I came back from our Christmas trip to St. Louis with more blog ideas than I possibly had time to write about. My buddy Tim gave me a small notebook on our last day of school before Winter Break that read "Fill these pages with important words and thoughts." He might be disappointed because, instead, I filled it with superficial observations and smart ass comments from our Christmas trip.
The first came just a few hours into our drive as we passed into Georgia. One of the very first billboards I saw read:
Make your ONE call to...
1-800-CALL -KEN
Ken Nugent Legal Services
Really? I know that colonial Georgia was basically a roaming prison, serving as a spot for England to send its less desirables, but I would hope that after these hundreds of years things would have changed. I've been to both Alabama and Louisiana and I know for a fact that a good deal of those "less desirables'" descendants are now living throughout the south. So why would Georgia allow Ken Nugent to welcome travelers with such a sign? Are there THAT many people getting arrested? Is there really that much money to be had from these people?
The second blog idea came on our second day with Tricia's parents. I made my first visit to church in five years. I really do not like church. As a child I went as often as three times a week - Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. There was also church league bowling, softball, and volleyball. And youth group, play practices, and countless lunches and dinners. It wasn't the amount of time spent at church that turned me off, though. I just grew to question the likelihood of all those stories and the reasonableness of all those beliefs.
Tricia's parents church is quite different from the smallish Baptist church I grew up attending. It seats more than a thousand people. has two big screen TVs mounted behind the pulpit, and hosts religious and social events most, if not every, night of the week. The service lasted a little over an hour but the sermon itself was ten to fifteen minutes tops. The sermon was all about "breaking down the walls that we build around ourselves." The walls were a metaphor for our need for a sense of comfort, safety, etc. There were very few mentions of God or Jesus so it went well enough. The other fifty minutes were spent singing songs and listening to announcements. My mom asked how it went. "It went okay. Maybe I'll go back in another five or six years," I said. But probably not.
The third blog idea came when Tricia and I went out for a date night. We went to one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis - an Indian place in the Central West End called Rasoi. Afterward we headed over to the Chase to see True Grit. As always, parking in the Central West End was nearly impossible. We finally found a spot but had only fifty cents for the meter. As Tricia will attest, I always seem to think that we don't need to feed the meter. "You don't have to pay after 5:00" I might argue. Or, "It's free on Sundays." Or worse, "No one even checks these meters!" I'm generally very much a rule follower. Like Ainsley I think people should follow the rules no matter what. I'll sit through a two minute red light at 3am with no cars anywhere in sight because that's what I'm supposed to do. I often stand on the curb and wait for what seems like forever for the walk signal even though there's no traffic. But for some reason when it comes to paying the meter I find every reason not to adhere to my legal obligations.
As we pulled into our parking spot and Tricia found that we only had two quarters she asked what I thought we should do. The movie didn't start for another hour (we were planning to walk over to the library to browse before heading down the block to the theater) and the movie was an hour and half at the very least.
"It's after six," I said. "You don't have to pay the meter after six."
"You always say that," she pointed out. "You NEVER think we have to pay the meter!"
"But I'm always right!"
Tricia sighed and looked up the street.
"Look," she said. "There's the meter reader!"
She was right. Two cars in front of us was a meter reader writing a ticket. After placing it under a windshield wiper he made his way up to the next car.
"We definitely have to get some change or find a parking garage now," she argued.
"No we don't," I said. "Look, he just checked all the cars on this block. It's 6:07 now. What are the chances he gets back to our block tonight? Euclid is a l-o-n-g street with a lot of meters. If anything we're more safe than ever."
It was dark but I can only imagine Tricia rolled her eyes. I really am hard to live with at times.
"Okay," she said. "But if we get a ticket you have to pay for it out of your own money."
"Ha, as if such a thing exists," I laughed.
We climbed out of the car and, ignoring the meter, pulled our jackets up around our ears and huddled together to head up the street. We instantly saw that the meter reader's car was parked just four spaces in front of our van. More debate ensued but we forged ahead. Once we got into the library I went to the information desk to ask how late you had to pay the meters. The librarian told me that they stop checking them at 7:00. Whether this meant you still have to pay them I wasn't sure but I headed back over to Tricia to gloat none-the-less.
"Well, go out and put our fifty cents," she told me. " At least we'll be paid until a quarter 'til or so."
I knew when to play nice and headed toward the front door. On the way I debated whether I should actually head out into the cold for what was certain to be a wasted effort (and wasted money) or if I should just hang out in the vestibule area for a few minutes and then head back in. Half an hour later, as we were heading out for the theater, Tricia, knowing me all too well, asked whether I had actually paid the meter or just pretended to. True to form I refused to say.
My fourth blog idea came a few nights later when attending "Christmas Eve" with Tricia's extended family. Due to busy schedules this party is never really on Christmas Eve but it's close enough. We haven't been able to attend this party the past few years so this was the first time we had seen these families in quite a while. Even when we lived in St. Louis we saw most of them only once a year, at this very party. They were like sometimes relatives.
I'm not much good at small talk and at no other time is this more evident than at this party. Tricia tried to coach me on the way.
"Talk to my Uncle Dennis about the food dehydrator you got from your kids at school," she suggested. "He used to have one too and talked about it all the time."
She's worse at small talk than I am and I wasn't too sure why she felt a need to offer help given that the one person at that party that I was usually pretty good at talking to was her Uncle Dennis. We generally talked about vacation plans and running. It was perhaps the only two things we really had in common but we could talk endlessly about both topics.
As we walked into the party the room fell silent and all those strange faces turned to stare at us making our entrance. Only five seconds in and it was already awkward. This would prove to the be the high water mark for the night as things only went downhill from there. I started by seeking out Dennis. I figured I should start strong and move on to the others from there. Unfortunately our conversation didn't go as planned. Someone else I didn't know too well was part of the conversation too and I didn't feel comfortable talking about running for fear of leaving him out. I wanted to talk about vacations but they were just finishing up a conversation on this topic as I made my way over. I was baffled. What to do?
"So," I said. "I got a dehydrator from my kids at school for Christmas!"
"A what?" he said.
"A dehydrator," I repeated.
"What's that?" the other guy asked.
"You mean a dehumidifier?" Dennis asked.
I stammered.
"It dries your food out," I explained. "You know, it takes all the water out."
"Why would you want to do that?" the other guy asked. It wasn't the type of question that made you feel as though he really wanted to learn more about the subject but, rather, that he wondered what in the hell was wrong with you. As if you making this all up.
"It's to help preserve the food for hiking and backpacking," I explained. "You dehydrate it, pack it up, and then rehydrate it on the trail."
"Oh," they both said, simultaneously. They both looked around uncomfortably and walked away.
I stood there for a moment playing with the food on my snack plate. Tricia and her parents were talking with someone else across the room. I was tempted to join them and take comfort in numbers. Around this time Tricia's cousin Michael walked by to freshen up the snack table. He and I have had just a handful of conversations over the past fourteen or fifteen years. We have little in common and he's not all that talkative anyway. Still, I felt I needed to try. I had to prove to myself that I was capable of this simple social skill.
"Hey Mike," I said.
Doh, I thought. He goes by Michael you idiot!
I saw that there was a book on his television titled The Elf on the Shelf. I knew of this book from school and had a funny antecdote concerning a conversation I had with my kids about it. I shared it with him and he said nothing. He didn't even offer up a chuckle. It was a good antecdote too. But still he didn't smirk.
"Yeah, well...I oughta be finding Tricia I guess," I said.
"Alright," he answered and turned away to return to the kitchen.
I was 0 for 2. My ability to make small talk didn't much improve from there. I later found myself in conversation with another teacher but we had an entire discussion where I don't think either of us really understood what the other was trying to say. Later I talked with a lady who took great interest in everything I had to say. She's known for this. In fact, she takes so much interest in what you have to say that you almost feel uncomfortable. She leans in real close, has a perpetual smile, and never breaks eye contact. Ever.
She really liked that the kids had spent time backpacking last summer.
"Now they will know how to fend for themselves and find food if they're ever lost in the woods," she commented.
She was serious. I didn't break it to her that backpacking was more about high tech cook pots and fuel canisters than berry gathering or squirrel hunting. She wanted to know about the bears, too. I may have disappointed her when letting on that we hadn't seen any bears but we had seen a lot of snails.
"Tons of them!" I assured her.
The only highlight of my ability to make small talk was when I later told of our encounter with the parking meter for Tricia's sister and brother-in-law. They laughed and laughed. I suddenly felt like a bad poker player. The one who stays in to the bitter end of every hand and only to lose nine times out of ten. Why, then, does he stay in so often? Because he remembers that ONE TIME when he pulled the perfect card and won. Tricia's sister and brother-in-law are my perfect cards. They keep me wanting to try again.
So there it is. More stories than I could ever write about.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
A Tough Crowd
A number of weeks ago our school faculty got together to listen to a small collection of inquiry project presentations from our early childhood student interns. Each of the four student-teachers took a turn sharing with us what they had worked on during the past semester- building community, conflict resolution, etc - and how it turned out for them. Afterward, they invited questions and comments from the teachers.
I mostly sat and listened. That is, until one of our fourth grade teachers decided to share a quote that he felt had some connection to the project being shared. It evidently was a humorous quote. Or at least it was intended to be because when he finished, and everyone in the room sat silently, he exclaimed, "That was funny!"
"Oh, is that how your finishing your jokes now?" I asked, "by telling us 'That was funny?'"
He laughed.
"Is this something you find you need to say after a lot of your jokes? Because if it is you might want to stop telling them," I said, further rubbing it in.
Jokes are like that, though. Sometimes people find them funny. Sometimes they don't. And sometimes they're just flat out put off by them.
I once had a meteorology professor that started our first day of class with the following two jokes:
"How does Kurt Cobain collect his thoughts?"
"...with a mop."
"Did you see the flight plan Bob Richards turned in for his last flight?"
(he drew a line gradually lifting up from the ground then then nosediving straight back down)
Both jokes were about people who had recently died. Kurt Cobain committed suicide by shooting himself in the head and local meteorologist Bob Richards, also committing suicide, drove his plane into the ground to escape the growing rumors about his supposed affair.
Neither man was necessarily a model citizen but I didn't like the fact that this teacher was making fun of thier deaths; none-the-less, on our very first day of class together. Perhaps there are some types of jokes you reserve for friends, or at least close acquaintances. I would think jokes about death would fall into this category.
My dad used to tell all kinds of really bad jokes. He enjoyed them whether they made you laugh or not. And he didn't shy away from making fun of the fact that people had died. One of his favorites was "Do you want to see my impersonation of John Wayne?" He would then fold his arms across his chest and close his eyes as though he were lying in a casket. He had a similar impersonation of Elvis, but with a snarled lip.
Neither impersonation was all that funny but I doubt anyone was ever offended. Sometimes people didn't even get it. They'd stare at him and wonder what in the hell he was doing. "So go ahead," they'd suggest.
Some of my own jokes are like this. I definitely inherited my sense of humor from my dad because most of my jokes aren't funny either but I still enjoy telling them. Every once in a while, though, I'll tell a joke and be disappointed no one else found it as humorous as I did - if for no other reason than to share a laugh.
This happened a few nights ago. Tricia, the kids, and I were at a holiday party saying our goodbyes before heading out the door. I stopped by to wish our friends, Tim and Heidi, a happy holiday when Heidi leaned in and quietly mentioned that she had something to give me before I left.
"Head back to the bathroom," she said. "I also have something I want to talk to you about."
The bathroom? I was pretty sure I must have heard that wrong. Still, I walked back toward the bedroom where all the coats and bags were being kept. Once I entered the bedroom, with Heidi right behind me, I looked back over my shoulder and she looked as though she was waiting for me to continue. So, taking a chance of thoroughly embarrassing myself, I hung a right and walked into the bathroom. And sure enough, she followed me in!
So there we were standing together in someone else's bathroom. It was pretty big with a nice green marble tub and all. But still, if you wanted to sit down it'd have to be on the toilet because it was the only seat.
As if things weren't weird enough Tim showed up. He just walked right in too. Like he was expecting to see us there. If they weren't both so nice I would have suspected that maybe I was about to get beat up or something. "You lure him into the bathroom," Tim might suggest, "and I'll be right behind you to jump him!"
But he didn't. Instead Heidi handed me a gift bag and, unsure whether she wanted me to open it then or wait, I pulled out the Christmas card and commented on the great picture of their boys in Hawaii. Heidi then proceeded to talk about the book she's writing for Heinemann (a big-time publisher of texts for teachers and educators) and some of the issues she's having with how it will be written.
She suggested that she, Tim, and I think on these issues over the break and get back together to discuss it after the holidays. These are the types of discussions and I love and, without doubt, the fact that she would even think to include me in this task is tremendously flattering. Yet I still couldn't get over the fact that we were hanging out in the bathroom together. And that they seemed so at ease as though they had had many important talks in other people's bathrooms.
As we wrapped up the conversation and made tentative plans to meet again in a few weeks I suggested "That sounds great. But next time let's meet in YOUR bathroom."
Two blank faces stared right back at me. Evidently they hadn't spent the past five minutes thinking about that bathroom. Evidently they didn't find this to be even remotely funny - a fact I couldn't stop talking about on the drive home.
"Seriously," I pleaded to Tricia. "I was making light of the fact we were standing around exchanging gifts and having a professional conversation in the very same room that our principal uses to flush her system - and yet nothing."
And then it hit me. I forgot to tell them.
"That was funny."
I mostly sat and listened. That is, until one of our fourth grade teachers decided to share a quote that he felt had some connection to the project being shared. It evidently was a humorous quote. Or at least it was intended to be because when he finished, and everyone in the room sat silently, he exclaimed, "That was funny!"
"Oh, is that how your finishing your jokes now?" I asked, "by telling us 'That was funny?'"
He laughed.
"Is this something you find you need to say after a lot of your jokes? Because if it is you might want to stop telling them," I said, further rubbing it in.
Jokes are like that, though. Sometimes people find them funny. Sometimes they don't. And sometimes they're just flat out put off by them.
I once had a meteorology professor that started our first day of class with the following two jokes:
"How does Kurt Cobain collect his thoughts?"
"...with a mop."
"Did you see the flight plan Bob Richards turned in for his last flight?"
(he drew a line gradually lifting up from the ground then then nosediving straight back down)
Both jokes were about people who had recently died. Kurt Cobain committed suicide by shooting himself in the head and local meteorologist Bob Richards, also committing suicide, drove his plane into the ground to escape the growing rumors about his supposed affair.
Neither man was necessarily a model citizen but I didn't like the fact that this teacher was making fun of thier deaths; none-the-less, on our very first day of class together. Perhaps there are some types of jokes you reserve for friends, or at least close acquaintances. I would think jokes about death would fall into this category.
My dad used to tell all kinds of really bad jokes. He enjoyed them whether they made you laugh or not. And he didn't shy away from making fun of the fact that people had died. One of his favorites was "Do you want to see my impersonation of John Wayne?" He would then fold his arms across his chest and close his eyes as though he were lying in a casket. He had a similar impersonation of Elvis, but with a snarled lip.
Neither impersonation was all that funny but I doubt anyone was ever offended. Sometimes people didn't even get it. They'd stare at him and wonder what in the hell he was doing. "So go ahead," they'd suggest.
Some of my own jokes are like this. I definitely inherited my sense of humor from my dad because most of my jokes aren't funny either but I still enjoy telling them. Every once in a while, though, I'll tell a joke and be disappointed no one else found it as humorous as I did - if for no other reason than to share a laugh.
This happened a few nights ago. Tricia, the kids, and I were at a holiday party saying our goodbyes before heading out the door. I stopped by to wish our friends, Tim and Heidi, a happy holiday when Heidi leaned in and quietly mentioned that she had something to give me before I left.
"Head back to the bathroom," she said. "I also have something I want to talk to you about."
The bathroom? I was pretty sure I must have heard that wrong. Still, I walked back toward the bedroom where all the coats and bags were being kept. Once I entered the bedroom, with Heidi right behind me, I looked back over my shoulder and she looked as though she was waiting for me to continue. So, taking a chance of thoroughly embarrassing myself, I hung a right and walked into the bathroom. And sure enough, she followed me in!
So there we were standing together in someone else's bathroom. It was pretty big with a nice green marble tub and all. But still, if you wanted to sit down it'd have to be on the toilet because it was the only seat.
As if things weren't weird enough Tim showed up. He just walked right in too. Like he was expecting to see us there. If they weren't both so nice I would have suspected that maybe I was about to get beat up or something. "You lure him into the bathroom," Tim might suggest, "and I'll be right behind you to jump him!"
But he didn't. Instead Heidi handed me a gift bag and, unsure whether she wanted me to open it then or wait, I pulled out the Christmas card and commented on the great picture of their boys in Hawaii. Heidi then proceeded to talk about the book she's writing for Heinemann (a big-time publisher of texts for teachers and educators) and some of the issues she's having with how it will be written.
She suggested that she, Tim, and I think on these issues over the break and get back together to discuss it after the holidays. These are the types of discussions and I love and, without doubt, the fact that she would even think to include me in this task is tremendously flattering. Yet I still couldn't get over the fact that we were hanging out in the bathroom together. And that they seemed so at ease as though they had had many important talks in other people's bathrooms.
As we wrapped up the conversation and made tentative plans to meet again in a few weeks I suggested "That sounds great. But next time let's meet in YOUR bathroom."
Two blank faces stared right back at me. Evidently they hadn't spent the past five minutes thinking about that bathroom. Evidently they didn't find this to be even remotely funny - a fact I couldn't stop talking about on the drive home.
"Seriously," I pleaded to Tricia. "I was making light of the fact we were standing around exchanging gifts and having a professional conversation in the very same room that our principal uses to flush her system - and yet nothing."
And then it hit me. I forgot to tell them.
"That was funny."
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Toughing Out the Cold
Sun rising over the middle school football field outside our classroom window.
(as captured by Maxwell)
Last Wednesday, as we walked in to school from the van, Ainsley looked up and said "Wow, look at the clouds!" I had noticed them too on the drive in. They were tightly grouped together in small mounds across the sky, looking very much like the moguls you see skiers hopping over in the Winter Olympics. In the distance we could see the sun just beginning to rise above the treeline.
About an hour later my students had made their way into our classroom and were spread about the room playing chess, reading books, and searching the internet for news articles to share. I was working to decorate a CD cover with a small group of kids when Maxwell came over.
"Mr. Hass, did you see the sky?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's beautiful," I responded.
"Could I get the camera and climb out the window to take a picture of it?" he asked.
I really wish our classroom had a door because we do quite a lot of climbing in and out of that window. While I've never been told specifically NOT to let the kids crawl out of it, I can't imagine it's encouraged.
"Sure," I said.
I didn't really expect the photo to turn out. I imagined, if anything, it would be washed out by the sunlight. However, after school I pulled out the camera to see what pictures the kids had taken over the course of the day and I was amazed by the beauty of that first shot. A professional photographer could not have captured it any better.
Later in the day, after working to write songs and make sense of fractions, we cleaned up for recess. Kayla asked if she could bring the camera out and snap some shots of the kids playing and of the ice that sometimes collected here and there. I gave her the green light, most of us grabbed a jacket, and we headed out.
It was cold. There was a day when I would differentiate between "cold" and "South Carolina cold." In St. Louis we had long, long stretches where the high temperature would stay below twenty degrees. It was not uncommon to see the mercury drop below 0 a few times over the course of a winter. So when we moved to South Carolina and saw people bundling up as soon as the temperatures dropped into the low fifties we couldn't help but laugh.
They just seemed to overreact to the slightest change in temperature. At the threat of snow flurries there would be rumors that school might be canceled. In fact, there were times in those first few years here where school was canceled due to the threat of flurries. Oh, and morning temperatures in the twenties.
In St. Louis I remember taking my class out to recess everyday unless it was raining or the temperatures were sub-zero. Part of this was due to my great hatred of indoor recess. But another reason for going out every day was that as long as you dressed appropriately you were never really all that miserable. Especially when you ran around and played rather than standing in one place to shiver and gripe.
I had the right clothes, too. I loaded up with a wool vest, cotton coat, and windbreaker jacket. Added to that was a neck gator, stocking hat, and really big mittens outfitted with a wind and moisture blocking sleeve. Throw in a second pair of socks and leather hiking boots and I was sweating bullets until I finally hit the door.
I've noticed, though, that I'm not so careful to dress appropriately now that I live in the south. I still wear shorts a day or two each week and sometimes only come out to recess equipped with a hoodie jacket. There's ice on the ground and in the pond - a fact that just amazes my students - and it's cold. I shake. And shiver. And put my hands in my pocket and gripe to myself.
Why is it soooo cold?
It was seventy degrees like a week and a half ago!
Seriously, I didn't move south to freeze to death. This is ridiculous!
I have a partner in all this. Another teacher who is out to recess with us each day is originally from Texas. He pulls his hood around his face so tight that you can barely see any skin in there at all. He shifts from one foot to the other moaning and complaining. I tell him of the old days when I would have not worn a jacket at all. And the time I braved a port-a-potty toilet seat in 8-degree weather. And the time I ran a half-marathon in a 4-degree snow storm!
But those are all memories now. I no longer laugh at the locals because I've become one of them. Now the new northern transplants can enjoy a good laugh at me. I'm alright with that.
I know their day will come soon enough.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Ainsley
She’s sensitive, too. A few nights ago Tricia and Ainsley were alone in the car on their way home from running an errand together. As they passed a nearby school Ainsley looked out the window and asked, “Mommy, is that a high school?”
“Is high school where you sleep at school?” she asked.
Tricia thought a moment, trying to figure out what Ainsley was talking about.
“No sweetie. You don’t sleep at school in high school,” she answered. “That’s college you’re thinking of.”
“Oh.”
Ainsley became very quiet. After a few moments she spoke again - this time her tiny voice beginning to quiver.
“I don’t want to go to college.”
“Why not,” Tricia asked.
Ainsley began to cry.
“Because I don’t want to leave my family,” she sobbed.
Tricia gave her a moment to calm down.
“I want to be a cashier when I grow up,” Ainsley said. “Grandma said you don’t have to go to college to be a cashier.”
“That’s true,” Tricia answered. “But you still might want to go to college.”
“No, not to be a cashier,” she said. “I want to be a cashier at Publix. Because that’s where you shop.”
After a few more moments of whimpering and thinking about all this Ainsley said, “Mommy, could you not tell anyone I cried?”
There was a time when Harper used to constantly tell us “I love my family!” She still asks to sit in our laps after dinner and gives out the occasional hug. However, she’s getting older and trying to find a balance between being our little girl and acting like the older kids she sees at school and in movies and television shows. She's now careful to avoid kisses on the mouth and often fails to acknowledge a good night peck on top of the head while reading in bed. She has a number of really close friends and can go whole weekends barely seeing either of us.
Ainsley is just two years behind Harper and I wonder if our days of being the most important people in the whole wide world will soon draw to a close. I wonder if we'll have to go looking for those hugs and kisses. Looking at Ainsley right now, it’s hard to imagine that could be true.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Roadside Museums
Entering the station, I grabbed a Snicker bar and made my way to the back to find a small bottle of milk. However, the milk was nearly impossible to find. All but one of the coolers were being used to house what equated to a small warehouse of beer. But not just any brand of beer. While there may have been a few spare six-packs of Corona or Ice House there were cases upon cases upon cases of Busch, Budweiser, and Old Milwaukee.
On my way back to the front I stopped by the magazine rack. Now some gas stations, feeling these publications are ethically or morally wrong, refuse to sell pornographic magazines. Others place them behind the counter to protect the innocence of young children. This one, however, put them all - and there were many - right next to the multiple car and truck magazines and just above the single copy of Newsweek. I want to believe that Newsweek was such a hot item that they had trouble keeping them in stock. I want to believe it, but I don't.
After making my way past the assortment of fishing hats - my favorite sporting two large Styrofoam breasts protruding from the front - I finally reached the counter. Standing in line, I noticed that just beside me, one shelf above the Little Debbie snack cakes, was a box of beer bongs. On my other side was a large washtub full of iced down cans of beer. I can't say for certain that the two were meant to be impulse buys or even to be bought in tandem but, in all honesty, what's the use of one without the other?I choose to stop just short of saying that the people of small town Tennessee are ignorant, macho alcoholics who, while in a drunken stupor, beat their wives. I choose to believe that all these tell tale signs could be wrong. In fact, they have to be wrong because just the other day I decided to take a closer to look at our own gas station. The one we always use to fill up our cars. The one with the faded sign out front that reads:
POPS
POPS
POPS
On the entry door was a handwritten sign, barely legible, that read "We WILL prosecute anyone caught stealing ANYTHING from this station!" It wasn't written as though they were hoping people wouldn't start stealing from them but rather as though people regularly did. I suddenly felt a need to keep my hands out of my pockets.
The three people in front of me in line were all buying scratch off lottery tickets and cigarettes. Nothing else. Just lottery tickets and cigarettes. For what may have been the first time in my four years as a customer of this station I turned around, against my better judgment, to look around the store and see what they sold.
And that's when it hit me.
Either my theory is all wrong or my neighbors are a bunch of lazy black-lunged convicts puffing themselves toward certain deaths but on too much of a sugar high from their Moon Pie addictions to even notice. Being that I hate being wrong I'm left with just one option. I'm now taking the longer route to everywhere. The one with the yuppie Circle K that sells designer coffees and has faux-wood floors.
I feel like a better person already.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Super Shopper
I don't really care much for shopping. I don't like crowded stores, carts with a bum wheel, or long lines at the checkout. I also don't like the time it takes to make an informed choice. Trying on clothes is the worst. I'd just as soon grab something off the shelf or hanger and take my chances when I get home as find a fitting room. Maybe it's all those mirrors. I've managed to go thirty-six years without knowing what I look like from behind and I see no reason to take a peek now. Pretty much if a pair of pants don't fall off my hips while I'm walking then they'll do.Perhaps this is why nothing ever seems to fit me right.
I also hate having too many choices. Last weekend Tricia sent me to Target with a list of things to get. Most were easy things - granola bars, cereal, face wash, Expo markers. I was doing fine until I hit the shampoo aisle. I knew that we use Pantene which narrowed down my choices. But not by all that much. There were formulas made specifically for fine hair, curly hair, medium-thick hair, and hair that had been artificially colored. Sensing certain defeat, my shoulders slumped and my eyes glazed over. I noticed that the top shelf contained another choice: classic care. I assumed this was the formula for men who didn't know enough or care enough to match a shampoo to their particular hair type. As much as I wanted to believe that this was the right choice it was blue and I knew our bottle wasn't blue. But what color was it?
After studying my choices I finally decided that we had the red bottle for curly hair. I reached to grab it when I noticed yet another choice. There were multiple red bottles for curly hair. One was labeled "Curls to Straight" and the other was "Dry to Moisturized."
"You've got to be ****ing kidding me!" I mumbled under my breath. "Why isn't there one that just says 'Dirty to Clean?'"
By this time I had spent what felt like ten minutes staring at the same bottles over and over again with little hope of making any sense of it all. In the end I decided to randomly guess. I don't know which one I chose but Tricia hasn't said anything. Maybe she didn't even notice. Or care.
Or maybe I got lucky and picked the right one. That would be nice.
I also hate having too many choices. Last weekend Tricia sent me to Target with a list of things to get. Most were easy things - granola bars, cereal, face wash, Expo markers. I was doing fine until I hit the shampoo aisle. I knew that we use Pantene which narrowed down my choices. But not by all that much. There were formulas made specifically for fine hair, curly hair, medium-thick hair, and hair that had been artificially colored. Sensing certain defeat, my shoulders slumped and my eyes glazed over. I noticed that the top shelf contained another choice: classic care. I assumed this was the formula for men who didn't know enough or care enough to match a shampoo to their particular hair type. As much as I wanted to believe that this was the right choice it was blue and I knew our bottle wasn't blue. But what color was it?
After studying my choices I finally decided that we had the red bottle for curly hair. I reached to grab it when I noticed yet another choice. There were multiple red bottles for curly hair. One was labeled "Curls to Straight" and the other was "Dry to Moisturized."
"You've got to be ****ing kidding me!" I mumbled under my breath. "Why isn't there one that just says 'Dirty to Clean?'"
By this time I had spent what felt like ten minutes staring at the same bottles over and over again with little hope of making any sense of it all. In the end I decided to randomly guess. I don't know which one I chose but Tricia hasn't said anything. Maybe she didn't even notice. Or care.
Or maybe I got lucky and picked the right one. That would be nice.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Grand Conversations
This doesn't happen too often but I already knew last Monday what I wanted to write about this weekend. Since I was writing about the same thing in the weekly newsletter that I send to the parents in my classroom I thought I'd just paste it here. I hope that's not cheating. But then, why should it be? There are no rules to blogging. I hope.
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“The first time you do something it might be a mistake. But the second and third time it’s a choice. It’s not a mistake anymore because you chose to do it.”
-Kayla
This bit of wisdom came after reading a book, Cheyenne Again, about a young Cheyenne boy who is taken from his family to attend a boarding school that strips him of his culture and his language in hopes of “civilizing” him. Somehow the discussion that followed the book led us to discuss how we sometimes don’t learn from previous mistakes and that those who fail to learn and understand history often risk repeating it.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Dear Families,
Do you remember the show Kids Say the Darndest Things? It was hosted by Bill Cosby and highlighted the funny things kids often say in response to questions about the world around them. While cute, the kids often came off as naïve. That was part of the fun. They saw the world so differently. So innocently.
The innocence of our kids is so refreshing. However, we shouldn’t pretend for a moment that they are not deep thinkers and that they don’t notice what goes on in the world around them. I couldn’t help but think of this very point when discussing the election with the kids this past Monday. They were so point-on with many of their comments and observations. It was yet another example of how kids should never be underestimated. We shouldn’t talk down to them. We shouldn’t teach down to them either.
Below you can read a transcript of our discussion together. It was so powerful. I knew you’d want to read it. You’ll notice that names (other than mine) have been deleted. I did this in case any families did not want their political beliefs being shared in such a public place. (You did know that when the kids get to school they make your whole life public, right?) The kids’ dialogue is in bold and italics.
Enjoy.
Chris: So on Friday we were talking a bit about the elections that are taking place tomorrow. A number of you shared what you knew about the various races including who was running for office. So since there are going to be more than a million voters turning out to vote tomorrow I’m wondering what you guys think a voter should do to learn more about the candidates before casting their vote at the polls. Think for a moment and then I’m going to ask you to turn and share a couple of thoughts with a partner.
Chris: So what were you thinking? What should voters do before casting their
votes?
They shouldn’t vote based on whether the person running is a boy or a girl or is black or white – but how they will treat the country.
The state.
Yeah, the state. Because that’s more important than what kind of person they are.
Chris: Any other ideas?
They should listen to what they’re saying real good so they will know if they’re lying. You should vote for the person you think is not lying.
Yeah, like Rob Miller has said in commercials that the other guy is…
Chris: Joe Wilson?
Yeah, Joe Wilson. He said Joe Wilson used tax money to pay for vacations for his family but he was really visiting combat zones and that’s different.
Chris: I remember you saying on Friday that your dad told you that sometimes people use the truth to tell lies. That’s a lot like our study earlier in the year of whether zoos are good or bad for animals. We read one resource that said elephants live to be far older in the wild than they do in captivity. That might be true but there were a lot of other animals that actually live longer in the zoo, in captivity, than they do in the wild. That article was carefully selecting which truths to tell and which to leave out. Maybe that’s what your dad meant by using the truth to tell lies.
Yeah, like he really did go places but it wasn’t on vacation.
Chris: Well, I think a lot of people out there see that issue in different ways and that’s something that some voters will think about when deciding who to vote for. But you’re right, we have to pay close attention to what the commercials are saying. Anyone else? What should voters do to learn more about the candidates they’re deciding between?
You should know about their pasts. Like what other jobs they’ve had. Like if they said they’re honest or they work hard we should know what other jobs they’ve had so we can see if they were honest at that job too. You should know their past so you can figure out their future.
Chris: That’s an interesting idea.
And voters should ask questions. They should ask the people running what they think or what they want to do.
Yeah, and listen to their speeches and listen closely to promises. Like if they say they’re going to lower money on Silly Bandz and make it more expensive on cigarettes. Some people think some things are more important and other things are less important so they’ll want to lower the rate on one or raise it on another.
But if they raise the price of cigarettes people will still keep smoking them anyway because they’re addictive.
Chris: So are you saying we should listen to their promises and decide whether those promises are fair and whether they are true?
Yeah.
I have a connection to what [someone else] was saying. If a guy says he’s never raised taxes but he has then people should know that. Kind of like knowing their past…their old jobs. So I would pay more attention to their past than their future.
I’d pay attention to their commercials.
Chris: How interesting you should say that because we’re getting ready to look at two commercials here in just a bit – one from Nikki Haley and one from Vincent Sheheen. As you guys all know, they are both running for governor. Are there any other ideas before we see that?
I think people should look into what both people believe in and think about both of them and then vote for who they think is right.
Chris: Wow, if more voters turned out and thought the way you do our election process would be even stronger than what it is (she smiles).
I think in commercials they tell lies on each other so you won’t want to vote for the other person. You have to decide who you believe.
Chris: Yeah, that’s the hard part sometimes – deciding who to believe when you’re hearing two different stories. So look back at all you guys have shared. You think voters should vote not on gender or race but on how candidates will help the country, listen carefully to what candidates say and decide whether or not you believe them, get to know something about the candidates pasts, ask questions of the candidates, listen carefully to their speeches and pay attention to their promises, be wary of them bad-talking each other or telling lies, watch their commercials, and consider what they believe in and compare that to your own beliefs. That’s a lot of really good stuff!
Unfortunately a lot of voters never do all this stuff. In fact, often times the majority of the people never even bother to vote. Isn’t that sad? There are some countries in the world where the people have no say in their government, laws, and quality of life. Yet, here in America we have this wonderful right – to vote for our leaders – and many of us don’t even bother to do so.
Some other people do vote but don’t necessarily know all that much about the candidates. With everything that’s out there they mainly rely on what they hear from the candidates’ commercials. So I thought we might watch a couple of these commercials to see what it is that we learn about the candidates from them. I’m going to start with Nikki Haley – in alphabetical order – and I want you to see what this commercial tells you about her as a candidate for governor of South Carolina.
Can we get out a notebook?
Chris: No, it’s only about twenty seconds long so I doubt you’ll need one. You can probably hold your ideas in your head and then turn and discuss them. So here it is. (Plays commercial with Sarah Palin endorsement from You Tube)
Turn and talk with someone about some things that you learned about Nikki Haley. (Kids turn and talk)
So what did you learn? What did you notice?
She said that South Carolina needs fresh faces and a fresh focus but what? What fresh focus is she going to do? She didn’t say.
And she said she works through God.
Chris: Is that important to know?
Many Kids: Yes!
Chris: Okay, so a number of voters might really want to know whether she is religious or not. Anything else?
Well I saw one of the debates with my parents and in the debate she said she wanted to lift education up and build more schools for kids but that wasn’t in the commercial.
Chris: Ah, so your family watched one of the debates and she had more time to share information there?
Yeah. The commercial was just too fast.
Chris: Well, TV advertisements are awfully expensive so I would imagine that candidates try to fit as much as they can into a small amount of time.
Yeah, it was too quick to hear everything.
Chris: Do you want to watch it again?
Class: Yes. (Plays again) Anything new you noticed? (No hands)
Chris: Okay, let’s look at Vincent Sheheen’s.
Is his real fast too?
Chris: I don’t know. I don’t know which one we’ll see. I didn’t pick and choose which to show because I wanted to avoid the possibility that I might pick a better commercial for one candidate than the other. This way it’s random. (Shows Sheheen video) What did you notice? Turn and talk with someone. (Kids turn and talk) Who wants to share something out?
He says he worries about jobs. That South Carolina needs more jobs.
Yeah, I went to a Tea Party meeting with my family and Nikki Haley was there. She said that she was worried that so many people in South Carolina don’t have jobs and have to live on the street. She wants for everyone to have a job and earn money.
Chris: What else did you all notice?
Well, he said that he doesn’t want South Carolina to move backwards anymore. He wants it to move forward. But he didn’t tell how. How’s South Carolina going to move forward? We don’t know.
Chris: That’s a very good question. I think that’s a big problem with these commercials. They’re so short and so fast that we often don’t get a chance to hear about the things we might want to. I’m glad, though, to hear that many of your families are reading the newspaper, watching the news, attending events in our community, watching debates, and looking on the internet. It probably takes more than just one of any of these things to really get a good sense of what a candidate believes and what he or she hopes to do.
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This conversation is but one example of why teaching is the greatest of all professions. I guess the trick is noticing these moments - the ones when the kids really "think up" and blow you away or even inspire you.
The kids had some really cool conversations around this as well. There was talk of "having the Terrible Thing try living in the animals' shoes to see what it feels like" and even "getting even with the Terrible Things." One perspective suggests building empathy, the other seeking retribution. How often do we see these perspectives shared in the real world - where it's not animals but people at stake?
Wonderful thoughts. Wonderful conversations.
And I get paid to sit and listen.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Virginia is for Drunken Murderers
A few years ago Tricia and I spent an afternoon in Hot Springs, North Carolina. We enjoyed a light lunch, picked up some trail snacks, and headed out to hike a mile or two on the Appalachian Trail. It was our first trip on the trail and we really didn't know anything about it other than that it was pretty long. All of our previous hiking had been on a variety of tame trails in heavily visited state parks.
As we approached the trail we stopped to check the map and message board. There at the center - in very large letters - was a warning: BEWARE: BEARS HAVE BEEN REPORTED IN THIS AREA. The sign went on to suggest that anyone hiking carry "bear mace" and plan to slowly retreat from any evidence of bear activity on the trail. This startled us a bit.
"Are we going to die?" Tricia half-joked.
"I hope not," I answered.
The first stretch of trail was nicely graded. There were many switchbacks but because of all the thick foliage it was impossible to see what was awaiting us around each corner. All we could think about was bears. We were certain we were only moments away from a certain mauling. I tried to make as much noise as I could to announce our presence.
After only about twenty minutes or so we decided to stop and head back down. The trail was still climbing steadily with no indication that we were anywhere near the top. We weren't necessarily in the best climbing shape, hadn't brought any water with us, and felt the time was ripe to call it quits with all of our limbs still intact.We walked back to the car, safe and sound.
In the following weeks I developed quite a fascination for the Appalachian Trail. I read a book or two and started reading the on-line journals of hikers walking the entire 2,100 path in a single season. I quickly learned that many hikers walk on the trail for weeks, or even months, at a time and never see a single bear. Not only do they not see any bears but they actually feel disappointed by it. The ones that do encounter bears do not run or cry or even drop and play dead. Instead, they stand in awe watching them gathering berries, scratching at a tree, or rumbling through the forest. Sometimes, if they feel unsafe, hikers will bang their trekking poles together to scare the bears off or they'll slowly retreat back down the trail and wait a few minutes before returning.
So it seems our perceived danger was a bit exaggerated. Our deaths were not imminent. We were just ignorant to the reality of the wildlife and environment around us. This isn't so uncommon. It happens all the time.
So we turned back up the mountain in search of a site we had remembered seeing a half-hour earlier. When we finally found it the sun was just beginning to drop below the trees to the west. We pulled out the tent and found that the only level spot to pitch it, where we wouldn't be sleeping on large tree roots or rocks, was just a few feet off the trail. Even worse, there was another trail intersecting the AT another few feet away. But with darkness falling over the mountain and the cold temperatures setting in we knew we didn't have time to seek out a new spot. We couldn't even remember having seen any other spots for miles anyway.
So as we began to unpack our things and set everything up I heard a voice come out of nowhere.
"Hey."
Startled, I looked around but saw no one. However, I knew someone was there. Somewhere.
"Hey," I responded. Trying to mask my surprise and sound both casual and friendly. Just as I got the words out I saw movement just through the trees to my right. It was a hunter, dressed in full camo, toting a rifle over his left shoulder. Tricia looked at me, concerned.
"Are we going to be alright here?" she whispered.
I looked down the trail to see if he had passed.
"Yeah, we're fine," I assured her. "It's just a hunter making his way back down to his car."
She didn't look too convinced. It wasn't so much the hunter, I imagined, as it was the gun that made her uneasy. After hanging our food bag over a distant tree limb and getting our sleeping gear set up we climbed into the tent. I pulled out a deck of cards and we played a game of Rummy, working hard to keep our cards from constantly sliding down our sleeping pads and resting under our bags.
About fifteen minutes later we heard more footsteps approaching. This time, however, they sounded very heavy and unsteady, as though someone were in a semi-controlled fall coming down the mountain. A loud belch soon followed and the footsteps stopped. Just outside our tent. Tricia's eyes grew enormous. I looked out the small window on our rainfly and saw two more hunters standing outside the tent, about twenty feet away. I couldn't see one of them too well because he was hidden behind some bushes but the other was standing in a small clearing and staring at our tent. He began to talk to the other one in a drunken slur. The fact that he was clearly intoxicated and carrying a rifle did not make me feel too comfortable.
"Yehau thinkst thees is thu waaaay orrr du yehau thinkst weee otta go ovr thur?" he asked.
His partner gave some type of reply but I couldn't make it out.
I looked back at Tricia who was sitting very still. "It's just more hunters," I said casually.
"I don't like this," she whispered. "I've seen Deliverance."
After a few long seconds the two hunters continued on their way down the mountain, presumably on their way back to their car.
"I read an article about two girls who were raped on the trail twenty years ago," Tricia told me, as soon as the two hunters were clearly gone.
"Where did you read that," I asked.
"In one of those Trail magazines they had at the cabin last summer."
"That was twenty years ago," I said. "A lot of women hike the trail alone and are fine."
"Are you sure we're okay here?" she asked again.
"Yeah, we're fine," I answered. "They're gone. Besides, this is Virginia. Virginia is for lovers. I know because all the signs say so!"
"Hmm," she said, sounding unconvinced. "But what if they come back?"
"It's going to be completely dark really soon. Who wants to climb all the way back up a pitch black mountain in the cold of night?" I asked, seeming to believe that it would be the hunters' laziness that would be our saving grace.
We were never in danger at all. We just let our imaginations get away from us a bit. I have this really great poster at school that lists ways to build global community. One of the lines reads: Don't confuse your comfort for your safety. How often do we do this? There have been many times in my life when I've found myself in an uncomfortable environment and, wrongly, felt felt that my safety was in jeopardy. Much of this is learned. Friends, family, books, newspapers, magazines, discussion boards, television, and movies share sensationalized stories that, if even accurate, are far from indicative of the norm. People do fall and die in the shower. Others are mugged or even killed by strangers knocking at their door. But these are not common occurrences. We should still feel safe. We should live life.
We have a friend that is fearful of the unknown. He hasn't seen all that much of America but watches a lot of television. Evidently much of his programming is about gangs and random murders. Any trip Tricia and I have ever planned has prompted dire warnings from him.
"Why on Earth would you go to Memphis?" he asks. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is there? All I can say is you better not talk to strangers!"
"Miami's terrible," he warns. "Do NOT roll down your windows - especially if someone walks up to your car door!"
"Don't even bother going to Detroit," he suggests. "It has the highest murder rate in the country. You'll die."
It's become a joke between us but, still, it's all rooted in truth. Not truth concerning the lack of safety in these places but the true fear Tim has of places unknown. I once took a trip with him and another friend when we were in college. One night we decided to sleep in the car at a rest stop. Tim insisted on sleeping with his head all covered up despite the fact that it was eighty degrees outside.
"Why do you have your head covered up," I asked.
"So if someone breaks into the car and kills the two of you I won't see him do it," he explained. "If I don't see him kill you two then there's no reason for him to kill me."
You really can't argue with logic like that. Thankfully no one killed us that night. Yet again, I survived.
"Hey Tricia," I said. "I've got the title for my blog this week."
"What?" she asked.
"Instead of 'Virginia is for Lovers'" I told her, "I'll call it 'Virginia is for Drunken Murders.'"
"Funny," she chuckled. Perhaps she was just humoring me but I'm okay with that. I'll take laughs anywhere I can get them. I should laugh every chance I get.
I'm lucky to be alive.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Butt of the Joke or The Butt Who Made the Joke
I enjoy a good joke. Never mind if it's at someone's expense.
Even mine.
I've been the butt of many jokes throughout my lifetime. They generally tend to center around a few specific topics:
1. I do not like to visit the doctor, take medicine, admit when I'm hurt, or admit when I'm sick.
2. I'm not very attentive. I only listen to stories that are either being told by me or about me.
3. I do not dress too nicely. The few clothes I have are stained or have small holes. I limit my wardrobe to three or four colors and most of my clothes look exactly the same.
4. I am not very macho.
5. I find humor in the troubles of others.
6. I talk far too loudly when making "private" comments about others.
7. I don't read e-mails.
Now, I'm not admitting that all, or even any, of these things are accurate. However, because they are referenced so often I'm sure there's at least a thread of truth to each. So when I hear someone say "Nice to see you got all dressed up today" or they impersonate me by looking up with a blank expression and saying "Huh?," I'm really not offended. It's funny.
Not too long ago my friend Tim was telling a story about attending a special banquet that our school district was holding in honor of our superintendent. He came back the next Monday talking about seeing people he hadn't spoken to in years. In the span of just a minute or two at the banquet he asked a few old acquaintances how they had been doing. One explained that his mother had recently died. The other told him that his sister had died just that morning. Tim looked really serious when telling this story, as though this had maybe affected him in some deep or meaningful way. Other people lowered their brow and tried to look empathetic for the unknown mourners. Not me. Striking a blow for #5 on the list above, all I could think to say at that moment was "Wow, I hope you stopped asking people how they were doing!"
I remember an old episode of The Simpsons where Homer has been sentenced to a driver training course because of some type of traffic violation. To scare him straight they show a film of tragic accidents and mangled bodies. After a few minutes of near uncontrollable laughter he responds "That's funny, because it's not me!"
I'm definitely beyond that level of insensitivity but I do notice that my favorite comedians are the ones that relentlessly make fun of others. No matter their color, sexual preference, religious affiliation, gender, athletic ability, intelligence, or any other descriptor that divides people into categories. I laugh every time Daniel Tosh jokes "We need to bring our troops home. They can have the war here. They deserve to get a good night sleep in their own beds, wake up and eat a big breakfast, and drive to war. We can have it in Nebraska. We don't even need that terrible state anyway. It's no wonder that state is full of storm chasers. Twenty minutes in Omaha and I'm praying for something to pick me up and carry me away. And yes, I tell that joke in Nebraska. But no one ever says anything because they're too busy sitting there stuffing their faces with fried mayonnaise balls."
I imagine the people of Nebraska are probably really nice. They may or may not eat fried mayonnaise. However, I'll allow myself to believe they do if it means a good laugh. Is that wrong?
Where is the line?
On Friday I told a friend at school that I hated his shirt. However, I tried to break it to him gently, "That's one ugly shirt!" I told another, when seeing a picture of him from years ago, that "you look a lot like a young Elton John." Neither comment was true but I doubt I'll ever say "That's a really cute shirt" or "Wow, you're a handsome guy!"
Before writing this I asked Tricia, "Have I ever made a joke that you found to be really insensitive and made you mad?" I didn't have to allow much think time.
"YES."
Although, when asked to present an example of one such joke she was unable to produce a single one.
"I can't think of one right now," she explained. "But there's been plenty. I remember getting mad."
So maybe there are lines that should not be crossed. Perhaps I, and others, should be more careful to spare the feelings of others - even at the expense of a well played one-liner.
Last Thursday I had dinner with some teacher friends. I went on and on about a guy I met recently who tells the types of jokes that are not only unfunny but uncomfortable. He talks almost without pause and rarely ever says anything that is remotely on-topic. He makes references that no one ever understands. He even made a presentation wearing a tank top. A tank top!
I, of course, had a little fun with all this. A little fun that I shared with my friends on Thursday night. A little fun that was supposed to elicit laughter.
"He has Asperger's," someone quickly explained. "He's autistic."
Talk about a joke that's not only not funny but uncomfortable. If there were a hole to crawl into I would have dove right into it. I drove home feeling terrible - sure that I could never again make a joke at anyone's expense. Basically, I felt I needed to stop being a jerk. Stop being a bully.
A few days have passed and I'm not so sure anymore. It may sound mean but I don't think it's necessary to stop teasing and making fun of each other. There's a lot of seriousness to life and jokes are much needed. Heck, even at funerals. But there is such thing as going too far. And that's what I had done - even if I didn't know or intend to.
I'm not sure what the exact moral is to this story but I imagine there's one somewhere. I'll continue to fumble around until I find it. But until then, careful what you say or do.
If it's the least bit awkward or incorrect I can almost guarantee it will not go unnoticed.
Even mine.
I've been the butt of many jokes throughout my lifetime. They generally tend to center around a few specific topics:
1. I do not like to visit the doctor, take medicine, admit when I'm hurt, or admit when I'm sick.
2. I'm not very attentive. I only listen to stories that are either being told by me or about me.
3. I do not dress too nicely. The few clothes I have are stained or have small holes. I limit my wardrobe to three or four colors and most of my clothes look exactly the same.
4. I am not very macho.
5. I find humor in the troubles of others.
6. I talk far too loudly when making "private" comments about others.
7. I don't read e-mails.
Now, I'm not admitting that all, or even any, of these things are accurate. However, because they are referenced so often I'm sure there's at least a thread of truth to each. So when I hear someone say "Nice to see you got all dressed up today" or they impersonate me by looking up with a blank expression and saying "Huh?," I'm really not offended. It's funny.
Not too long ago my friend Tim was telling a story about attending a special banquet that our school district was holding in honor of our superintendent. He came back the next Monday talking about seeing people he hadn't spoken to in years. In the span of just a minute or two at the banquet he asked a few old acquaintances how they had been doing. One explained that his mother had recently died. The other told him that his sister had died just that morning. Tim looked really serious when telling this story, as though this had maybe affected him in some deep or meaningful way. Other people lowered their brow and tried to look empathetic for the unknown mourners. Not me. Striking a blow for #5 on the list above, all I could think to say at that moment was "Wow, I hope you stopped asking people how they were doing!"
I remember an old episode of The Simpsons where Homer has been sentenced to a driver training course because of some type of traffic violation. To scare him straight they show a film of tragic accidents and mangled bodies. After a few minutes of near uncontrollable laughter he responds "That's funny, because it's not me!"
I'm definitely beyond that level of insensitivity but I do notice that my favorite comedians are the ones that relentlessly make fun of others. No matter their color, sexual preference, religious affiliation, gender, athletic ability, intelligence, or any other descriptor that divides people into categories. I laugh every time Daniel Tosh jokes "We need to bring our troops home. They can have the war here. They deserve to get a good night sleep in their own beds, wake up and eat a big breakfast, and drive to war. We can have it in Nebraska. We don't even need that terrible state anyway. It's no wonder that state is full of storm chasers. Twenty minutes in Omaha and I'm praying for something to pick me up and carry me away. And yes, I tell that joke in Nebraska. But no one ever says anything because they're too busy sitting there stuffing their faces with fried mayonnaise balls."
I imagine the people of Nebraska are probably really nice. They may or may not eat fried mayonnaise. However, I'll allow myself to believe they do if it means a good laugh. Is that wrong?
Where is the line?
On Friday I told a friend at school that I hated his shirt. However, I tried to break it to him gently, "That's one ugly shirt!" I told another, when seeing a picture of him from years ago, that "you look a lot like a young Elton John." Neither comment was true but I doubt I'll ever say "That's a really cute shirt" or "Wow, you're a handsome guy!"
Before writing this I asked Tricia, "Have I ever made a joke that you found to be really insensitive and made you mad?" I didn't have to allow much think time.
"YES."
Although, when asked to present an example of one such joke she was unable to produce a single one.
"I can't think of one right now," she explained. "But there's been plenty. I remember getting mad."
So maybe there are lines that should not be crossed. Perhaps I, and others, should be more careful to spare the feelings of others - even at the expense of a well played one-liner.
Last Thursday I had dinner with some teacher friends. I went on and on about a guy I met recently who tells the types of jokes that are not only unfunny but uncomfortable. He talks almost without pause and rarely ever says anything that is remotely on-topic. He makes references that no one ever understands. He even made a presentation wearing a tank top. A tank top!
I, of course, had a little fun with all this. A little fun that I shared with my friends on Thursday night. A little fun that was supposed to elicit laughter.
"He has Asperger's," someone quickly explained. "He's autistic."
Talk about a joke that's not only not funny but uncomfortable. If there were a hole to crawl into I would have dove right into it. I drove home feeling terrible - sure that I could never again make a joke at anyone's expense. Basically, I felt I needed to stop being a jerk. Stop being a bully.
A few days have passed and I'm not so sure anymore. It may sound mean but I don't think it's necessary to stop teasing and making fun of each other. There's a lot of seriousness to life and jokes are much needed. Heck, even at funerals. But there is such thing as going too far. And that's what I had done - even if I didn't know or intend to.
I'm not sure what the exact moral is to this story but I imagine there's one somewhere. I'll continue to fumble around until I find it. But until then, careful what you say or do.
If it's the least bit awkward or incorrect I can almost guarantee it will not go unnoticed.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Time Crunch
This past week really hasn't been one of my finest. For someone who would rather be in a classroom filled with kids than just about anywhere else in the world, today I was very happy that it was Friday. That's something I don't say real often. Something I don't ever say, really.
It has nothing to do with teaching or school, though. I'm just exhausted. Exhausted from a calendar threatening to overburden its tiny nail and pull lose from the wall. Exhausted from overextending myself with well-intentioned promises. Exhausted from being too exhausted to go to bed.
Tonight my mom told me that one of our friends said to her "Have you ever noticed that by Friday night Chris and Tricia look like they've just been through a war?" It's an obvious overstatement but the sentiment is true. By Friday night I barely have the energy to carry on a conversation at dinner. I often finish eating quickly and rest my head against the back of the chair in an attempt to "rest my eyes" the way my grandparents used to do in the middle of the afternoon.
We did this to ourselves, though. Last Spring we had made the decision that the kids would need to pick just one activity for the year. The plan was for the girls to pick something to do in the Fall (probably horse back riding) and for the boys to choose something in the Spring (most likely baseball). But then there were scouts.
"There aren't really that many meetings," we reasoned. "And besides, it's so much fun and they provide a lot of great opportunities for the kids to go camping and pick apples and ice skate and go to summer camp."
It's a slippery slope - this reasoning.
"Well," we said a few months later. "The Fall baseball season is shorter and the boys are both starting a new league in the Spring. Fall Ball is pretty relaxed and they'd probably benefit from the opportunity to get a little extra practice."
Uh, oh.
"Besides, they really love playing."
And they do, too. It's one thing to stand against the over-scheduling of our kids' lives but what about when those are the very activities they love the most?
"Ahhh Dad," the girls might argue. "You mean we have to quit horse back riding halfway through the year? The boys are playing in the Fall and the Spring!"
Hmmmm.
"Well," we'll reason again. "Horse riding is only once a week and we have a carpool so we really only have to take them and pick them up once every two weeks. That's not too bad. Maybe they could do the whole year."
Until a night when we have two baseball games, a scout meeting, and I don't get home from my graduate class until 7:15 to help.
Tricia and I have never had trouble saying no to the kids but suddenly it occurs to me that there's one area where maybe we have. It wasn't as though we were trying to spoil them. I'm not even sure we were spoiling them. We weren't filling their world with material possessions or succumbing to temper tantrums, whining, or crying.
We were just trying to provide them a happy childhood. We were keeping them active and away from the television. We were helping them build memories we would all one day sit around and fondly recollect.
Except that I've noticed these memories are slowly encroaching upon other memories we used to build. The ones of us sitting in the front yard together. Or playing a game together. Or having the energy to run around the house laughing together.
So maybe these choices we're making come with a consequence. Perhaps what we need to do is reevaluate what's most important to us as parents, and as a family, and reassess how we're choosing to spend our time. Because I've noticed we're not sitting in bed together reading books every night. And some things are far too important to give up.
It has nothing to do with teaching or school, though. I'm just exhausted. Exhausted from a calendar threatening to overburden its tiny nail and pull lose from the wall. Exhausted from overextending myself with well-intentioned promises. Exhausted from being too exhausted to go to bed.
Tonight my mom told me that one of our friends said to her "Have you ever noticed that by Friday night Chris and Tricia look like they've just been through a war?" It's an obvious overstatement but the sentiment is true. By Friday night I barely have the energy to carry on a conversation at dinner. I often finish eating quickly and rest my head against the back of the chair in an attempt to "rest my eyes" the way my grandparents used to do in the middle of the afternoon.
We did this to ourselves, though. Last Spring we had made the decision that the kids would need to pick just one activity for the year. The plan was for the girls to pick something to do in the Fall (probably horse back riding) and for the boys to choose something in the Spring (most likely baseball). But then there were scouts.
"There aren't really that many meetings," we reasoned. "And besides, it's so much fun and they provide a lot of great opportunities for the kids to go camping and pick apples and ice skate and go to summer camp."
It's a slippery slope - this reasoning.
"Well," we said a few months later. "The Fall baseball season is shorter and the boys are both starting a new league in the Spring. Fall Ball is pretty relaxed and they'd probably benefit from the opportunity to get a little extra practice."
Uh, oh.
"Besides, they really love playing."
And they do, too. It's one thing to stand against the over-scheduling of our kids' lives but what about when those are the very activities they love the most?
"Ahhh Dad," the girls might argue. "You mean we have to quit horse back riding halfway through the year? The boys are playing in the Fall and the Spring!"
Hmmmm.
"Well," we'll reason again. "Horse riding is only once a week and we have a carpool so we really only have to take them and pick them up once every two weeks. That's not too bad. Maybe they could do the whole year."
Until a night when we have two baseball games, a scout meeting, and I don't get home from my graduate class until 7:15 to help.
Tricia and I have never had trouble saying no to the kids but suddenly it occurs to me that there's one area where maybe we have. It wasn't as though we were trying to spoil them. I'm not even sure we were spoiling them. We weren't filling their world with material possessions or succumbing to temper tantrums, whining, or crying.
We were just trying to provide them a happy childhood. We were keeping them active and away from the television. We were helping them build memories we would all one day sit around and fondly recollect.
Except that I've noticed these memories are slowly encroaching upon other memories we used to build. The ones of us sitting in the front yard together. Or playing a game together. Or having the energy to run around the house laughing together.
So maybe these choices we're making come with a consequence. Perhaps what we need to do is reevaluate what's most important to us as parents, and as a family, and reassess how we're choosing to spend our time. Because I've noticed we're not sitting in bed together reading books every night. And some things are far too important to give up.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Fatherhood
The other morning the kids and I were pulling into school when out of nowhere Muluken asked, “Dad, were there toothbrushes when you were a kid?”
“Uhh….what?” I asked.
“Were there toothbrushes when you were little?”
I twisted up my face and playfully glared at him through the rearview mirror.
“Yes, Muluken,” I assured him. “There were toothbrushes when I was little.”
“Oh,” he said. “But how about dentists?”
Muluken knows how old I am. Of that I am positive. What I’m not so sure about, though, is how old he thinks thirty-six is. My dad was thirty-six years old when I was in the sixth grade. He seemed old to me then. Not grandfatherly-old, but worldly-wise-old. Like so many kids, I thought he knew everything. I assumed he had learned all there was to know about life and that being a father was as natural and easy for him as taking a jog around the block.
Yet now that it’s me I’ve learned that parenting is anything but natural. It sometimes shocks me that I’m old enough to even be a father. Certainly, I’m not worldly wise. In fact there are many times, when parenting, that I find myself simply making things up on the spot and then bluffing as though it’s the only logical answer or decision.
“Dad, can we play water guns at Stevens?” the kids will ask.
“Uhh……yeah, but only if you’re just getting each other wet. No pretending to kill one another.”
“What’s the difference?” they ask.
“Oh, there’s a difference all right!”
I think.
“Dad, can I get on the computer?” they ask.
“Sure but that means no movie later tonight,” I answer.
“The computer is the same as watching a movie?”
“Sure it is.”
As a kid I may have disagreed with these types of decisions but I always assumed they were rooted in some age-old wisdom. That some knowledge had been handed down many generations allowing my father to do and say what was right. Come to find out, though, he was probably just making it all up too.
That’s not to say he wasn’t a great role model. He was. My first lessons in fatherhood came from my dad. I learned the value of being patient. Only once - when I was out playing in the neighborhood with some friends and failed to make it back home before nightfall - can I ever remember him being angry with me. This made quite an impression. And while I can’t say I’m the world’s most patient father, I’m certainly a patient teacher.
I also learned the importance of making time for your children. Every night my dad came home tired and smelling of a tar plant. At least I would assume he was tired; but truthfully, he never showed it. He always seemed to be in good spirits and each night he took the time to play a game of catch with me in the yard. Or watch movies with me. Or wrestle around on the floor.
Not long before my dad died I graduated from college and started my career as a teacher. I loved everything about it from the very start and was lucky enough to teach that first year with a guy named Joe. He was ten years older than me and quickly became one of my very best friends and mentors. What I didn’t learn about being a father from my own dad I learned from Joe.
Joe and his wife were very much the type of parents - the type of family, really - that Tricia and I aspired to be even before the topic of children ever came up. Their kids ate really healthy, rarely ever watched television, didn’t play video games, and spent lots of time outside running around and playing. Their weekends were spent visiting the zoo, hiking, or playing at the park. They were very concerned about how their kids viewed the world and how they treated others. Their house was always a hub of commotion as they regularly had neighborhood kids running in and out of their door.
I’m sure there have been countless other influences. In the end, though, I guess we each create our own version of fatherhood. Like music there are many influences to be found - traces of those who have come before us - but we take each of those and make them our own. For better or worse.
While there are many moments where I fail to shine as a parent, I know that on the whole I do better than okay. I like to joke that other than parenting and teaching I’m chronically mediocre at most things in life. That’s okay, though, because if I were going to choose just two things to do well parenting and teaching would be my first choices, by a long shot.
Being a good father isn’t something kids necessarily brag about to their friends. They’re often more interested in tangible things. Things that are big, strong, fast, or valuable. It makes me wonder what my kids say about me to their friends. I’m already beginning to think that a few of them are starting to notice my limitations. Muluken was sharing a story with me not too long ago about how his swim goggles came to be broken.
“Jacob’s dad was throwing us into the pool and they broke,” he explained.
“Who’s Jacob?” I asked.
“He’s a friend I know from first grade that I sometimes see at the pool. His dad is a lot bigger than you.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, and a lot stronger too,” he explained.
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah,” he went on. “He can throw us a lot higher in the air than you can.”
So maybe part of the spell is beginning to break. Perhaps the day is soon approaching when the kids will no longer think I know everything or can do anything. Maybe they’ll see I’m not really the world’s best Othello player or know everything there is to know about the proper baseball swing. But I hope they’ll know I’m a good father. Because thanks to some wonderful role models I’ve learned to make them feel special. And to love them.
There’s one other role model I didn’t mention. And while he might not be real he’s made no less an impact on me as a father. When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in the seventh grade I fell in love with the children, Jem and Scout. When I read it again in high school I fell in love with mystery of Boo Radley and cried over the unjust death of TomRobinson. But when I read it a third time, as an adult, it was Atticus Finch that moved me. He was as ideal of a father as any imperfect man could be. He was kind, thoughtful, calm, loving, and fair. That’s not a bad start.
To end, I’m going to include some excerpts from one of my favorite chapters. Amidst all the elements and storylines of this monumental novel, I think it’s this small story of the rabid dog coming down the alley that sums up Atticus, and the kind of gentle and humble man we should all aspire to be.
-----------------------
Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, "My father -"
Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, "I'm too old for that, son."
Our father didn't do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-trunk for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.
Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.
He did not do the things our schoolmates' fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the living room and read.
---------
Tim Johnson (the rabid dog) reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radly gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty.
Atticus said, "He's within range, Heck. You better get him now before he goes down the side street- Lord knows who's around the corner. Go inside, Cal."
Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms.
"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted.
"Don't waste time, Heck," said Atticus. "Go on."
"Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job."
Atticus shook his head vehemently; "Don't just stand there, Heck! He won't wait all day for you -"
"For God's sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you'll go straight into the Radley house! I can't shoot that well and you know it!"
"I haven't shot a gun in thirty years -"
Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. "I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now," he said.
In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl.
When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmered, "Sweet Jesus help him," and put her hands to her cheeks.
Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.
In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus's hand yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.
The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit him.
Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. "You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch," he called.
"Always was," answered Atticus.
-------------------
Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?"
"Nome," I said meekly.
"Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time."
"Dead shot..." echoed Jem.
"That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition."
"He never said anything about that," Jem muttered.
"Never said anything about it, did he?"
"No, ma'am."
"Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said.
"Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anthing, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent - oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today."
"Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said.
"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie.
-------------------
"Don't say anything about it, Scout," Jem said.
"What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County."
Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us."
"Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said.
"Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything - I wouldn't care if he coudn't do a blessed thing."
Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!"
“Uhh….what?” I asked.
“Were there toothbrushes when you were little?”
I twisted up my face and playfully glared at him through the rearview mirror.
“Yes, Muluken,” I assured him. “There were toothbrushes when I was little.”
“Oh,” he said. “But how about dentists?”
Muluken knows how old I am. Of that I am positive. What I’m not so sure about, though, is how old he thinks thirty-six is. My dad was thirty-six years old when I was in the sixth grade. He seemed old to me then. Not grandfatherly-old, but worldly-wise-old. Like so many kids, I thought he knew everything. I assumed he had learned all there was to know about life and that being a father was as natural and easy for him as taking a jog around the block.
Yet now that it’s me I’ve learned that parenting is anything but natural. It sometimes shocks me that I’m old enough to even be a father. Certainly, I’m not worldly wise. In fact there are many times, when parenting, that I find myself simply making things up on the spot and then bluffing as though it’s the only logical answer or decision.
“Dad, can we play water guns at Stevens?” the kids will ask.
“Uhh……yeah, but only if you’re just getting each other wet. No pretending to kill one another.”
“What’s the difference?” they ask.
“Oh, there’s a difference all right!”
I think.
“Dad, can I get on the computer?” they ask.
“Sure but that means no movie later tonight,” I answer.
“The computer is the same as watching a movie?”
“Sure it is.”
As a kid I may have disagreed with these types of decisions but I always assumed they were rooted in some age-old wisdom. That some knowledge had been handed down many generations allowing my father to do and say what was right. Come to find out, though, he was probably just making it all up too.
That’s not to say he wasn’t a great role model. He was. My first lessons in fatherhood came from my dad. I learned the value of being patient. Only once - when I was out playing in the neighborhood with some friends and failed to make it back home before nightfall - can I ever remember him being angry with me. This made quite an impression. And while I can’t say I’m the world’s most patient father, I’m certainly a patient teacher.
I also learned the importance of making time for your children. Every night my dad came home tired and smelling of a tar plant. At least I would assume he was tired; but truthfully, he never showed it. He always seemed to be in good spirits and each night he took the time to play a game of catch with me in the yard. Or watch movies with me. Or wrestle around on the floor.
Not long before my dad died I graduated from college and started my career as a teacher. I loved everything about it from the very start and was lucky enough to teach that first year with a guy named Joe. He was ten years older than me and quickly became one of my very best friends and mentors. What I didn’t learn about being a father from my own dad I learned from Joe.
Joe and his wife were very much the type of parents - the type of family, really - that Tricia and I aspired to be even before the topic of children ever came up. Their kids ate really healthy, rarely ever watched television, didn’t play video games, and spent lots of time outside running around and playing. Their weekends were spent visiting the zoo, hiking, or playing at the park. They were very concerned about how their kids viewed the world and how they treated others. Their house was always a hub of commotion as they regularly had neighborhood kids running in and out of their door.
I’m sure there have been countless other influences. In the end, though, I guess we each create our own version of fatherhood. Like music there are many influences to be found - traces of those who have come before us - but we take each of those and make them our own. For better or worse.
While there are many moments where I fail to shine as a parent, I know that on the whole I do better than okay. I like to joke that other than parenting and teaching I’m chronically mediocre at most things in life. That’s okay, though, because if I were going to choose just two things to do well parenting and teaching would be my first choices, by a long shot.
Being a good father isn’t something kids necessarily brag about to their friends. They’re often more interested in tangible things. Things that are big, strong, fast, or valuable. It makes me wonder what my kids say about me to their friends. I’m already beginning to think that a few of them are starting to notice my limitations. Muluken was sharing a story with me not too long ago about how his swim goggles came to be broken.
“Jacob’s dad was throwing us into the pool and they broke,” he explained.
“Who’s Jacob?” I asked.
“He’s a friend I know from first grade that I sometimes see at the pool. His dad is a lot bigger than you.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, and a lot stronger too,” he explained.
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah,” he went on. “He can throw us a lot higher in the air than you can.”
So maybe part of the spell is beginning to break. Perhaps the day is soon approaching when the kids will no longer think I know everything or can do anything. Maybe they’ll see I’m not really the world’s best Othello player or know everything there is to know about the proper baseball swing. But I hope they’ll know I’m a good father. Because thanks to some wonderful role models I’ve learned to make them feel special. And to love them.
There’s one other role model I didn’t mention. And while he might not be real he’s made no less an impact on me as a father. When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in the seventh grade I fell in love with the children, Jem and Scout. When I read it again in high school I fell in love with mystery of Boo Radley and cried over the unjust death of TomRobinson. But when I read it a third time, as an adult, it was Atticus Finch that moved me. He was as ideal of a father as any imperfect man could be. He was kind, thoughtful, calm, loving, and fair. That’s not a bad start.
To end, I’m going to include some excerpts from one of my favorite chapters. Amidst all the elements and storylines of this monumental novel, I think it’s this small story of the rabid dog coming down the alley that sums up Atticus, and the kind of gentle and humble man we should all aspire to be.
-----------------------
Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, "My father -"
Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, "I'm too old for that, son."
Our father didn't do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-trunk for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.
Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.
He did not do the things our schoolmates' fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the living room and read.
---------
Tim Johnson (the rabid dog) reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radly gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty.
Atticus said, "He's within range, Heck. You better get him now before he goes down the side street- Lord knows who's around the corner. Go inside, Cal."
Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms.
"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted.
"Don't waste time, Heck," said Atticus. "Go on."
"Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job."
Atticus shook his head vehemently; "Don't just stand there, Heck! He won't wait all day for you -"
"For God's sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you'll go straight into the Radley house! I can't shoot that well and you know it!"
"I haven't shot a gun in thirty years -"
Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. "I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now," he said.
In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl.
When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmered, "Sweet Jesus help him," and put her hands to her cheeks.
Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.
In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus's hand yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.
The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit him.
Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. "You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch," he called.
"Always was," answered Atticus.
-------------------
Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?"
"Nome," I said meekly.
"Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time."
"Dead shot..." echoed Jem.
"That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition."
"He never said anything about that," Jem muttered.
"Never said anything about it, did he?"
"No, ma'am."
"Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said.
"Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anthing, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent - oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today."
"Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said.
"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie.
-------------------
"Don't say anything about it, Scout," Jem said.
"What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County."
Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us."
"Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said.
"Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything - I wouldn't care if he coudn't do a blessed thing."
Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!"
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The List - Part 2
A few weeks ago I shared our obsession with tuning in for just about any show that is based on a subjective rank ordering of music. Or movies. Or...
The whole idea is really pretty dumb other than that it creates a fun opportunity to get angry with society in large for their misguided and unfortunate opinions and tastes. Here is how the top 20 played out...
20. Marvin Gaye
19. U2
A band whose guitarist has the silliest name ever - The Edge. Do people really even call him that? "Uh, The Edge, I was wondering if you might pass the potatoes?" I once passed on a chance to see the Black Crowes, who are a very cool band despite not making this list, in a very small theater so that I could see U2 at Busch Stadium in downtown St. Louis during the Zoo TV tour. There were thousands of people, terrible acoustics, monstrously large TV screens on stage, and a "spontaneous" call to Washington DC so that Bono (another goofy name) could speak his mind to some random White House operator. Hoaky? Yes. Great concert? Definitely. And I was fortunate enough to catch the Black Crowes about five years later.
18. Pink Floyd
17. Queen
One of my all-time favorite bands. But I'd really like to know where "Bohemian Rhapsody" came from. I mean, how do you even start writing something like that? "So fellas, I was thinking maybe an operatic piece for this one!"
16. Madonna
15. The Beach Boys
14. Nirvana
I was shocked they were this high given they only had three or four albums. A few days later I went back and listened to "Nevermind" and was reminded that there's not a single song worth skipping. That's pretty impressive.
13. The Who
12. David Bowie
11. Bob Marley
10. Stevie Wonder
9. James Brown
I was really hoping they'd show that scene from "Rocky 4" and sure enough they did. However, they somehow failed to show the mug shot. That's a shame. I have a feeling James Brown just might be A BIT of a jerk.
8. Elvis Presley
7. Prince
I once had a music professor say that Prince was every bit as important in music history as Mozart. And this was coming from the mouth of someone who loved classical music and directed the university's operas. Am I missing something?
6. Jimi Hendrix
Another artist I think I like yet never really want to listen to. Outside of "Little Wing" and "The Wind Cries Mary" there aren't any other songs that would keep me from hitting skip.
5. Bob Dylan
4. The Rolling Stones
3. Led Zeppelin
2. Michael Jackson
1. The Beatles
How is it The Beatles were only together for ten years? They must have written about a bazillion songs each year!
So when the show was over I started playing around with the idea of my own subjective rankings. Here are a few I came up with...
Top Five Artists Left Off the Original List
5. The Byrds
4. Roy Orbison
3. Red Hot Chili Peppers
2.Woody Guthrie
1. Eric Clapton
How do you leave Eric Clapton off that list? Sure, Cream made it in somewhere but he's been inducted into the R&R Hall of Fame THREE times. That's crazy!
Top Five Favorite Movies
5. Wonder Boys
4. Bottle Rocket
3. Lone Star
2. Little Miss Sunshine
1. The Big Lebowski
"The Dude abides."
Bottom Five Movies
5. Simon Birch
4. Anything starring Pauly Shore
3. The Cutting Edge
2. With Honors
1. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
Top Five Favorite Books (for adults)
5. On The Road
4. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
3. Malcolm X
2. A Prayer for Owen Meany
1. To Kill a Mockingbird
It's no coincidence that two of my least favorite movies just happen to show up on my favorite book list.
Top Five Favorite Books (chapter books written for kids but still great for adults)
5. Love That Dog
4. Entire Harry Potter Series
3. Missing May
2. Ruby Holler
1. Charlotte's Web
Top Five Favorite Books (picture books written for kids but still great for adults)
5. Mr. George Baker
4. Letting Swift River Go
3. Roxaboxen
2. The Relatives Came
1. All the Places to Love
Top Ten Beatles Songs
10. When I'm Sixty Four
9. Norwegian Wood
8. I'm Only Sleeping
7. Come Together
6. In My Life
5. Strawberry Fields Forever
4. A Day in the Life
3. Something
2. Let It Be
1. Hey Jude
I tried to do a top 5 but couldn't make a number of the necessary cuts so I broadened it to the top 10.
The whole idea is really pretty dumb other than that it creates a fun opportunity to get angry with society in large for their misguided and unfortunate opinions and tastes. Here is how the top 20 played out...
20. Marvin Gaye
19. U2
A band whose guitarist has the silliest name ever - The Edge. Do people really even call him that? "Uh, The Edge, I was wondering if you might pass the potatoes?" I once passed on a chance to see the Black Crowes, who are a very cool band despite not making this list, in a very small theater so that I could see U2 at Busch Stadium in downtown St. Louis during the Zoo TV tour. There were thousands of people, terrible acoustics, monstrously large TV screens on stage, and a "spontaneous" call to Washington DC so that Bono (another goofy name) could speak his mind to some random White House operator. Hoaky? Yes. Great concert? Definitely. And I was fortunate enough to catch the Black Crowes about five years later.
18. Pink Floyd
17. Queen
One of my all-time favorite bands. But I'd really like to know where "Bohemian Rhapsody" came from. I mean, how do you even start writing something like that? "So fellas, I was thinking maybe an operatic piece for this one!"
16. Madonna
15. The Beach Boys
14. Nirvana
I was shocked they were this high given they only had three or four albums. A few days later I went back and listened to "Nevermind" and was reminded that there's not a single song worth skipping. That's pretty impressive.
13. The Who
12. David Bowie
11. Bob Marley
10. Stevie Wonder
9. James Brown
I was really hoping they'd show that scene from "Rocky 4" and sure enough they did. However, they somehow failed to show the mug shot. That's a shame. I have a feeling James Brown just might be A BIT of a jerk.
8. Elvis Presley
7. Prince
I once had a music professor say that Prince was every bit as important in music history as Mozart. And this was coming from the mouth of someone who loved classical music and directed the university's operas. Am I missing something?
6. Jimi Hendrix
Another artist I think I like yet never really want to listen to. Outside of "Little Wing" and "The Wind Cries Mary" there aren't any other songs that would keep me from hitting skip.
5. Bob Dylan
4. The Rolling Stones
3. Led Zeppelin
2. Michael Jackson
1. The Beatles
How is it The Beatles were only together for ten years? They must have written about a bazillion songs each year!
So when the show was over I started playing around with the idea of my own subjective rankings. Here are a few I came up with...
Top Five Artists Left Off the Original List
5. The Byrds
4. Roy Orbison
3. Red Hot Chili Peppers
2.Woody Guthrie
1. Eric Clapton
How do you leave Eric Clapton off that list? Sure, Cream made it in somewhere but he's been inducted into the R&R Hall of Fame THREE times. That's crazy!
Top Five Favorite Movies
5. Wonder Boys
4. Bottle Rocket
3. Lone Star
2. Little Miss Sunshine
1. The Big Lebowski
"The Dude abides."
Bottom Five Movies
5. Simon Birch
4. Anything starring Pauly Shore
3. The Cutting Edge
2. With Honors
1. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
Top Five Favorite Books (for adults)
5. On The Road
4. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
3. Malcolm X
2. A Prayer for Owen Meany
1. To Kill a Mockingbird
It's no coincidence that two of my least favorite movies just happen to show up on my favorite book list.
Top Five Favorite Books (chapter books written for kids but still great for adults)
5. Love That Dog
4. Entire Harry Potter Series
3. Missing May
2. Ruby Holler
1. Charlotte's Web
Top Five Favorite Books (picture books written for kids but still great for adults)
5. Mr. George Baker
4. Letting Swift River Go
3. Roxaboxen
2. The Relatives Came
1. All the Places to Love
Top Ten Beatles Songs
10. When I'm Sixty Four
9. Norwegian Wood
8. I'm Only Sleeping
7. Come Together
6. In My Life
5. Strawberry Fields Forever
4. A Day in the Life
3. Something
2. Let It Be
1. Hey Jude
I tried to do a top 5 but couldn't make a number of the necessary cuts so I broadened it to the top 10.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Swimming with Sharks
There are certain things in life that very few people, if any, ever seem to enjoy. Visiting the dentist. Receiving mail from the IRS. Seeing the doctor reach for a latex glove.These experiences are so universally terrible that they often become the subject of sarcastic statements such as: "Oh I'd love to spend our final week of vacation this year visiting your Aunt Edna May. I imagine it'll be about as much fun as a root canal!"
However, there's a certain camaraderie that comes from shared misery. Who doesn't like to playfully gripe with friends, or even strangers, about lengthy traffic jams or aggravating phone solicitations? If nothing else, these experiences pull us together as they provide a common foe.
I had the opportunity last night to enjoy one such experience. A visit to the car dealership. The lease on our van will soon expire and we were contacted by Dodgeland of Columbia to bring it in so that they could inspect it. I suspected they would want to check the mileage, look for excessive scratches or dents, and check to make certain the engine was running smoothly. While I can't say that this was necessarily how I wanted to spend the Friday night of what had been a long and exhausting week, the dealership didn't offer weekend appointments so I had little choice.
I can't say that it was the visit to the dealership, though, that had me bummed out. While I would have loved to have a relaxing night at home, I kind of enjoyed the prospect of meeting with the salesman to figure out whether we should purchase our leased van outright or look into buying a new one. Ugh, what kind of person enjoys doing business with a car salesman? Me, evidently.
It wasn't always this way. Our first few car purchases were from a Saturn dealership in St. Louis. Saturn offered a "no haggle" policy and had some of the friendliest salesmen you could ever imagine - each costumed in matching pairs of casual khakis and a polo shirt. When each of our "college" cars gave out (mine an old sputtering Pontiac hatchback and Tricia's a Ford Escort) we made an appointment with the very same salesman - Gary Tamme. We appreciated the opportunity to find a car without having to worry about being taken advantage of - or at least being taken any more advantage of than every other customer.
A few years passed and Harper was born. Not long afterward I quit my teaching gig to stay home and play Mr. Mom, also babysitting a friend's baby to help make ends meet. Then came Ainsley. Just a few months later we started the process of bringing Ty home and it quickly became obvious that our two little Saturns were no longer going to get it done. There were kids everywhere! Although the thought of driving a minivan was less than enticing it was, none-the-less, a necessity.
Since we didn't really have the money for a new van we searched the internet for a used one. After a few weeks of searching we found a couple we liked on Car Soup and drove out to see them. We opted for the Caravan and pretty much paid full asking price from the guy who was selling it. His asking price was pretty consistent with what the Kelly Blue Book said it was worth and we weren't much in the practice of negotiating deals anyway. It was probably a good thing we didn't have the money for a new van because a real salesman would have taken us for all we're worth.
A few years later we moved to Columbia and found ourselves in need of a car -again. I researched and researched and found out that buying a car at a dealership didn't actually have to be all that bad of an experience. In fact, it could be fun. And fair.
I found out how much the dealerships pay for the cars. I learned how much other car buyers here in South Carolina were paying on average for the same cars we were looking at. I read about the subtle scams that dealerships sometimes try to pull to get anywhere from a few extra hundred to a few extra thousand dollars. I printed all this out, slipped it into a folder, and visited the Honda dealership knowing, already, exactly which car I wanted and how much I would pay for it. Amazingly, it worked!
So heading over to Greystone Boulevard this past Friday I didn't feel too bad. I knew we had leverage (we could buy the leased van, look at a new Dodge, or completely walk away and look at other dealerships). I also knew that times are really bad for car sales and that the dealership would (I hope) be much more focused on pleasing the customer and moving cars than turning people away with underhanded practices.
The first thing I expected as I pulled in to the lot and stepped out of the van was to be smothered by a salesman before I even hit the sidewalk. However, after tidying up the van (stashing a slew of broken crayons, pencils, and toys under the seats) I hopped out of the van and noone was there to hassle me. I was shocked.
I made it inside the doors until finally someone came over and asked if I needed any help. It turned out to be the salesman, Eric, that I had an appointment with. Eric was an older African American guy who insisted on calling me "Mr. Chris" - think Morgan Freeman saying "Come on now Ms. Daisy. Let me drive you down to the Piggly Wiggly!" I wasn't real comfortable with the whole Mr. Chris thing but let it go on too long to comfortably protest.
Eric sat down with me and laid out all the financials of my options. He explained the fees associated with turning the van back in (a $500 fee for having replaced two tires and a $450 fee for giving it back), gave me the price for buying the van outright ($12,500), and offered to show me a new model that closely matched our current van. He spent about two minutes asking if I'd like to upgrade to video monitors or automatic sliding doors but quit rather quickly after I provided him my "I don't like cell phones, video games, or devices designed for lazy people" speech.
He showed me a new van that was exactly like ours except that it had a roof rack and Satellite radio. I saw on the sticker that it was $25, 540. However, there was also a side sticker with other charges that brought the price up to around $29,000. When we came back in to his office, which was no more of a barren cubicle with his nameplate sitting on a non-descript file cabinet, he went off to speak with his manager. I sat and wrote down everything he had said to me up to this point and recorded all the important figures. A little later he came back and explained that they were offering a $1500 rebate for returning customers as well as 0% financing on five year loans or 1.9% for six year loans. Careful never to share an actual sales price, he explained that our monthly payment would be very similar to our current lease payment.
I sat and thought about that. I had read that this was a common trick. Salesmen share monthly payments which allow them to add costs in by stretching out the term of your loan, thus keeping your payment low.
"Okay," I said. "I have a question."
"Shoot," he said.
"Is this monthly payment calculated on the $25,540 I saw on the sticker or the $29,000 based on the other costs on that side sticker? Because I've never had to pay the price on that side sticker before."
He paused and then started laughing really hard. It kind of took me by surprise because I wasn't sure if he was attempting to laugh with me or at me.
"That's a good question Mr. Chris," he bellowed. "A very good question! I'll be right back."
He went to the cubicle next door and I could overhear him recounting the conversation with his boss. Soon he came back and showed me that these monthly payments had been calculated based on a selling price of $24,040. This was the $25,540 on the original sticker minus the promised rebate. I couldn't believe it. He didn't even try to get me to purchase it for the higher listed price.
"You go on home and talk about it with your wife and call me in the morning to let me know what you want to do, either way," he said. "But the 0% financing ends on the 30th which is next Thursday so you probably want to make a decision soon."
I thanked him and drove back home. At first I felt as though I had really accomplished something. I knew we could buy the lease van and have it paid off in just a few years or get the new van, pay a very fair price, and feel comfortable that it would last us the next ten years - at which time we'd no longer need a van.
But then reality hit me. Wait a minute, I thought. I didn't negotiate anything. I was so surprised that he was offering a price lower than what I had anticipated that I gladly accepted his offer as fair. I was pretty sure I'd been fooled.
I came home and Tricia and I discussed it. We thought a new van made a lot of sense because we would save about $3000 in financing costs and purchase the "last minivan of our lives." I went back to the computer and researched some more. I found out that Dodge was the only dealership offering a financing incentive (worth thousands of dollars over five or six years) and that other dealerships didn't allow customers to use both a rebate AND financing incentive in combination. It was usually an either/or.
I searched to see how much people in our area pay for the minivan he showed me and it was $23, 522. This was about $500 less than what the deal I thought I was getting. My heart dropped a bit. I thought this was all going to be so easy.
The next morning he called as soon as he got into the office and I told him about the price difference. He told me he'd talk with his manager and after about two or three more calls he agreed to the lower price, the rebate, and the 0% financing. It all worked out.
Tricia and I went in on Saturday and left a little over an hour later with our new van. There was no last minute sales pitch for an extended warranty or undercoating or any of those other add ons. They just had us test drive the van, sign the papers, and walk out.
So perhaps there's hope. If buying a new car can be so pain free maybe we can begin to expect more from our universal adversaries. Maybe we can even expect a Christmas card this year from the IRS. With a fat check inside.
However, there's a certain camaraderie that comes from shared misery. Who doesn't like to playfully gripe with friends, or even strangers, about lengthy traffic jams or aggravating phone solicitations? If nothing else, these experiences pull us together as they provide a common foe.
I had the opportunity last night to enjoy one such experience. A visit to the car dealership. The lease on our van will soon expire and we were contacted by Dodgeland of Columbia to bring it in so that they could inspect it. I suspected they would want to check the mileage, look for excessive scratches or dents, and check to make certain the engine was running smoothly. While I can't say that this was necessarily how I wanted to spend the Friday night of what had been a long and exhausting week, the dealership didn't offer weekend appointments so I had little choice.
I can't say that it was the visit to the dealership, though, that had me bummed out. While I would have loved to have a relaxing night at home, I kind of enjoyed the prospect of meeting with the salesman to figure out whether we should purchase our leased van outright or look into buying a new one. Ugh, what kind of person enjoys doing business with a car salesman? Me, evidently.
It wasn't always this way. Our first few car purchases were from a Saturn dealership in St. Louis. Saturn offered a "no haggle" policy and had some of the friendliest salesmen you could ever imagine - each costumed in matching pairs of casual khakis and a polo shirt. When each of our "college" cars gave out (mine an old sputtering Pontiac hatchback and Tricia's a Ford Escort) we made an appointment with the very same salesman - Gary Tamme. We appreciated the opportunity to find a car without having to worry about being taken advantage of - or at least being taken any more advantage of than every other customer.
A few years passed and Harper was born. Not long afterward I quit my teaching gig to stay home and play Mr. Mom, also babysitting a friend's baby to help make ends meet. Then came Ainsley. Just a few months later we started the process of bringing Ty home and it quickly became obvious that our two little Saturns were no longer going to get it done. There were kids everywhere! Although the thought of driving a minivan was less than enticing it was, none-the-less, a necessity.
Since we didn't really have the money for a new van we searched the internet for a used one. After a few weeks of searching we found a couple we liked on Car Soup and drove out to see them. We opted for the Caravan and pretty much paid full asking price from the guy who was selling it. His asking price was pretty consistent with what the Kelly Blue Book said it was worth and we weren't much in the practice of negotiating deals anyway. It was probably a good thing we didn't have the money for a new van because a real salesman would have taken us for all we're worth.
A few years later we moved to Columbia and found ourselves in need of a car -again. I researched and researched and found out that buying a car at a dealership didn't actually have to be all that bad of an experience. In fact, it could be fun. And fair.
I found out how much the dealerships pay for the cars. I learned how much other car buyers here in South Carolina were paying on average for the same cars we were looking at. I read about the subtle scams that dealerships sometimes try to pull to get anywhere from a few extra hundred to a few extra thousand dollars. I printed all this out, slipped it into a folder, and visited the Honda dealership knowing, already, exactly which car I wanted and how much I would pay for it. Amazingly, it worked!
So heading over to Greystone Boulevard this past Friday I didn't feel too bad. I knew we had leverage (we could buy the leased van, look at a new Dodge, or completely walk away and look at other dealerships). I also knew that times are really bad for car sales and that the dealership would (I hope) be much more focused on pleasing the customer and moving cars than turning people away with underhanded practices.
The first thing I expected as I pulled in to the lot and stepped out of the van was to be smothered by a salesman before I even hit the sidewalk. However, after tidying up the van (stashing a slew of broken crayons, pencils, and toys under the seats) I hopped out of the van and noone was there to hassle me. I was shocked.
I made it inside the doors until finally someone came over and asked if I needed any help. It turned out to be the salesman, Eric, that I had an appointment with. Eric was an older African American guy who insisted on calling me "Mr. Chris" - think Morgan Freeman saying "Come on now Ms. Daisy. Let me drive you down to the Piggly Wiggly!" I wasn't real comfortable with the whole Mr. Chris thing but let it go on too long to comfortably protest.
Eric sat down with me and laid out all the financials of my options. He explained the fees associated with turning the van back in (a $500 fee for having replaced two tires and a $450 fee for giving it back), gave me the price for buying the van outright ($12,500), and offered to show me a new model that closely matched our current van. He spent about two minutes asking if I'd like to upgrade to video monitors or automatic sliding doors but quit rather quickly after I provided him my "I don't like cell phones, video games, or devices designed for lazy people" speech.
He showed me a new van that was exactly like ours except that it had a roof rack and Satellite radio. I saw on the sticker that it was $25, 540. However, there was also a side sticker with other charges that brought the price up to around $29,000. When we came back in to his office, which was no more of a barren cubicle with his nameplate sitting on a non-descript file cabinet, he went off to speak with his manager. I sat and wrote down everything he had said to me up to this point and recorded all the important figures. A little later he came back and explained that they were offering a $1500 rebate for returning customers as well as 0% financing on five year loans or 1.9% for six year loans. Careful never to share an actual sales price, he explained that our monthly payment would be very similar to our current lease payment.
I sat and thought about that. I had read that this was a common trick. Salesmen share monthly payments which allow them to add costs in by stretching out the term of your loan, thus keeping your payment low.
"Okay," I said. "I have a question."
"Shoot," he said.
"Is this monthly payment calculated on the $25,540 I saw on the sticker or the $29,000 based on the other costs on that side sticker? Because I've never had to pay the price on that side sticker before."
He paused and then started laughing really hard. It kind of took me by surprise because I wasn't sure if he was attempting to laugh with me or at me.
"That's a good question Mr. Chris," he bellowed. "A very good question! I'll be right back."
He went to the cubicle next door and I could overhear him recounting the conversation with his boss. Soon he came back and showed me that these monthly payments had been calculated based on a selling price of $24,040. This was the $25,540 on the original sticker minus the promised rebate. I couldn't believe it. He didn't even try to get me to purchase it for the higher listed price.
"You go on home and talk about it with your wife and call me in the morning to let me know what you want to do, either way," he said. "But the 0% financing ends on the 30th which is next Thursday so you probably want to make a decision soon."
I thanked him and drove back home. At first I felt as though I had really accomplished something. I knew we could buy the lease van and have it paid off in just a few years or get the new van, pay a very fair price, and feel comfortable that it would last us the next ten years - at which time we'd no longer need a van.
But then reality hit me. Wait a minute, I thought. I didn't negotiate anything. I was so surprised that he was offering a price lower than what I had anticipated that I gladly accepted his offer as fair. I was pretty sure I'd been fooled.
I came home and Tricia and I discussed it. We thought a new van made a lot of sense because we would save about $3000 in financing costs and purchase the "last minivan of our lives." I went back to the computer and researched some more. I found out that Dodge was the only dealership offering a financing incentive (worth thousands of dollars over five or six years) and that other dealerships didn't allow customers to use both a rebate AND financing incentive in combination. It was usually an either/or.
I searched to see how much people in our area pay for the minivan he showed me and it was $23, 522. This was about $500 less than what the deal I thought I was getting. My heart dropped a bit. I thought this was all going to be so easy.
The next morning he called as soon as he got into the office and I told him about the price difference. He told me he'd talk with his manager and after about two or three more calls he agreed to the lower price, the rebate, and the 0% financing. It all worked out.
Tricia and I went in on Saturday and left a little over an hour later with our new van. There was no last minute sales pitch for an extended warranty or undercoating or any of those other add ons. They just had us test drive the van, sign the papers, and walk out.
So perhaps there's hope. If buying a new car can be so pain free maybe we can begin to expect more from our universal adversaries. Maybe we can even expect a Christmas card this year from the IRS. With a fat check inside.
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