Back Home

You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time—back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.
- You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolf

On our first trip back to St. Louis for Christmas, after having moved eight hundred miles away to South Carolina, it was comforting for Tricia and I to become reacquainted with well remembered roads and much loved landmarks. We had only been gone six months yet felt a strong sense of nostalgia for everything we saw. The Gateway Arch standing tall above the Mississippi River. The Hampton Avenue exit that led to our old home in Dogtown. The entrance to Forest Park where we spent such a significant part of each year walking, running, biking, or visiting the numerous museums and zoo.

I had never in my life loved the city more than that first time back. Everything was seen with clouded edges and rose colored glasses. And it was clear that despite half a year away this was still home. It was the home place to all our memories of growing up, getting married, and having children. It was where our friends were. Where we belonged.

That was three years ago. Since that time we have came back every June and December to visit family and friends. But while it's nice to catch up with some of the most important people in our lives and to see their faces and hear their voices again, the city looks a little different to me each time back. The memories are fading and the sense of belonging is slowly letting me go.

It's no longer my home.

The first few times back we tried to revisit the old places and relive the old memories. Some, like favorite restaurants, worked but most just felt empty and unfulfilling. In time, we learned to let go. It was no longer so important to see the old house or walk the old route through the neighborhood to the park. These were things to let go. Things to move past.

I sit here tonight knowing that we have four more days left of this year's Christmas visit. Already, I've seen my wife's family and two of the best friends that I'll ever have in my life. And I think to myself I'm ready to go home.

Home to South Carolina.

Because that is where all the new memories are being made. The memories of bringing Muluken home and teaching the kids to ride a two-wheeler and our first visit to the emergency room and summers spent at the pool. South Carolina is where we go hiking in the mountains and swimming at the beach. It's where I've found two things that I once thought I had lost forever - a school where I belong and new friends I love.

So maybe it's true - you can't go home again. But, then, maybe you can. It just depends on what you expect to find there.

Poinsett State Park

What a relief. Finally, we found a state park with decent hiking that is within an hour of home. We had become accustomed to having to drive for hours up I-26 or I-77 to hit some interesting trails. But today we found Poinsett State Park. The park features more than 1,000 acres of hills, swamps, ponds, and more.

When Tricia and I first pulled up at 8:45 it was very chilly to say the least. The ground had a nice crunchiness to it as we made our way over the fallen leaves and pine straw to the ranger's office. It was closed but fortunately there was a very nice man who went around the back to another door so that he could unlock the office for me. I grabbed a trail map and off we headed.

Our first trail was the Coquina Nature Trail. This trail makes its way around Old Levi's Mill Pond and gets its name, coquina, from the limestone made up of broken sea shells. Many of the buildings and other structures in the park were made of coquina. This work was done in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps.



The trail was very shaded and full of loblollies and Spanish moss. In fact, the whole forest was covered in Spanish moss. Pretty eerie, really.

From this trail we jumped onto the Laurel Group Trail. It was an out and back with a short switch back. Along the way we saw a few squirrels and a few deer tracks but that was about it. The park is home to 40 different species of snakes - as well as alligators - but we didn't see any of them.

Thinking we were going to do eight miles today, we hit the end of the Laurel Group Trail and definitely did not feel as though we had hiked four miles yet. So we crossed the road leading into the park and found the continuation of the Palmetto Trail. The Palmetto Trail is planned to be a 400+ mile trail that runs from the northwest corner of the state, in Oconee State Park, all the way to the sea, just above Charleston. The trail has been an ongoing project for more than ten years. As of today they have secured and completed a little more than 250 miles.

I cannot imagine hiking the whole Palmetto Trail. We did just a few miles and found numerous spots where the trail was not clearly marked and/or obstructed by a lot of downed trees and overturned soil. Still, it was fun to see a bit of this ambitious trail. Despite its problems, if the Palmetto Trail ever gets completed I'd be up for trying to do it. It'd be fun to walk the width of the state and see everything from mountains to cities to swamps to beaches.

After a little less than two hours of hiking we turned back. The sun was getting high in the sky and we were actually beginning to get a little hot. We made our way back to the ranger office, had lunch by the pond,and watched a heron hanging out at the water's edge.

We did a bit more hiking after lunch on the Scout Trail. This trail was about as exciting as it sounds (it ultimately led to the scout camping area)but allowed us to push our mileage up closer to our goal of eight miles.

Poinsett is a lovely little park. The only drawback is that it is located right next to a bombing range. Driving in to the park you pass many signs warning you not to trespass for fear of being injured by the "air-to-ground bombs" being dropped. All day long we heard military aircraft flying back and forth over our heads despite the fact we couldn't see any of them. It sounded, in a way, like the black smoke monster in Lost.

We've now hiked in five or six of the state parks here in South Carolina. It occurred to me that it might be fun to try to visit all of them. Given the completely reasonable charge of $2 for adults (and children are free) it certainly is a cost-effective source of entertainment!

Learning Differently

We learn every day, Sometimes new things ,sometimes things as a review
We've learned we play some games wrong like Phase 10
Its playing by the different rules every time we play
Like in Sorry we found a different way
In Candy Land we all play it right
It is new games it happens with
Leaning every Day.


Harper

The End of One Era, The Beginning of Another

It finally happened.

After years of winning every game of skill I had ever played against the kids I have now lost. Some people find it off-putting that I would never let the kids win. But I wanted to make sure that when they finally won it would be well deserved. It's not as if I annihilated them - at least, not all the time.

There had been a few losses along the way. Those, though, came as a result of me trying to demonstrate something about the game or trying to keep it close. The kids would feel good about the win and I'd smirk, knowing that I could have won if I had tried.

But not tonight. I played my very best game and lost resoundingly.

Muluken asked if I wanted to play Othello. He chose black which left me with white - meaning that I would have to make the first move. I generally do not care which color I play because Muluken plays so randomly I know I can take control of the most precious squares on the board - the edges and corners.

But tonight was different. Muluken gave up the early lead so that he could establish good board position. Othello is a strange game in that if you get too far ahead early there's a good chance you're going to lose. That's because you're making moves that give you the instant gratification of a lead while the other person is meticulously laying the groundwork necessary for a strong endgame. Muluken has never done this. He's always jumped at the move that gave him the most pieces.

Yet tonight he waited patiently. Eventually he forced me to make moves that allowed him to secure most of the edge squares and all four of the corners. It was a massacre. I kept trying to find a way out but I couldn't. There were no quick moves on his part. No mistakes.

The end result was a 50 - 14 drubbing. Ouch.

"Maybe we could play a game with everyone - not just the two of us," he said afterward.

"No, let's play Othello again," I responded.

"How about a different game," he suggested.

"No. Let's play Othello again," I insisted.

We did play again. I was black this time and he played white. We found out that following the early strategy that we both employ means that the white player gets himself into a really bad situation after the first twelve plays of the game. He has to give up edges and, eventually, corners. Until we figure out a way around this the black player will always win. I can't wait to see which of us solves this problem first.

I'm no longer so confident, though, that it will be me.

Note: A day after posting this I learned that we had been playing the game wrong. When playing Othello, every move you make must result in taking at least one of your opponents discs. We had not been doing this. We also learned that black always makes the first move - not white. Now we will have all kinds of new strategies to discover.

Southern Fried Christmas

You can't induce the the Christmas spirit. There's no pill you can pop to suddenly find yourself strolling through the house humming along with the melody of Burl Ives' Holly Jolly Christmas . No teaspoon of thick pink syrup could ever give you the urge to leave the quiet and calm confines of your home to visit the mall in early December. And certainly no IV could be expected to make you want to spend an entire afternoon pulling out heavy boxes from the attic, strap a dying $65 tree to the top of your car, or even think about wrestling a twelve foot ladder across the front yard in a hopeless battle with age old strings of Christmas lights.

No, like any other form of insanity you have to allow this to happen to you naturally.

Bah Humbug, you say. You're just a Grinch in sheep's clothing. Perhaps, but I'm right. When you think about all the shopping and crowds and travel and small talk and tacky sweaters and those unbearable Chipmunks crooning away from every speaker you know that you have to love it, embrace it, to survive. It's kind of like living in Alaska.

That's not to say I'm not a fan of Christmas, I am. I love the songs and the smell of a fresh tree. I enjoy a warm fire, a good holiday movie, and the thrill of watching everyone unwrap their presents. But most of all, on Christmas, I love snow. Pink cheeks, red noses, and boots dripping by the door. This is how Christmas should be.

When I was a kid in Illinois I really loved the snow. It was all about snowball fights and snow angels and snow men. It meant the possibility of the much coveted "snow day" - a favorite of both teachers and students. These were the days before I knew what it was to shovel the driveway, sidewalk, and steps or to feel the tires of the car sliding across a solid sheet of ice toward a busy intersection. Snow was so much simpler then.

Yet with all its trappings, snow is Christmas. And that is what makes Christmas in the south so bizarre. There is none. Had Irving Berlin grown up in South Carolina rather than Russia and, later, New York he might have written "I'm Dreaming of a Brown Christmas." Just imagine...

I'm dreaming of a brown Christmas
just like the ones I used to know
Where the temp hits fifty
and the folks get chilly
and bundle up like eskimoes

No, there is no snow at Christmas for the south. Instead, they litter their yellow hibernating lawns with nodding reindeer and glowing snowmen made of steel and rope lights. Pseudo-icicles are strung from gutters and giant inflatable snow globes are staked in place. And it all looks eerily out of place. It just doesn't seem to fit. It reminds me of our foreign exchange student from Saudi Arabia who learned to speak English by watching BET. He showed up wearing a doo-rag and calling everyone "dawg." We knew what he was going for but it didn't quite work.

That's a southern Christmas.

Perhaps Christmas should become a regional holiday - only for those temperate zones that don't cancel school and put chains on their tires at the threat of a light dusting. Leave Christmas to the states who do it right. You know, the ones who enjoy a white Christmas but then pay the price for it by enduring three or four more months of frigid temperatures, black snow at the side of the road, and seemingly no hope of ever seeing the sun again. Why did you think so many of them spike their eggnog?

No, I say the south needs to put an end to the hoax. I suggest, instead, that they create their own holiday. One that the northerners could never dream of having. While no holiday should get its origins from a television sitcom I do have to say I would be partial to seeing Festivus take hold. You have the Airing of the Grievances and, of course, the pole. Throw in a sixty-five degree day, lots of sunshine, and some chitlins, grits, and bar-be-cue (pork, of course) and you've got a heck of start.

And no snow to shovel in the morning.

A Day in the Life

It is very hard to believe that we are now just a few weeks away from the mid-point of the school year. Inevitably, the first half of the year always seems to move much more quickly than the back half. But still, could we really be this far along?

When I was in grade school myself I used to hate to see the school year end. I was far from being a teacher's pet or even a "good" student. I goofed off a lot and paid attention very little. But I enjoyed being there. I distinctly remember being asked by a classmate on the last day of sixth grade if I was crying. I was. Despite having the world's worst teacher that year I still hated to see school end.

Being a teacher is much like this but even worse. Not only do you say goodbye to the daily routines and conversations that you love so much but you say goodbye to some of the best friends you could ever wish to have - your students. And you're always positive that next year's group couldn't possibly be as special as the bunch you're watching walk out the door.

So, seeing the year inch toward its midpoint - closer and closer to that dreadful day - I decided, on Friday, to keep a list in my teaching journal of all my favorite parts of the day. I told the kids I would be carrying it with me everywhere so that I could jot down all the treasures of teaching and living in our classroom and our school.

Here is what I noted...

1. When we first pulled into the parking lot the kids quickly yelled out "Mr. O isn't here!" Sure enough, his car was not parked in its usual spot along the side yard of our campus. We walked into the building worried about where he could be. He had never not been there when we arrived. And this was the first item for my list - comforting predictability. Every day Tim (Mr. O) shows up first and unlocks the door, puts out the newspapers for us, and heads to his room to work. Everyday I poke my head in and say "Good morning" before going about my own preparations. It's as much a part of my day as any other and definitely one that I always look forward to. Thankfully, he made it in just a bit later and we all felt a sense of relief.

2. As I unpacked my book bag the kids asked if I needed them to do anything for me. They are always so happy to sharpen pencils, record the date on the board, staple papers, or do anything else that needs to be done. As hard as it is at times to concentrate and get ready with the four of them in the room, the day will come that I will greatly miss these mornings together.

3. One of my students (whose mother is also a teacher at our school) came over to ask if Muluken and Ty wanted to come over to his mom's room for a "play date." They were both extremely excited to do so.

4. Just before school Tim and I had a great conversation about wonderful books to read during the holiday season. Not so much books that speak of any one holiday or tradition, but books that deal with friendship, caring, etc. I learned about a Cynthia Rylant book of short stories that I had never even heard of. I made plans to borrow the book.

5. Every Friday, as our students meet before school in the Gathering Room, Lyn or Beth comes in and plays music so the kids can dance. This is a big hit. And even though it is unbelievably loud and not even a closed classroom door can help you escape it, it's one of my favorite parts of the week. The kids have a great time dancing and laughing arm-in-arm. The fun always winds down to Randy Newman's sweet song "You've Got a Friend in Me." I love coming out of my classroom to run an errand at 7:58 each Friday so that I look out and see all those kids gathering up their bags and coats excited for another day together. No school anywhere has the sense of community and friendship that CFI does.

6. My class came in, unpacked, and headed off to one of their favorite parts of the day - Explorations. During the first 25 minutes of the day they select for themselves what they would like to engage in. Some choose to play chess. Others head off to the board to create different algorithms for the number that has been written there. Some choose to write in their writing notebook or to play a math game. But the most popular choice tends to be the science table. Friday was no exception. We've been exploring magnets the past week or two and the kids LOVE to experiment with them. On Friday I pulled out a science kit from our cabinet and the kids noticed magnet cars in it. These cars were no more than a rectangular piece of plastic, two long pins, and four plastic wheels. Still, you'd have thought they struck gold. A group of about eight kids quickly assembled the cars, mounted magnets on top, and then grabbed more magnets to push the cars. The purpose of the cars was to demonstrate how the like-ends of two magnets repel one another. The kids absolutely loved it.

7. The next part of our day is always a Morning Meeting. On Friday, Brandon brought in his electric guitar to share, three people shared a book they had purchased at the Book Fair, three more shared coin collections from home (some sorted by year just as we had done the day before in class),and many others told us about newspaper articles they had been reading. Daniel's article was about a two-headed python. After he finished, Madison called out "I loved that article!"

8. Later in the morning I read one of my all-time favorite books, Silver Packages. It's a book that consistently makes me cry on the final page. It's not a sad story but definitely a very touching one. I felt myself starting to crumble by the third page. At page ten I stopped to explain that this story sometimes makes me cry. As I read on I kept an internal dialogue with myself to hold it together. But as I turned the last page I knew I wouldn't make it. So I bailed out. I held out the book for the class to read the final line - the one that chokes me up. Ah, I robbed my kids of an opportunity to see how the written word can move someone to really feel something in a very strong way. I promised myself afterward not to do this again.

9. During writing, Edwin came up to me and said "I'm going to publish my latest song." He then held it out for me to look at and explained "I want to fade out on the last word." Sure enough, the last work was written smaller than all the rest. My favorite part of this interaction, though, was the fact that he referred to it as his latest song. He obviously sees himself as a songwriter. How cool is that? It made me wonder what I saw myself as when I was in second grade. Edwin has many identities by which he sees himself. I was just so happy that a writer was one of them.

10. During math we considered which would be more - a 1" stack of pennies or a 1' line of pennies laid side-to-side. The kids made predictions, we measured them, and then counted the monetary worth of both the 1" stack and the 1' line. Afterward, the kids went off to work on doing the same thing for nickels, dimes, and quarters. While the kids were working to make informed predictions, carefully measure the coins, and then count each group of change accurately, it was the fact that we had so much fun that caught my attention. I remember a debate during one of my graduate courses about whether or not it is necessary for learning to be fun. I certainly have my own opinion but it means very little because ultimately I want to make sure that teaching is always fun.

11. Because the other second grade class was away on a field trip today, we were able to join Mr. O's class for recess. The kids were so excited to get out and play O-Ball (a dodge ball game) with the third graders. I had a lot of fun as well. It was hard to keep myself from becoming too competitive. There were a lot of laughs and not one single argument. This is definitely a game we'll have to adopt for ourselves.

12. At the end of the day our class met in book clubs. Over the past week they had been reading a book with a small group and meeting from time to time to discuss it. Since everyone was finishing their books on Friday and chatting about them for the final time I decided to bring in refreshments and make a big deal of it. We had a blast. As I moved from group to group I was amazed by the wonderful discussions taking place about characters and plot and illustrations and so on. I wish I were half as smart as these guys when I was in second grade. I am so incredibly lucky to spend each day with them!

The best thing about this list is the fact that I've actually left out a bunch. I didn't mention Patton giving away the necklace that came with the set of books he purchased at the Book Fair. He explained that he really just wanted the books anyway. I also didn't mention how Kayla wrote a great comic or how Jenna worked with a timer to revise the song she's writing so that it'll be about two minutes long. I failed to mention the brand new set of books that Charee, our intern, bought for us and we added to our classroom library. I didn't say a thing about how much I LOVE wearing shorts and a t-shirt to school every single Friday no matter how cold it is outside. I omitted the poem I wrote about learning to play the guitar and the observation from someone in the district office that went well enough. So much to mention and all in just a single day. That's the best part of being a teacher.

There are 179 more.

Childish Adult (Dad)

Kings Mountain State Park

What a great day. With no football games for the boys, we decided to get out of town for a hike. Generally we head up I-26 toward the mountains of North Carolina but today we wanted a shorter drive. So instead we drove north on I-77 toward Charlotte to Kings Mountain State Park. While it was a bit nippy in the morning it turned out beautiful with a high near 62 degrees.

Kings Mountain, for those who do not know, is a very historically significant locale in the state of South Carolina. It was the site of a pivotal battle in the Revolutionary War. It was atop the mountain (which looks much more like a large hill) that the Patriots defeated a group of 1,000 loyalists who had been trained by Colonel Ferguson, the best marksman in all the British Army. Of the 1,000 loyalists only about 100 actually had red coats. The others wore pine sprigs in their hats. Once it became obvious that they were thoroughly surrounded by the Patriots, who wore white paper in their hats, many of the loyalists pulled the pine sprigs from their hats and changed sides in hopes of avoiding certain death. How funny is that?



It took only one hour for the Patriots to secure victory - killing Colonel Ferguson in the process. There was a marker showing the exact spot he was shot. Harper was quick to ask "How do they know this is the exact spot where he was killed?" Great question. I didn't even try to make up an answer. Instead, I shrugged and we moved on.

The entire trail was a mile and a half. I'm not certain this qualified as a bonafide hike since the trail was paved but the scenery, with thousands of bare trees, was wonderful. There's a certain energy in the cool air of late fall that you don't find on a summer hike. There's also a lot fewer people!



When I got home I told Tim that we had a great time and that I learned a lot about history. He looked at me in disbelief and pointed out that I was far from being a history buff or even someone who remotely enjoys history. He's right, of course. Maybe the magic was in having the opportunity to spend the day outdoors, do some hiking, and enjoy a family day together.

Water Gun Fight

Imagine you're hot and sweaty. You are in need of something to cool you down.

you say "maybe a water gun fight with my friends."
Inside is cool and nice the T.V. is on dad is watching a baseball game and munching on cheese its.
You ask " can I get my friends and siblings and have a water gunfight?"
"yes you can but don't get in the garage and take turns" he said.

Water shoots every witch way, yelling surrounds you, disobeying your dad because someones in there.

IT'S FUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Molly, Emily, Harper

______________________________________________



The ending was when every one went home. Inside we dryed up and changed clothes.




The End Harper {adultish child}

Needless Things

I like to think of myself as somewhat of a minimalist. An exaggeration perhaps, but a peek into my closet would shine light on the fact that I barely have enough pants to stretch across the work week. There are very few pairs of shoes. And in cold weather I have to wear the same shirt or sweater more than once before Friday.

The garage looks much the same. There are not a lot of specialized tools or yard machines. I do have two bikes - one a road bike, the other a mountain bike. That feels a little extravagant. I guess.

Not much of a collector of anything, I struggle this time of year to think of things to add to a Christmas wish list. I'm certainly not in need of anything and I worry about where I'll actually keep the things that I do get.

I also have a reputation for ridding the house of anything that hasn't been used since...say, last Tuesday.

"Where's my phlozzy-doodle?" Ainsley will ask.

It takes only a few moments. You can almost see the wheels turning in her head.

"Dad, did you throw it away?"

This makes me feel a bit guilty but it's a fair question. I've plotted, before, to get the kids out of the house so that I can bag up loads of toys that haven't seen the light of day in weeks. Sometimes days.

This isn't to say, though, that I've never owned a completely useless contraption. An impulse buy. A guilty pleasure.

There was the time that Tricia and I bought a beautiful, brand new pool table. Jet black with chrome piping and a sunflower-yellow cloth, it was a sight to see. But given the fact that it had to be set up in the dark and damp basement, I think we probably wound up paying around $25 for every game we actually played.

And then there was the smoothie maker. Looking remarkably like our blender, it chopped up ice and frozen fruit in a flash. Amazing. How does it do it? Did I mention already that it looked an awful lot like a blender?

But my favorite had to be the GPS watch I once saved up for months to buy. No longer would I have to guess how far I had run. No, such haphazardness would risk being off by as much as one or two tenths of a mile. But with a special $150 watch, that by-the-way would have looked bulky even on Susan Boyle's arm, I could accurately track my runs to the nearest thousandth of a mile. But that's not all. It also displayed my top speed, average speed, and heart rate. I may never rival Steve Prefontaine or Jesse Owens but I could definitely track my mediocrity with excruciatingly accurate detail.

But, certainly, I'm not alone in this. We have all found ourselves puzzling our friends and family with some pathetic attempt at material happiness. Some stores devote their whole existence to these types of items. Who doesn't enjoy walking through The Sharper Image or Brookstone just to laugh at the junk they're hawking. Towel warmers. Motorized tie caddies. Grocery list organizers.

But even these items fail to take the cake in uselessness. I recently found myself on a relatively short flight to Philadelphia. Ill-prepared to entertain myself for anything more than a few moments, I reached forward for the latest copy of Sky Mall catalog (is there a "latest copy" or do these stay in circulation for years?). At my fingertips were no fewer than 1,000 products poised to save me from my mundane existence.

Take for instance the Canine Genealogy Kit. For $59.99 I can use my dog's DNA to determine the breeds in her ancestry. This "provides scientific confirmation of the physical characteristics, behavioral tendencies, [and] personality traits...your mixed-breed dog has inherited." Physical characteristics? Thank god I'll finally be able to figure out what she looks like. You know, other than a German Shepherd.

Another favorite was the Telekinetic Obstacle Course. Reasonably priced at $99.95, this game "uses your focused brain waves to maneuver a ball through an obstacle course. A head band and two earlobe clips measure theta wave activity produced by your brain [to]...send a wireless signal to the game." Telekinetic? Brain waves? Tell me every man who was ever convinced, as a child, that he too could be a Jedi Knight isn't putting this at the very top of his Christmas wish list. It didn't actually come with a light saber but I'm sure that, too, can be found somewhere in the catalog - perhaps near the Voice-Activated R2-D2 ($189.95).

But my favorite, by far, was the Solafeet Foot Tanner. "If you always feel like people are gawking at your white feet and the unsightly tan lines around your ankles when you wear sandals or pumps, then you need the Solafeet foot tanner." Darn-tootin' I do! I am sick of people gawking at my pasty white ankles! It seems unfair when there are so many other pasty white body parts they could be looking at instead. But no more. Now for only $229.99 I can purchase a futuristic shoe-box looking doo-hicky with a strange blue light spilling out the two holes located at the top. Just slide it under your desk, slip in one or, preferably, both bare feet and you can get total tan satisfaction while working at the computer. Just think of what the neighbors will think of you now!

Of course there were others. On page 68 was the Magic Showerhead that sprays colored water (technically I think it's done with LED lights). The water actually changes colors every few seconds. I'm not certain what the official safety measures are for a shower but I imagine there's no real danger in turning the lights out and cranking up Pink Floyd. I'm imagining, now, a whole population of men who weren't really in the practice of taking showers finally finding it necessary to lather up from time to time.

As my flight neared its end and I turned the final page of my Sky Mall catalog I couldn't help but look down on the city and suburbs of Philadelphia and think about those poor souls who will go without this Christmas season. Not without Closet Organizing Trouser Racks and Remote Controlled Tarantulas, but without shelter, food, and warmth. And I thought Gee, you know how you could really tick off the needy and down trodden?

You could give 'em a copy of Sky Mall.

The Band

"The concert on Monday is off. The band broke up."

Those were the words that greeted me as I walked over to help my kids through the lunch line on Friday. Patton, who had just co-founded the band days before, was clearly dejected. I looked over to the lunch table and saw that his fellow band mate Reese was moping as well.

"What happened?" I asked.

"They wouldn't stop chasing us around the playground," he responded. "And they booed us after our song."

If he weren't so plainly upset I would have had to chuckle at the image of "the band" being chased around the playground by a pack of crazed seven and eight year old girls. I couldn't help but think of Beatlemania. Ah, the hardships of success.

"Are you sure they weren't just booing you to be silly?" I asked. "I don't think they would really want to make you guys feel bad. Everyone was so excited to hear the much anticipated Five Chimichangas concert."

"No. They were booing. They said it was bad."

I thought for a moment - hoping for just the right words to set it all straight. Instead, I reached for the teachable moment. "Well, the five of you said that the concert was going to be Monday but then you did it today. I don't think you rehearsed your songs enough. Just think of how many times we have to rehearse a new song in the classroom before we perform it for parents. We do it once or twice a day for about a week."

"We rehearsed," he said dryly.

It was clear that this was a wound that would need time to heal. Who would have imagined two months ago that these second graders would have carved out such a bold new identity for themselves? Musicians.

It was a rough week of sorts. We experienced three consecutive days of rain without any hope of getting outside for recess. Generally I would say that indoor recess is about as excruciatingly painful as sitting through a Sandra Bullock marathon on TNT. However, these three days on indoor recess were just magical. Four or five kids spent their time working on number sentences on the board, a group of others hovered about the science table sorting through leaves, rocks, and the remains of various dead animals and bugs. Pairs of competitors were scattered about the room engaged in a game of chess or Othello.

And then there were the songwriters.

A couple of girls were hard at work on a songbook - a combination of songs we had sung together in class and original works of their own. One or two others worked independently at a song. But, by far, the most serious work was being done by Brandon, Patton, Daniel, Roman, and Reese who had formed "The Five Chimichangas." They wrote about four of five songs, planned a concert for recess, made up tickets for the event, and created posters to advertise their opening show.

All the while, I sat in the floor with my guitar offering chords to anyone willing to bring a song. We sat in small groups and sang - awkward melodies, awkward verses, awkward chord progressions. Still, it was music and everyone was loving it. It was creative and new and full of promise.

So, out of this, the Five Chimichangas were born. Three days of recess spent writing and talking and laughing and planning and dreaming. I see now that I didn't realize how important this had become to them. How real it had become. A couple of days later I heard stories back from one of their parents. It seems the budding singer had already developed plans for fame and fortune and the promise of a new house for mom.

But like so many bands it seems a lack of confidence in themselves and their music was their downfall. And, of course, the harsh early reviews. I tried, at the end of the day, to smooth things over.

"I would just hate to see the band come to an end," I said. "I really think this can all be worked out and you can get back together again."

I looked at each of their faces. And then Roman, without missing a beat, returned my gaze and declared, "I've already joined a new band!"

Easy come, easy go.


Childish Adult (Dad)

Name

I've been called by many different names in my life: Christopher, Chris, Dad, Hass, Mr. H. These are the standards. But, of course, there have been countless others. Kid, Jerk, Sir, Know-it-all, Dude, Twirp, Haas, House, Loser, and (quite often when answering the telephone) Ma'am. And now, after what came to pass this past week, I have added a new name to the collection.

Coach.

I am a football coach. Just to say those words elicits the image of my high school PE teacher who, when not making boys run around in tight pants knocking one another to the ground in preparation for the week's loss, liked to sit half-asleep at the far end of the football field each day while his squad of brutish half-wits terrorized the rest of us in the name of physical education. It seems it would be easy to hate a man such as that but to squint downfield and see him slouched over his metal chair with those ultra-short, double-button polyester shorts with eight fingers tucked tightly into the front of his waistband and his white tube socks pulled high you kinda just understood. We are all destined to take a certain post in life. And this was his.

And knowing this full well, I find myself joining his ranks. Football coach.

In all honesty, our similarities probably end immediately after the shared title. While his responsibilities were to get a collection of over-sized young men to run formations, make tackles, memorize plays and schemes, and make the other team pay a physical toll, I will be poised to get a handful of four and five year old boys to stop chasing butterflies and waving to their mommas.

In the place of cold, hard pigskin we will have squishy, foamy Nerf.

Rather than punishing our opponents by driving them mercilessly into the ground we will run around wildly - in hopes of an accurate stab at the other boys' dangling flags.

Penises beware.

I'm not certain I am qualified for such a task. I assume even the lowest ranks of the sport require a certain level of testosterone, grittiness, and USA-bred toughness. Just this past weekend I took my kids to an eight year-old's birthday party at one of those places filled to the brim with mammoth inflatables and (in this case) a monkey. I walked away from the festivities with a busted lip, a strained right forearm, a sprained ring finger, and ugly rug burns on the sides of both ankles. Not exactly the stuff of champions.

So as I plan for our first practice together I look ahead with a bit of apprehension. Hoping that I can somehow live up to, or at least grow into, this new name. If nothing else, at season's end I will walk away from this with a new pair of shorts and tube socks. Now if I could just find that chair.

Childish Adult (Dad)

Peace Begins With You

I was lucky enough this week to experience one of those special moments that makes you walk away wondering how that just happened. I was sitting on a stool strumming my guitar as my class packed up to go home. As they finished packing up they came to the floor in front of me to see what we would do with the last five minutes of our day.
"We don't know that song Mr. H," Patton said, looking up at me.
I explained to him that this was because I was just messing around. Playing random chords.
"I've been thinking we should write another song," I said. "Maybe one about how we are thinking about making a difference in our community and trying to promote peace."
I started strumming a new chord combination (Bm - G)and out of nowhere Atira sang out "We all work together."
"Holy cow, Atira! That was awesome," I said. "That fits perfectly. Let's all sing that together."
"We all work together," we sang.
Suddenly someone else (was it Roman?)sang out "We help one another."
"Holy Cow! Another perfect line," I said.
Within seconds yet another person sang out "To make the world much better." I couldn't believe it. In just a few minutes they had written the chorus for a song of peace and social action.
I went home and played around with their three lines and changed them a bit to make them sound "better." I brought this back in to them the next day and sang it for them and they all stared at me like I had a second head.
"Mr. Hass, I like it better our way," Reese said. A chorus of Yeahs filled the room. I looked at my revisions and then back at their original lines and realized that they were absolutely right. Their version was much better.
Over the next two days we continued with our social action projects. The final fifteen minutes of each day was spent with me sitting on my stool playing our chords over and over again in a constant loop and humming the melody for the song. The kids worked at their tables to write words, lines, and verses for the song. As they finished each one they brought it up to me and we sang it together. It many cases it fit beautifully. In other cases they needed to add or delete a few syllables and went back to their tables to work it out.
What I wound up with was twenty-two pages of writing to patch together into a song. I took it all home and worked hard to make take these pieces and make them a whole. Harper and Muluken took turns singing each draft with me to see if it worked. Finally, I was able to use common lines from many of the kids' writing (thankfully there was some overlap!) to put together our first verse. I took this back in to the kids the next day and asked them, after hearing and singing that first verse, to write yet more lines for me. They were so excited to write more. I told them they needed to save some of these verses and make their own songs. There was SO much songwriting going on!
Again, I took their writing home and worked to patch it together to finish the song. The result was a song with 23 different lines. Thirteen of these lines came directly from the kids - with no changes. Three of them were lines that I slightly altered to make fit. And, finally, there were seven lines that I wrote to help the flow of the song. I'm very proud of how I was able to honor their words and their work because, honestly, the ideas they came up with were just spectacular. My only regret is that there are a lot of lines I had to leave out to avoid a song that would rival a full-length Grateful Dead jam in length.
And here is the final result. I only wish you could all hear it!

Peace Begins With You
By Mr. H’s Second Grade Classroom
October 2009

Peace begins with you
It’s in the little things, the little things you do
It isn’t hard to do
Follow your heart it will help you through – so you may know

Just what to do
And that it doesn’t matter who is who
And you watch what you say
Because it hurts so many people – in so many

W - - - - a - - - - a- - - - a - - - -ays

(chorus) We all work together
We all work together
We help one another
To make the world much better

And all this could be
Become something of a reality – you could go
To a nursing home
Offer up your friendship and a song
Collect money in a jar
Donate dog biscuits, they are full of carbs – that is the

W - - - - a - - - - a- - - - a - - - -ay

(chorus) We all work together
We all work together
We help one another
To make the world much better

We are singing this song of peace
Knowing it is up to you and me
We can all be free
We just have to learn – learn to

Agree ---- e ---- e ---- e ----e

(chorus) We all work together
We all work together
We help one another
To make the world much better
To make the world much better
We can love each other
To make the world much better

Childish Adult (Dad)

H T T T O T R M

On October 11, 2009. We HTTTOTR [Hiked To The Top of Table Rock Mountain] It was a very long hike. It took about 2 hours to hike 3.2 miles up the mountain. Table Rock is the first mountain I ever hiked that I can remember hiking. I was the one that kept on guessing wrong every time we weren't close to the top. Most of the time we weren't close until one time we where very close, It went all up hill all the suden and then we knew we were close to the tip top of the mountain.



The top of the mountain was solid rock. There was about a 3 centimeter stream running along the blackish, brownish, tan rock. When we got to the top we ate our lunches. We gazed out over the site of the smaller and the higher mountains we saw around us. It was a longer way down the hill if you went a different way than you came. So we went the way we came so we could climb up the rocks that we had climbed on the way up.


POSTED BY

HARPER Adultish Child

P.S. I can prove I went up if my dad knew how to get pictures from his phone to his computer!

The Lost Season

To say that I grew up a baseball fan would be an understatement. In St. Louis, baseball skirts the outer rim of religion. Cardinal baseball embodies not only the heart and soul of the city but the hearts and souls of many of the people who live there as well. Baseball in St. Louis provides a significant piece of the city's identity - who they are.

I learned to love baseball the same way many children do - from my father. He was a lifetime fan who could sit and tell endless stories about Bob Gibson, Mike Shannon, Ted Simmons, Curt Flood,and many others. He attended games at old Sportsman Park and was there for the very first game ever played at the new (now old) Busch Stadium. He would recount magical games or seasons from the glory years of the 60's with remarkable attention to detail. It meant a lot to him - Cardinal baseball - and I admired him for it.

Growing up, he and I watched or listened to hundreds of games together as I began to grow my own list of names that would forever be a part of me - Tommy Herr, Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, Bruce Sutter, Terry Pendleton, John Tudor and on and on. I would live and die with the team. To watch them fall would make me feel as though I, too, had lost. It would depress me. But to watch them win would mean an emotional high that those who have never truly loved a team could never comprehend.

Not too long after I became a teenager our lives were forever changed. My father suffered a number of physical and medical crises that you would never wish upon even your worst enemy. Left unable to walk or leave the house for weeks at a time, he lost much of what he loved and enjoyed most - running, bowling, church, work. From my perspective, all he had left was his family and baseball.

It's hard to grow up healthy and able-bodied in the presence of someone who has lost so much. You feel a sense of guilt(I believe it's called survivor's guilt). This I know, it is very real. Over the years I avoided sharing stories about cycling or running or any of these things for fear of depressing him or making him feel jealous (concerns that years later I was able to see as ridiculous). It was around this time that we started to find that we didn't have that much to talk about. He didn't have any new experiences to share (outside of his sickness) and I felt uncomfortable sharing my own. So all that we had left was that which we started with - baseball. Suddenly baseball took on a whole new importance because it provided us a common thread. Something we could still talk about and share.

It's a wonderful bond - baseball. That is, until it is the only one you have. For those last few years we had together we talked a lot of baseball. A lot of baseball when we should have been talking about other things. More important things. I think over time I came to mistrust and perhaps even resent that baseball bond. I saw it as something that, while it seems on the surface to pull them together, keeps fathers and sons apart.

When Tricia was pregnant with Harper I was constantly asked, "What do you want, a boy or a girl?"

"Oh, it doesn't really matter to me," I would say. But secretly I wanted a girl and sure enough we had one.

A few years later when Tricia became pregnant again everyone would say,"I bet you're hoping for a boy this time!"

"Oh, it doesn't really matter to me," I would say. But, again, I was secretly hoping for a girl. I was afraid of having a boy. I was afraid that the day might come when the only thing we would have to talk about was baseball. I imagined that maybe fathers and daughters could do more than this.

The Cardinals lost tonight. Projected as favorites to reach the World Series, they somehow managed to be swept out of the first round by the Los Angeles Dodgers. Though something as inconsequential as a lost baseball season no longer means the world to me, I was sad to see their season end. While I was watching them struggle to string together hits and record key outs, all four of my kids were upstairs watching Free Willy - oblivious to the game or its significance to the city I still love. And now it has hit me that I was wrong to blame the game.

My father and I had so much more than baseball. I know that now because as the years move past I remember more and more of the small things we shared and I become more aware of the countless things I learned from him. But, with that, I don't deny that baseball was a very important bond between us. One that I could never truly regret. In all honesty, if I could somehow see him one more time I think I'd choose to go to one last baseball game together and just sit - and talk.

This season is lost and now is time to look ahead to the potential of the new season that lies ahead. Perhaps this time we can all share it together.

Childish Adult (Dad)

Looking Ahead to Better See the Present

This morning I read a friend's blog and he was writing about how we, as adults, sometimes fail to recognize the wonder and significance of everyday moments because we become entangled by our own worries and responsibilities. His point was that children rarely suffer from this. They are more than able to become genuinely excited over the smallest of things.

I connected with this because I spent much of this past summer reflecting on parenthood and my all-too-frequent inability to enjoy every moment. I worried that I spend too much time worrying about the kids (trying to guide them into becoming compassionate adults) or wishing away time ("I'll be glad when they're out of diapers", etc) to stop and just enjoy the wonderful times we have together. Why can't I stop and exclaim, as Tim quoted in his blog, that "Today is the best day of my life!"?

Thinking ahead to a time when the kids are grown and gone, I wrote a poem last June about how I might regret this and wish I could return to these days to talk about silly things at dinner or hear the sound of infectious giggles during a tickling attack. Even though the poem is purely in draft form (it's been sitting unfinished for months now just waiting for the right time to finish and revise) I'm going to go ahead and share it because although the craft is sloppy the theme is dead on.



The Vision is This

Me
sitting at the breakfast table
overlooking a flawless green backyard
landscaped with flowers, bushes, and trees
Large stones, carefully placed, conceal the lasting injuries
of a play set from years ago

I sit inside
surrounded by walls and tables
filled over the years
with photographs
Birthday parties, summer vacations
Proms, graduations
Weddings

Absent now
is the sound of jubilant feet
barreling down the stairs,
squeezing through the front door -
screams of delight heading out
to find a new day’s adventure

I get up to look
at all the photographs
and I see faces sculpted into say cheese smiles
I’m reminded now
of the big events that serve as markers
along the timeline of our lives
But what I want most are the details
that have long gone silent

The house is growing dark
and there are chores to be done
Yet, I stand looking at each photograph
searching for the small moments
I thought I would always remember -
but that I soon forgot

The dinner conversations,
the things that made us giggle
uncontrollably
just before bedtime,
the weight of a tiny hand
in mine

But the photographs are empty
They show only
what is at the surface;
Unable to conjure up that
which is most missed


Childish Adult (Dad)

Holes - by Louis Sachar

Right now I am reading the book Holes. This book is about a boy name Stanley and he gets blamed for stealing a pair of shoes. The shoes were Clyde Livingston's shoes. He went to court and the court gave him a choice to either go to Camp Greenlake or jail. He chose Camp Greenlake. They tried to ask more about it but the judge said "Make a choice quickly."

I am enjoying this book very much. When I finish it I will post more about the book.

Adultish Child (Harper)

Dreher Island State Park

Today we visited Dreher Island State Park. We did a relatively flat 2.2 mile hike. I was amazed to see how autumn is taking over the woods. There were a lot of fallen leaves of all colors. I didn't think Fall would visit South Carolina until later in October or early November.

Muluken is a fast hiker! He and I were planning a backpacking trip together as we marched out the final half mile together. He thinks we should try for four days in the woods. I don't know. That might be a bit long for a first trip - but we'll see.

Childish Adult (Dad)

Beach

I hate the beach.

My friend Brooke says it’s her favorite place because she gets to relax and to read and to let the world just peel away from her like bark from a birch tree. There was a time I would agree, looking out over the horizon and feeling the wind sweep across my face and listening to the cadence of the sea coming in to greet me. Everything about it makes you want to stay forever.

Almost everything.

Going to the beach starts out well enough. The first weekend of every June we squeeze everything into the van – towels and blankets and pails and shovels and chairs and snacks and sunscreen. Four kids. Tricia and I. Two-and-a-half hours away is a county park on Isle of Palms that has the softest sand. It never burns your feet no matter how hot it gets outside. I don’t know how this works - it just does. Muluken says it’s because we’re boys and we’re tough but I remind him that his mother and sisters are girls and they’re tough too. He doesn’t look convinced and flexes his tiny brown muscles in protest.

Ty reacts to the beach like a June bug reacts to light. He runs around, wildly bouncing off things. Off people. We try our best to reel him in but our arms are full of bags and coolers so for this one moment – this one day – he gets to act like a child. After a year of time-outs he probably deserves at least as much.

We find a spot to drop our stuff. It has to be close enough to the waterline so that we can see it from the surf yet not so close that we will have to retreat from the rising tide. Tricia says I obsess over the spot too much. She says I’m like an old man circling the mall parking lot in search of the perfect spot by the door. I couldn’t really say, but it is important to me. I do take it seriously.

The first thing Harper does is to grab her boogie board and head off toward the water. The board has a big picture of Dora on it and it’s really too babyish for an eight year old but she doesn’t seem to mind. It’s functional and she knows how hard it is to find money to replace the things that aren’t broken. She bounds through the waves trying to get past the breakers but her frame is small and she has the legs of a reader. She’s knocked to the ground numerous times before she finally wrestles her way to calmer waters. Despite the effort, a smile as wide as a Wal-Mart parking lot spreads across her face and she squeals uncontrollably. She has been waiting for this exact moment all year long.

Tricia and I make our way down to the water to take this all in. By this point Muluken and Ty have joined their big sister while Ainlsey – sweet, little Ainsley – dances around us begging to search for seashells. Not liking to get her face wet, she prefers to stay on dry land. Tricia takes her hand and together they head off toward the pier in search of half-buried treasures.

I breathe in all that salty air and sunshine and then I run out to join the kids. And that’s how the beach starts.

Not a bad start.

But not long after the morning shadows disappear everything changes. My heart somehow knows before my eyes do. I look out at the water. And I look out across the beach. And I count three heads. Just three heads. When there should be four.

And now, I hate the beach.

I hate the beach because when I yell for Tricia I can see that she’s already noticed. She’s looking around and every ounce of blood has drained from her cheeks and her knuckles are bone white as she clenches the sides of her swimsuit. She looks at me and says something I can’t hear. Suddenly I’m very aware of all the noise. And all the people.

I run down to the water as Tricia makes her way across the sand. I glance back over my shoulder hoping to see her signal to me that everything’s okay – that she has found what, at this moment in time, I need to see more than anything else in the entire world. But she hasn’t. I can see that she’s screaming now, moving from towel to towel, person to person, pleading with them to help. But no one does because they don’t understand. No one understands. No one but us. And among all these people I suddenly feel alone.

I turn back to the water and there are so many bodies and the sun is so bright that I can barely make sense of what I’m seeing. I move out further to get a better view. The waves crash down on me so as to make me turn away -but I refuse to. The saltwater stings my eyes and my feet betray me as I fall back and I’m surrounded now by nothing but muddled sounds and murky water and more than at any other point in my life I feel completely out of control.

Tricia gathers up the other three kids and asks them if they’ve seen anything. They laugh at her because they think this is some kind of trick or joke and they don’t understand the seriousness of the situation. They don’t understand what’s at stake. She orders them back to our blanket because she doesn’t have the time to make them understand. Or the heart.

She tells me to go get the lifeguard.

The lifeguard smiles at me and calmly climbs down from her chair. She looks to be all of about nineteen years old and flips her hair from her face as she reaches back to grab a radio. I want to scream: How can you be so calm? She asks a few questions of which I try to answer but I can’t concentrate. My mind is racing. I’m scared and angry and the lifeguard is still acting casually as if this type of thing happens every day. Every day to some kid. But this isn’t just some kid. It’s mine.

She gets on her walkie and begins talking to someone else. I look down the beach to see if one of the other lifeguards is beginning to move or to look toward us. Finally, I see one of them signal to her. She tells me that she has put out an alert and that I need to backtrack through all the places we’ve been. I’m happy to have been given an instruction. Happy to have someone else who knows.

I turn to go find Tricia and see immediately that she is standing at the water’s edge - tears streaming down her face, her heart beating through the purple diamonds that line her swimsuit.

Her entire face is swollen.

She drops to her knees. And she screams.

A numbness falls over me like I’ve never felt before and my heart is pounding and pounding and pounding and I hate the beach.

But then… I see her reach out. Out toward the sea and a wide smile washes over her face, erasing the terror. I realize now that the screams were not of pain, but of joy.

She wraps her arms around a confused set of shoulders that have waded in through the pools of water left from the tide. She pulls those shoulders in to her tightly and squeezes them with all the strength she has left.

I run over and I grab hold of both of them and we sit that way for a very long time.

Afraid to let go.

I look out over their heads at the vast blue ocean and see something I had never noticed before and I wonder: What if…?

And now, I hate the beach.

Roughing It

We camped out in the backyard with the kids this weekend. Is it really camping when it's in your backyard? With an airbed? And a laptop? And waffles in the morning? This seems to me to be like walking around the block and calling it a hike.

We essentially made the RVers that you constantly find yourself passing in and around Florida look like Survivor Man.

You'll notice a picture of a beautiful yellow garden spider above. This is just to show that there is at least a little wildlife still around the suburbs of Lake Carolina.

Childish Adult (Dad)

Conversation with the Athlete

Dad: So Harper, you have a triathlon coming up on Saturday how are you feeling about that?

Harper: Well...hurray!!!!! So are you going to run with Ainsley this year like you did with me and Ainsley in other years.

Dad: I don't know. I guess I'll just have to wait and see how Ainsley does. If she's looking tuckered out then I'll run with her. How are you feeling about the swim? It's 100 meters this year and you haven't been swimming at the pool as much this summer as in past years.

Harper: I don't know. Although I can do it. I've done it before so I know I can do it because I can swim 200 meters or more. Are Mama and Papa going to come?

Dad: They will be driving in from St. Louis Friday night and I'm sure they'll be excited to come see the race. I'll bet they've never been to a triathlon before. They'll be so excited to see you and Muluken and Ty and Ainsley finish! Which do you think will be the hardest - the swim, bike, or run?

Harper: I like finishing and geting maetle .I wonder what my metele will look like this time . I'm not saying I do go for the prize. I go to have fun. Like most pepole do. Did you do iny tryathalons when you where a kid??????????

Dad: Absolutely not! I didn't do my first triathlon until I was about 24 or 25 and, even then, it was really, really scary. I knew I could finish the whole race but I was worried about coming in last or embarrassing myself in front of everyone. I can see now how silly it was to be so worried about that. I had a lot of fun in my first triathlon. I could barely finish the swim, did okay on the bike, and then did really well on the run. This is pretty much how all my triathlons have gone. I'm a much better runner than anything else. I'm not that fast but I seem to be able to run hard for a long amount of time even when my body is telling me its tired and that I should slow down. But the reason I enjoy triathlons isn't to do well in any part of it. It's to have fun. I love how all the athletes cheer each other on and encourage one another to keep going. I'm glad you're enjoying it. I love YOU!

Harper: I love you to!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Browsing in Books-a-Million tonight, I was amazed to see how many magazines there are in circulation. There are literally hundreds of them. And for every Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, or Newsweek there are dozens of others named Hear the World, True Confessions, or Table Tennis. Who reads all these magazines? Can there actually be enough people out there reading Modern Ferrett to keep it in business?

DOG TROUBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There once was a dog named Pillow. The dog liked to ride in the car. Like most dogs don't Whenever the car door opened, pillow would go running for it and he always liked to stick his head out the window and bark on and on. Once the window was open and he stuck his head out the window he was barking away and there was a lot of cars honking.
Thay were getting annoyed with the dog. Jack thought, "thay like my dog Pillow barking" so he went driving along and... all the cars where honking. Then a police car pulled up behind him and the police pulled him over ... and said" the pepo.le are honking because they are annoyed with your dog.
"Oh I didin't know that!" "Now close your window." said the police.
" Okay" said Jake.
But when he drove off he opened the window and got some fresh air. But when he saw the police he closed it. He did not want to get a ticket. That would be bad.
But... when he closed it this time he closed it on his dogs neck and the dog yelped and barked and did more yelping. The people inside the cars were strating to wave. He thought they were being nice and he was waving back nicely. Again the police pulled him over and said "Do you know hwy there are waving at you?"
"I do not know why."
And the police said "I will tell you after I check your eyes and ears. Is that okay with you?"
"That is okay with me."
"Ok then I will. I the police will do that."
And then the police saw it and said "Oh my GOSH I SEE A BIG HOLE IN YOUR EYE!"
"My dog bites me in the eye a lot."
"I will call an ambulance right now" said the police.
"I will tell them to bring you to a hospital called We Like to Help You. You will need surger."
Well so the ambulance came to get him and the police gave him a note that said something on it. I do not know what. The ambulance came to a stop at the hospital. It brought the guy on a little bed. He had to stay there two weeks. When he got home...
he taught his dog some commands. Not fun ones.

Adultish Child (Harper - from 2nd grade)