Dirt Bombs

How To Brew Daddy Mac's Scotch Style Ale

2011-11-13T08:57:00.001-06:00

Brewing beer is a fun and rewarding hobby. My buddy Nicolas and I have been doing it sporadically for years now. He's getting to be an old pro, and he's an India Pale Ale man. He loves the hops. Yesterday, I borrowed all his gear and did what we called "my first beer" at my house with the recipe that I wanted to try. We started with the recipe for Belhaven Wee Heavy and made a few changes to make it our own.

When brewing beer, the first and most important thing to remember is that there are times in the process that absolute care and attention to sterile equipment is imperative. One little bacteria can ruin a whole batch of brew so the very first thing to do when brewing is to bathe all of your beer hoses, drilled carboy bung, wort chiller immersion coil (if you use one), and carboy in a bleach solution. You can leave the hoses soaking for most of the process until they are needed (at the end). Once the carboy is sterilized, cover the mouth with some saran wrap to keep it clean.

Get a big ole tub and bring some water to 155º F. Nico and I use a 3ish gallon camp cooking pot and a dial thermometer that hangs on the rim of the pot. Make a "teabag" with the following grains using a cheesecloth bag:

9 oz. British 55ºL Crystal Malt
4 oz. Belgian Biscuit Malt
3 oz. Belgian Aromatic Malt
2 oz. Peated Malt
1.5 British Black Patent Malt
1.5 oz. Roasted Barley

Your local brew supplier will measure out everything for you and mix them all together in a paper bag that's ready to pour into the cheesecloth. We go to Fermentables in Dogtown.

Remove the pot from the heat and steep at 150º for 30 minutes.

Then sparge the grains with about a gallon of 150º water. (I love the jargon.) Sparging is simply pouring hot water over the grain bag to get all the good juices out so that nothing is wasted. We even mash the bag, squeeze it out real well, when we sparge.

While you're returning your wort to a boil, pick a lemon off your lemon tree. :-)

And juice it.

Make a simple syrup by boiling about a cup of water and 12 oz. of sugar. I used 6 oz. granulated sugar and 6 oz. of brown sugar.

Then, invert the sugar using the juice of the lemon. This changes the molecular structure of the sugar. (Traditional Scotch style ales use a traditional Scottish syrup for this ingredient. You could probably find some at a specialty grocer like Fresh Market. I had fun making my own, with my home grown lemon.)

When the wort reaches a boil, add 10 lbs. of Golden Light pure malt extract.

Add your inverted syrup of choice.

Add 2 oz. of Fuggles hops. This acts as a bittering hop.

Remove three ounces of the wort and caramelize it in a separate pan, then add it back to the original wort and boil for 45 minutes. Then, add 1/2 oz. more of Fuggles hops. This is called the flavor hop. It would be GREAT if you could add a tablespoon of Irish moss here too, but we didn't have any. Irish moss is a type of red algae, and one of its common nicknames is LITTLE ROCK. I kid you not. Next time I brew this beer, I WILL have some Irish moss.

Boil the wort for 15 more minutes.

Now it's time to GET STERILE. Scrub down your hands, and get all your hoses and stuff ready. We rinsed the heck out of everything that was bathed in bleach because you don't want any lingering bleach either. Remember, the fermentation process is alive, it's ALIVE!! The yeast effectively eat the sugars so bleach can ruin the process as much as bacteria. You have to be CAREFUL with the remainder of the process. I can't emphasize this enough. It's really, really, very, extremely, super important.

Here's Nico with his uber-clean hands dropping the wort chiller immersion coil into the wort. Attach a water hose to one end and run cold water through the coil to speed the cooling process.

It was a chilly day so Rome Lee enjoyed playing in the warm water that comes out the other end of the coil. He was bobbing for apples a few minutes after this picture was taken. We changed him into some dry clothes before Mom got home from running some errands.

When the wort cools to 70º, it's time to siphon it into the carboy.

And it's high time to pitch the yeast too! As you can see, this recipe calls for Edinburgh Ale Yeast. The yeast should be activated and working. I kept it in my pocket most of the day, next to my heart to make sure it was warming up and working.

Dump the yeast into the carboy.

Siphon the wort into the carboy for the primary fermentation. Make sure not to get too much of the "junk" in the bottom of the pot. Keep it as clear as you can. And no splashing, yo? This is a good time to drink a beer that you've brewed in the past. We had a Berjot Special IPA and then compared it to a Boulevard Single-wide IPA. Nico's was better in my humble opinion.

Plug the carboy with a drilled carboy bung and insert a tube to vent the carbon dioxide that is released when the yeast feeds on the sugars. Ferment for 7 days or until fermentation slows. Ideal temperature for fermentation is between 66º and 68º, the exact temperature of my garage under Natalie's apartmen

24 hours into primary fermentation, it's a perfect 66º. It's alive!

After primary fermentation, siphon into the secondary fermentor (another 5 gallon glass carboy) and wait until secondary fermentation is complete, target gravity is reached, and beer has cleared (approximately 3 weeks). Many beers don't even have this secondary fermentation step. Ours is special!

The last thing to do is to bottle it with 1-1/4 cup of Muntons Extra Light Dry Malt Extract that has been boiled for 10 minutes in 2 cups of water and let it prime in bottles at about 70º for another 3ish weeks. We'll be drinking home brew by Christmas break!

Sterilize bottles in a bleach solution.

Triple rinse.

Siphon beer into bottling bucket while adding sugar solution and bottle.

Cap.

Voila!

I'm calling this batch Daddy Mac's Scotch Style Ale in honor of my great-grandfather (and one of my son's namesakes), Lee Leslie MacLellan. And why not?! Daddy Mac's father, Angus Dominion MacLellan, immigrated to Canada in the 1870's from Scotland and later moved to Minnesota, where my grandmother, Perky, was born.

WWBCD?

2011-09-28T22:58:00.003-05:00

Three Ravens

2011-09-28T06:26:00.000-05:00

I'm teaching the Medieval Period. One of my favorite days of the year is coming up tomorrow and Friday, when we discuss some medieval alehouse ballads. Here's one of my favorites, "The Three Ravens," performed by Peter, Paul, and Mary:

I'll also be playing and singing "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" by Bob Dylan. It's a version this old alehouse ballad, "Lord Randall":

"O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son!
And where ha you been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?"
"They stretched their legs out and died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down."

"O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."

"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?"
"Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"My gold and my silver; ; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?"
"My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
"I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

Nice little thought for the day:

2011-09-27T06:39:00.000-05:00

Whom, then, do I call educated? First, thosewho manage well the circumstances which they encounterday by day, who possess a judgement which is accurate in meetingoccasions as they arise, and rarely miss the expedient course of action.Next, those who are decent and honourable in their relations with allmen bearing easily and good-naturedly that which is unpleasant oroffensive in others, and being themselves as agreeable and reasonable totheir associates as is humanly possible to be. Furthermore, those whohold their pleasures always under control, bearing up under them bravelyand in a manner worthy of our common nature. Finally, and most importantof all, those who are not spoiled by their successes, who do not deserttheir true selves but hold their ground steadfastly, as wise and sober-mindedmen, rejoicing no more in the good things which have come to themthrough chance than those which through their own nature and intelligenceare theirs since birth. Those who have character which is in accord, notwith one of these things, but with all of them, these I maintain areeducated and whole men, possessed of all the virtues of a man.

I read this on the AP English teacher list-serve this morning. It was surrounded by fierce debate over who said and/or wrote it. Plato, Socrates, or Isocrates. So far, some of the brightest English teachers in the nation can't seem to come to an agreement. And when I looked for myself--mind you I did not spend much time looking--I cannot say for sure either, though my best guess would be that Socrates said it, and Isocrates wrote it down at some point. I really don't know though. Strike one, internet! Regardless, it's a nice little meditation for the day.

Seriously, this is not happening?!

2011-09-26T22:16:00.000-05:00

The Braves lost. Cards are tied in extra innings. Is it time to go crucify a goat or something? I mean really.

Three Games for the Wildcard

2011-09-26T07:22:00.002-05:00

Thanks for nothing Cubs. Now we sweep the best team in baseball.

The Braves go to Philly and the Cards go to Houston. Three games remaining, one game lead.

Questioning Authority

2011-09-22T06:40:00.003-05:00

I've been hit at times over my career with comments from students that have thrown me off kilter pretty hard. One of the things that you have to accept when you become a teacher is that you are becoming part of the establishment. You are, to some, The Man. There are rules to respect and even enforce at times. There are certain conventions that have to be followed. There are traditions to uphold. There are places to be and times to be there. Modern times and rock-n-roll and probably more than anything else the two-headed bureaucratic monster of public education policy and administration have given more and more young people the notion that school just plain old sucks. After a failed attempt at a music career, I used my undergrad degree to get a job as a teacher--ironically because school had sucked so bad for me. I had 5 teachers that I considered to be great throughout the course of my entire education--K through college. And those 5 teachers were all it had taken to make the difference in my life--academically, socially, even spiritually as weird as that sounds. I wanted to be one of those guys. And I knew it wasn't going to be easy going in. After all, I had hated school myself.

My first job as a teacher was at Dunbar Middle in a classroom of "regular" (a label that I absolutely can't stand btw) 8th grade English students, most of which came from and lived the hard knock life. Over three years, I learned quickly that the system had failed the vast majority of these kids. And they knew it better than I did. By the age of 12, the education establishment had largely given up on them. They were funneled into classrooms like mine, with either the youngest, most inexperienced teachers or the oldest, most jaded and burnt-out or plain old idiotic teachers. Younger inexperienced teachers, like me at the time, are usually idealistic and have the passion for the job, but lack the concrete real-life methods and practices and even real subject content mastery to be extremely effective. And the old burn-outs, while they may know everything about their subject area and everything about how to keep a classroom in control, often lack the drive to do anything worth a dern with the kids. And so my first students were left behind. And they weren't happy about it either. And they let me know about it too. Ya'll would trip out if you knew what I had to go through at times those early years. Kids pushed me to limits I didn't know I had. They said things to me and to each other that I didn't know could be said out loud to another human being--particularly one who was intent on helping them out in any possible way that he could muster. But I was patient with them, and I loved them, and eventually, I earned their trust. I taught them as much as I was capable of teaching them at that point in my life. I picked kids up at home in the morning at their homes, sometimes walking over eerily passed out bodies in there living rooms and kitchens to get to their bedroom to wake them up and get them dressed so that I could take them to school early in the morning and teach them to read. I stayed after school and taught them to work the new garden we had started (Dunbar Community Garden). I taught them to play guitar after school. I took them to plays at the Rep, to the Heifer Ranch, and other places like that. And yet, they never failed, at times, to disrespect me openly and severely. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I was a teacher. It was part of the job and I accepted it. I understood their frustration. The system had failed them.

By my fifth year, I had earned some real respect among my peers and administrators in LRSD. Nancy Rousseau was the new principal at LRCHS and she heard about me through the grapevine. She was giving Central a facelift, and I was gonna be a part of it. Our interview was hilarious. I walked in and sat down--tailored suit and all, and the first words out of her mouth were something like, "This job is too big for you Mista Fosta. You can't possibly understand the presha, the scrutiny you're gonna face, the microscope you're gonna be unda."

I was floored. I had thought she wanted me. There had been rumors that I was gonna get the job. I stood up and started to walk out and said, "Looks like this is a waste of our time then," and headed for the door.

"Sit down Mista Fosta," she explained. We talked and she warned me that parents and students were gonna demand more of me than anyone was really capable of doing. She laughed in my face when I told her my rapport with students was going to be my greatest strength and curtly suggested that nothing but content/subject knowledge mattered in this AP program. And she almost rocked out of her big leather chair when I used the old one about how I'd work as hard as or harder than anyone in the building. "These kids and parents will eat you alive if you don't know your stuff," she screamed.

"I know my [stuff]!" I roared back. I left her office as flustered as I've ever been. I had loosened my tie while I was still in her office, and my face was redder, purpler than it is in that painting Caroline Brown did of me. I was pissed. It had been my dream to teach at Central ever since I'd lived in Arkansas. I had blown it.

When I got home, my wife was on the phone. She turned around at me smiling and handed it to me. It was Mrs. Rousseau. She said, "Mr. Foster, you handled yourself beautifully in the interview. I'd like to welcome you to the Tiger family." She didn't even ask if I would like to accept the job. She just told me I was gonna be the new Senior AP English teacher and that I better start reading everything I could get my hands on right that minute and not stop until the school year started. Her last words were really sweet. But my head was spinning too fast to appreciate it. She had said, "You're the future of Central High."

To be continued...

Open House

2011-09-21T06:29:00.007-05:00

One of the real marathon days of the school year is over and done--for parents and for students. I was at work yesterday from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. for Open House. And it's not the Open House your parents went to when you were growing up either. Open House doesn't mean the doors to the building are open from 4 to 6:30 and teachers are in their classrooms grading papers and available to meet and greet parents as they explore the school facilities at their own leisure. Oh no. It's a full-scale, theatre of the absurd-esque, dramatic production, complete with scary clowns "charading" the hallways and miming for money, an hour long public address in the auditorium to a captive audience of antsy observers, and followed by two complete cycles of the bell schedule where parents are forced to race around the building following their children's A day and then B day class schedules. Teachers give the parents ten-minute informational presentations, the bell rings, and then the parents race the clock across the building to the next class, hoping not to be tardy. Four hours later, not a single parent has met a teacher or administrator for any sort of meaningful conversation or introductions, and everyone involved, from the wonderful PTSA volunteer to Danny's poor little sister who is too young to stay home alone, is slam exhausted.

I used to wear a big-fake smile and dance around the room telling the parents all my credentials and qualifications and what they should expect out of their children and my rules and requirements and all about my philosophies and methodologies and assignments and reading. I hated it. I mean really--hated--it. Because you're good and comfortable with kids doesn't mean you like talking to their parents in a setting like that. If I'd wanted to talk to large rooms full of adults, I'd have been a preacher or a politician--or a principal. That's not what I do.

So this year, I continued something I started last year. I put William Carlos Williams's poem "This is Just to Say" on the Smartboard, and I taught it to them.

They signed in, had a seat, and when the bell rang, I walked in, said, "Okay let's get started. This is what we do in class....volunteer to read the poem?.......Mr. Z, thank you. Go ahead..."

"This Is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold"

"Well read! Where might you find this piece of writing.........right! On the fridge........what is it?............ooooo, a confession, good analysis. Nice word..........this is a poetic form known as syncopated free verse--a HUGE little poem that just continues to bloom in the mind over time--in my case, it's been blooming for about 20 years now, unfolding more and more every year...........so you guys identify with this?.............you eat your wife's Ben and Jerry's?! I'd never do that lol...........is the plum an apple? Is the speaker Adam? Maybe. Is it virginity? gasp Innocence? better....maybe........Is it easier to get forgiveness than permission? Yes..........Will your child feed me a line like this at some point in the school year? lol. Yes...............Do ya'll see what's going on in here? Yes........rinnnnnnnnng.....Bye now! Thanks for coming! Call me if you need anything......don't forget your homework!!!!! lol." They shuffled out of the room just like their kids--smiling and joking. It was actually fun. Fast, furious, and fun.

My experience this time turned out to be positive--but only cause I just did what I do everyday instead of trying to kiss proverbial ass with a dog and pony show. The new and improved Open House definitely goes right along with every other aspect of the "more is better" American way. We're gonna force teachers to be transparent. We're gonna publish their test scores in the newspaper. We're gonna make them publish two grades a week on Edline. But the politicians, administrators and parents can run amuck. I heard there were teachers who got grilled about their AP scores. Parents openly challenged one master teacher's methods in this open-to-the-public, classroom setting. I observed it personally during my "prep" period (I sat in her room and saw it with my own two eyes). One teacher of juniors was asked by a parent--publicly, and in an accusatory tone I might add--if they would be exposing his child to rated "R" movies. The teacher had never done such a thing in her career--well maybe a not-rated-R scene from a rated R movie, just to make a point or introduce a lesson. The hallways are rated X. Heaven forbid a history teacher use a scene from Forrest Gump to make a teaching moment come alive a little.

I think, in the end, everyone involved would have been just as happy to mingle around the building, tour the beautiful campus, stand out by the reflection pool for a minute, and go introduce themselves to the teachers that Danny had written down on a scrap piece of paper, his favorites of course, for his parents to make sure and say hello to.

Note to My Cardinals Fans

2011-09-20T07:25:00.007-05:00

Kyle Lohse outpitched Roy Halladay as the Cards beat the Phillies on Monday night to pull the Cards within two-and-a-half games of the Wildcard. The Braves, with both aces Jair Jar-Jar Jurrjens and Tommy Gun Hanson on the DL, are fading faster than a summer tide. The Braves's magic number is 7. This is starting to become painful to watch. Excruciatingly nerve-racking, like watching a bull that's already been slain fight to the bitter end as the evil crowd cheers. I still believe, but damn. If we hold ya'll off, it's looking like it might have to be without two of the best pitchers in the N.L. Not good.

As always, I remind you that I love the Cards, and if it has to be anyone to do it, I want it to be them. So just keep that in mind as you're gloating like a horny goat. I'll buy the damn Moylan's Kilt-lifter Scotch-style ale for you if you win, and I'll watch you drink it. (I made a stupid bet with my tennis team captain.) And I'll cheer for your boys to go all the way if it happens.

But if the Braves eek it out, and they get the Gun and Jar-Jar back, we could make a run that we'll all remember for the rest of our lives. Chipper Jones, bottom of the 9th, Game 7 of the World Series, on one leg a la Kirk Gibson, cue The Natural soundtrack, bases loaded, down by 3...

Go Braves!!!!

Hyponothing

2011-09-18T08:20:00.012-05:00

I was talkin' to my bass player, Tj, on the drive home from Marty's yesterday morn after an awesome night of revelry at the bar in Hot Springs. (Sweet H graciously granted a much needed kitchen pass so long as I was home early enough Sat morn to cook some breakfast for everybody, which I did.) Tj is a big time chiropractor/alternative medicine guy. He's also a prodigiously wise fellow for his age. He's also my old, college guru--the guy that first said, "There's no such thing as a bad trip....if you are the master of your own trip...." and I have had mad respect for him, his opinions, ever since. I listen to his advice when he doles it out.

I was trying to explain to him how good I've been feeling lately as a result of my acute efforts to get healthier and was telling him I almost feel bad around my friends cause I just feel like standing on top of a table and yelling it at the top of my lungs sometimes. I need to temper that desire and also the urge to tell everyone else what they should be doing so they can feel like me. (Make sense?) Well, anyway, I used the thing about "hypomania" as an anecdote to try and convey what I was talking about--about how I go through periods where I feel REALLY good and then other times where I'm just okay(not depressed, just so-so)--and i was saying I'm "hypo" right now.

He cut me off abruptly, even curtly--he does that at times--and severely "cautioned" me not to self-diagnose--not to give "names" to things I'm feeling or experiencing. He said the line about, "You become your diagnosis." I have to admit, it shut me up pretty good, and I've been pondering on it for a good 24 hours now.

Some of the things that have come to mind are like (and this may be stating the obvious--forgive me): the whole reputation I have among my buddies for drinking 97 beers in one sitting (which I'm desperately trying to cast off); over-exaggerating (My dad told me a million times not to exaggerate. Couldn't resist.); the "hypo" thing I mentioned; being a former (and constantly tempted) cig-smoker; fantasy sports management and Braves fanaticism (important stuff); Matt the writer/tennis player/teacher; Matt the "Healer" (Myers-Briggs personality test thingy). Those are just a few.

I thought you might think this was valuable advice too. I know I'm guilty of the whole self-fulfilling prophecy thing. Everybody is really. But just don't call it that from now on. Just be, man.

Beautiful part about it all is, in the words of another ole buddy, Nico, "All we got is time, mon ami. All we got is Time." Time to get better. Let's do it, yo?

What Every Little Boy Knows

2011-09-18T07:53:00.002-05:00

Because of baseball.

A beautifully written, neat little essay by T.R. Heally: "Chin Music"

My recommended reading for the month of September. (See sidebar.)

Slow Trains and Baseball

2011-09-15T06:33:00.006-05:00

If you haven't figured it out yet, I like thinking about baseball, talking about baseball, reading about baseball, writing about baseball, watching baseball, playing fantasy baseball, and pitching Wiffle balls to my 3 year old. (He hit one over the carriage house into the alley the other day.) I've written numerous posts on Dirt Bombs about baseball. I "collect" and devour baseball scenes from fiction and poetry--even ones that are bad. I'm just a sucker for them. (My favorite baseball scene is probably in The Old Man and the Sea, and Don DeLillo's Underworld also has some great baseball writing.)

A while back, I found a literary journal that has a whole section of baseball stories. I haven't read it in a long time so when my fantasy baseball season ended suddenly and unexpectedly without making the playoffs--my boys just folded in the final week of the season and lost the last playoff spot by one game--there was a deep void in my life. I've had to find other ways to get my baseball fix. If you're like me, you'll love Slow Trains's section "On Baseball." The stories, some good and some bad, are amazing. Check it out and let me know what you think.

And if you know of any other stuff like this, please, LET ME KNOW about it. I love this stuff!

One Cent Sales Tax Increase in Little Rock Passes

2011-09-14T06:31:00.016-05:00

If you haven't heard already, both sales tax increase proposals passed 54% to 46% in yesterday's local election. I was against one of them and for the other and I don't mind saying it. One was a 3/8 cent hike for "Capital Investments" (primarily a huge pot of money to be generated for ten years for "discretionary" spending/investment in local commerce, i.e. a research park, whatever that is--pretty vague), and the other a 5/8 cent hike for "City Operations" (maintenance and improvements on what we already got that we can't afford anymore--roads, sidewalks, parks, zoo, bike trails, half-burnt recreation centers).

The voting groups in this election were pretty telling. The votes split primarily along socio-economic lines and neighborhood lines--but not necessarily along party lines. Still, once again though, we were split almost dead-down-the-middle. We're polarized again, even when we don't split on political ideology.

There was a significant African-American turnout that was divided. I heard they broke down along local/personal political lines. It's a bad time to ask people who are struggling financially to take on more of the tax burden. But lots of the neighborhoods (sidewalks, streets, and services) that will be spruced up are in poorer, largely African-American neighborhoods.

Many of the residents of the older neighborhoods in Little Rock voted against the 3/8 cent increase largely because some of the money is headed out to west county for two new fire stations. We didn't ask anyone to clearcut the Ouachitas and build McMansions and new strip malls. They can obviously afford their own "green" fire stations. After all, Obama is paying 10 million of the 10.8 million that they need if I understand correctly.

Some wanted their shiny fire engines, but didn't want to pay for cruddy, inner-city sidewalks.

And yet another group simply believed that the city needs more money, and in the grand scheme of things, we're talking about an extra dime on a hundred dollar purchase. These guys won, and they're probably right. I just wish it had been handled better by the political big-dawgs in the city--on all sides. We were divided before, and this hasn't helped any. We will need to keep a Q-beam spotlight on that big ball of money that's being generated for the next decade. Forgive me if I'm cynical. I just fear that money's gonna be doled out to the same 4 or 5 guys that always get the big money in Arkansas.

I watch students at school every day--rich and poor--drop dimes in the hallway and not even bother to stop and pick them up. I may start collecting them in a mason jar and see how long it takes to fill up.

Get ready for school board elections next week. I suspect some more of the same. Wonder if we'll ever get together and agree on what's best. If we can't get together on what's good for Little Rock, how are we going to do it as a nation?! I want to see an election where the turnout is impressive and the winner gets 75% or 85% of the votes. This 50-50 stuff is just more bad news.

A Window Into My Classroom

2011-09-13T07:07:00.002-05:00

The following blog is the most recent post from my English Lit class blog, Senior English. I thought some of my readers at Dirt Bombs might enjoy it. There's a link to my class blog on the sidebar if you're interested in reading more. Have a nice day.

That's Wyrd

I did a little research on the Old English, Anglo-Saxon concept of the wyrd. Simply put, it is most easily defined as a notion of "personal destiny" or fate. The word wyrd derives specifically from an old Germanic word and has cognates in ancient languages spanning from regions all across Europe, Central Asia, and all the way to northern India that date back to the Copper Age in the 5th and 4th millennia BC (5000-4000 BC). So this notion of a personal destiny runs deep in the blood and spirit of humanity.

What fascinates me the most, in the context of this course, is the collision between Christianity and personal fate on the British Isles during the Roman Empire. In the literature that you are reading right now, you can see how the monks embraced the notion of fate. After all, they would already have had both unconscious/subconscious and intellectual/academic exposure to the notion. But from what I can tell in my own reading, they saw it as the best avenue into the spiritual concerns of the "natives" of the lands that they conquered. As I said in class, in a world where it was highly likely on any given day that a child could die of sudden illness or a warrior could die in hand to hand combat, this notion of fate was just a matter of fact. Weather very directly affected survivability on a month to month basis. There were constant local battles for resources and security. Nothing was a given. Everything was hard. So if it was your time, it was your time. I don't mean to suggest that people only associate fate with death. It's just one of the most prominent associations that people make.

It seems that when the Roman Empire monks, who came from a much more "civilized" and secure place, picked up on the Anglo-Saxon locals' aforementioned spiritual, practical (and understandable) reliance on the concept of wyrd"ness" they ran with it, and the rest is history. Since then, as far as I can tell from both historical research and personal observation, the concepts of "personal destiny" and the God of Christianity have melted together more and more--to the point that we can observe it in popular American culture ranging from soap operas to politics (and yes that was a clever joke and yes it is sad). As I mentioned in class, I have a hard time accepting that some things are just meant to be--especially when they come from "religious" angles. Was 9/11 unavoidable? Was it predestined by God? That's not for me to answer for you, but I don't mind admitting that I have a hard time accepting it. Did God "kill" my mom with breast cancer when she was in her 40's? Was that divine fate? Maybe so. But I'd rather think of the fate end of it in more modern, scientific terms. She had genes that were more prone to cancer than other, healthier women. Yeah, God may have created those genes. Once again, it's not for me to say in this setting. But I don't mind saying that I don't think God gave her those genes In The Beginning. It just happened. My mom fought a valiant battle against a deadly disease, she contributed to research that has helped many women since survive breast cancer, but in the end, she "ran into a sword." If she'd have lived 5 years longer, they probably would have saved her. It was just wyrd, man. Those firefighters that heroically ran into those buildings trying to save lives and died--that was their personal destiny, and we will always venerate them for it. That's all I know to say.

I hope you will think about these types of things all year long on a deeper level than you have in the past. It's never my intention to "change" your belief system. But I do want you to question it so that it will grow stronger and more sound. This is why we read literature.

See you in class.

Labor Day Dream Sequence

2011-09-04T13:42:00.003-05:00

My boss is making me dig a hole wide enough and long enough and deep enough to place a corpse.

Then using my wicked, lucid dreaming, super powers, I switched it to:

My buddy is helping me dig a pit wide enough and long enough and deep enough to cook a whole hog.

Controversy Abounds!

2011-09-02T07:19:00.007-05:00

Prompt:

Zygotes have the unequivocal, inherent right to mature into living, human beings--regardless of the circumstances, and impoverished American mothers should be required to have their tubes tied after they give birth to two babies.

Please, discuss.

Foster Child

2011-08-25T23:12:00.009-05:00

This is "pretty girl." She's been roaming our neighborhood this whole week with no collar, and Bookie and I have stopped to say hello every morning as we passed on the morning walk. No one I've talked to has seen her around before. Well today, she came home with me. I gave her a bath and fed her and let her lie down in the air conditioning all evening. Gonna do everything I can to find her family. I've put messages up on all the local websites, and I'm printing signs tomorrow, but I got a bad feeling she was dropped off, abandoned, at the Mount Holly Cemetery last weekend, where she's been hanging out for the most part. I think she's uh-oh-prego...

I promised her when I took her in that if her family is up tonight crying and missing her, we're gonna find them and get them back together. But if some sorry joker dumped this sweet, beautiful, smart, pregnant dog at the cemetery, we're gonna take real good care of her.

Moderate Gains & Losses

2011-08-24T07:16:00.004-05:00

The summer has been good to me here at Dirt Bombs. I've managed to turn some things around that needed some turning around. I've dropped some things that needed to be dropped. I've picked up some stuff that have added joy to my life. Here's a little "wellness fiscal report."

Summer losses:

24 lbs. and counting
attachment to a couple of bad habits
the dark cloud, doubt
bitterness toward some of my life history

Summer gains:

a brilliant nephew, Matthew
Chipper "Bookie" Jones as gun dog, loyal companion
doable and healthy lifestyle routine
Mama and wife back home for good (no travel for work)
hope
a banjo and a smile
the desire to write

It's been a good one. Let's keep it rolling, folks. When you're doubting it, remember two things:

1) You're capable of more than you think you are.

B) It all starts with a brisk walk and some good tunes.

Love you guys.

Here's the Letter I Would Write

2011-08-20T09:14:00.009-05:00

August 19, 2011

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a dependable, conscientious, spirited teacher. There is plenty of data to back it up. Any given year, my students’ standardized test scores over my thirteen-year tenure with the school district have been comparable with or better than any other teachers in the state of Arkansas in my disciplines and subject areas. During that tenure, I have taught eighth grade, ninth grade, and twelfth grade Regular English. I have taught Pre-AP Physics to ninth graders and Pre-AP Biology to tenth graders. Now, I teach Creative Writing, a twelfth grade elective course, and I teach AP English Literature and Composition—the two highest-level English courses that our school district offers. Former students, many of which I wrote, and continue to write letters of recommendation for, are currently attending or have graduated from the finest universities in the nation. They have travelled the world on prestigious fellowships to study and to explore. They are graduate students, teachers, lawyers, popular culture celebrities, scientists, artists, and military officers. They are my tennis teammates, adopted family to my wife and three year old son, fellow band members, hiking partners, and confidantes. They have been featured in news publications for scholarships that they have received as a result of hard work, determination, and the stellar guidance and interdisciplinary instruction that they received at a fine high school with the finest administration.

This year, at the pre-school in-service sessions I was unimpressed by the organization, preparedness, and relevance of the professional growth seminars that were offered to the English teachers in the district. At the high school English meetings this year, my experience was a living nightmare—set in a circus. Day one was almost intolerable. But the most specific and apt proof I can give was the day two presentation for AP English teachers in the district. We were told in advance that we would receive training on the new textbooks we had adopted for the coming school year. I was eager to see the new materials and to learn how they could be utilized in my classroom. And this was important. Adopting a new textbook means extra preparation: new syllabi to prepare; new works of literature to annotate; page numbers to log; units of study to create; lectures to write; activities and assessments to design. In short, I needed this P.D. It was supposed to be valuable.

When I arrived at 8:15 for my 8:30 a.m. meeting, I was met at the door by a supervisor who informed me that I needed to behave in a more professional manner today than I had the previous one. I was cordially warned that I was being watched. (I must say here that day one, I listened to every piece of information that was presented, and I completed every task that was asked of me with due diligence, if not enthusiasm.) That was how my day started. When I reported to the classroom where AP teachers were to meet, I immediately learned that the presenter was there to provide a full, six-hour workshop on the textbook that the AP English Language and Composition teachers adopted this year. The presenter was disoriented, rattled even. She didn’t have the materials that she had been promised. There were NONE of the new English Language books or the new English Literature books to be found anywhere in the building! We searched; trust me. She had prepared for and was expecting a room full of AP Language teachers. In that room were ten AP English Literature teachers and two AP Language teachers. We were furious, disheartened, and deflated. The morning session was a two-hour, slow motion train wreck while we sorted out the confusion. The AP Language textbook expert apologized profusely and assured us that she had been told she was there to present to AP Language teachers. I felt horrible for her. What’s more, she was one of the authors of the textbook!!! There she stood, the supreme authority on the subject matter, and the district could not get its act together enough, pay her the professional courtesy to have the materials that she needed to present an effective, informative workshop?! I think I speak for everyone in that room, and I think it is an understatement, when I say that we, the teachers, were embarrassed and exasperated.

The books were delivered around 10:30. We all agreed to take a short break, gather ourselves, and to come back and make the best of the situation. We did that, and no thanks to the planning and foresight and intentions of the powers that be, we had a reasonably good and productive afternoon. The author/presenter, bless her sweet, brilliant heart, gracefully answered questions we had about the AP Language curriculum. We learned some differences between what she teaches (Language and Comp) and what the vast majority of the people in the room teach (Literature and Comp). We discussed the differences and similarities between her experiences in private education and ours in public education and the commonalities and individuation between Arkansas teachers and New York teachers. (She had not experienced the same level of frustration and contention that we had with her school’s P.D. opportunities, by the way. She is given enormous freedom to fulfill her continuing education requirements as sees fit.) So the day wasn’t a complete waste. Mind you, that’s not what she had been hired and paid good money to do.

In my thirteen years with the district, there have been a dozen in-service, professional development training workshops like the one I have just described for every organized, appropriate, or illuminating district workshop in which I have participated. And the problem has only gotten worse. Ask. Any. Teacher. They will echo that sentiment. Simply put, this is unacceptable.

I am in a certification year. My licensure expires December 31^st. Because of the school district’s P.D. policies, I am being forced to prove to the ADE that I served as an AP Reader in 2007 and 2008. (I received credit with the the district for participating in 2006, before you changed your rules—therefore the ADE has a record of those hours.) The ADE and College Board and AP Central certify and endorse 42 hours of professional development for high school teachers and college professors who attend these ten-day, summer training and exam grading sessions. EVERYONE who participates agrees that it is the single most valuable professional growth opportunity that they have the honor and privilege to be a part of every year. But you, school district, don’t acknowledge this training as worthy and valuable, and as a result, I will have to go to great lengths to insure the security of my livelihood this fall. I have all of the documentation on file, and I should be recertified with little formal hassle from the ADE. But it should not have come to this. As a result of your P.D. policies, I will have to make appointments with state education officials, deliver documents to the capital, and hope that the powers that be there follow through and issue me the recertification that I have earned and that I deserve. I should have received an automatic renewal, but that is not what has happened.

It is my hope, my dream, that one day you will finally listen to the classroom teacher—the true expert—and allow her the professional courtesy and respect that she has given you for years. There has to be a change. We are dying out here. You are sucking out our souls every year, slowly, a little more and more and more. The highest ranking officials in the P.D. division, quite frankly, have been inaccessible and condescending. I do not charge any one individual with guilt or responsibility or ineptitude in these matters. The entire professional development system is fundamentally flawed—from the top, down.

I do appreciate your time and attention. I would never intentionally disrespect my authorities unless their behaviors and policies disrespected and threatened my professional abilities, my family’s financial security, my livelihood. This means too much to me to float idly in the eddy of organizational mediocrity any longer while a broken, archaic system ruins it for everyone involved. I am paddling.

There are new leaders in place this year. There is a new organizational structure in our administration. Now is the time to do something new and something better. It is never too late to acknowledge and identify our problems, make new priorities, find common ground, and chop away at our weaknesses—together. That is the essence and beauty of education. Do not let ignorance or blindness define you.

Sincerely,

Dirt Bombs

Obama or Bust

2011-08-18T09:29:00.011-05:00

It appears to me as if President Obama's just waiting, like a tiger in the high grass. He can't start too early. And he's got a job to do; he's a little busy. He's waiting patiently and the dude's gonna pounce. And when he does, his people are going to be ready to go with him.

Reagan/Mondale-esque landslide in 2012? An Independent, conservative friend of mine said that to me yesterday. As crazy as that sounds at this point in time-------------just remember where you heard it first. I will, C.D. I don't think it will be a landslide of that magnitude, but I am starting to think the American people are just voicing their valid frustrations with politicians, and he is their whipping boy right now--as he should be as the leader of American politicians. As it gets closer, and Americans begin to face up to the real facts and the real-life choices they are going to have, sensibility and pragmatism are going to prevail. To some, he may be the most accurate incarnation of the "better of two evils" line that we hear so often. To others, he may be the most qualified and noble President they've ever had the opportunity to vote for in an election. I'm with the latter. Regardless, I'm growing more and more optimistic with each passing day.

The more I've thought about this, and the more I'm reading people I have a great deal of respect for, the better I'm starting to feel about everything. At this point. But I never underestimate the power of the Karl Rove-dark side. That's why I'm getting prepared now.

Sing a Song of Sixpence

2011-08-15T21:17:00.012-05:00

Rome, Mama, and I have been reading nursery rhymes these last two days. We found a damaged (illustrated) book that's just FULL of great ones at the bookstore last weekend, and they sold it to us for three dollars. A poet-friend of mine had said recently that they are ominous and even frightening sometimes--especially when you're an adult and you understand the imputations. I had no idea what she was talking about until last night when the three of us sat down and started reading them together. Mama and I were shooting wide-eyed looks at each other over the cover of the book.

Like Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, who had a wife but couldn't keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well. What the heck's going on here? Seriously. Did he, like, dice her up and stuff her in there or something? (My first thought.) I read that she was unfaithful so he improvised a chastity belt out of a pumpkin. Makes perfect sense. No, Mommy, that's siiiiiiilly.

Look at the old man that went to bed and snored through some rainy weather. He bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning. He's dead right? (I didn't find any analysis or history of this one. Tell me, please.)

I guess I haven't thought about these stories since I was Rome's age. Do they teach us the tough lessons that no one else really wants to talk about? They're just another form of myth or something like that--cautionary tales--morality plays? I mean, what were Jack and Jill doin' on a hilltop looking for water? Shouldn't they have been in a low spot somewhere? And why did they fall? It's just a hill. They weren't climbing a cliff. Are Jack and Jill Adam and Eve? Or maybe they were gettin' it on and got caught. So if you're somewhere you shouldn't be, doin' something you shouldn't be doin', you're gonna fall too? Supposedly the earliest, Scandinavian versions were about Jack and his buddy Gill--both boys. That really throws me for a loop.

I just don't know. This is probably old news to most of you. Please, tell me what these stories are about. Anyone?

I'll sign off tonight with my favorite one in the book. I don't think I read or heard this one more than a couple of times when I was a kid. I just LOVE it.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Now wasn't that a dainty dish,

to set before the king.

The king was in the counting house,

Counting out his money;

The queen was in the parlour,

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes;

When down came a blackbird,

And pecked off her nose.

They send for the king's doctor,

Who sewed it on again;

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seem was never seen.

Analyze that.

I'm gonna have to include a few of these nursery rhymes in one of my first lessons this year on literary analysis. I need to hear what my brilliant, new seniors can do with some of this stuff. I can't wait.

Oh the lessons of parenthood. They keep coming and coming and coming.

Ernie Johnson, Sr.

2011-08-14T09:14:00.007-05:00

Ernie Johnson passed away Friday night. I grew up listening to Skip and him on the radio and on TBS. If a game was televised nationally, we'd often turn down the volume on the television and listen to the radio. Dad and I would get so tickled at 'dem boys sometimes.

After serving 3 years in the U.S. Marine Corps, Ernie pitched, primarily as a reliever, for the Boston Braves, the Milwaukee Braves, and then with the Baltimore Orioles during the 50's. He went 7-3 and had 4 saves for the World Series Champion Braves in 1957. Ernie went on to become a legendary play-by-play announcer and color commentator for the Atlanta Braves from 1962-1999.

I'd like to think that he and Skip are hanging out and catching up at this very moment--in the big broadcast booth in the sky. Maybe they'll get to call the World Series this year for God and all His angels.

If I were to draw up a list of the most influential men in my life, he'd be on it.

Big John and Matthew

2011-08-14T07:57:00.001-05:00

Uncle Matt

2011-08-12T07:31:00.003-05:00

I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome my nephew, Matthew, into this wonderful world. My li'l sis had a precious baby boy on August first. All of us who love her and her fantastic husband are bustin' buttons with pride. Especially me. I'm gonna be the best uncle--since ever (to use a line from my favorite new music group). I know I have some tough competition out there.

Take a minute to send some love out to your family today.

I'm a Teacher, man?!

2011-08-11T06:35:00.008-05:00

McCourt's memoir Teacher Man is a great read. I blew through it in about 3 sittings. Anyone who wants an unblushingly frank, funny, and heartwarming look at the teaching life should check it out.

For the last two weeks, I've been attending professional development classes, working in my classroom, reading, organizing, despairing and praying in preparation for the school year. It's one of the strangest times every year. I'm well-rested, relaxed. I feel optimistic and hopeful and inspired, determined to attack some weak spots, holes in my repertoire. Then we go to these meetings--these meetings that I describe as soul-sucking meetings--and in about 12, maybe 15 hours, it's as if they try to kill any ingenuity, passion, or motivation that we might have cached away over the summer. I'm positive that this is not any one person's intention or motivation. But these meetings rarely fail and just to be frank, they are excruciating more often than not. Some years, I've had a horrible attitude. I've sat through these things grumbling expletives, fidgeting hot-faced and teetering on the cusp of mental breakdown, cardiac arrest. I tried calling-in well, saying, "I feel entirely too good to come to work today! Doh!" Other years, I've tried getting involved in order to control some of my own destiny--presenting little workshops for my colleagues. I've usurped other workshops, standing to proclaim in front of anyone who would listen that what we were doing was not a valuable use of our time--and that I intended to use my valuable time in a way that was productive. It only took once or twice to learn that these were both bad ideas.

I'm not here this morning to write an expose on professional development in public education. Maybe later. Probably never.

I'm just saying that this year I'm trying yet another mindset: it is what it is. And to use one of my colleague's lines, this is what we do. And so far, it's gotten me through cleaner than any other methodology to date. As a result, it seems as if all I have to do now is make it through 3 hours of "Nuts and Bolts" this morning and I'll be home free. I got this afternoon after lunch and tomorrow in my classroom to do everything I really need to do, and then the kids arrive Monday. I'll close my door and teach and everything will be fine.

Hey, I'm a teacher, man! It's what I do.

The Iron Horse: Lou Gehrig's Farewell Speech

2011-08-10T05:56:00.006-05:00

For the last two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it a highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? Sure, I'm lucky. Who wouldn't have considered it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball's greatest empire, Ed Barrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy? Sure, I'm lucky.

When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice-versa, sends you a gift--that's something! When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies--that's something! When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter--that's something! When you have a father and mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body--it's a blessing! When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you knew existed--that's the finest I know!

Gehrig died within a year of his retirement from baseball. His speech, one of the finest I know, was pieced together using first hand accounts, brief audio clips and video footage, notes that people scribbled down on the spot. The fans and writers who were sitting in the stands, in attendance on that glorious day, heard what Gehrig said and passed it along.

This is the stuff myths are made of.

Bookie Jones

2011-08-09T06:00:00.022-05:00

We have a new member in our family since I last wrote. His name is Chipper Jones, or "Bookie Dawg" if R.L.'s being silly. He's an 8 month old Flat-Coated Retriever from Cahaba Flat-Coated Retrievers in Birmingham.

Last year, I read the novel The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. The story is a retelling of Hamlet set in rural Wisconsin and revolves around a family of 2nd generation dog breeders and their mythic, "homemade" breed of dogs. Their son, Edgar, is a mute boy, especially gifted in "dog whispering," who runs away after his father dies, escorted by a litter of loyal puppies that he has raised and trained all by himself. Edgar, like Hamlet, suspects that his Uncle Claude has murdered his father, Gar, to be with his mother, Trudy, and to take over the family business. (Personally, I love the character names.) If you've read Hamlet, it's not a big secret what happens, but it's still riveting and even surprising how it all unfolds. I highly recommend it. The book is FILLED with beautiful and insightful characterizations of dogs--their movement , their motivation, even their thoughts and intuitions.

I loved the novel, and the more I read it, the more I missed having a dog in the family. I'm talking about a strange sort of deep, inner tug-toy desire for a new dog. H and I have had a dog or dogs for the vast majority of our nineteen years together, and after a year and a half of dog free living--a nice break by the way--that void was starting to howl. So by the end of the novel, I had researched every breed known to God and man, from the Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retriever to the weenie dog, and settled on FCR's. All the info out there sounded too good to be true. I read How to Raise the Perfect Dog by Cesar the Great cover to cover, twice. I got all the props ready--crate, bully sticks (one of Cesar's favorite tricks), Kongs. I started saving tennis balls left over from matches and tournaments. I bought squeeky toys. H and I brainstormed the "name list" for a couple of months. (Chipper wasn't even on it.) I interviewed veterinarians. I mapped out and practiced walking routes in the neighborhood, and I designed my own, original training and thinking exercises. I left no water dish unturned.

We've had Chipper Jones for over six months now, and he's been a dandy addition to our home and family. I don't think I've invested this much of myself into any family pet ever--and that's probably saying something. And after several rough patches through puppyhood and puberty (like the time I ran over him on the four-wheeler at the cabin--he wasn't hurt...), the hard work is starting to pay off. Chipper is turning into the mature, responsive dog that I had envisioned. He's R.L.'s best friend and companion, sparring partner and mischief accomplice. And H has only just begun to work her special brand of magic with him. (She has a way with dogs that I can only attribute to her Cherokee side. It's a marvel to witness her when she gets down on the floor to caress and whisper in a dog's ear.) He's even helped me lose twenty pounds.

So, Chipper and I have started preparing for dove season. I've been shooting .22 blanks off at every meal before he eats and taking him out on the boat a lot to make sure he's cool on Labor Day weekend. My buddy even stuck a dove in the freezer for me for live retrieving and "lost bird" exercises. He's coming along nicely and should be ready to go Saturday, September 3rd. It's gonna be a big day for us. Hopefully one where we begin to establish a bond only understood by very few, lucky hunters and their good ole dogs. I've observed it between my Dad and his Yellow Lab, Wheat, and between Dad's friend Nathan and Jack the pointing English Setter, but I've never had it myself.

Last week, on Lake Maumelle during an early morning fishing trip/dog training session, I let him jump out of the boat for a refreshing dip, and he swam all the way UNDER the boat--went down on the starboard side and came up on the port side. I kid you not. Damnedest thing I've ever seen a dog do in my life.

I've thought for a while that when he gets a little more distinguished and mature that I'm gonna start calling him Mr. Jones. You're well on your way Bookie Buke.

We're Talkin' 'Bout Taxes?! Taxes?! (Insert Allen Iverson's voice here.)

2011-08-08T05:31:00.017-05:00

My old friend Ron and I reconnected a couple of years ago on Facebook. We were inseparable, best buds in middle school before he moved away to another town. It's been neat getting to know him as an adult. He's got a beautiful family and a great life.

It didn't take long, however, for us to learn that we come from opposite sides of the political spectrum. Neither of us have much of a filter when it comes to telling people what we really think about things. We've had a couple of spirited exchanges over the span of our Facebook friendship. I've developed an admiration and respect for the way he handles himself in debates and discussions. He listens and he is courteous. It made me realize how rare these qualities are these days--in the current national political environment.

The other day, Ron saw an article that I shared on Facebook from abcnews.go.com about some millionaires that didn't have to pay any federal income taxes last year. Very soon after I posted it, I reconsidered and pulled it down--I've been staying away from politics on Facebook lately because I've been so frustrated. I had kind of hoped no one had seen it, but Ron was on it. Here's how it went down:

Ron: What happened to your article??? I had a GREAT rebuttal and now it's gone???

Me: Dude, I pulled it down. I just can't get my thoughts together on all this business. What is your rebuttal?

Me: Every time I think I'm ready to engage in discussion, I change my mind... But I'd like to hear what you have to say.

Me: Speaking of taxes. It's a sales tax "holiday weekend" in AR for back to school shopping. Think I'll go cash in like a big ballin' high roller! Lol.

Ron: I had the presence of mind to hit copy before I lost it. So, [below] was the exact post that I was going to put on the article. What do you think?

Ron: I'm sorry, but good for them. They have been smart with their money and have chosen investments that have gotten them the lowest tax burden. Do you have a ROTH IRA? If you don't, then you should. It just makes good investment sense. I myself do everything I can to pay as little to the govt as possible. What do they want to do, stop deductions for charities? That would just doom the charities. The real issue is the 46% overall that don't pay taxes. You can't vilify the millionaires without pointing the finger at them as well. Most of the millionaires enjoy the protection of the [government] and enjoy the roads they provide, but they are not taking advantage of all the entitlements that most of the others that don't pay taxes use. This is why a flat tax or a national sales tax is so attractive. A national sales tax would even get money from illegal revenue (drug dealers don't pay taxes) as this money still has to be spent. I just think blaming some people who are fortunate enough to make millions without paying taxes should be the bad guy. They should be admired by the rest of us. Don't we all want financial success?

Me: In a perfect world, good for them. Unfortunately, wealth reciprocates wealth and poverty reciprocates poverty. Wonder how many of those 1500 millionaires that didn't pay taxes were born into poverty and climbed out to claim their tax free American dream? It is possible though--as we are constantly reminded. Highly unlikely, but possible.

Heather and I both have a Roth IRA. We contribute as much as we can on our "fixed budget" every month. We purchased a new home last year in time to receive a 6000 dollar tax credit--not deduction--a credit. So I agree with part of what you said: it is wise to take advantage of tax credits and deductions every chance you get. I think we saved ourselves 10K or 12K last year alone by taking advantage of these "tax incentives." We still paid near a third of our income to the government. I also understand that the government provides goods and services for me and my family and my fellow citizens that we need. Things that make America what it is--the awesome home that it is to so many citizens.

I commend the millionaires that donated enough of their money to charity to avoid taxes. (The article indicated that someone who made 2 million dollars, for example, could have donated 1 million and avoided federal income tax). Forgive me for being cynical, but I doubt that was the case very often. On the other hand, many of the tax-free millionaires paid significant income tax in other countries but not here. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around that one. It wasn't their money paying for handouts like basic medical care, food, and shelter. Let's be honest, the millionaires who did all those "smart" things with their money to avoid taxes were playing by rules that they got to write. It is corrupt--immoral. There is nothing fair or noble or admirable about it. Please tell me you know and understand that.

There is no doubt, your mentality will make you and other people like you rich. Good for you. I'd like to see more people with that kind of money with a little more compassion and concern for others. I don't admire wealthy people because they are wealthy. I admire them when they use their wealth to make the world a better place. Castles, and yachts and diamond rings don't. Polo shirts and Gucci purses don't. Trust fund babies don't. Food, shelter, and basic medical services do. Clean drinking water does. Pot-hole free interstates and energy efficient cars do. Computers in public school classrooms do and qualified, passionate, well-compensated teachers do. Disaster relief funds and other emergency services do. College scholarships and the Peace Corps do. Etc., etc., etc.

I'm afraid the ideological divide in this country has become insurmountable. It's not a good situation. I'm at a loss...

Ron: I guess where we agree is that the system is hopelessly broken. Is it fair for someone to make massive amounts of money and pay no taxes? No. Neither is it fair to me for someone to make moderate amounts of money and pay no taxes. I guess that is my point. Most of the tax breaks in the tax code are there for a reason. The mortgage deduction was put in place to spur spending in realestate (though many would say it is a bad idea and encourages people to purchase homes more expensive than they should and helped cause our current economic problem). Charitable deductions encourage charitable donations and billions are given every year to organizations that do a much better job at helping the poor than the government does. The problem is when the govt does stupid stuff like making large trucks deductible for companies as "farming equipment" just to spur spending for new cars (done under Bush) or cash for clunkers which was ment to spur new car purchases and get old vehicles off the road (Obama). But cash for clunkers only artificially increased used car prices and got more people into debt that they couldn't pay.

My problem is that making these 1,200 millionaires the bad guys will do nothing to fix our current problem. They are beating the system and there will always be people that are able to do that. The way we fix our problem is by getting more people to pay a share of the load. We have far too many people that do not contribute; they just take. We also need to stop spending. We need to fix entitlements and shut down parts of the govt that have outlived their usefulness. Have you ever heard of a government program that has ended? They don't. They just go on. Programs are created to fix a problem. The problem is that if they succeed, they fix the problem but don't go away. They continue. If they don't fix the problem, they continue. This mentality has to change. If it works, end the program. If it doesn't work, END THE PROGRAM and do something that does fix it. The truth is that most of what our federal govt does, it was not intended to do. Those of us that are paying taxes are asked to do too much for too many. We need to stop creating programs for what they are "intending" to do (though the intent may be admirable, i.e. Obamacare) and look at what we are truly able to do and what will be successful.

Many difficult decisions are on the horizon. We have made a culture of people that live off of a few. That is not fair. We should get the govt out of the way and let people make and spend their own money. That in turn will increase revenue for the govt. For example, no one who has a TV with cable and a DVD player should be on food stamps. I don't want to pay for your food if you are spending your money on "wants" instead of "needs."

Well, I could rant forever, but that would just make me late for church. Also, I due to the length of this note, I can't go back and proof what I wrote, so forgive me for typos and poor grammar. (I hate writing to you educators:)

Btw, if you aren't going to church this morning, you can watch our service (I am singing) on calvarynow.com. I will be at the west campus at 11a. Have a great day.

We ended it with some small talk and my request to publish this little dialogue on my suffering, neglected blog. He graciously and enthusiastically agreed. And he's looking for a debate. If you're interested, have at it!

Ron's a good friend. I like having someone out there that I can talk to about these things without getting blood-spitting angry--someone who I actually like that can give me insight into what the other side is saying and thinking. At the very core, there are some things we can agree on. We're gonna have to find these things and talk about them if any of us want to have any *hope* for the future.

Thanks old buddy. To use one of my dad's old jokes, you're alright I don't care what Dina says about you!

Tooter the Turtle

2010-02-07T07:27:00.000-06:00

Proud Tigers

2010-02-06T07:23:00.005-06:00

Mario and I attended the Arkansas Tennis Association's annual awards banquet last night. He is a student in my Senior English class and an occasional doubles partner. My men's tennis team was recognized for winning the Southern Sectional Championship and finishing second in the nation. Mario won the Herschel Friday Outstanding Junior Award, in recognition of "ability and excellence in junior tennis, and achievements in sportsmanship, character and citizenship."

When asked about his most memorable match (at the podium in front of 300-400 people) Mario said something like, "My most memorable match was the finals of the high school state championships. It was an honor to carry on the 11 year winning tradition at Central High." Can you say dynasty?

Good job Mario. All of us at Central are very proud of you. You got me wanting to coach the team again...

Another

2010-02-05T22:46:00.005-06:00

by Robert Herrick

Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her.

2010-02-02T20:27:00.002-06:00

All four of these poems are fabulous! We're discussing the tribe of Ben in my literature classes this week.

"Out Upon It" by Sir John Suckling

"Why So Pale and Wan" by Sir John Suckling

"To Althea From Prison" by Richard Lovelace

"To Lucasta on Going to the Wars" by Richard Lovelace

Carpe diem quam credula postera.

--Horace

Jess's Famous Chili

2010-01-31T21:42:00.024-06:00

written by Jess and prepared by me

Here is a vegetarian chili recipe that you might enjoy. Keep in mind that when it comes to chili, you can always change and adjust the recipes to your liking. You might want to serve your chili over a long grain white rice. If you want to add meat, then we always used ground turkey or venison. (It is great w/o though.) It has much less fat than beef and would probably fit in the healthy diet that you are striving for. It only takes a few minutes to brown before you throw it in the pot. This is a really mild recipe, add hot sauce if you want to kick up the heat. This recipe can be made on your stove, but the following is for your slow cooker.

Vegetarian Chili

Chop everything bite size

1 large sweet yellow onion, chopped

6 cloves garlic, diced

2 celery stalks, chopped

Sautee together in 3 tablespoons vegetable or olive oil for a couple of minutes until softened, but still crunchy. Add the garlic first and make sure it's cooked completely, but not burnt. Use slotted spoon and add to crockpot.

NEXT, ADD ALL OF THE FOLLOWING TO YOUR CROCKPOT IN THIS ORDER, THEN STIR.

1 pound browned ground turkey or venison, if desired

1 medium zucchini, halved lengthwise and cut into 1/2-inch slices (approx
one and one half cups)

1 red bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 green bell pepper, seeded and chopped

1 10-oz package of frozen whole kernel corn
1 15-oz can black beans, drained
1 15-oz can red kidney beans, drained
1 15-oz can Great Northern white beans, drained
1 15-oz can pinto beans, drained (only if you have room in your pot)
1 8-0z can of tomatoe paste
2 15-oz can diced tomatoes (only add one at first and then the other if you
have room in your pot)
2 15-oz can stewed tomatoes (same as above)
1 4-0z can of diced chilis


SPICES
You can do one of two things
1) Add one package of McCormicks chili seasoning (any brand will do)
2) Add the following
2 to 3 teaspoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground oregano
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)
a dash of salt
a dash of pepper

TOPPINGS
Shredded cheddar cheese
Chopped green onions
Sour cream
Eat with saltines or tortilla chips
We like ours served over white rice
Hot sauce

STIR EVERYTHING TOGETHER AND COVER.  COOK ON LOW-HEAT SETTING FOR 8 TO 10 HOURS OR ON HIGH-HEAT SETTING FOR 4 TO 5 HOURS.  TINA AND I PREFER TO COOK THE CHILI ON A LOW-HEAT SETTING OVERNIGHT.  THE CHILI ONLY GETS BETTER THE SECOND, THIRD AND FOURTH DAYS.  IT WILL KEEP.

Doh!

2010-01-31T09:15:00.003-06:00

North University:

Smoothie Smooth

2010-01-31T07:54:00.007-06:00

Federer won the Australian Open today in straight sets against Andy Murray--his 16th Grand Slam title. Murray loves the surface down under and was playing the best tennis of his life until he ran into Federer. After a year and a half of soul searching, Roger has re-established himself as the greatest in the game, and he has solidified himself as the greatest player ever. Many folks close to the game had begun to question his heart. But he stayed healthy and kept working hard and took care of his body. Meanwhile, Rafa--his greatest rival--discovered the psychological and physical demons that Federer spent most of his career subduing. Hats off to a great champion.

Rio: 1932

2010-01-30T11:28:00.002-06:00

Creative Writing at Central High

2010-01-26T21:24:00.002-06:00

Jasmine is in my Creative Writing class. Last week, she performed on BET. This is a video of her performance.

REBLOG the new art

2010-01-25T23:11:00.002-06:00

Earthquake

such great stretches of dreamscape

such lines of all too familiar lines

staved in

caved in so the filthy wake resounds with the notion

of the pair of us? What of the pair of us?

Pretty much the tale of the family surviving disaster:

“In the ancient serpent stink of our blood we got clear

of the valley; the village loosed stone lions roaring at our heels.”

Sleep, troubled sleep, the troubled waking of the heart

yours on top of mine chipped dishes stacked in the pitching sink

of noontides.

What then of words? Grinding them together to summon up the void

as night insects grind their crazed wing cases?

Caught caught caught unequivocally caught

caught caught caught

head over heels into the abyss

for no good reason

except for the sudden faint steadfastness

of our own true names, our own amazing names

that had hitherto been consigned to a realm of forgetfulness

itself quite tumbledown.

Aimé Césaire

(Translated, from the French, by Paul Muldoon.)

from The New Yorker, January 25, 2010

Chang vs. Lendl

2010-01-24T23:20:00.002-06:00

Boots

2010-01-23T18:24:00.002-06:00

Paradise Lost Quiz Key

2010-01-23T13:34:00.009-06:00

A) The speaker is Satan.

B) He has just fallen from Heaven and is making lemonade out of lemons.

C) See photo.

(Click here to see the original quiz.)

Volunteer!

2010-01-23T07:31:00.007-06:00

A service club I sponsor at Central, Project 10, is going to the Arkansas Rice Depot this morning to do some volunteer work. H, RL, and I are gonna go chaperone and help out too. Should be a fun experience.

Many of my students are devout volunteers, yet too often I'm guilty of overlooking their efforts. From what I can tell, most do regular community service projects. It is heartening to see Little Rock's youth habitually reading to sick patients at Arkansas Children's Hospital, bagging rice to send to Haiti, or tutoring at-risk 2nd graders in after-school programs. These kids are doing it for the right reasons too. Yes, it helps them with college apps and scholarships, but they get it on a deeper level than that. I'm gonna join them today and report back. I think the kids have a lesson to teach me this morning. I'm embarrassed to admit that it's been too long since I've given my time freely for a greater purpose. I'll let you know how it goes soon.

In the meantime, I challenge you to think of things you can do to make your community and world a better place. Get busy--with stuff that matters.

Ain't that the truth:

2010-01-22T10:15:00.002-06:00

Reality continues to ruin my life.

--Bill Watterson

Paradise Lost Quiz

2010-01-21T06:55:00.002-06:00

1. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

A) Speaker:

B) Significance:

C) Diagram it:

MLK JR DAY Family Picnic at the Lake

2010-01-20T06:53:00.001-06:00

John Milton's Cosmos

2010-01-19T06:24:00.010-06:00

Today in class, I get to talk about John Milton and Paradise Lost. We only read a few famous passages from the work, but I take some time to put the piece in an historical and philosophical context. The setting of the story is what fascinates me the most.

Milton's Heaven surrounds a fountain of indestructible, fiery light, out of which everything in Heaven is created. Angels swirl around, appearing as rainbows, and clouds veil the fountain of God to protect the angels' eyes. If they were to look directly into the light, they would be blinded. It's interesting that Milton claimed that much of the work came to him directly from God--in the form of a blinding light--in strange fits in the middle of the night. Much of it was written down by his daughter/slave after he went blind as an older man. I secretly hope she changed a few words here and there.

Directly below Heaven, as if it were hanging on a chain, is the fledgling Universe--God's comfort-food creation for Himself after the notorious revolt on His throne. In relation to the whole Cosmos, the Universe is tiny , and at the geometrical center is Planet Earth--the Garden of Eden--a mere spec of sand on a vast beach compared with the rest of the Universe. Extraterrestrial life is possible, even likely. In Book XIII, an angel tells Adam that on another planet, "clouds may rain, and rain produce/Fruits in her soften'd soil, for some to eat/Alloted there." Angels can leave Heaven and visit Adam and Eve. They disclose little secrets of the Universe and of God, but they don't tell too much.

Engulfing everything below Heaven is a realm Milton called Chaos. Chaos is simply an infinite "womb of space," swirling matter out of which the Universe and Hell are created. The place is described as "warring atoms." Milton was an accomplished astronomer (a composer too by the way); he had many stellar secrets figured out on his own. He missed a few important ones too though, like Earth being the center of the Universe.

Below everything is Hell. Hell was created for Lucifer and his army long, long ago. When God kicked them out of Heaven, they fell through Chaos for 9 days--so far and so fast that their rainbows were melted into grotesque lizard skins. Hell is not only a physical place, burning lakes of sulfurous darkness. It is also a psychological place, at the heart of Satan when he cries. Hell, like the Garden of Eden, can be fun though. Demons lounge around at Pandemonium, Satan's castle, and sing sentimental songs of self-pity, wax philosophic, have tournaments. Satan comes out on the balcony every so often and rallies his men. The demons can leave Hell too and fly around the Universe creating havoc, which has always puzzled me.

It's fun stuff to think about and say aloud. We really believe this stuff a lot of us.

Faculty Meeting Blues

2010-01-15T08:09:00.002-06:00

Got a faculty meeting at nine,

Gotta meet at nine,

Got a faculty meeting at nine o'clock sharp,

I'll just make it through that, and I'll feel just fine.

Joke of the Day

2010-01-11T09:48:00.001-06:00

Q: How many rhythm guitarists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: They can't do it without their lead guitarist.

Joke of the Day

2010-01-10T09:00:00.003-06:00

Q: How many lead guitarists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A: One. The guitarist holds the bulb, and the world revolves around him.

i found this on the floor

2010-01-07T06:07:00.005-06:00

5 second rule

My Creative Writing classes started a new project yesterday. We're using www.ifoundthisonthefloor.tumblr.com as a drafting pad/feeder room for a new online literary magazine (coming soon). Check it out.

I also started a Dirt Bombs page at tumblr. Better for sharing music and video.

The Teachers' Lounge on Second Semester

2010-01-06T06:39:00.026-06:00

"Alright?"

"Seven years of plenty, seven years of famine."

"Five days for Thanksgiving, review for exams."

"Four half-days."

"Christmas Break, and then The Dark Ages begin."

"You know that's right."

"Better gas up now Son cause then it's forty years in the desert to the land of milk and honey."

These things are the Devil.

2010-01-05T07:03:00.009-06:00

This contraption was out in the middle of the mall. WTF? And where did it come from? Tell me they don't rent these things in malls. Well Mr. RL just made a beeline straight for it, and we were stuck for a good 15 minutes. One of his newest sentences is, "I'm stuck." I think I will call this picture, "Mama and Daddy are Stuck."

Oh, and if you're not already a parent, remind me to tell you about those little rides that you drop a quarter in so they light up and bounce up and down. Well it's not a quarter anymore, and if RL ever finds out they move, we won't be able to go out in public ever again.

Snow Daze

2010-01-04T06:48:00.030-06:00

Mr. Babbitt awoke before the alarm sounded. Like any day, he took his morning coffee, shaved, showered, then walked to the window. Dawn light broadcast a sugaring of snow on the back deck. Enough to dust the roadway, he thought, but not to halt the busses. Babbitt whistled in the mirror and cinched the tie snug, then loosed it and unfastened the top button. The furnace roared and echoed in the steamy little Aqua Velva bathroom. His favorite time of day. His students would be a wee bit rumbustious with the weather; he planned he’d get a lecture in.

People just can’t understand how profoundly political a decision like this one is. Debra had to move to the guest bed he was so lathered up. What did he care about typhoons in Taekwondo? The Weather Channel was horseshit anymore. It seemed his patience was failing him. “Settle down,” he spoke, “you’ll make the right call.” The Superintendent regarded himself a man of God. Finally, 4 o’clock. Lyle would be in the driveway waiting to evaluate the county roads, bridges. It’s hard to say no, and Lyle was a tough cookie. This was a good day for ear muffs.

The morning blog post on the parent wall was titled: No School? Gimme a BREAK. Do these people have a CLUE? BTW, I’ve been having trouble accessing Bobby’s History grade. Anyone else? She didn’t see any need for a snow day and planned on having some folks hear about it. Loretta hadn't the foggiest that her Bobby had been labeled “tittybaby” by the special ed counselor just before the last 504 review conference. Bobby snagged the keys and split for Tucker’s. They rolled by the Wishy Wash on Broadway and lit a doobie to The Strokes’ “Fear of Sleep.”

Short Story Links

2010-01-03T09:40:00.005-06:00

These are some short stories that I've recommended over the past year or so. I'm taking them off my navigation sidebar to use the space for other things, but I wanted to preserve the links. Here they are:

"The Great Stone Face" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

"The Swimmer" by John Cheever

"The Artificial Nigger" by Flannery O'Connor

"Curt Schilling and The Lord of Hosts" by Walter Maroney

"The Grave by the Handpost" by Thomas Hardy

A Song of Loss

2010-01-02T21:45:00.006-06:00

--William Blake

Voila! Bon Appetit.

2010-01-02T20:31:00.002-06:00

New Year's Pot Roast with Roots

2010-01-02T09:38:00.007-06:00

1 boneless beef chuck pot roast (about 3 lb)
8 or 10 new potatoes, halved
2 large carrots, chunked
2 large parsnips, chunked
1 leek, chunked
2 cloves of garlic, minced
lemon pepper and salt to taste

Drop 'em in the Crock Pot and cook it all day.

30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000

2010-01-02T08:52:00.002-06:00

For the last couple of days, I can't stop thinking about the men and women in uniform, many of them National Guardsmen and Reserves, who are leaving for Afghanistan this year, their third, fourth tours of combat in under seven years. They're going over there to do a job that many argue can be accomplished with a few CIA operatives, Special Forces units, and drones. Many argue nothing can be accomplished at all for that matter.

When I voted in the last Presidential election, I had hoped I was voting for peace on Earth, revolutionary environmental policy reform, universal health care, education reform. Was I not?

It's complicated, I know--nonviolence, stewardship, compassion. Oh, the humanity!

Blue Moon New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T21:11:00.003-06:00

Blue Moon tonight. Check it out.

Big Ten

2009-12-31T08:07:00.021-06:00

The "To Do List for 2010" is rather spectacular compared with last year's Dirt Bombs resolution to "keep doing what I do." I have been mulling over some significant lifestyle changes, inspired largely by my students' class discussions of the novels Things Fall Apart, Heart of Darkness, and The Poisonwood Bible. They came to the sardonic conclusion that it is difficult, in America, to breathe without harming the innocent little Congolese children, all the children of the world for that matter--red and yellow, black and white.

It is time to move. Our house has served us well, but we can't see ourselves living here forever. For the biggest change of the new year, we are purchasing an old, rehabilitated, downtown home in the Quapaw Quarter of LR, in part to counterpoise the construction of one more grotesque mcmansion in west county, but also, it'll be great living a mile from work and a mile from the River Market (with all of its amusements), on real dirt. The ultimate intent is that the move will catalyze significant new daily-life-habits from walking or biking most-everywhere to community gardening and Farmers' marketing.
For fun in 2010, I'm going to brew some beer with mon ami, Nico. We haven't done it in several years. Best beer I've ever tasted. (I'll just keep the rest of my booze-wish list to myself.)
This is serious: my tennis game has to be competitive at the 4.5 level by the end of May--by any means necessary. I haven't ruled out performance enhancing drugs or Lap Band surgery.
RL's finally old enough to start doing some big boy outdoor activities! Time to hit the trail, river, lake, woods!
Detachment from food, money, ego.
Mindful, intentional spending, in every way.
Change hope with action.

That covers the gist. I wish all of you a happy, new year. May you all find what you seek.

Vic Chesnutt (11/12/1964-12/25/2009)-Cobbham Blues

2009-12-28T14:37:00.002-06:00

No... More... Hope.

2009-12-28T07:40:00.013-06:00

However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act upon them? - Buddha

My friend BC at MTHRBMPR finally got me. Initially a supporter of Obama, he jumped off the train very early on and started railing on the campaign and administration. At the time, it seemed like he was pissing in the ice cream or something. With the benefit of hindsight though, his words just scared me because he is right.

Whatever you do, don't read through his archives.

Dreamin' Like Joseph

2009-12-28T06:24:00.007-06:00

H and I went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat Saturday evening with some friends. It was my first time at the theater in over a year; H hadn't been since college.

I came away with a couple of things to write about:

Live theater is enthralling. We used to go regularly in college to support Drama Major-friends and to accumulate "green cards" required for graduation at MHC. On the drive home, we both vowed to go back at least a couple'times a year from now on.
And this particular production was a hoot! Austin Miller played Joseph. (H and I recognized him because we're devotees of Mad TV.) Also, a former student of mine from both Dunbar Middle and Central High, Katye Dunn, played her first professional role as Mrs. Potiphar, the temptress. Let's just say she stole the scene.
In preparation for the show, I got a Sunday School lesson from Dad on the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. Genesis 37-50. You ought to read it! Here's the King James Version. I hope to write more about this later.
I've been dreamin' like crazy for the last two nights. Maybe God touched me at the show, and I have the gift now.

Selfless Thoughts

2009-12-27T20:20:00.003-06:00

We are formed and molded by our thoughts. Those whose minds are shaped by selfless thoughts give joy when they speak or act. Joy follows them like a shadow that never leaves them. - Buddha

Andreas Stihl

2009-12-26T08:46:00.013-06:00

In 1929, a German mechanical engineer, Andreas Stihl, invented the modern chainsaw. He had been working primarily on steam boiler systems, and he needed lots of wood to power his boiler-experiments. Stihl patented the first gasoline-powered chainsaw and called it a tree-felling machine.

Lake Ouachita Fog

2009-12-24T09:07:00.020-06:00

Well the fog's so thick you can't spy the land. -Bob Dylan

The compass fails and leads the boat in one, sweeping circle. We putt along, marking time, waiting for it to lift so we can find our way home to Poison Ivy Island. Now and again, we are within twenty yards of the shore and don't know.

Redbank: 1958

2009-12-24T08:28:00.005-06:00

Papa knelt before Turkey Creek and lowered his arm and cupped his hand and drank from it while the boy swung the pendular axe by the throat and knocked the arch of his boot with the pole of the axe. Papa opened the pouch of chewing tobacco and pinched it, chewed it and spat then rose and returned to the fell. The boy clasped the saw, moved the choke to half, and drew the cord. The saw fired and surged, and he handed it to his father who set the choke back with his thumb, pinching the throttle, and knelt in the heap of saw chips and cut the wood. He lifted and carried and pitched the logs as Papa partitioned them. When the fell was all cut, the boy asked,

“Papa, may I split the logs?”

“Like I showed you,” Papa said.

His father stood over him while he centered the toe of the bit onto the near ledge of the oak log and spread his feet to shoulders' width. The swell knob rested off the heel of his left palm, and he watched his breath. Then, he wheeled and caught the throat of the handle in his right hand and delivered it in line, letting the weight of the bit crack the log and sink into the chopping block. It was a clean first swing that hurled the halves end over end in the crepitant leaf-litter.

“Nice swing young man.”

Fat Pine: 1983

2009-12-23T16:04:00.006-06:00

Papa knelt before the hickory embers and wielded the spatula that he cached along with the grill grating in the hickory tree above the fire pit, and he flipped the beef patties. Strewn around in the sandy dirt lay a bow saw, the morning’s newspaper, some ground peppercorn, garlic salt, a hatchet, and a tin of minced onion flakes. The smoke from the embers wafted over to Dad and finally him and on through the clearing into the mother-naked hardwoods.

After lunch, he led his grandfather to the spring for a drink. The glistering frost on the leaf-litter winked and melted in the noonday effulgence while they walked down the drive, the boy watching his breath and balancing on the rib of grass splitting the sandy ruts. They descended the embankment and crossed another trail into the cedar glade where the inky cypress boards constructed a coruscating box of water in the ground. A tarnished ladle was hooked over the backboard, and they both knelt and dipped it in the water and drank from it.

“It’s good Papa.”

“It is good. Mmm. Best water in the world.”

“Where is Dad?”

“He is at the ravine looking for fatwood.”

“Why didn’t he come for water?”

“There is Pepsi Cola in the truck. And work to do.”

“May I help Papa?”

“We need your help.”

“Good. How big is a hundred acres Papa?”

“You know that.” Papa held out his arm and pointed it across the woodland above them. “From the upside-down pine to here, at the spring, and from the far side of the ravine to Turkey Creek.”

“Is that big?”

“Not especially.”

“How many is all of South Carolina Papa?”

“Too many to count.”

They found Dad down in the ravine kneeling before the pine stump digging out the roots with the fold-shovel, brow and forearms beading sweat. His father didn’t stop digging and picking as they drew near. Papa stepped in front of the remnant and wrapped his arms around it and wobbled it, but the stump was not yet free. Papa knelt and his father handed over the shovel.

“How was the spring?”

“It is the best water in the world Dad.”

“Good. Take that shovel from Papa and dig out around those roots.”

He picked and dug, making a small tunnel under the stump, and then he started at it from the other side. Papa lifted his arm and pulled the chewing tobacco out of the shirt-pocket and opened the pouch and pinched it and chewed it. The boy stopped and watched.

“Do you want some young man?”

“No. I won’t be able to dig.”

“No sir?”

“No thank you sir.”

“I’m going for the peach baskets,” his Dad said.

“Will you bring him a Pepsi Cola?”

“Yes sir, you want one?”

“Not now, I’m alright.”

Papa knelt before his grandson and watched him work at the stump. It was almost free. Papa told him to shake it, and he did, but it wouldn’t come. So he handed his grandfather the tool and stood up while Papa finished the business. When Dad returned from the truck, the fat pine lay on its side next to the hole, and he was striking it with the hatchet.

“I smell turpentine! You got it."

“Yes he did.”

The slivers of wood fell before the stump, and the men stacked them into the baskets filling each of them. Then they walked away from the oddment and out of the ravine carrying the baskets and set them in the truck bed.

“Can I feed the fire Dad?”

“Ask your Papa.”

“May I feed the fire Papa?”

“Yes you may. Saw up that hickory branch.”

The men watched him work down the length of the branch with the bow saw. He stopped once to rest and to watch his breath. When he finished he carried the sticks and stacked them next to the fire pit. He went to the truck bed and removed a few pieces of the fat pine from one of the peach baskets and returned to the embers and stirred them with a piece of the lightwood. It lit off straightaway, and he positioned it and the other slivers over the glowing coals, and then he crosshatched the sticks of hickory around the resinous blaze. The flame spread swiftly to the hickory. He plodded back to the truck bed and held out his arms.

“Load me up please.”

“You want a fire, do you not?”

“Yes sir. A big one.”

The boy lugged the split logs and stacked them next to the fire pit. He looked at his father, then propped the logs over the hickory.

“Like a teepee, right Papa?”

“That is right young man.”

“It is a good fire son.”

“It is getting warm Dad.”

“It is a fire son. On a deep bed of coals.”

They stood around the fire pit and watched the wood burn. Then Papa told him the story about the cemetery across the road. Once some boys in the Sunday school class were camping there in the clearing, and they went to the cemetery at dark to look around. An especially ornery boy was pining for something to supervene, and when he sat down and leaned back against the headstone, the grave marker shifted and groaned, and the boy shot hell-bent out of the cemetery hurdling the fencerow and didn’t look back and didn’t let up until he made camp.

Banned Flintstones Commercial: 1961

2009-12-22T14:09:00.004-06:00

Island #35

2009-12-20T08:19:00.002-06:00

I'll be on Lake Ouachita till Tuesday camping and trolling for walleye. Putting in at Buckville. Catch me if you can.

The Junker

2009-12-19T07:43:00.004-06:00

Mighty Heroes, we need you in Copenhagen!

Not Charlie Brown Too!

2009-12-19T07:26:00.000-06:00

The Baby Huey Story

2009-12-13T21:57:00.005-06:00

Just close your eyes and listen for a while.

Tiger

2009-12-13T11:00:00.002-06:00

Click here to see my thoughts on the Tiger Woods scandal.

Facation

2009-07-13T07:29:00.002-05:00

We've spent the last two weeks with family. First, H, RL, and I hopped on a plane and headed to South Carolina to visit my dad. My sister and brother-in-law came into town half-way through the week and joined us. Now, H's brother, his wife, and their three kids are visiting us in Little Rock for several days. Nothing can make a house feel like home the way family does. It's always loud. It always smells like food. There is constant movement. Everybody is comfortable. Love abounds.

Why I'm Not Writing

2009-06-26T16:01:00.003-05:00

Grits

2009-05-13T13:44:00.000-05:00

I don't care who you are. Read the directions when you cook grits.

Your Backhand

2009-05-12T13:34:00.004-05:00

Never try to hit it like you used to hit it. Hit it the way you do now.

Joke of the Day

2009-05-11T12:31:00.003-05:00

I get a joke of the day on my Google home page. I needed a laugh today.

Children's books that didn't make it:

1) Accidents Happen: The Story of You

2) The Little Sissy Wimp Who Snitched

3) Some Kittens Can Fly

4) You Can Paint Anywhere!

5) Where Would You Like to Be Buried?

6) Bad Katy and the Mom Who Stopped Loving Her

7)The Attention Deficit

The Dhammapada

2009-05-08T11:31:00.001-05:00

Conquer the angry man by love. Conquer the ill-natured man by goodness. Conquer the miser with generosity. Conquer the liar with truth.

Lullaby of the Week goes to:

2009-05-05T21:26:00.002-05:00

“If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs, / The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies. / The wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, / And cries to the moon, / if only, if only.”

A Simple Reminder

2009-04-26T07:22:00.002-05:00

He is able who thinks he is able.

--Buddha

Easter Meditation

2009-04-12T07:51:00.003-05:00

Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.

--Buddha

104.3

2009-04-10T09:44:00.007-05:00

I have some time to myself while R.L. sleeps. He got sick yesterday at daycare, and they sent him home early. His temp was 103. When I picked him up, his whole body was burning up. It's our first experience with a really high fever.

Doc encouraged us to look at the fever as a good thing. It means that his immune system is actively fighting a virus, and the fever tells the white blood cells to work harder and makes their work more efficient. Before we left, he advised us to resist treating the fever with any medication. Instead, he said to monitor him closely and watch for drastic changes in behavior or symptoms.

Last night when his temp hit 104.3, I couldn't stop myself. Gave him a dose of baby Tylenol, and it brought it down to 102. He's been resting pretty peacefully, and hasn't complained too much. I can tell he feels terrible, but he's been so sweet.

So I disobeyed the doctor's orders. Not sure what to think about that. All I know is it never gets stale, and I love that boy more than I ever knew I was capable of Loving.

Horse Whisperer

2009-04-04T07:53:00.002-05:00

S.T.C.

2009-04-03T14:26:00.013-05:00

Every school year, I look to the spring and the Romantic poets for academic, professional, and spiritual rejuvenation. I bounce around the room and sing lessons about rainbows and the revolutionary spirit, moon phases and intuition, Nature and non-conformity--wild flowers that grow in the cracks of the sidewalk. I urge my students (and remind myself) to listen to the morning, to ignore the commercials, to talk to themselves while they walk somewhere they would normally drive. We examine the works and the lives of the big 5: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. Samuel Taylor Coleridge is my favorite.

But this year, I've started to turn on my old friend. I don't so much get it anymore. Maybe cause I'm a father? Maybe cause I'm getting older? Coleridge (crazy crazy) is just not as much fun as he used to be.

from "Dejection: An Ode"

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man -
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

I love the man, and I hate him too. He probably wouldn't have had it any other way.

from "Here is a Lesson in Creative Writing"

2009-04-02T15:04:00.004-05:00

by Kurt Vonnegut

"FIRST RULE: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college."

The world is too much with us

2009-04-01T14:31:00.002-05:00

by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on the this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Advice to My Son

2009-03-17T13:46:00.003-05:00

by Peter Meinke

The trick is, to live your days

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow: if you survive

the shattered windshield and the bursting shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty is nectar

and nectar, in a desert, saves--

but the stomach craves a stronger sustenance

than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

speak truth to one man,

work with another;

and always serve bread with your wine.

But, son,

always serve wine.

Jerusalem

2009-03-16T19:31:00.002-05:00

by William Blake

AND did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire!

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

Thirsty Bears

2009-03-16T07:09:00.003-05:00

I was in the back with the luggage, leafing through the jagged terrain of Waterton Lakes Park, Alberta while they drove. Up ahead, there was a marvelous castle built on the mountainside facing south over the lakes into the lower forty-eight.

“Let’s stop in real quick and take a look around.”

“Looks interesting.”

“I want some guacamole.”

The Prince of Whales Lodge was an architectural triumph. As we entered the lobby, a delicate and defiant mosaic of guitar plucking and slapping echoed off the lofted ceilings. A glass wall opposite the entrance exhibiting a vista deep down the spine of the Rocky Mountains into virgin wild land was the only mortal concept that could have survived next to her voice. I thought I saw Baja California.

We hovered across the room to the couch where she hunched over her ebony, acoustic Martin and dropped into the cushy sofa right next to her. I forgot the view through the black side of my eyelids.

When she finished, they opened. Then she got up and stuck the guitar in its case and started for the door. I was paralyzed.

Jay skipped across in front of her causing her to studderstep by. “Hey now?" Head down she swept around him and continued for the door. Her midnight hair swooshed around and masked her brown visage. So he wheeled around and jumped in front of her again. “Hey, wait. I’m sorry, stupid, American—hey!” He bent under her, looking up, and actually brushed her hair back with both hands rather delicately and held her by the elbows.

“Excuse me!” She reared up and slugged him on the arm.

“Could you just hold on one second? Slow down.”

“You slow down you freak,” but she couldn’t help smiling. She brushed him aside and started out the carved double doors.

“We’ll be at the campground down on the lake tonight! Come see us, if.” And she was gone. The heavy doors shut with a whump. I thought I caught a whiff of sage.

We nosed around the lodge for a while. It was spectacular. But we liked being outside. The guy at the desk told us that her name was Rose and she worked summers in the park leading nature walks and guiding trail rides on horseback. Some evenings she played for tips in the lobby.

At the campsite we started fighting over her. “Would you care to make a wager? And shake on it like a gentleman, Mr. Falls?” Will asked.

We were rolling out our groundpads and sleeping bags. Jay clanked around outside the tent whipping up some grits for dinner while we finished setting up camp.

“It's over.”

“You really think it’s over?”

Jay flew horizontal through the open flap and caught me reaching up to secure the tent attic, caught me in the ribs with his shoulder like one of The Flying Zamboni’s, ramming me into the tent wall. The tent flipped up on its side, ripping up the stakes he had just hammered in.

“Dusty Rhodes, The American Dream! Off the ropes,” he was flying around the tent, “CLOTHESLINE! ELBOW! BELLY TO BELLY SUFLEX!”

I flipped backwards in his bear hug slamming into the mat and jumped up to my knees disoriented but in full character as Rick Flair, held up four fingers, fluffed my hair, “Whoooooo!” caught him with a chop across his wooly chest and got him in the figure four.

He was writhing around when Will came out of nowhere, “Oh no! Not the metal chair!” and he clocked me in the face with his heavy feather pillow, jolting me enough for Dusty to break loose.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight’s main event, The Three’s a Crowd, I Surrender All, Last Man Standing, Tent-cage of Death-Match between The Flying Bull, Manny Ramiraz, Rick Flair, and The American Dream, Dusty Rhodes! Hold on to your hats! It’s going to be a wild one!”

By the time it was over, we all lay exhausted and panting and laughing hysterically, wrapped in a tangled mass of rainfly, broken poles, and guy lines. The teapot on the stove was at full whistle when a pair of women’s boots stepped in our field of view. She looked down over us shaking her head.

Jay sprang to his feet sending Will and me into a deathroll out of the tangled mass and into the dirt. His hair was standing all up everywhere.

“Some folks that work here in the resort are having a little get together tonight at the stables. A bonfire. Go take hot showers and lather up a few times and meet us at The Thirsty Bear at nine. I’ll introduce you to some good people.”

Canyonlands National Park, Utah

2009-03-15T07:18:00.003-05:00

Saturday 3/22/97—Chesler Park 1

Newberry’s twinpod or Physaria newberryi (yellow flower)

Locoweed or Astragalus mollissimus (purple flower)

Rufous-sided Towhee (laughing canyon bird)

Canyon Wren

“Gnarly” Juniper or Juniperus osteosperma

Prickly Pear or Optrantia polyacantha

Indian Paintbrush (red flower)

Smooth Scouring Rush or Equisetum laevigatum (horsetails—later to be known as “Mankilla, tryin’ to kill a man”)

Box Elder or Acer negundo

Single Leaf Ash or Fraxinus anomala

Fishhook Cactus or Sclerocactus whipplei

Fourwing Saltbush

Peppergrass

Big Sagebush

Tumbleweed

Cheatgrass

Blackbrush

Cryptogam Crust

Lizard dude

And we’re tracking a cougar.

Dolor

2009-03-14T08:30:00.001-05:00

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight,
All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplicaton of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

Theodore Roethke

The Wanderer

2009-02-19T09:21:00.005-06:00

My good old friend and songwriting partner Matt Corbin is working on a new music video project called The Wanderer. The production utilizes a sort of "one shot, one kill" approach. All of the original music is recorded and video-taped live as he roams city streets, malls, barbershops, and truckstops around Columbia, SC.

Pretty interesting concept. Check it out.

#7 Mickey Mantle

2009-02-08T10:20:00.011-06:00

Mickey Mantle is Big J's all-time favorite ballplayer. When he was growing up in Columbia, a young boy, there weren't any professional baseball teams west of Chicago and St. Louis, and there were none at all in the South. Papa, Perky, Big J, and Uncle L didn't get their first TV until about 1953 or 1954. That was while they lived on Denny Road in Columbia. Big J said, "Believe it or not there was only one televised game a week, creatively called The Game of the Week by CBS." Papa and Big J started watching the game together, and since the Yankees were the dominant team in the land, the televised game usually turned out to be the Yankees versus whoever they were playing that day. They watched Mantle, Maris, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, their home-state boy Bobby Richardson from Sumter, and manager Casey Stengel every time they were on TV.

Big J wrote about some of the highlights of the new, televised games:

The broadcasters for The Game of the Week were Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean. Often when the game was slow (or truth be told, most of the time), by the late innings, Old Diz had drunk one-too-many Falstaffs. One time, the TV camera panned over into the right field bleachers where the crowd was sparse and showed a young man and young woman really going to it. Dizzy's all-time great Falstaff-inspired line was, 'Ah, look out yonda in the bleachers. A couple of youngsters having fun out at the old ballpark this afternoon. It appears as if he's kissing her on the strikes, and she's kissing him on the balls.' There was a blacked-out silence for two or three minutes while the booth got their composure back.

The summer after Big J's high school graduation, Papa won a trip to the Provident national convention in New York City for selling a lot of insurance. He took the whole family along. They stayed in a big, fancy hotel. The popular band, The Herman Hermits, was staying in the same hotel so there were screaming groupie girls running around everywhere. They took a Gray Line boat tour that week up the East River, under the Brooklyn Bridge, turned onto the Harlem River going north, came out on the Hudson, and followed the whole western length of Manhattan going south back down to The Battery. The 1964 New York World's Fair was also going on at the same time at Flushing Meadows in Queens. The family spent a whole day there.

The city had constructed a brand new stadium on the fairgrounds, Shea Stadium, which was the first of the monstrous, multi-purpose, cookie-cutter stadiums built for football and baseball, concerts and other entertainment events. There happened to be a game that day between the new New York Mets and the San Francisco Giants. Many New Yorkers were still bitter because the Giants had moved to the West Coast from New York along with the Brooklyn Dodgers. It was practically a home game for the visiting Giants. That day, Papa, Perky, Big J, and Uncle L sat in the third deck of the new stadium and watched Gaylord Perry, a country boy from North Carolina, pitch for the visiting Giants. It was a muggy summer day and Perry was soaked by the end of the first inning, sweat streaming off of his chin. Willie Mays hit the game winning home run for the Giants, and the crowd went went wild.

There is something that I want for you to know about Big J and me, and I want for you to understand it plainly. We were both born and raised in the Deep South, not only physically, but also ideologically. Our childhoods were very different from yours. South Carolina has never been a friendly place for black folks. Your ancestors were slave owners. We have family documents officially freeing the slaves years after Lincoln's "Emancipation Proclamation." Schools and busses and restaurants and water fountains were segregated while Big J was growing up. When he was a boy, he said it was common for pranksters to ride through "Niggertown" in their cars throwing rotten apples at people in their yards. While I was a boy in Camden, I went to an integrated school, but there was a deep divide between whites and blacks. Train tracks literally cut Camden into two distinct communities. South of the tracks, there was extreme poverty. As I grew older and started to drive, I would secretly explore streets most whites never dared to drive. Sad images are stuck in my mind of dilapidated shanties, weathered and oppressed men and women sitting on their porches in the severe heat of summer afternoons. North of the tracks, there were beautiful, shady, oak-lined avenues, horse-drawn carriages in the streets, marvelous marble-columned colonial houses with four-foot high slave entrances in the back--dark tunnels that led into the kitchens. I heard racist jokes on a regular basis. I laughed at them. I even learned to tell them by the time I was 13 or 14. I used the "N word" on a regular basis for a few years, and I believed that I was part of a superior race of human beings. I only tell you this because I want for you to know. I want you to know how far we have come. You see it now. People can change, R.L.

Sometimes when Big J talks about Mickey Mantle now, there is a tinge of regret in his voice--just sometimes. Now, when he speaks of Mantle, he often points out that one of the biggest baseball questions of the day was whether Mantle or Mays was the better player of the era. According to the numbers, it's obvious that Mays was the better of the two, but many whites at the time couldn't see past the contrasting colors of their skins. Mantle was a good ol' country boy from Oklahoma with a million dollar smile. He appeared to be the All-American kid. The TV camera loved him. But Mays was another black boy, born into a working class family in Alabama, trying to break into the white man's world. A lot of people resented Mays and lauded Mantle as a heroic baseball god. Period. No matter that Mantle was a womanizing alcoholic in real life who showed up to as many games hung over or drunk throughout his career as he did sober. I would not understand this side of the Mantle vs. Mays question if Big J had not explained it to me, and I am grateful to him for being so reverend in his honesty about the subject matter. His anomalous transformation from a typical, racist South Carolina boy to the all-inclusive, accepting, and loving man that he is today is heartening.

Regardless of all that ugly stuff, Mickey Mantle was a fabulous ballplayer. There's no telling what he might have done if he hadn't torn up his knee in a stupid drain grate out in center field at Yankee Stadium during the 1951 World Series.

#7 Mickey Mantle. 5-11. 198. Throws right. Switch hitter. Outfield. Hall of Fame. 536 career HR's. Mantle was the greatest switch hitter ever. A real legend of the diamond.

Reading List

2009-02-07T08:39:00.002-06:00

All of the short stories on my reading list are new to me. As I discover new ones, I'll continue to share them. Pick one and read it every now and then. It only takes a few minutes, and it's so much better than news!

Shot Down, For Now

2009-02-04T14:42:00.002-06:00

Arkansas Times is reporting that the church-gun bill is off the table.

Holy Ghost! We're Packing Heat.

2009-02-04T09:20:00.005-06:00

LITTLE ROCK (AP) — An Arkansas legislative committee has backed a bill allowing concealed weapons in churches, despite concerns of a pastor who said he was shot in a sanctuary two decades ago and still opposes the measure.

The latest on the church-gun talks at Arkansas Times.

Up the Creek at Oaklawn

2009-02-01T07:36:00.013-06:00

JB and I spent Friday afternoon at Oaklawn watching the horses run. We had a great time visiting with a couple of friends of mine that work at one of the betting booths. We learned how to place some new kinds of bets, and we got some pretty good tips--in hindsight--if we had known how to listen to horse betting tips. By the end of the eighth race, with one race to go, we were about $70 in the hole between losing bets and $5 beers.

I had missed a golden opportunity in the 5th race. I go to my friend at the booth and say, "$2 for the win on 2 and $2 to show, the 8."

And my buddy at the booth says, "Have you turned gay?"

I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, and I said, "Yeah, I want to play this one conservatively."

"Then put your money in your pocket if that's what you want to do." He handed me the ticket, 2 to win, 8 to show and mumbled, "betting a show on a short field."

The 8 won the race. It paid $58. I won $7 for my show bet.

Before the ninth race, I studied the card. M had given me a hot tip right when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon, "the 3 and the 12 in the 9th race," he had said, almost before hello. Luckily, I had subconsciously grabbed a pen B was holding out toward me and circled the two while I introduced JB.

B had said a couple of things throughout the day that were starting to get to me. "Bet your lucky numbers. Bet the names you like." He's worked there for years. "You can beat a race, but you'll never beat the track." I needed a win badly. I had never dropped so much money on gambling before and wondered how I would explain it to H. I looked in my wallet--$2, I cashed in the winning $7 ticket from the stupid "show" in the fifth, and I called the bet out to B.

Dollar amount first, then type of bet, and then the horses last. "$6 exacta box on the 3, the 12, and the 2."

B nodded his head and smiled. First time he had done that all day. When we heard the bugler, JB and I ran outside to watch the last race. He got set up to take a picture of the break. For the mile and a sixteenth, the starting gates were directly in front of our spot on the track. At the bell, J squeezed off the beautiful picture below. In it, you will see the 2, Uptstream, getting out of the gates well ahead of the rest of the field. Also, closest to you in the photo is the 12, Indian Moonshine. Upstream led the race wire to wire, and Indian Moonshine came from second to last with a stormy charge down the stretch to finish second on a photo finish as I danced alongside them screaming, "They're gonna do it, they're gonna get it, they got it, they did it!"

I proudly went to see B at his booth and collected $78. M had put me on the 12 horse before I had stood inside Oaklawn for five minutes. And I picked Upstream because, well, I was up the creek at that point and needed a miracle. Right before the bell, JB leaned over," "You picked that horse cause you're a fisherman."

I said, "Goin' Upstream, where no one else wants to walk."

The bell sounded, and he snapped his best photograph of the day.

Dirt Bombs

How To Brew Daddy Mac's Scotch Style Ale

WWBCD?

Three Ravens

Nice little thought for the day:

Seriously, this is not happening?!

Three Games for the Wildcard

Questioning Authority

Open House

Note to My Cardinals Fans

Hyponothing

What Every Little Boy Knows

Slow Trains and Baseball

One Cent Sales Tax Increase in Little Rock Passes

A Window Into My Classroom

Labor Day Dream Sequence

Controversy Abounds!

Foster Child

Moderate Gains & Losses

Here's the Letter I Would Write

Obama or Bust

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Ernie Johnson, Sr.

Big John and Matthew

Uncle Matt

I'm a Teacher, man?!

The Iron Horse: Lou Gehrig's Farewell Speech

Bookie Jones

We're Talkin' 'Bout Taxes?! Taxes?! (Insert Allen Iverson's voice here.)

Tooter the Turtle

Proud Tigers

Another

Jess's Famous Chili

Doh!

Smoothie Smooth

Rio: 1932

Creative Writing at Central High

REBLOG the new art

Chang vs. Lendl

Boots

Paradise Lost Quiz Key

Volunteer!

Ain't that the truth:

Paradise Lost Quiz

MLK JR DAY Family Picnic at the Lake

John Milton's Cosmos

Faculty Meeting Blues

Joke of the Day

Joke of the Day

i found this on the floor

The Teachers' Lounge on Second Semester

These things are the Devil.

Snow Daze

Recommended Reading for January

Short Story Links

A Song of Loss

Voila! Bon Appetit.

New Year's Pot Roast with Roots

30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000 30,000

Blue Moon New Year's Eve

Big Ten

Vic Chesnutt (11/12/1964-12/25/2009)-Cobbham Blues

No... More... Hope.

Dreamin' Like Joseph

Selfless Thoughts

Andreas Stihl

In 1929, a German mechanical engineer, Andreas Stihl, invented the modern chainsaw. He had been working primarily on steam boiler systems, and he needed lots of wood to power his boiler-experiments. Stihl patented the first gasoline-powered chainsaw and called it a tree-felling machine.

Lake Ouachita Fog

Redbank: 1958

Fat Pine: 1983

Banned Flintstones Commercial: 1961

Island #35

The Junker

Not Charlie Brown Too!

The Baby Huey Story

Tiger

Facation

Why I'm Not Writing

Grits

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