult to imagine the brain damage it takes to abuse, maim, and kill dogs. The Michael Vick situation -- and now this one closer to home -- angers, appalls, and saddens anyone with a conscience. The community outpouring of donations and offers to adopt the remaining animals indicates the overwhelming disgust and compassion these stories engendered.
Conversely, to target legitimate scientists who dedicate themselves to their research in a completely legal and legitimate academic environment, conjures visions of totalitarian societies. It's one thing to disagree on issues. But it's completely wrong to break the law harming people and property with such disagreement. I've tried to look at this incident from all sides of the issue, but legitimacy for the actions fails to register on any meter.
What the creature population really needs is a spokesanimal to plead their case. Scanning my brain, I finally came up with the perfect choice. Is there any possibility LASSIE can be reincarnated? She made far more sense than the above mentioned perpetrators.
Maybe I should get a parrot?
MM
Friday, August 1, 2008
BE SAFE
Summer works for me. The weather, the attitudes, the ambiance, the vacation, and baseball converge to make the time frame so pleasant. It also allows me to recharge the teaching batteries, reflect on what worked the previous year (or didn't), and where I am mentally and physically. With the much-expanded leisure time, I often try to make contact with friends and colleagues I have neglected for no valid reasons. This summer I've followed that script, more or less, until the other day. The end of July suddenly arrived and a little buzz motored through my brain before finally settling. I think it was a wire service story about decreasing casualties in Iraq that prompted it. Nearly forty years before marked my departure for Vietnam. I remember being numb in lieu of being scared, and subsequently most fortunate throughout my deployment. Returning unscathed, I got on with my life. There's more to that story, but this is about something else.
In the spring semester of 2007 I met a young lad in one of my classes whom I grew to admire in the ensuing months. He wasn't a 4.0 student, didn't participate in student government or community service organizations, and maintained a fairly low profile on campus. His one passion had been football, where he was a talented linebacker and solid team leader. He wasn't a discipline problem, completed his assignments on time, asked for help if he needed it, and eventually graduated this past May. Yet there was something about him that caught your attention. Several years ago an E.F. Hutton (financial company) TV commercial appeared with nauseating frequency on all the networks. The punch line in a group conversational setting stated, "When E.F. Hutton speaks, people listen." The staged group became a collective silent statue as this profundity was uttered. I've always thought of that marketing ploy in conjunction with our subject. He wasn't loud, ebullient, or overbearing. However, when he had something to say, his peers tended to pay attention. It's a subtle trait and worthy of unseen exaltation in today's young adult hierarchy.
As last year moved along, I would see him from time to time and we'd exchange pleasantries. One day in March we crossed paths during a lull in the daily proceedings. I realized I had not asked him about his post-high school plans. I was assuming he would be attending college in the fall, but had not heard any specifics. So I popped the question. He replied that he had joined the Marines and would be reporting for basic training in July. I was stunned, not because of any preconceived notions, but that it was such an unusual decision at our high school. Over 90% of the graduates attend either two-year or four-year colleges. He would certainly have qualified. The Iraq War can charitably be termed unpopular on our campus, yet he had made a conscious, and obviously well-researched choice, to possibly situate himself in harm's way. To my knowledge he is the only member of his class to enter the military .
The more I thought about his decision, the more I remembered my own. It wasn't easy then or now. The exceptional student magazine published a nice article about the lad, but not much more was said. The school year ended and summer took its place.
To be honest, I didn't think about him until the other day. Basic training dominates both mind and body, but he will adjust and thrive.
It's a strange world now and the military remains busy. I'm sure he will make his own distinct contribution, and being so far removed, I doubt we'll know much about it.
Only two words came to mind when I recalled his decision. BE SAFE.
MM
In the spring semester of 2007 I met a young lad in one of my classes whom I grew to admire in the ensuing months. He wasn't a 4.0 student, didn't participate in student government or community service organizations, and maintained a fairly low profile on campus. His one passion had been football, where he was a talented linebacker and solid team leader. He wasn't a discipline problem, completed his assignments on time, asked for help if he needed it, and eventually graduated this past May. Yet there was something about him that caught your attention. Several years ago an E.F. Hutton (financial company) TV commercial appeared with nauseating frequency on all the networks. The punch line in a group conversational setting stated, "When E.F. Hutton speaks, people listen." The staged group became a collective silent statue as this profundity was uttered. I've always thought of that marketing ploy in conjunction with our subject. He wasn't loud, ebullient, or overbearing. However, when he had something to say, his peers tended to pay attention. It's a subtle trait and worthy of unseen exaltation in today's young adult hierarchy.
As last year moved along, I would see him from time to time and we'd exchange pleasantries. One day in March we crossed paths during a lull in the daily proceedings. I realized I had not asked him about his post-high school plans. I was assuming he would be attending college in the fall, but had not heard any specifics. So I popped the question. He replied that he had joined the Marines and would be reporting for basic training in July. I was stunned, not because of any preconceived notions, but that it was such an unusual decision at our high school. Over 90% of the graduates attend either two-year or four-year colleges. He would certainly have qualified. The Iraq War can charitably be termed unpopular on our campus, yet he had made a conscious, and obviously well-researched choice, to possibly situate himself in harm's way. To my knowledge he is the only member of his class to enter the military .
The more I thought about his decision, the more I remembered my own. It wasn't easy then or now. The exceptional student magazine published a nice article about the lad, but not much more was said. The school year ended and summer took its place.
To be honest, I didn't think about him until the other day. Basic training dominates both mind and body, but he will adjust and thrive.
It's a strange world now and the military remains busy. I'm sure he will make his own distinct contribution, and being so far removed, I doubt we'll know much about it.
Only two words came to mind when I recalled his decision. BE SAFE.
MM
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